summary: when sirius shows up at the potters' doorstep, james makes a silent vow to never see his best friend hurt like that again—even if it means he seeks vengence against someone who didn't deserve it to begin with. [fem!reader who's implied to not be in gryffindor but whose house isn't designated]
WC: 4.3k
masterlist | my requests are open | lmk what u thought of this !
Something that James has come to know about you in a fairly short amount of time is that you forgive easily. Your first set of encounters were laced with this truth.
He’d written you off somewhere between fifth and sixth year when you’d shown a strong loyalty to Regulus. And James, loyal to a fault, had taken this as a harbinger of what it wasn’t—a confession of loyalty to a family that would abuse their eldest son for his failure to live up to the picture perfect expectation that they’d set for him. James had taken him in when he had nowhere else to go over the past summer and Sirius had worried endlessly for Regulus. He’d held his best friend as he cried over the abuse that he knew in his bones his younger brother was taking based on his disappearance.
The only way that Regulus could have survived the summer, James thought, was to have disowned his older brother and pledged his loyalty to the Black family name. James believed that all of Regulus’s friends held these same loyalties because he was sixteen and angry and couldn’t take it out on anyone else.
So, he took it out on you.
Sirius—in a rare moment of open, desperate emotion—had begged him not to do anything to Regulus, that survival in their childhood home was based solely on pledging loyalties to a system of belief that you didn’t hold true. And James understood that, even if he didn’t like it—but Regulus was only thirteen.
And while age was an excuse for Regulus, James didn’t lend that same kindness to you. He hexed your food to turn your hair blue, caused your front teeth to buck out by a simple spell. He treated you cruelly because he believes that you’d do the same to Sirius, all based on his preconceived notions of Regulus that weren't even true.
Despite this, you never retaliated, which almost made everything worse to James. If you’d retaliated, it would’ve proven that you took the attacks personally and had some belief worth defending; to roll over and do nothing, not even acknowledge when your teeth protruded from your face, indicated that you understood the deeper meaning of it all. It showed that you knew it wasn’t really about you to begin with, showed a level of emotional intelligence James—with the clarity of hindsight as he'd later regard the rearview mirror of his life with—found himself lacking at sixteen.
When you approached the Marauders in the courtyard a week before the summer holidays, James had thought you were finally coming back to get him for everything that he’d put you through over the past year. But your eyes were firmly focused on Sirius.
“Can I talk to you in private?” you’d asked, gaze never straying from the boy.
Before he could respond, James jumped in—loyal to a fault, even when he hadn’t let the other side speak. “Whatever you have to say to him, you can say to us.”
Your gaze had focused on James then, a piercing thing that made him realize that despite his year of torment against you, you’d never even spared him a glance. Had you looked at him like this even once—a brooding behind your eyes that implied you knew more than you were letting on, an intensity in your gaze that made him feel as though you knew every ugly thought he’d ever had—he might not have continued with the hell he put you through.
In any other circumstance, he knows he would’ve withered under your stare. But he was talking a big game on behalf of one of his best mates, and he wasn’t about to falter. He held his gaze steady despite the overwhelming urge he felt to reach for his wand, to prepare for an incoming attack.
Whatever you had been looking at in James’s gaze must have been there, because your gaze shifted to Remus with a fraction of the ferocity that James had seen before you looked back to Sirius.
“Fine,” you decided, gaze still on Sirius with a similar intensity as before. But there was something else there now, James realized, an earnest desperation that rattled him, that he hadn’t thought you capable of.
“I’m coming to you as an older sibling and nothing else,” you went on, eyes never straying away from Sirius as you spoke. “But Regulus needs you, Sirius. He can’t go home this summer because of your family, but Dumbledore won’t let him stay again unless he’s officially disowned from the family. And that would take going home and risking his safety to prove, some Howler like you got sent for the whole school to hear.”
As you took in a breath, Sirius’s voice came out in a quiet breath to ask, “Again?”
You paused then, seeming to consider something. When you spoke again, your voice came out quieter, almost abashed, but the intensity of your stare never wavered, still dedicatedly imploring as you spoke, “We were both here last summer. Regulus was scared shitless after you left and he wrote to Dumbledore asking him if he could come back early, and Dumbledore was able to frame if as an ‘early opportunity for studying.’ But he can’t buy him any more time.
“Eldest sibling to eldest sibling, I need you to talk to him. He thinks you hate him and he’s terrified of what it would mean if he walked right past your parents at the platform with you towards the Potters or whoever—that’s a disowning he’s terrified of, and he needs his older brother right now.”
Before anyone could push you on the subject, ask why you’d been at Hogwarts in the summer with Regulus, you looked back to James with that same withering intensity as before. “And I see where your loyalties lie and feel the heat of them every fucking day, Potter, but I’m begging you to stop thinking like an only child for once, please. Regulus needs your family as much as Sirius does, and he deserves a chance to have a normal upbringing if you can offer it to him.”
You had turned to walk off then, but it’s Remus who stopped you as he called out, “And what about you? Weren’t you here last summer, too?”
You seemed startled then, eyes widening for a fraction of a second as you realized what you'd said before you split your gaze among the three boys for a moment. “I’ve never had the luxury of having a family that wants a witch in their bloodline—I’ve been officially disowned since I ran through the wall at King’s Cross, and Dumbledore was well aware of that when he offered me a place here. Hogwarts doesn’t get the privilege of a day passing without me, I’m afraid.”
You’d walked off after that, leaving behind three boys with a lot to think about.
★ ☆
The Potters had agreed to take in Regulus without a second thought and that summer sparked a healing between the two Black brothers. James found it rather lovely to see, actually, but he realized quickly that he wouldn’t win Regulus over as easily.
For as loyal as James was to his friends, Regulus was twice as loyal to you in an almost lethal way. He wouldn’t hex James or bully him as a reminder of what he’d done; instead, he’d pretend as if James didn’t exist at all.
It only took a week for James to break.
“You can’t ignore me all summer,” he said as he caught Regulus from outside the bathroom one morning.
“Were you waiting for me to flush before you ambushed me, Potter, or were you planning to give me time to wash my hands, too?” Regulus’s voice rang out from behind a closed door, dry and unimpressed.
Ignoring the heat rising to his cheeks, James pressed on, “I mean, I know I fucked up with Y/N—”
“—is that how you see it?” Regulus asked as he opened the door, his voice suddenly dripping with ire like his hands with water. James apparently hadn’t given him enough time to wash his hands properly. “It was just a fuck up? You went out of your way every day during this past year to make her every waking moment a testament to her loyalties and how they diverged from yours. And what, she should’ve come talk to you, ironed out this ‘fuck up?’”
Regulus scoffed at that thought, going on before James could cut in to defend himself. “What was she supposed to say? She had no idea why you were going after her at first—she thought you were just testing out pranks on her like you do with almost every student.
“But then it was targeted and she realized that you were going after her because you didn’t want to go after me for whatever reason, even though it was me that you wanted to hurt someone for Sirius’s sake. So, you got to one of the only people I hang around consistently. And for what? To make it so she’d stop associating with me? She’s my best friend, James. She’s like a sister to me.
“She begged Dumbledore to let me stay for the summer. But it came out that my parents were onto him and why he’d let me stay back last summer. They’d heard through the grapevine that the only other student allowed to stay during the summer was a Muggle and they wouldn’t have me stay with her and become a ‘blood traitor’ like my brother. She wanted to talk to Sirius privately because she knew he’d be able to convince you to let me come stay with you and never wanted anyone to know that she stayed back in the summers, too. But you’re so pig-headed that you would never let her have a moment alone with him.”
James takes this in like a shot to the stomach, his heart caving out a hollow path as it sinks into the gaping wound of the realization that he had been mean to someone who was just trying to be a good friend. Sure, he tormented Snape, but Snape called people slurs and treated Muggle-borns like they were nothing but gum stuck to the bottom of his shoe.
“It was just a fuck up, though, right? What’s a little blip in your timeline is a whole year of her education that she spent looking over her shoulder because she feared that you’d come up with an even nastier way to punish her for something that she hadn’t even done.” Regulus rolled his eyes and finished by adding, “You did more than just fuck up with her, James. You’re going to have to spend a lifetime trying to make it up to her.”
★ ☆
Everyone else knows James Potter as a boyishly brash and charming man, if a little obstinate to the world around him. You, however, met James Potter as a caricature painted a darker shade than what the population of Hogwarts sold him as.
You weren’t stupid. You knew he only took an interest in ruining your life because he thought Regulus would make Sirius’s a living hell, or some version of that truth, and that Sirius had asked him not to go after his brother. You would’ve done the same for any of your sisters.
You don’t give James a chance to make up his misgivings towards you at Hogwarts. You avoid being alone with him and only hang around his group when Regulus is there to act as a buffer, and you suspect James figured out that this was his fault. The first time he took his wand out around you, ready to show the group his newly-learned Transfiguration skills, you’d flinched so hard that you tripped backwards into the stone wall behind you. You’d had bruises for a week in varying shades of purple and James had apologized for a month.
You graduate and enter the workforce as a Curse Breaker at Gringotts a year after the Marauders and a year before Regulus leaves. You assume that your communication with the famed group will end with your Hogwarts tenure, but it doesn’t.
Sirius reaches out to you and invites you out with some of the people they’d hung around at Hogwarts to go to what he describes as “a delightful invention those Muggles have dreamed up” - a pub quiz in central London.
You claim fear of unveiling their magic as your reason for tagging along in your responding letter to him. You know that Sirius and James haven’t spent much time in Muggle settings and don’t trust them to behave normally.
It’s Lily who sees you first when you enter the bar. Her arm that isn’t wrapped around Mary comes up to wave you over with a beaming smile, as if you’ve known each other all your lives and do this all the time. To the credit of whoever picked this spot, it’s a charming little place in central London, elusive enough to be tucked away from the heavy foot traffic that the more well-known pubs would get.
“Thank God you’re here, (Y/N),” Lily says with faux-exasperation dripping from her words. “These tossers are treating this like an anthropological study into the way the real-world operates. We need someone else who’s seen it all before.”
You want to argue that it’s been a long time since you’ve really interacted with the Muggle world, but you don’t know how to speak in code like Lily’s seemed to learned to do.
“Do you want a drink, love?” Sirius asks, saving you from figuring out how to respond as he gets up with his empty pint glass to head towards the bar.
“Should I trust you to pay with normal money?” You quip back, reaching into your purse for your wallet.
You feel more at ease with Sirius in the same vein that he’s always seemed to be at ease with you—you have a shared kinship in the wounds that you bear from your families.
Sirius had sought you out at the Sorting Ceremony for the year after Regulus had gone to the Potters’ for the first time. He’d sat next to you like it was natural, though the words that had left him had sounded stilted and awkward—it had made you realize that Sirius had little practice in apologizing. He’d told you that it had never been his intention for James to target you like he had, but that his failure to take action had been an action in and of itself. “For a Gryffindor,” he’d said, “I have a very lousy sense of right and wrong and I don’t think I’m half as brave as we’re supposed to be. I should have stopped James, but…it felt good to see someone hurt like I had hurt. I’m sorry that I didn’t do anything to stop him when it was my fault that he targeted someone to begin with.”
You’d forgiven him easily because there hadn’t been an egregious wrong for him to atone for to begin with. He could’ve stopped James, sure, but James never should’ve started to begin with.
“Keep your devil money,” Sirius insists as you go to hand him money for the drink you’ve asked him to get you. “James owes you a drink.”
“I think he owes me a lifetime of them,” you quip before you can think about what you’re saying. It’s the first time you’ve ever outright addressed those years of hurt.
You feel your heart skip a beat as you look to James, worried that he’s pulling out his wand to curse you for addressing the elephant in the room. But in place of the hurt you suspect to find written over his features, there’s a grin blooming instead. “There she is,” he gets out through a chuckle. “Was wondering when you’d get comfortable enough to joke like that.”
Despite your best efforts to ignore it, you find it impossible to deny the rush of warmth that comes from well-intentioned attention from James Potter. He looks at you like you’re the most interesting person in the room, like you’re the only person worth seeing. It’s a dangerous thing, you think, to be seen under the stare of such well-intentioned eyes.
★ ☆
The weight of the past catches up to you the night after Regulus’s graduation from Hogwarts. You and Sirius had gone out of your way to host a party for him that began as a dinner and turned into a night of drinking at your modest flat.
James, emboldened by the few drinks he’d had, had stuck to your side the entire night. He’d volunteered to come early with Sirius to set everything up, even doing it all the “Muggle way” so that your neighbors wouldn’t become suspicious with the sounds of things slamming into the floor. Guests planned to apparate to a nearby alleyway and walk into your apartment, too, to alleviate suspicion.
“You’re too nice,” he declares as he hands you another cup of whatever concoction he’s created for you now. Most of them have been good, but you hadn’t told him that the last one tasted faintly like paint water, too afraid to hurt his already fragile state of mind—he’s only just started to get comfortable around you. “Sirius just told me that last drink tasted like shit, and you drank the whole thing? You could’ve said something, sweetheart, I can take it.”
You take a sip from the new cup he’s handed you and find it much more refreshing. “Did Remus make this one?” You ask, a smirk shining through your words as you take another sip. "It tastes a lot better, thank you."
James huffs out a quiet laugh and shakes his head as if to say I’m not telling, but the way he looks away from you tells you everything that you need to know.
You settle into a comfortable silence then, your gaze trained on Regulus who’s apparently losing a game of drunk Wizard Chess to Sirius. Their version of the rules seems to involve drinking when a piece is lost, and if the lack of pieces on the board wasn’t an indication, the way Regulus’s typically quiet voice has risen to the volume of someone trying to be heard over a moderately loud crowd would give him away—it's not quite a shout, but not the normal volume that he’d otherwise speak with. It’s nice, you think, to see them get along so well.
“Regulus really loves you, you know,” James says, breaking the silence between the two of you. “That first summer…he chewed me out for everything and I deserved it. If it wasn’t for you, Sirius would never have gotten his baby brother back.
“I never got to say I’m sorry, but I don’t even know if I should now. It doesn’t feel like it’d mean anything. I took a lot from you and I never stopped to think that I was even taking it from you to begin with.”
James looks abashed as you catch his gaze, surprised by the steady tone to his voice. This isn’t the confession of a man who’s under the influence of a few drinks, but instead the apology of a man who feels bad for his misgivings.
“It’s okay,” you say after another moment of silence. “I mean, it wasn’t at the time. I…”
You trail off for another moment, trying to figure out if what you’re about to confess deserves to be heard. Before James can ask you what you’re hesitant to say, you press on. “I never hated you, though. I thought about what I’d do to know my little sisters had a friend like you if they turned out to be witches and our parents cut ties with them, too, and I…it helped, I guess.”
“Do you talk to them at all?” He asks, voice hesitant as he broaches a topic he doesn’t know if you’d want to discuss with him.
“One of them started writing me my last year at Hogwarts,” you admit. “She apparently sent a letter in the post to Dumbledore somehow and asked how she might get in contact with me. He sent one of the owls back with a response to her and she was able to write to me—we’d only write to each other at night so that she wouldn’t get caught. She’s…they’re all doing really well. She’s set to take her A-level exams—kinda like our N.E.W.T.S?—next year and wants to go to uni to study music in order to start the process of becoming a music therapist.”
The smile you give James is fraught with an unnamed emotion, but you don’t look upset. It’s hard to realize that your siblings have grown up without you, that they’ve become people you no longer know in your absence.
You’re just glad that Regulus and Sirius didn’t have to experience that.
“But it’s all good. We’ll hopefully meet up when she’s out of the house, but…our parents still say that I’m spawned from the devil and that true evil exists as long as witches and wizards do, and our younger sisters are too young not to believe that.”
“You know that you’re not the devil, right?” James clarifies, his eyes searching yours for something that you’re not sure he’ll find. “You’re…Godric, (Y/N), it’s a miracle you turned out any shade of normal coming from that. And the way you protect the people you care about is unlike anything else—you cared enough to let me bully you when you were only fourteen and take it without any complaint or retaliation. Not a lot of people would’ve done that.”
You take pause then, chewing over words for a moment before you look to James with a bemused expression. “And I guess you didn’t turn out half bad either, Potter.”
As far as compliments go, you think that’s about the best you’ll be able to give James right now. And it’s something, at least—a promise of a new beginning.
★ ☆
James realized that whatever was blooming between you and him had changed when you’re the first person that he wants to tell good news to. If something happens at work, he thinks of telling you when you meet him and your friends for a drink at the end of the week. He compiles lists in sticky notes (a Muggle invention that you’d had around your flat that he’d been enamored with) of things that he wants to tell you.
He feels guilty when he names the feeling in his chest. He took so much from you and you let it be taken willingly—why should he ask for anything more? Who is he to ask for you to see him as anything but a monster?
It all comes to a head as he walks you home at the end of a Friday night catch-up. You like the walk that stretches between your flat and the one that Remus and Sirius share and never learned to apparate with the rest of your class—it made you motion sick, you’d admitted once—and no one likes the sensation of being torn through time and space after a few drinks.
James walks you home because it’s the least he can do. He’s going to spend his entire life trying to make it up to you if you’ll let him.
Someone pushes by you on the street and shoves you into James, and he steadies you without a second thought as the man shouts back an apology to you. He doesn’t drop his hand from your arm quickly enough and finds that you lean into his side in a way that he hadn’t anticipated.
As you approach the door to your building, you turn to him. Lamplight reflects in your eyes and bounces off your hair as you look at him, your gaze holding a fraction of the intensity that it held the day that you confronted him in the courtyard. He sees something else there now, an unnamed thing that he’s too scared to name for fear of getting it wrong.
“Are you ever going to tell me how you feel?” You ask, voice colored with a humor that James has been able to lure out of you more and more over the past few months.
James drops his hand from your arm, startled at your bluntness. “I didn’t—I don’t—I know you don’t feel the same, especially after—”
“If you let the actions of your sixteen-year-old self speak for you for the rest of your life, are you ever going to give yourself the space to be forgiven?” You counter easily. “And as for how I feel, how do you know that? Have you ever asked me?”
James, for a moment, doesn’t know what to say.
“If I’m reading this wrong, tell me,” you say, stepping into his space and bringing a hand to his face to cup his cheek.
He says nothing, his hand rising to cup your upper arm in what he hopes to be a touch that conveys enough of what he wants to say. He tries to find the words and feels his tongue twisted in his mouth, unsure of how to tell you that he’s wanted this since he realized how wrong he’d been about you.
You lean into him and he feels himself be kissed, takes a moment before he’s kissing back with a steady pressure. When you pull away, the kiss a brief thing that he doesn’t feel could’ve been any longer without his desperation bleeding into it, you’re smiling at him in a way that he’s never seen before.
“I like you, James Potter.”
He feels this as the forgiveness for what he realizes he never needed to atone for, an answer to a prayer that never had to be spoken. Like Regulus said, he’ll spend the rest of his life trying to make it all up to you.
How thrilling is it that you might just let him?
--
tags (if u don't want to be tagged again pls lmk !!!): @faefictions @ellecdc @ddejavvu
he doesn't die in the end (there's the rest of a life to breathe in)—f.w
summary: you've always known how the story was going to end—with a crumbling wall and the ghost of a laugh on his lips. you'll do anything to keep it from happening, even if that pushes you right into his orbit. [slow burn, mutual pining, friends to idiots to lovers] [cw: mentions of death & canon-compliant violence]
wc: 14.1k [oh my god]
a/n: this fic got me through the worst of my job. it has seen me through so much and now it is urs if u want it !! and if u don't. ok. PLEASE tell me if u read it and PLEASE tell me ur every waking thought about it bc like...this is my magnum opus i fear.
masterlist | my requests are open!! | lmk what u thought !! PLEASE!!!
Despite his best efforts to achieve the contrary, Fred Weasley has found himself incapable of understanding you. You spend significant time with Professor Snape, despite the raven-haired man’s apparent distaste for everyone besides himself and a select few Slytherins, and you don’t seem to be standing in the grace of his godlight in any capacity.
When you’re not with Snape, you’re holed up in Professor Trelawney’s classroom discerning meaning from tea leaves or the wisps of smoke from sage that you’d burned. You rarely spoke more than a handful of words to anyone, but no one ever had a bad word to say about you. Even Draco Malfoy left you alone for the most part—you were odd, but not in a way that anyone seemed to dare to tease or prod with.
From the moment Fred saw you on the boats in first year, to the near five minutes that he’d watched the Sorting Hat attempt to place you, he’d known that you were odd. Everyone had. There was an air about you that seemed to match Luna Lovegood’s, but those who tried to torment you during first year had come back with whispered stories of how you’d cast a Bat Bogey Hex with only a murmur of the incantation and a subtle twist of your wand. You were odd, but you weren’t to be messed with.
Like he’s stressed—Fred Weasley didn’t understand you. But that didn’t mean he didn’t want to.
He’d tried to. He had. He’d sat next to you at breakfast and dinner, tried to show off various tricks and slights of hand he’d learned. You’d met every attempt at friendship with a kind smile and interested stare, but Fred had been hard pressed to get more than a few words out of you at a time.
George said that he was sweet on you. Ginny said it was endearing. Ron said he was barking up the wrong tree. Percy wanted Fred to get your advice on O.W.L. exams, as he was sure you were already light-years ahead on studying. And yet, Fred was single-mindedly focused on one thing only—getting you to consider yourself his friend.
His quest came to a head when Fred found himself failing Potions in fourth year. Fourteen and invincible, Fred hadn’t thought it worthwhile to pursue Potions seriously when he’d become so adept at them in his extracurriculars with George. Still, Professor Snape didn’t like that reasoning and found no basis in it. Extracurriculars don’t make up for any loss of the curricular, Mr. Weasley, he’d said.
And then he’d arranged for you to tutor Fred. It had been so sudden, so unexpected, that Fred had felt he nearly jumped out of his skin at the mention of your name. Snape must have taken it as an attempt to interject, to push back on the idea of you tutoring him, as he fixed Fred with a steely gaze that spoke volumes.
But Fred—quietly, to himself—realized that this may just be the way into your life that he’d been searching for so desperately these past three years.
⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩
Your first study session saw Fred hearing your voice for the longest amount of time in one go.
“I was surprised when Professor Snape listed you on my study tables’ list,” you said into the silence of the Potions classroom as you flipped through a textbook. Your voice was a tender hush of a sound, but Fred reasoned that the warmth in it kept the cold of the dungeons of Hogwarts at bay.
Fred blinked at you a few times, unsure of what to say. He hadn’t known that you’d taken any stock of him as a person over the past years in school together.
“You’re good enough to make all of your Puking Pasties,” you supplied after a moment. “Do you just not like class? I imagine it’s a bit below what you’re managing on your own…probably a bit boring, then.”
You didn’t seem to be looking for a response, and Fred was too terrified to speak in the event that it stopped you from talking altogether. You continued flipping through the pages of the textbook. From what Fred could recall of Percy, Charlie, and Bill’s studies, he recognized it as the fifth-year textbook.
“Here it is,” you murmured in that same quietly warm cadence, pausing on a page. You turned the book to Fred before you started going around the classroom to collect ingredients. He tried not to think about the fact that you didn’t get everything together with a simple Accio, that you instead seemed to like the task of going from shelf to shelf collecting things by hand.
Fred couldn’t stop himself from reading the title of the page aloud, his brows furrowing. “... Babbling Beverage?” He called out to you, watching as you collected everything seemingly by memory.
You returned to the table with everything gathered in the front of your robes, having maneuvered it like a pouch to hold everything you’d needed. “Listen,” you began as you took everything out of your makeshift pouch. As if Fred would risk doing anything but exactly what you’d instructed him to. “I…may have gone out on a limb here with Professor Snape. I vouched for you. I told him about the Puking Pasties and the Pimple Vanisher. Because it’s all just Potions, and I told him that I think you’re bored. And honestly, that’s how I was, too.
“But I was annoying about it. I wore him down until he let me have access to the upper-level textbooks that he’d kept, and even some of his own recipes, and he…well, he didn’t tutor me, really. He’s not much of a mentor. But he stopped expecting me to show my work in class and gave me different essays to write. I still don’t think he likes me, and I don’t think he really likes you, either, but he’s…we need to get him to see that you can do advanced Potions if you’re interested in them. Does that make sense?”
Fred was left in the aftermath of everything you’d just shared with him. The times he’d sat at your side in the Great Hall, where he’d thought that you weren’t listening, you had been. Every time he’d tried to show you something he and George had been working on, you’d remembered. But one thing was bothering him—
“Annoying?” He repeated, his brow still furrowed as he tried to work through everything you’d just shared. “How could you be annoying?”
Fred watched as a small smile blossomed over your face as you began cutting up a few ingredients to add to the cauldron later. “Exactly as I’m managing it right now.”
He took the knife from your hands when you offered it to start cutting up the last few ingredients. You kept a watchful eye on his work, but ultimately said nothing more.
Once everything was ready, Fred started following the methodical steps with an uncanny ease. While he’d pleaded his case to Snape in much of the same way that it seemed you had, Fred had never thought that he’d be able to come to a middle-ground with any professor. He was living under the assumption that school was a stepping stone, not a place to land for the time being, and that professors wouldn’t meet him where he was.
“...I thought you didn’t like me, you know,” Fred said as he wrote down the time on a corner of parchment to note the cooling time for the potion that was brewing in front of him.
You seemed to chew on that for a moment, tasting it for what the revelation’s flavor could give you. “I’m cautious,” you supplied after another beat of silence. “I…don’t have many friends. I spend too much time with Professor Trelawney and, uh, sucking up to Professor Snape, if you were to ask some people…and I get it. I’m into the weird and quiet subjects with professors who brood or claim to know the future.”
You went quiet again. When Fred turned to look at you, he caught you scratching your nail against the top of the table and biting your lip, seemingly lost in a moment of thought. “...You’ll have to forgive me if your reputation precedes you. I didn’t know if you liked me at first, or if you were…I don’t know.” You blow out a breath, seemingly frustrated at your own lack of explanation. “Even Hermione Granger makes fun of me sometimes, Fred, and she’s as ambitious as I am. I know the circle you run in, and I thought it…I thought you were setting up some grand joke to pull over Hogwarts resident teacher’s pet. I didn’t know to trust that you weren’t until you started talking to me about your jokes instead of playing them on me.
“I’m sorry for making an assumption about you. I was wrong.”
Your little speech has taken the time that the Potion needed to cool. You don’t give Fred a chance to respond, but instead go to grab a vial to put the Potion into. It’s shimmering in the light and the color of pink bubblegum. You’re grinning, beatific, and Fred can’t help but join you.
“We’ll make a Potions Master out of you yet.”
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Fred remains troubled about what you shared with him to the point that he writes to his mother about his tutoring. He tells her what you said about thinking that you were the subject of another one of his jokes and questions, for the first time, what the difference between pranking and bullying might be. Is it who’s in on the punchline? Or is it a question of where the joke is being made?
George tells him not to worry too much about it, but Fred can’t shake the fact that he might be painted in anything other than the light of his best intentions. His mum tells him to bring you around over the Christmas holiday, almost delighted at the fact (at least in her writings) that Fred has managed to make headway with you. He thinks she might just be delighted to know that he’s finally found a subject he isn’t totally terrible at.
By this point in your tutoring sessions, Fred’s been making his way up the ranks of convoluted potions. You’re trying to petition Snape to let you make Wolfsbane next—though Fred finds that you may just want to make it under the guise of getting Fred into the more advanced levels of Potion making. He doesn’t mind, not really, because it gives him a reason to meet with you every few weeks.
You keep an eye on his homework and look it over. He asks about what Snape has set you out to research for your next assignment, since it’s different from his even though you’re in the same class. You still sit away from him in any shared classes, typically alone at a desk or at the end of a row of students who must have had no other choice than to let you join them.
But, slowly, Fred works his way into your social life. He sits with you every few days at meals, asks you questions about Transfiguration or Charms. They’re not your favorite subjects, but you keep up with the material. And, as Fred’s learned, you’re a good tutor.
People pay attention. They notice how Fred lingers around the periphery of your social life—if they would even say that you have one—and rumors start flooding. He hears them through George first, but he hears them as a warning from Ginny.
“She’s nice, Fred,” Ginny supplies one day, somewhere in the liminal space of November that sees the end of the term coming faster than he used to be able to keep up with. He’s surprised to find that, now that you’re a fixture in his life, he’s not as worried about the upkeep of work that normally bogs him down by now. “She’s good. If you so much as think about hurting her, I—”
“—I’d never, Ginny,” he assured her at the time. He wanted to believe it, but he also knew the Hogwarts rumor mill was a dangerous place.
While not as popular as Harry or well-known as those hanging in the inner circle of the Boy-Who-Lived, Fred supposes that his role as a prankster has made him more renowned than he’d have once thought possible.
He finds you uncharacteristically cornered by a group of Slytherins. Whatever they’re saying to you has left you quiet. The part that hurts Fred the most is that they’re not even casting curses or slinging hexes your way—it’s the weight of whatever they’re saying that’s been enough to stun you, some nerve exposed that you hadn’t known to deflect them off of before they’d smelled the spark of its live-wire ending.
“What seems to be the issue, lads?” Fred asks in a fake-cheery tone. The ring-leader of the group turns to expand the half-circle of students to include Fred.
Whatever he was saying must have been proven by the fact that Fred materialized at just the right moment. Fred’s left on the edge of understanding the cruelty that’s unfolded without getting to bear witness to it.
“And here he is,” one of them says, sneering. “Tell us, Weasley, is she as good of a shag as you’ve made it seem? I don’t know why even the likes of you would waste your time with her. Unless she can tell you whether your family will ever strike the gold they’ve pretended is out there for blood-traitors like—”
Fred doesn’t even have time to think before his fist is connected with the boy’s cheek.
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You manage to get McGonagall off of his back long enough to get Fred to the Hospital Wing, promising that there will be another time to be angry at his moment of inopportune violence. You do a good job of dodging questioning stares and bulldozing past outright attempts to ask what had happened. The Hogwarts rumor mill will continue to churn, it seems, and Fred has done nothing of benefit in getting himself tangled into it any further than he already was.
Fred expects you to be angry. You sit him in a bed and alert Madam Pomfrey to your arrival before you join him in the room, sitting down on the bed across from him. Your quiet is disconcerting after he’s spent so long knowing just how talkative you can be, and he doesn’t know what to do. So, he talks.
“Has it been that bad before?” He asks as he stretches out his knuckles, feeling the scratch of bruised skin as it gives way above moaning bones that protest at the continued movement. The pain gives him something to focus on that isn’t his anger. “Why wouldn’t you get me if it was?”
You’re not looking at him, so he goes quiet. He knows you’ve heard him from how you’re biting your lip—it’s how you think through a question that you need to get the answer out to.
A few minutes pass in uneasy silence that Fred wants to break with more questions before you answer. “...it’s never been good,” you finally say. “Usually it’s just taunting about prophecies and crystal balls or sucking up to Snape.
“I usually have some way of getting out. I can raise my wand and see someone flinch, which gives me a few seconds to slip out. Or…I can scare someone with a fake prophecy. “But…they’ve never had any other material to go off of, I guess. I’m not used to someone making fun of…of my friends. I suppose they’ve never had anyone else to tie me to. I didn’t expect to get so angry that I wouldn’t do anything, though.”
Fred realizes now that your silence hasn’t been an angry one. It’s been full of guilt.
He calls your name softly as he realizes what this is—the self-deprecation because of the belief that you should have done something you’ve never been prepared to. The truth behind it makes Fred’s heart crack in his chest in a way that leads him to believe it might break right out from behind his ribcage—you’ve never had a friend that required defending. You didn’t know what to do because you’ve never had someone else to protect before.
“You’re my friend,” Fred reiterates, stern in how he speaks so that you catch his gaze again with the shock of it. He needs you to know that so badly that he aches with it. “And you don’t have to defend me. I’ve heard that before, okay? The Weasley name has been through worse. You…I mean, it’s your choice as to what you do next time. But I need you to know that I’m right behind you when they come back. And…and I know you’ve handled it alone, and I know that you can, but…tell me, okay? If it gets bad again. If they come after you just because you’re my friend.”
Fred’s startled to see the rush of tears that spring in your eyes, but he pretends not to see them. He mainly doesn’t know what to do with someone who’s upset, let alone a girl that isn’t Ginny. But he’s starting to figure it out, he realizes—the line between a jester and a bully is right here, in the hospital wing of Hogwarts. It’s the punchline coming after the first blow was already landed against someone he cares about.
He makes a promise to keep that idea tight to his chest. For you, if for no one else.
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You come to the Burrow for Christmas. Your parents, evidently delighted at the prospect of you having a friend to spend the holiday with, ship you off for the stretch between Christmas and the New Year to return to Hogwarts with the Weasleys.
Fred meets your parents when he and his parents go to collect you. They’re quiet people, too. And, much to his father’s delight, they’re Muggles. Despite your preparation for your house’s short connection to the Floo Network, your mother still jumps at the sight of the three Weasleys stepping out of your fireplace in a plume of green smoke.
His father takes time poking and prodding at every electrical device in the house. Fred is mortified and trying desperately to get him away from the telly, to stop asking about the phone and how it works, but you silence him with a knowing smile. Your own father seems endeared by the process of explaining electricity to a Wizard.
“He never thought we’d have things that Wizards didn’t,” your mother supplies quietly to Mrs. Weasley. “Would anyone like tea? We’ve made biscuits as well, if you have a minute to stay.”
His mother, to her credit, is also delighted at the hospitality she’s being shown.
The half hour spent in your childhood home teaches Fred far more about you than he expected it to. He learns that your father works as an electrical engineer, that your mother teaches at a local primary school. He learns that you have a sister much older than you who has a family of her own, and that, while your family doesn’t wholly understand the world of Magic, they accept you nonetheless.
He learns that your mother is still wary of the owls that you sent at first, even despite your constant explanations, and that you go to send your post to your family from Hogsmeade every month and retrieve it from the Hogs Head Inn in kind. This arrangement was brought about by Dumbledore when you’d gone to him in your first year, terrified by the kindly man who, Fred reasons, likely had something to do with the way that you’re tutored in school. His mum demands to be shown how to send letters in this way, determined to stay up-to-date in a less-overwhelming way with your parents. You seem taken aback by this willingness to be included in such a miniscule way, but don’t comment.
When your fathers are done discussing the electrical paneling of your home, you’re shuffled out with a hug from both of your parents and a bag filled with gifts. It’s Fred’s turn to be taken aback by something—the notion that your parents, while kind, had thought to help you get gifts for his family.
This gleaning into your life makes Fred worried about the chaos of his own life that you’re about to uncover, but he tries to stamp it down. No use in worrying about what hasn’t happened yet.
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Fred watches you absorb the Burrow for what it is with barely-contained fascination. He’s never seen someone take in the house, the everything that made him into the wizard that stepped into Hogwarts, and wanted them to like him so badly despite the revelations.
Your family is clean. The house was tidy, the dishes sorted by hand. His house is…loud. It’s chaos spilling between doorframes and into living spaces, screams of different names being chased into rooms when childish fights break out. Fred isn’t often embarrassed of where he came from, but for the first time in a very long time, he finds himself nervous about what you might think of the place and people that raised him.
You leave your trunk and bag of gifts in the living room to go outside and step back from the house. Fred catches his mother watching you from the kitchen window as she sets to tending to the morning’s dishes with a few orchestrated flicks of her wand.
“This…” You trail off for a moment as you look up to the Burrow, eyes alight with a wonder that Fred’s never really seen directed towards anything his family has. “Your house is beautiful, Fred.”
If he didn’t know you at this point, he’d think you were making fun of him. But when your gaze catches his, he can feel the sincerity burning through it. He tries not to let the vision of it catch in his chest for too long, lest it require naming the feeling he had caught himself harboring for you. Something more than was called for by the label of friend. Something more than he thought you’d want of him.
“Will you show me around, please?” You’ve never been one for pleading, and Fred nearly startles at the realization that he’s willing to do just about anything you ask of him with a tone like that.
He takes you through his childhood home while trying not to focus on the reverence in your gaze. He starts from the top of the stairs outside of Ron’s room, not opening the door to invade the privacy he knows his brother needs. He tells you about the family ghoul who, at the mention of his existence, begins to rattle the ceiling in a way that startles delighted laughter out of you.
He leads you then past the room that Bill and Charlie used to share, past his parents’ bedroom. He takes you into his own room, cringing at the scent of gunpowder and wishing that he’d taken his mother’s offer of a candle since you’d be sharing a room with the twins during your stay. George greets you with a flourish into their humble abode and you promise to come help him with whatever he’s been working on in the afternoon that Fred had—in George’s words—abandoned him to collect you.
By the time you’re in the kitchen, his mum’s already setting up to prepare dinner. You startle at the sight of pots and pans cleaning themselves in the kitchen sink, and Fred watches as you take note that his mother is doing nonverbal magic to start preparing supper. He sees the questions you want to ask in the furrow of your brow, but takes notice as the quiet version of you comes out. You’re not used to being welcomed somewhere new. You don’t know the rules around asking questions that some professors might deem pestering.
Thankfully, Molly Weasley has dealt with her fair share of anxious teenagers. She brings Harry Potter back to full health every summer before he goes to school. When she catches your questioning stare, she’s interjecting before Fred can start to explain.
“Is there something I can get you, dearies? Fred, are your manners so lost that you wouldn’t offer her a bite to eat or a drink? Or tell her where to put her trunk?” The knowing stare she fixes Fred with seems to have thawed away at some of the hesitance you were feeling.
“Actually, Mrs. Weasley—”
“—it’s Molly, dear, no need for such formalities—”
“—right, uhm, Molly,” you go on, biting your lip as you take a moment to try not to lose your courage at being interrupted. If Fred could survive the aftermath of yelling at his mother, he’d reprimand her and remind her of your reticent nature that he’d tried to warn his entire family about. “I hope you’ll excuse me saying this, but you’re…to do all of these spells at once, you’re an incredible Witch. Talented, I mean. If that’s…okay to say?”
It’s rare that Fred sees his mother stunned into silence, and rarer still that it’s not because of how angry he and George had made her. And while Fred’s never thought of his mother in such a light as you’re seeing her, he finds himself ashamed to admit that it’s true in a way he’s taken for granted.
“Well…” Molly struggles for only a minute longer, and it seems an apology is about to tumble from your lips before she’s rounding out from behind the counter to pull you into one of her all-too-warm hugs. “What pleasure has Fred gotten hiding you all to himself these past few years? Thank you, dear, but it isn’t too much work when you’re used to it. In fact, there’s a few books I could lend you if you like about the common household spells. Did me wonders when I moved out on my own.”
You beam at her as she lets you out of the tight hug. She takes you from Fred then to show you what she’s doing. While you might not be able to do magic outside of school, you’re an apt study based on the way you mimic her wand movements under the counter as she exaggerates them for your benefit.
In the meantime, Fred thinks of the question his mum had asked, about how much of a pleasure it has been to have you as a private piece of his—and to a lesser extent, George’s—life at Hogwarts. But, he reasons, he would give it all up for the way that you’re fitting in with his family.
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He isn’t brave enough that Christmas to broach asking you more than he already has about yourself. He keeps his questions in a vault in his head to the best of his ability for the rest of the year, except for the ones that slip through the cracks. He mainly asks about your Muggle parents, your sister and her family. He tries to keep the questions casual so that when a more serious one slips out, you won’t startle and go quiet.
He can’t help it, though, when you come to the Burrow for the summer between fifth and sixth year. You’re beatific in the sunlight of the Burrow’s lawn, having helped him and George pull up gnomes for the better part of the afternoon despite his mother’s insistence that you take the afternoon to relax. Your hair fans out around your head and catches sunlight in the strands in a way that Fred wishes he was able to properly wax poetic about. As it stands, though, he’s only sixteen. All he knows is that his breath stutters at the picture before him and he feels it catch behind his ribs.
To distract from the feeling, the question he’s always wondered slips out. “How have you always been able to tell George and I apart?”
Your eyes crack open to study him from your spot on the lawn, your teeth drawn over your lip as you take a moment to think. He almost apologizes for having made you sit up as you do it, leaning back on your hands as you appear to chew over his comment for a moment.
“I don’t know how anyone who knows you two can’t,” you answer honestly after a moment. “It’s…you smile differently, did you know that? And…your laughs. They’re similar, yeah, but…yours stutters out of you. George’s doesn’t.”
You say this like it doesn’t fundamentally shift his sixteen-year-old-world on its side for a moment and leave him sprawling in the aftermath of such a casual confession.
Fred Weasley, who had struggled to catch your attention and hold it for the better part of four years, has been recognized as himself. He’s been seen as more than a package deal, and you’ve said it like it’s nothing. He doesn’t know where to go from here.
So, he does what he thinks he often does best—he attempts to deflect.
“You should really tell mum that, y’know. Maybe she’d have an easier time when she’s mad at telling us apart…”
His easy grin must suffice in showing you that he’s joking, because you let the conversation die as you lay back down in the grass and let the sunlight stream into your hair again.
Beatific, he thinks, and resolves himself to find synonyms for the word by the end of the summer holiday.
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By his final year at Hogwarts, Fred’s started a mission. A quiet one as he and George prepare to leave Hogwarts during your shared seventh year.
Amongst themselves, they call it Operation Be Okay. Because the truth is, despite how supportive you are of their need to leave Hogwarts, Fred is terrified that leaving will ruin everything that the two of you have built. And beyond that, he’s terrified that you’re going to feel the absence of himself and his brother in ways that you’re not allowing yourself to adequately prepare for.
Your first Christmas with the Weasleys started a tradition that saw you spilling into the fabric of the Burrow. His mum often jokes that you need your own spoon on the clock, as do Harry and Hermione. You come over in the summers for weekends and steal moments whenever you can. He spends time with your family, too, and George often tags along to make sure you leave room for Merlin. Of course George knows how he feels about you—they share a brain most days and have since they were born. To your credit, if you hear anything George says when it’s being not-so-quietly whispered, you keep your face neutral and never comment.
All of this is to say that Fred is worried that you’ll slip back into old, quiet habits when they leave. He tries to set you up with Luna Lovegood, but as lovely as she is and as well as the two of you get on, you’re both quiet creatures who rarely share thoughts until you feel comfortable.
Hermione doesn’t know how to talk to you about anything else besides school. Ron is still at a point where he’s intimidated by you from a prophecy you claimed to see about spiders in his future, though Fred’s told him you haven’t ever had a prophecy come true because none of them were real.
When he’s about out of options that don’t involve him staying in school and sitting his N.E.W.T.s—a thought he never believed would ever cross his mind—he comes to breakfast to find you sitting next to Harry Potter. He’s almost worried for a moment that Harry has taken you on as a charity case, or someone he needs to be friends with on behalf of his best friend’s brother, but when he approaches the table and takes the seat next to you with Harry on your other, he hears you speaking in whispered tones and looking at something in his palm.
Fred does his best not to startle at the sight of a snake in Harry’s hand. He tries even harder to stifle the chill that runs up his spine without his permission at the sound of Harry speaking Parseltongue. Still, he can’t stop the whispered, “Blimey,” that leaves him at the picture painted before him. Harry instantly stops talking and looks hesitant to continue. You, however, reach out and stroke the snake’s nose in an attempt to soothe it. Its eyes catch Fred’s as if knowing that he was the reason Harry stopped speaking.
“Isn’t it so cool, Fred?” You ask in a tone that tells Fred you’re not joking at all—not that you ever would with the way your gaze catches the reproachful expression painted on Harry’s face. “Harry’s been helping me talk to her. I found some students destroying her little nest that she was trying to make to lay her eggs, Harry said, and they were just tormenting her…she was being flung around in the air, oh, it was awful…”
Fred doesn’t think the snake can understand you, but she must sense the jagged edge of your tone as she slides into your outstretched hand. She slides up your sleeve, evidently happy enough with you to be burrowing into your clothes. “Harry said she doesn’t think she needs any special attention or help, but she’s happy to be away from the torture. I was going to let her out by the Black Lake before Potions—apparently there’s lots of rotted logs there for her that she really likes, and sometimes the merpeople sing to her at night. I tried to give her some bacon, but she likes live food better…”
To Harry’s credit, he’s not outright appalled by your apparent care for the snake in your sleeve. In fact, he seems endeared by the way you’re talking to her. Fred supposes that he doesn’t often get people asking him to speak Parseltongue, nor does he often get such rave reviews about his ability to do so. And how so very like you, Fred thinks, to see how you can solve a problem and set out to do just that.
“I should take her there now,” you decide after quickly finishing the last of your breakfast in a few succinct bites. “Harry, can you tell her that, please? That I’m taking her to the water with the rotted logs and warm sun?”
Harry leans down and whispers something in Parseltongue. Whatever the snake says has Harry grinning while you stand, clearly sensing that the brief exchange has ended. Fred wouldn’t put it past you to have learned a bit of Parseltongue in this small time, or at least the cadence of a conversation in it to know when an exchange is over.
“She says that she’d like to show you her babies when they hatch, if you’d like. Where you leave her is where they’ll be after three full moons—uh, three months—from now. She doesn’t…know what a month is, so I guess maybe go by her timeline.” Harry seems to sense that Fred has been listening to your exchange and sees the moment that he realizes that others have probably heard him speaking Parsletongue, people that would judge him for it. Fred knows well how easy it is to get wrapped up in the starlight that you seem to possess, the bubble that you carry that makes it feel like no one hears what shouldn’t be divulged. He also knows that you won’t let anyone give Harry a hard time for it.
You prove this when you catch Dean Thomas’s disgusted stare towards your sleeve and his incredulous look to Harry himself. Catching his gaze with your own, you tilt your head to the right ever-so-slightly and let your eyes glass over. “Mousetraps…how odd. And a bloody sketchbook. Though it doesn’t stop you for long…you have a beautiful sketchbook, don’t you?”
Shaking your head, you walk away without a further comment. Fred does his best to smother the grin that’s threatening to overtake his features at your fake prophecy. Word had gotten around about everyone’s boggarts, surely, and you’d still been kind enough to make it so Dean knew he wouldn’t, had this been a true moment of Sight, lose the function to draw forever.
When Fred catches Harry’s eye, he knows that he’s having a similar moment of self-control.
The moment passes when Dean gets up, looking markedly greener than he had before. Harry’s grin splits his face into something younger than he often seems, boyish in a way that Fred rarely sees him. With the weight of the world hanging on his shoulders, Fred reckons it’s hard to get to feel normal, to have a moment of reprieve.
“...She’s brilliant, isn’t she?” Harry says. “I mean, you do, but…no one…” Fred lets Harry trail off, knowing that this isn’t the time to give him words to let him choose from. “I just mean that it’s rare I get someone coming up with a snake and asking me to talk to it. I almost thought she was taking the piss at first, you know? I know she’s your friend and your mum says she isn’t like that, but, I dunno…”
“I get it,” Fred says when he senses that Harry needs him to supply something more than understanding glances and knowing silence. “She’s one of my best mates, Harry, but I know how intimidating she seems at first. She doesn’t like to be fucked around with, y’get it? And it isn’t anything personal. She just…takes some warming up to.”
Harry nods when he takes that in. “I knew she wasn’t taking the piss when I went to yell at her. She was almost crying, I think, and told me everything she told you—injured snake and students throwing it in the air. And when the snake started talking with me, she…she seemed to be really relieved.”
The boys go quiet for a few moments. There isn’t much Fred can say to that, he reasons, when it’s what he’s known about you all along. You’re a hard shell to crack, but you wouldn’t have gone to Harry if you didn’t know he wouldn’t give you a hard time. He thinks that, maybe, introducing you to Luna might have given you this perspective. He makes a mental note to thank her later.
“Say, mate, can I…” It’s Fred’s turn to trail off for a moment, hesitant to ask Harry to take on any more responsibility than the Wizarding World is giving him. “...can I ask a favor of you, actually? I know it’s more than I should ask with everything you’ve given me and George already, but…”
Harry nods, as if telling him to go on. Fred takes a breath before he does.
“George and I are going to start our own joke shop this year. We’re…with Umbridge, we’re planning not to sit N.E.W.T.s. And I…”
Fred didn’t think he’d get this far with anyone, really. He didn’t think about how to ask for this.
“What I’m getting at is that…I care about her more than I really have the words for. I know she’s capable of surviving half a year without me, but I also know she wouldn’t tell me if the rest of her year is shit because of our leaving. And, so…I was hoping, maybe, you’d keep an eye on her.”
At the look Harry fixes him with—the are you sure she’d let me? look he knows so well—Fred presses on. “I’m not saying you have to suddenly be her best mate or anything. I just…ask her about the snake in three moons. Or the Potions she’s learning to brew. Merlin, whatever…I think you’d both have more to talk about than you think.”
Harry stews that over before he adds. “...you really love her, don’t you?”
Naming the feeling behind his ribs is a terrifying thing. It’s anxiety-inducing to give the force a name to go by in front of the Boy-Who-Lived. Fred has known what it is for a while, known what to call it and how to define it for longer than he’s really understood what it implied, but he finds that, despite the anxiety, it isn’t scary to realize.
“I do,” he admits, firmer in his tone than he’d expected. “And…again, I know I don’t have a lot of room here to ask you for anything. But what…I’d appreciate it, Harry. She’s not that bad when you get to know her.”
He does his best to ignore the smarmy look Harry Potter fixes him with, and instead takes it as a vow that he’ll keep you in sight for the better part of the next year. He also, maybe foolishly, trusts him not to tell anyone that he loves you. He thinks, as Harry looks at Ginny when he hears her laugh a few seats down, that Harry might know a thing or two about holding out hope for someone to return the feelings you have.
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Harry writes to Fred and George every few weeks after they leave Hogwarts. He tells them that, shockingly, even Peeves has taken a liking to you now that the twins have left. You’re still quiet, but you don’t tell Harry to leave when he sits next to you every few meals. You don’t seek him out, though. Fred thinks you’re too scared to hope that someone might want to be friends with you of their own volition when there’s a common link between you.
Your letters tell Fred that you know he asked Harry to look after you. You don’t seem to mind, though. He’s teaching you about Quidditch, and you’re helping him with some of his coursework. Fred wonders if you’re one of a few people who can make Harry Potter feel like a normal teenager every now and then.
Fred and George corner you every month at Hogsmeade. Harry joins sometimes, as do Luna and Hermione. Your circle has been expanding in a way that surprises Fred, in a way that makes him wish he would’ve known how willing you were to be introduced to others. He does, however, wonder if Harry has something to do with it.
Harry Potter has a way of pulling people together. Be it his reconciling with the fickle way that life seems to be or the world’s weight on his shoulders, he’s never been one to shy away from connecting his friends with one another.
It’s on a Hogsmeade outing that Fred is approached by Harry. You’re standing farther back with Luna, and the two of you are talking in hushed tones that he can’t decipher from a distance, but Fred can tell that something’s wrong.
Before he can go to you, Harry’s stopping him with a gentle hand to his arm. George lingers and tries and fails to look entirely uninterested with the conversations that are circling around him.
“She’s…” Harry trails off for a moment. “She’s seen something, I guess. She won’t talk to anyone about it but Luna, Trelawney, and Dumbledore, and you know what it’s like to get an answer out of Luna…”
Fred visibly starts at that. He’s shocked by the idea that your time with Trelawney has been for some reason other than mere interest—he’d never thought to ask if you had the gift of Sight. He’d always written it off as a hack branch of Magic, but he’s startled to realize that you might have it.
“Anyways, mate, she’s feeling like she won’t be very good company today. She’s more…like she used to be, if that makes sense.” Harry seems reproachful at that, but Fred doesn’t blame him.
You’ve always had a tendency to slip back into your quiet ways and muted nature. Fred tries not to take it personally, but he does feel awful to think that these episodes have been a result of any visions.
Fred thanks him and moves on to go see you. Hack branch of Magic or not, he hates the idea of you upset. He expects you to go quiet when he approaches you, but he’s startled once again when the sight of him brings you to instant tears.
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The truth won’t be brought out of you then. You tell Fred that there’s some things you can’t share, not really, and that he has to trust you enough to let it be for now. He tries to, at least.
He sits next to you in a clearing in Hogsmeade and remembers the day that you’d laid in the Burrow’s lawn. You always seem more at peace when the sun’s on you, shining and warm, casting a halo around your hair. You’re calmer now, though you seem exhausted.
“I have…dreams,” you admit. “I don’t like talking about them much. People don’t…I get how everyone sees Divination, and half the time I don’t know what I’m seeing until I live it later. I’ve had a few, uh, potent dreams, if you’d call them that, but…” You trail off, biting your lip, and Fred lets the silence hang. He knows you’re just struggling to find words for what you want to say.
You take a deep breath before you go on. “I had one of the potent ones last night. I talked to Dumbledore, but…I mean, Harry will tell you that he’s not always a great source of wisdom like people think. The good thing about the dreams, though, according to Trelawney, is that they’re not set in stone. I’ve done it before, y’know, little things—I once won my parents a lot of money on the Euromillions because we got so many numbers right, but I’d known all of the numbers. Nothing bad happened when I didn’t give all of the numbers.”
At the confused look Fred is fixing you with, you rush out, “Muggle thing, uh, like betting, almost? I’ll show you someday.” You take another breath before you add, “...I’ve been having more dreams about the War.”
“You’ve what?” Fred asks, incredulous. “Why didn’t you say anything? And—And more dreams? You’ve had enough of them before to have a baseline?”
The groan you let out is so unlike you that Fred nearly laughs. “And say what, Fred? That I probably have some version of the gift of Sight and sometimes I have dreams that come true? Or that I can tell a lot from tea leaves and sage signals?
“No one would take me seriously. And they already don’t. Shit, Dumbledore barely believed me until I knew the password to his office without being told. I don’t…I don’t get access to the information all the time. I’ve been working with Firenze, too, but…most wizards don’t get access to True Sight until after they’re of age. It’s hard to explain, and I sound fucking crazy, I know—”
Fred takes your hand in his at that, holding it tightly in his own to stop your rambling in its tracks. “I don’t think you sound crazy,” he tries to mollify you. “You’re one of the brightest witches I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing. And you’ve spent way too much time with Trelawney to be doing it for the love of tea, right? I should’ve known.”
“You couldn’t have,” you say, your voice taking on a far-away quality that reminds Fred so much of the quiet fourteen-year-old who taught him Potions and took the time to make an effort. “You can’t know what you were never told, Fred. Don’t take it personal. I just…it’s hard. I see…”
Your voice catches as you seem to remember whatever it is that you’re holding close to your chest. “I see a lot of loss. And it’s shit to be the one to see it all. Harry…he knows what he can. I try not to tell people the dreams unless they’re not in them, but…Merlin, he already has so much on his plate, y’know? What good does it do to tell him about the loss that he knows is coming? Why hurt him by making it something tangible?”
You shake your head at that before going on, “Anyways, I’m not…I’ll be okay. It just rattled me, I guess. I haven’t had this dream in a while, and it’s been the longest one I’ve had. Like, I’ve been having it since before I knew I was a Witch. I dunno.”
“...Dumbledore’s going to let me in on more Order meetings, though,” you confess. “I need to talk to Shacklebolt about some stuff, and Lupin.” You heave a sigh and let your head fall to your knees, forehead kissing the skin your skirt is rucked up above. “I don’t know how Harry does it all, really. It’s just a fucking dream, y’know?”
Fred doesn’t comment on that, because he doesn’t know. His nightmares have seemed to take on a pale edge in comparison to the real-life preludes you get. He’s hardly been immune to the idea that you’d spend time with Harry and want to join the cause, but he’s surprised to know that your involvement is likely more of a result of something intrinsic to you.
“Can I ask something?” Fred wagers after a few moments of silence.
You nod, turning your cheek so that you can peer at Fred without lifting your head. Your arms wrap around your legs to pull them a bit tighter to yourself, which makes Fred realize that he’s been holding your hand this entire time as you let go of his in the process. He tries not to dwell on it or be embarrassed.
“So, it makes sense why you’d be drawn to Divination, y’know, all things considered…but Potions?” He queries, feeling his brow furrow. “Spending time with Snape?”
You sit up fully as you think about what to say, teeth meeting your lip to worry it for a moment as you start to parse it out slowly. “I’ve known there’s going to be some form of a battle since I was a kid,” you supply. “But once I realized what I was seeing, or what I was, y’know, imagining it all to mean…I knew I needed to help make salves and medicines for whatever came. I knew I needed to be good at it, too. I dunno. It felt like something tangible I could do, even if I was having those dreams. It was something I could do in the moment to prepare.”
Fred feels hollow now that you’ve explained it. He doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t say anything. He lets the moment play out around you and heaves a breath at the realization that you’ve always been preparing yourself for something that no one really knew was coming and how heavy that must be.
He wonders, then, why it had taken him so long to introduce you to Harry Potter.
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Harry Potter keeps you safe that year. He sees you through the end of your Wizarding education, stands proud at your graduation with the rest of the school. In a lot of ways, Fred was right to involve you with him. He was right to bring you closer.
Your dreams only increase in frequency as the War draws to a head. Fred watches them yield real results—a warning to Fletcher and Moody to be safe, a carefully clipped edge to your tone when you tell them to stay together. Moody comes back from the Battle of the Seven Potters ashen. Fletcher didn’t Disapperate without grabbing hold of Moody, and they were able to escape together.
Moody isn’t one for theatrics, nor is he one for grovelling. But the look he fixes you with—both eyes seeing you—and the way he grumbles out, “...I’m sorry for doubting you,” tells everyone more than any platitude would’ve.
You don’t, however, see George losing an ear or Bill’s attack from Greyback. You’re inconsolable as you sit by George’s bedside, and no one can move you from his side, but the worst part is that you aren’t crying. There’s just a general unease about you, some magic that feels like it’s vibrating as it surrounds you. It’s a raw energy that you don’t seem aware you’re harnessing into the Potions you’re brewing, and it’s not a wonder to him that they’ve all turned out better than even your best batches. Your grief of not knowing has channeled into something tangible.
Fred has to be the one to bring you food—you spend time changing George’s bandages and reapplying the salve you’ve made under Snape’s guidance and preparing Wolfsbane for Bill. At this rate, he’s going to have a lifetime supply of it.
Neither Weasley has blamed you. Bill had shaken you off of him with a knowing glance when you’d tried to tell him about the various salves and potions he could try. As a Curse Breaker, he reminded you, he was aware of what could be done, and your supply of what he needed was already so overfilled that to prepare more might be wasteful.
No one in the Order has blamed you, in fact. You’ve spent time with Snape trying to learn Occulumency with Harry, as it wouldn’t hurt to be able to talk to your Inner Eye. You seem to be terribly convinced that the casualties of War could be prevented if you just had a way to See.
Fred’s belief is more modest. He thinks, though he hasn’t told you, that you can only See when it’s a matter of life or death. George missing an ear is hardly a great loss. Nor is it a great pain for Bill to experience a fraction of what Remus experiences every month. Worse, Fred’s worried that the stress you’re putting yourself under could hurt more than it helps.
George sends you away after a week of constant vigilance and more salve than he knows what to do with. “You’re hovering worse than mum,” he admonished, though there’s no heat behind his words. It’s the same exasperation that he shows towards Ron or Ginny when they linger for too long. “You need to go be something other than a Witch for fifteen minutes, seriously. Go…read a book, or pull gnomes, or something!”
Fred follows you out into the lawn of the Burrow. Early evening is casting golden light across the lawn as you plop down and draw your legs up to your chest. There’s chairs behind you, though Fred thinks better than to mention this.
He doesn’t know how to do this part. He’s reminded of the time in the Hospital Wing, where you’d been teary at the prospect of being friends, and then thinks of how much has changed since then. How much your relationship has changed, at least to him, or how much he wants it to.
There’s so much unsaid that Fred is nearly bursting with it. But he plops down next to you and chooses, for a time, to say nothing at all. Because there is no easy way to do this—it’s War, and it rarely feels like there’s time for selfish whims. There’s hardly time for him to breathe before there’s another Order mission, let alone confront the named feeling behind his ribs and give it space to breathe between the two of you.
Instead of saying anything to that effect, Fred looks over at you. Your head is pressed into your legs, and he takes a moment to realize how run-down you’ve become. It doesn’t look like you’ve taken much time for yourself in the past week, let alone made time for basic self-care.
“Can I do a hygiene spell?” He asks, taking the coward’s way out.
The question must be as unexpected in content as it is in its delivery, because a laugh tumbles out of you before you can tamp it down. “You really know how to charm a girl, Weasley,” you say, though you motion for him to do what he’d said.
The relief it gives you seems immediate. “Jesus,” you cringe as you take a new whiff of yourself. “Have I been that bad that I didn’t even notice?”
You once tried to explain Jesus and Christianity to Fred, though all he really took away from it was that he knows that to invoke the name of the Son of God is equivalent—in some ways, you’d hedged—to invoking the name of Merlin.
“...to be honest, I hadn’t noticed, either,” Fred admits. “I think we’re all a bit…run down.”
You nod at that, dragging out a breath until you appear empty, deflated against your own body and somehow smaller than you were before. When you don’t say anything, Fred goes on, “...you’re not responsible for everyone’s well-being, you know. You don’t have to know everything.”
That seems to set you off. It’s rare that Fred sees you so desperate to convey a message, let alone have the ire of a misunderstanding directed towards him.
You sit up straight and turn to face Fred, sitting cross-legged on the lawn as the sunset paints your shadow red. “But who else will?” You press, desperation bleeding into your tone as you try to get him to understand. “Really, Fred, if it’s not me, who else? Trelawney? Firenze, when he’s not being hunted by his own kind in between episodes of being ostracized?”
You scoff at that, shaking your head. “I know I don’t have to. But I didn’t get to choose this, Fred. I didn’t ask for it, and if I could turn it off I would!” You suck in a shaky breath at that, and Fred finds himself startled to realize you’re about to start crying. “But I can’t, so I have to do something. And it fucking sucks that it still isn’t enough—people are getting hurt, and I didn’t see it. And isn’t some pain worse than death? Isn’t some pain worth Seeing?”
Just as quickly as Fred’s realized that you’re going to start crying, you do. It’s not a heaving thing, nor is it a gasping shudder that he expected. It’s quiet, pressed into your hands as you try desperately to get it to stop.
He will later chastise himself for hesitating so long to hug you. He scrambles to do it once the thought crosses his mind, folding you into his grasp. And he doesn’t know what to say to that, not really, because there isn’t really anything to say. He’ll never know what it’s like to See with stunning clarity the pain that will come to the people you love and still not be able to See other pain that you would’ve done anything to prevent.
“I don’t know,” he admits, earnest as he presses a quick kiss to the side of your head. His hand rubs up and down your arm in a steady path. “But I know that you don’t have to hold all of this alone. I know you don’t like talking about what you’re dreaming, but…I’m good at sitting with you, I think. Even if we don’t talk about it—put me to work. Make me useful in making Potions, or even I can just remind you to shower. It’s a lot to hold, and I don’t want you to think that you have to hold it alone.”
He tries not to cringe at how you only seem to cry harder at that. Most of all, he tries to take the release of emotion as a compliment and not a criticism.
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To your credit, you do try to take care of yourself better following your breakdown. It isn’t perfect, but Fred supposes he can’t blame you for that. With Harry, Ron, and Hermione on the run, it’s hard for anyone to feel totally at ease. It’s especially difficult following the disaster of a wedding party that Bill and Fleur had, and Fred imagines you shoulder some of the blame for that despite not needing to.
He catches you in his mum’s garden more often than not as the weather starts to turn to the simmering temperatures that August often brings. He finds you there tonight, weeding by hand despite knowing the spells to tend to the garden. He doesn’t point this out, but instead takes a place by your side and starts copying your movements in pulling out weeds.
“I don’t think I’ve ever done this by hand before,” he muses after a moment. “Mum never used it as a punishment, at least.”
You shake your head at that, though a small smile is working its way over your face. “...My dad has a garden at home,” you admit quietly. “One of the first incidents of accidental magic I did was when we were out weeding, actually. I wanted so badly to be done and to get to go in and watch a movie with my mum that I just…got rid of all the weeds.
“And he wasn’t even mad or scared. He just sat back and said, ‘Well, if you wanted to be done that badly, I would’ve let you go in a long time ago,’ and we went inside and watched telly.” A small laugh escapes you, and Fred can tell that you’re in the pleasant memory as much as you can be at a time like this. “Every summer after Hogwarts, I’d help him with the weeding, and he’d ask me if there was a spell for gardening that I could use again. But I liked the routine of it, to be honest, and the excuse it gave me to spend time with him.”
Fred can’t help the questions that he asks next. “Do…Do your parents know about the War? And your Sight?”
You draw in a sharp breath, evidently taken straight out of the pleasant memory. “...When I got my Hogwarts letter, Dumbledore delivered it so he could explain everything to my family. I asked him then if it explained my dreams, if every Witch and Wizard had them. And he’d been startled then, so I’d just kept going, and my parents looked too relieved by the idea that all of this could be normal in some parts of the world that they’d never known about…but he told us what we both know.
“So, my parents have always known. I’d won us some money a few times, like I told you before, but…I told them that I was having dreams about the War last summer, and that I needed to stay away from home for a while because…You-Know-Who wanted to kill people like me, and especially people like them. I haven’t written them—I can’t until this is all behind us.” You let out the sharp breath you’d taken only moments before.
Fred feels bad, then, for bringing it up. He hadn’t realized how much time you’d spent with members of the Order over the past year as things picked up—he hadn’t been keeping close tabs on you and had assumed you’d gone home for a meal every now and then. But you’d probably had your parents’ house disconnected from the Floo Network before the Minster for Magic had been killed. Likely, too, that you’d erased all trace of that ever existing somehow with the help of the Order.
Too unsure of what to say to break the moment, Fred keeps his steady pace of weeding alongside you. You, to your credit, seem to relax as the silence takes over what’s already been said.
“The routine is nice,” he says after a bit, because Fred Weasley has an impossible time staying quiet for too long. You nod in response, and he leaves it alone for a moment to see if you have anything else to say.
“Sorry to…unload like that,” you hedge after a moment. “I know you were just asking, and it’s a bummer to hear about, but I guess…I really miss my family, y’know? Not that the Burrow isn’t great, but I wish I could tell my parents about everything just so they’d tell me how crazy it all is. It feels so odd to think of all of this as normal.”
“You’ll see them again,” Fred reminds you. “This can’t go on for too much longer, can it?”
Fred Weasley learned then not to make promises he couldn’t keep or see through.
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The War does drag on. Far longer than anyone could’ve expected or wanted, even. But the oddest part is that, despite the War, Fred finds himself laughing with you over forced-to-be-stolen Firewhiskey on a late November night.
It’s been months of Order missions and battles and trying to figure out how to buy Harry more time while he’s on the run. It’s been months of planning and scheming and dreaming up ways to throw Death Eaters off the scent of the Golden Trio, months of rewiring neural pathways to say You-Know-Who instead of Voldemort so you’re not discovered at a safe house. And, as Molly Weasley lamented earlier, there hasn’t been much time for children to be children.
He’d jumped in to tell her that you’re not much of children anymore. He doesn’t say this, but the War has aged all of you—he supposes that this was her point, more or less.
George had snuck off with Angelina to the twins’ bedroom, though sneaking seemed to imply that Molly hadn’t all but demanded everyone have a night of normalcy. It also implies that the Firewhiskey the two of you are sharing is anything other than outright given by Molly herself. She’d indulged a bit before bed, but had lamented that she was more of a lightweight than she was at your age before she went to bed. Fred suspects that she’s intentionally giving the pair of you a night alone.
You’re sprawled out on the lawn in a sweater with your initial sewn on the front, made by Molly Weasley for the prior Christmas. You’d saved every variant of the same sweater that she’d knitted you as you’d grown, and this seemed to be the last one you’d need since you’d likely done all of your growing. The moon casts shallow light over the pair of you as you take turns sipping from the bottle, having foregone the pretense of a shot glass after the first few.
“You’re telling me that you’ve never snogged anyone?” Fred asks, incredulous as he tries to tamp down the slur to his speech. You’ve been taking the demand to act normal literally and have spent the evening gossiping like the teenagers you should’ve gotten to be. “Didn’t you date someone for a bit your last year? Harry…”
Fred stops himself a second too late. You sit up abruptly, resting on your knees as you fix Fred with a firm stare. “You’re joking!” You guffaw. “You had Harry reporting Hogwarts gossip to you that year? About me and McLaggen?”
“You went out with McLaggen?” Fred counters, incredulous.
You throw your hands up as laughter stumbles out of you in quick, delighted bursts. “This is why I never said anything!” You argue, though there’s no heat behind your words. You shake your head as a wry smile takes over your features, almost as if you’ve tasted something sour and want to spit it up. “Anyways, it doesn’t matter. He was only taking me out once to see if I’d tell him what his future held and if I was as weird as everyone made me sound.”
Fred starts at that. He can’t help the way that his mouth falls open in shock at this development. It hadn’t been crazy for him to imagine someone like McLaggen taking an interest in you, but it’s devastating for him to realize that you’d been used as nothing more than a crystal ball. He has half the mind to ask you if that had happened before, but he assumes he knows the cruelty that teenage boys are capable of.
“That’s awful,” he says. Then, before he can stop the question, asks, “...What did you tell him about his future?”
“That if he didn’t get the fuck out of my sight he’d be lucky to have one,” you state. “And that I’m not a fortune teller at a Muggle fair, but if I was I wouldn’t have told him anything anyways. His future would’ve been too underwhelming to report on.”
It strikes Fred then that he’s never heard you curse like that before. That’s enough to make him laugh, though it’s tinged with remorse. You’d been too blindsided to make up a prediction to tide McLaggen over, too blindsided to do anything besides curse at him.
“You know anyone would be lucky to have you, right?” Fred asks in a moment of rare earnest truth. He’s not deflecting, there’s no punchline that he’s gearing up towards. You seem a bit thrown off by this, blinking at the sudden serious turn the conversation has taken, looking a bit like a gnome caught in the garden.
You scoff when you get enough of your senses together. “Right,” your tone has soured a bit, and even if he wasn’t looking at you, Fred would know that your eyes are rolling. “Exactly, I know, just like my mum says.”
He sighs. “That’s not what I’m trying to get at here,” he amends. “Even Harry has said—”
“—Harry has his eyes on Ginny, if you haven’t realized?” You seem genuinely confused, and you’re blinking owlishly at him. Fred wants to groan at how difficult this is to say—wasn’t there something to be said for liquid courage?
He draws in a breath and lets it leave him slowly. He closes his eyes and tries to think beyond the haze that the Firewhiskey has muddled him with.
“I’d kiss you, if you wanted.” Fred knows it’s a lousy deflection and thinks that you’ll see straight through it. But when he opens his eyes, he finds hurt in your own.
“This isn’t a very nice joke, Fred,” you announce, moving to stand up as your voice takes on a tight quality that he knows means you’re on the verge of tears. “I’m not…you don’t have to pity me, alright? It’s not a good look on you.”
“I’m not joking!” He urges, his hands reaching for yours in an attempt to get you to sit down. “And I don’t pity you! But, listen, we can forget it, alright? I didn’t…I just meant you could get it over with, if you wanted, and it didn’t have to mean anything.” The words are bitter as he spits them out, a shadowed version of the truth that you deserve.
“Maybe I want it to mean something!” You exclaim, throwing your hands up. Fred’s heart stutters at the declaration, and you must sense it from the way that you rush to add, “My first kiss, I mean.”
Now you’re the one selling a shadow of the truth, but Fred’s not about to call you out on it. What he wants to say is who says it won’t? because he knows that it’s going to change everything. There would be a before and after this moment, stark lines drawn in the sand from where your friendship was to where it will have to go and what it will run into on the way.
“Alright,” he hedges, allowing the topic to die instead of addressing the new elephant in the room. As with everything, he tells himself that there’s going to be another time for this conversation—some time where the War hasn’t consumed you and you’re not drinking Firewhiskey that you’re pretending was stolen.
The greatest lie in War is that there could be more than what you have right now—more moments, more youth, more time.
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Time doesn’t come. After your confrontation in the garden, Fred notices that you start to pull away. It isn’t glaringly obvious unless he tries to think of the last time that he’d properly spoken to you, even though you’re living at the Burrow and sleeping in his room. This is the first tragedy.
There’s a gap between you, a divide that he doesn’t know how to cross and close. He wishes he’d never brought up kissing you. He wishes he’d let a sleeping dog lie and keep a good thing that was going for him. It’s better to have you as a friend than to have you as nothing at all.
You, however, see the second tragedy as clearly as you always have. It takes the form of a crumbling wall.
Your gift of Divination wasn’t self-started. You’d been having visions before you knew how to name them, stunning images of things that were yet to come. You dreamed them, more often than not.
Professor Trelawney said the thing about dreams were that they didn’t have to come true. You’d been resolved to keep yours from ever being realized.
Before you knew who he was, you saw flashes of what could be. A smile, a startled laugh, and the resolute stare of a boy who never quite got to taste manhood. Fred once asked you how you could tell him and George apart. You’d told him that it was easy—it was the tone of his voice and the cadence of his words, the way he smiled quicker than George. It was all of those things, admittedly.
The truth, though, was that, had you been anyone else, you’d probably have needed time to tell them apart. You would’ve needed distinction. Instead, the first time you looked at Fred Weasley, the first time you heard his laugh, you knew that he was the person who had haunted your dreams.
You tried to avoid him. You did. You sold him a version of the truth years ago, that you had thought he was going to pull some prank on you, that you’d kept your distance as a protective measure. As it often is, the truth is a more convoluted enterprise. You hadn’t known what to do with the anticipation of grief, of the knowledge that he was here now and might not be at a date to come far sooner than anyone would like. If you’d known how badly he’d be torn up about it, you might have let him know the real reason—or some version of it—a long time ago.
The rearview mirror is always clearer than the windshield, you think, even with the added gift of Sight. It’s why you pulled away after the conversation in the garden—you didn’t want to know what you could lose. You didn’t think you’d survive it if you knew what it was like to be allowed to love him and still lose him, as selfish as that thought was.
After many discussions with Professor Trelawney in your youth, you’d been directed to Dumbledore. The visions, as she called them, that you were having were preventable. You’d done it before—you’d been at the right place at the right time to stop a broken glass, a cruel word, or an untimely hex. But those were inconsequential—moments that wouldn’t have destroyed the fabric of an entire family or dropped a spoon from a clock had they occurred.
Dumbledore hadn’t denied that True Sight was rare. Rarer, still, was there so obvious an influence of change to be held. But, he hadn’t denied that what you were seeing wouldn’t occur.
“It’s important that you allow whatever happens to take place if you wish to prevent it from happening,” he’d instructed. “Professor Trelawney isn’t wrong in saying that it seems as though forcing a connection would be to overstep the bounds of what’s to happen and where the choice occurs. I do think, however, it’s important to let it come as close to happening as possible. And I think it imperative that you not alert Mr. Weasley to what could happen.”
You’d hated it at the time. Really, you had. You’d pushed yourself as far away from Fred Weasley as you could. In fact, you made it your mission to stay away from him at all costs. But he hadn’t let that happen. Of course he hadn’t.
You wouldn’t trade the past seven years for anything. For all of the mischief and anguish you’d held at once, you’d never let it cloud what you felt in the moment.
You love Fred Weasley. You would not let him die.
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It comes to a head as all things could—with some form of a Battle.
The Battle of Hogwarts is messy. It’s hard to stay close enough to Fred and George without having them ask you to leave, especially when your recent reticence to spend time with Fred is taken into consideration. If he’s surprised by your sudden change of heart, he doesn’t show it. There isn’t time to address it, either.
You find yourself wand-to-wand with more than a few Death Eaters of note. You’re not sure if they’ve heard about you, though you don’t allow yourself to believe that you’re so important as to be the topic of Death Eater meetings. For all of your success with Potions and Divination, you’re not as good with your fighting. This should’ve crossed your mind before today, before the end of a very long chapter, but it gives you an excuse to stay close to Fred and George.
“Really, you should go to the Great Hall,” Fred urges when there’s a moment of respite, leaning over the ledge of the perch you’ve all found. You’re shaking with the effort to stay standing in front of them, to maintain any sense of normalcy when you’re on edge for what you know is coming.
“Right!” George agrees. “You could help make Potions and treat the wounded, and we’d find you after.”
You shake your head at that. You’re wary of where you’re standing and the sense of deja vu that it gives you—you’ve dreamed this moment enough to know every nook and cranny of it. It feels like you’re standing outside of your body, but you force yourself to go along with it. “Madam Promfrey won’t make a Medi-Witch out of me no matter how hard she tries,” you lament, doing your best to keep your voice steady. “Besides, I think she has enough trouble without me annoying her by asking what she needs.”
When it happens, it’s so quick that you almost miss it. Fred’s smile quirks up at what you’ve said—though you’ll later reckon it wasn’t really funny enough to warrant any sort of reaction, that maybe he was throwing a bone for you to catch and hold onto in an attempt to close the distance between you—just as you feel the wall you’re leaning on begin to shake.
You’re painfully aware of yourself as you watch his mouth move as if to say something else, painfully aware of the way that he’s yet to notice what you’ve spent a lifetime waiting for. You’ve prepared for this moment for the better part of your entire life, and still, you barely find yourself, on edge as you are, with the time to shout, “Reducto!” in a startled scream.
The blocks that should have killed him are reduced to nothing more than ash. The force of your magic has knocked the wind out of you, and you crumple from the energy that it took out of you. You catch Fred’s startled glance, the fear etched into his face that morphs into understanding, before you collapse.
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You wake up to the end of a war. The Great Hall is a medical refuge for the injured and you’re among them. You do not wake slowly, nor is it peaceful. You wake up frightened, bolting with a start to look around the Great Hall. You don’t look to your side, don’t see anything tangible as you gasp his name, “Fred? Fred, oh, Fred?”
It’s a gentle hand pressed to your cheek that reassures you. You grasp the hand with frightening force and look into eyes—alive, no startled laughter etched on the harrowed face of the boy before you—and a sob wretches out of you. “Oh, God, Fred,” you’re gasping for breath, panic ebbing into something tangible behind your ribs that occludes your ability to suck in a full breath. “Oh, Jesus, I…I’ve seen it. I saw it before…before I knew…before…”
You’re gasping the names of Muggle religious figures that he wishes he had taken better notes of when you’d first tried to acquaint him with them. He doesn’t know how to comfort you, it seems, as it all comes crashing down on him. You don’t care if he’s mad. You don’t care if he hates you for keeping this from him if it means that he’s alive to feel it. You’d take a lifetime of knowing who he was without having to hold a candle to the ghost of him—you’d take it all just for the relief of knowing he’s still with George in the store unpacking boxes.
“You knew,” he surmises, no surprise in his voice as his thumb traces a path along your cheekbone. “You’ve seen it—how it could’ve been.”
You’re nodding through your tears. “I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you,” your voice is trembling as you go to move away from his touch. Better to lose it on your own accord than feel it be retracted, you surmise. Better to have the last touch he ever gives you end because you moved rather than because he took it away.
But he doesn’t let you. He squeezes your cheek to keep you where you are, eyes boring into yours. Oh, his eyes—they’re so alive. The eyes of a boy who gets to become a man. The eyes of a man who didn’t die with the ghost of his last laugh etched into his face.
“...Dumbledore wouldn’t let me,” you go on. “I’m so sorry. I…I’ve been spending seven years trying to figure out how to change it. How to keep it from…how to stop it. I…I never wanted to know you. I didn’t…I didn’t know how to get close. I didn’t know how to stand to lose you.
“It’s why I couldn’t…in the garden. It’s…I knew what was coming and I was too selfish to try and let myself love you while I knew I could lose you.”
Fred’s own choked sob comes tumbling from behind his lips at that. He gets onto your cot with you and tugs you into his arms, and you sit like that for a while in a pile of clumsily assorted limbs. You’re both crying, you think. You, from the relief of saving him and getting to keep him. Him, from the realization of why you spent so long trying not to get close, from the understanding that it was always meant to happen this way.
It’s an eternity later that he lets you go, but his hands don’t leave your cheeks. “I love you,” he says, resolute in his words. Sensing your imminent protest, he goes on before you can cut in. “I’m not saying it because you saved my life, or because you chose to be my friend in spite of this, or because you saw me die and still got close to me. I’ve loved you since we were fourteen. I’ve loved you since you tutored me in Potions and since you let Harry watch over you for my well-being. I don’t love you because you saved my life.
“I love you because you’re my best friend, and because I’ve been too chicken-shit to say it for lesser reasons than you might have had to let yourself feel it, too.”
Your sob is a gasping thing, a visceral reaction that Fred feels in the lurch of your jaw as you try to form a response.
“...This isn’t normally how you want the girl you’ve fancied since you were fourteen to react when you profess your love for her, you know…” He tries the joke on for size, startled by the way it rattles a laugh loose from behind your ribs and gets a smile to crack through the haggard expression you’ve been wearing since you realized he was alive to be angry with you for saving his life.
“Fuck, Fred,” you gasp, still struggling for breath. “I love you, too. How…how could I not?”
He thinks he’ll have to tease the truth of that sentence out someday. He has a life to live, after all. He intends to spend the better part of it figuring out the cosmic forces that drew you to him, but he doesn’t think either of you will make much headway on that front. If he can’t do that, he reasons, he’ll spend the rest of it loving you.
What a frightening concept the rest of a life almost cut short is. What a tender realization it is to know you have the rest of it to breathe in.
ᢉ𐭩ᢉ𐭩ᢉ𐭩
taglist (please lmk if u want removed/added!): @ellecdc @faefictions
Summary: Barty's relentless flirting with you comes to a head one evening in the Slytherin common room when you confront him.
Words: 4.2k
Warnings: not proofread, let's be clear this is maraudersfandom!barty with part-dyed-acid-green-hair, shy!reader kinda, flirting, insinuations, make-out session, teasing, all that stuff
Note: i do not feel like this does barty my love my life justice, but i have to start pumping out barty fics to get comfortable with him. so! here you go mwah
***
It was one of those icy nights in the Slytherin common room, where the air was sharp but the fire crackled invitingly, casting playful shadows over the lush green velvet couches. You were sprawled on one end of the sofa, leg propped onto Regulus' shoulder as he sat on the floor, flipping through another pretentious novel of his. Barty sat on the other side of the two-seater, watching you as you flipped through your Transfiguration notes like they held the secrets of the universe. The room buzzed with a quiet chatter. You were half-listening to Evan enthusiastically recounting the latest Quidditch practice to Dorcas, who looked thoroughly unimpressed but still indulged him.
Barty, carelessly draped across the cushions, peered over your shoulder and into your notes, as if to check if they were more worthy of your attention. To no one's surprise, he didn't think so. He always managed to hover around you, like a moth drawn to your flame, whether it was leaning over your shoulder to whisper something devilish or positioning himself within your line of sight to make faces at you. Tonight, all it seemed he wanted was your undivided attention – which you were intent on not giving him.
“You’re ignoring me, dolly,” Barty drawled, the familiar lilt of amusement in his voice. You didn’t need to turn around to envision the lazy, reckless grin that could disarm even the most stubborn of hearts.
“I’m studying,” you replied, still engrossed in your notes. “You should really give it a go sometime.”
He scoffed, swinging one leg over the edge of the couch. “Come off it. You know I don’t need to study.”
Regulus muttered from below you, flipping a page in his book, “You just like to show off.”
Barty tilted his head back, a smug smile stretching across his lips. “It’s not showing off when you just naturally excel at everything.”
Evan erupted into a loud laugh from across the room, cutting his own rant off. “Merlin, if there is anything you've studied, Junior, it's how to be insufferable!”
“You love me,” Barty shot back smoothly, a playful glint in his eye.
No one could in their right mind argue against that.
Dorcas rolled her eyes, exchanging a look with you that was practically screaming he’s ridiculous. You stifled a grin, still pretending to focus on your notes while Barty’s gaze lingered like a heatwave over you.
"Don't you, baby?" he teased, his voice dropping to that familiar, sultry tone that always sent a shiver down your spine as you immediately readied another quip to calm it down.
“It is true what they say: you’re delusional,” you said, not even glancing at him.
“Maybe,” he mused, kicking off the arm of the couch to slide closer to your side of the already small couch. You felt the heat radiating from him before you even saw him, his arm brushing against yours as he leaned over, pretending to inspect your notes like he actually cared about Transfiguration.
"But you haven’t denied it," he murmured, his voice soft enough that only you caught it.
Finally, you looked up, meeting his eyes, which sparkled with chaotic energy but held something deeper – a secret simmering just beneath the surface. You opened your mouth to retort, but Regulus tapped your knee still draped over him with his quill.
“If you two are going to flirt,” Regulus interjected, barely glancing up from his book, “take it outside my personal space, would you?”
A soft snort came from Evan, and Dorcas just grinned, clearly more entertained by this than Evan's ramblings.
“Who said we were flirting?” Barty countered, casually slinging an arm around your shoulders as if to make a point. “Our little swot here is actually absolutely laser-focused on her studies. She will become a professor if we don't watch out for her.”
You rolled your eyes, giving Barty's body a shove with your own. It was not lost on Regulus, though, that you leaned into his side after the shove, seemingly on instinct.
This was classic Barty – always encroaching on personal space, always testing the boundaries between friendship and something a bit more electric. It never meant anything, though
Evan caught your eye, a mischievous smirk creeping onto his face. “If that’s your definition of studying, I must be doing it all wrong. Dorcas, wanna study with me in my dorm later?”
This led to Evan earning his own shove, though much harsher than the one you had given Barty, and for both Regulus and Dorcas to say ew in unison through their laughter.
“Maybe you should head to your dorm; y'know I like you much better when you focus on your own sodding business, Rosier." Barty barked out a laugh at your comment, unnecessarily loudly, but funny to you all the same.
“Touchy, touchy,” Evan replied, but his teasing was always good-natured in this odd little family of friends.
Barty kept his arm around you as the banter continued, and despite your best efforts to maintain an air of indifference, you couldn’t ignore the way your skin tingled under his touch. If you didn't know better, you could have sworn you heard his breath hitch when your hand settled on his knee, rubbing circles with your fingertips.
As the evening wore on, the common room began to thin out. Regulus was the first to excuse himself, ever the model of discipline when it came to sleep. Your leg was dropped unceremoniously to the ground, earning him an oi! from Barty and a kick from you that he just barely dodged. Evan followed suit, muttering something about needing to “wake up at a decent hour for once.” Dorcas lingered for a moment, chatting about Herbology homework before she too yawned and slipped off to bed, leaving you and Barty alone by the fire.
It was nothing new for the two of you to be the last ones awake, always having more to talk about together. After midnight, the common room transformed – quieter, more intimate, like it was cocooned away from the rest of the world. You both preferred it that way.
"Finally," Barty sighed, slumping back against the couch, and consequently you, stretching out his legs over the edge of the seat. “I thought Ev would never stop talking.”
You chuckled softly, finally putting your parchment aside. “You could’ve told him to shut it. I know you're not above that."
Barty smirked, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. “Where’s the fun in that?”
"I remember quite a few times where you have found it hilarious to tell someone to shut the hell up."
"Yeah, well, maybe I'm taking a more peaceful path. Your stupid homework-doing righteous self is rubbing off on me." Barty flashed you a smile that you instinctively reciprocated.
"Nah, don't think peaceful and Barty can exist in the same sentence."
He knew it to be true, he thrived on chaos – letting moments unravel just to see what would happen next. It was a double-edged sword; you adored that spark in him, but it often left you exasperated.
Once the others drifted off, the atmosphere shifted palpably. It was always like this between the two of you – lighter, sure, but also heavier in a way that pressed against your chest. The playful banter flowed effortlessly, yet beneath it simmered a tension that had been thickening over the last few months.
"I mean it though," Barty continued. "You’re way too serious these days." His gaze fixed on you with that familiar gleam in his eye, with perhaps a smidge of worry beneath it. No one knew you like Barty, and he could switch between jokingly obnoxious and pointedly observant in seconds.
You arched an eyebrow, fighting the urge to smile. “Me? Serious? You must be mistaking me for someone who doesn’t have a sense of fun.”
“Always with your nose buried in a book, always playing it safe.” He leaned in closer, that lazy smirk tugging at his lips. “You didn’t used to be such a stick in the mud.”
"I also didn't used to be in my last year. Things count now, B."
"Nothing ever really counts though, do they?" He started smiling halfway through his sentence, just knowing you were about to roll your eyes at him in a fashion only Regulus can outdo.
“I’m just not reckless like you,” you shot back, narrowing your eyes. “There’s a fine line between adventurous and asking for a detention’s worth of trouble.”
Barty’s grin only stretched wider. “You love it when I’m reckless. Admit it.”
There it was again, that playful dare in his tone, like every word was a challenge wrapped in an invitation. You shook your head, trying to keep your voice steady. “One of these days, you are going to drag me into some real trouble, and I won't love you very much then.”
He tilted his head, eyes glinting with mischief. “Maybe. But you’ll still be right there beside me, won’t you, baby?”
Barty was always pushing boundaries to see how far he could go before you drew the line. But there was something intense and raw in the way he was looking at you now, making your heart race faster than it should.
“I'll always be there with you, don't be stupid," you huffed, wanting to change the subject. You broke eye contact, staring off into the embers left in the fireplace.
"I know." He just smiled, unaffected by your attitude.
"You’re impossible,” you countered.
That Barty wasn’t about to let slide. "If I'm so unbearable, why don't you go up to your dorm, hm?" He raised his eyebrow in a challenge.
“Only because I’m too lazy to walk back to the dorms.” You picked at your nail beds absentmindedly.
“Liar,” he said softly, putting his hand on top of yours to stop the torment of your skin.
You were about to shoot him a glare, but the retort you had in mind faltered when you met his gaze. The playful glimmer had vanished, replaced by something sharper, more intimate. He shifted in his seat to be angled more towards you, leaning in closer, the heat radiating from him making your mind race.
“It's okay to want to spend your nights with me. There's nothing I'd like more,” he murmured, the challenge evident in his low tone.
Your heart stuttered. The closeness made it nearly impossible to think straight. You wanted to volley back with a witty comeback, something that would break the tension, but the words stuck in your throat.
Barty’s smirk softened into something more vulnerable, like he was waiting for you to take the plunge. It was an unspoken invitation, daring you to either push him away or draw him in.
You swallowed hard, the weight of the moment pressing heavily between you. “Stop flirting with me, Barty,” you whispered, barely audible. “I might start believing it.”
For once, he looked confused. It was hard not to revel in it, though the moment had you reeling.
"You think I’m not serious?" he asked, the playful lilt gone, replaced by sincerity. It wasn't necessarily rare for Barty to drop the bravado around you, but it still made your chest clutch when he did. It made everything feel a bit too real.
Your breath caught as you held his gaze, his eyes scanning yours, searching for something.
"Barty..." you began, but the words floundered. What were you really trying to say? That this was risky? That you didn’t want to lose what you had? Or was it possible you were craving this – craving him – in a way that exceeded your playful banter, the lighthearted flirting you knew he shared with most friends of his.
"Yes, love?"
"How come you never use my actual name?" you tease, trying to regain some control of the situation.
Barty’s lips curled into the faintest smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes. "You never have minded when I use all these pet names, have you?" he said, his voice dropping lower, softer. “Not when it’s just us. Not even when everyone else is around.”
"It's all just fun. Sweet." You deflect and deflect, both verbally and internally.
He leaned in closer, eyes locked on yours, daring you to say something, anything. His hand travelled from his side to caress your neck. "Is this fun, love? Go on. Tell me to stop."
You could feel his breath against your skin, warm and tantalisingly close. Your mind raced, grasping for the right words to break the tension, but all you could think about was how effortless it would be to close the distance between you.
He smiled at you, and it felt warm.
“You’re different with me,” he mused, his tone thoughtful, like he was just realising the truth of it. "You let me in, even when you pretend you don’t."
You wanted to argue, to throw up your usual walls, but he wasn’t wrong. You were different with him. You allowed him to cross lines that you wouldn’t let anyone else dare to tread. Maybe that’s why you felt so exposed now, his gaze piercing through your defences – like he already knew the answer to a question you hadn’t even formed yet.
You tore your gaze away, focusing on the flames flickering in the hearth. “This is stupid,” you muttered, more to yourself than him.
Barty chuckled softly, the sound warm and low, but there was an undercurrent of something deeper that made your heart skip. "Is it, though?" he asked, fingers now ghosting along your wrist, making it impossible to think about anything other than the electricity igniting with each point of contact.
"Yes, it is, Barty," you said again, a little firmer this time, turning back to meet his gaze. “You’re just playing with me. And we shouldn't.” You didn't elaborate, you didn't want to.
He tilted his head, studying you like he always did when you tried to deflect. "I play with everyone,” he said, not missing a beat. “But I’m not playing with you right now. Or ever, really, not with this.”
Your lips parted to respond, but nothing came out. You had expected him to laugh it off, to tease you the way he always did when things got too serious. There was no teasing in his expression now, no playful smirk – just that steady, unblinking gaze that pinned you in place. It was understanding, he looked as if he knew every part of you already.
"You don’t believe me," he stated, as if reading off a fact.
You swallowed, suddenly aware of how close his face was to yours, how his hand had somehow found its way to your knee, his thumb rubbing small, absentminded circles against the fabric of your trousers.
"I don’t know what to believe," you admitted, the words coming out quieter than you intended.
Barty’s gaze softened, his hovering hand finally making contact with your face, cupping your jaw.
“You think I flirt with you just for fun?” he asked, his voice barely more than a murmur now.
Your throat was tight, your chest constricting as you tried to find the right words. This wasn’t how things were supposed to go with Barty. He was supposed to be the reckless, chaotic one. He wasn’t supposed to be like this – serious and sincere.
“I think you flirt with everyone,” you finally said, though it sounded weak even to your own ears.
Barty didn’t flinch. He didn’t pull away, didn’t make some sarcastic quip like you expected him to. Instead, he leaned in even closer, so close now that his nose brushed against yours. His breath was warm against your lips, and your heart pounded so loudly in your chest that you were sure he could hear it.
"Not like this," he whispered, his voice low and rough. "Not with you."
The fire crackled softly behind you, the only sound in the otherwise silent common room, but all you could hear was the pounding of your own heartbeat and the steady rhythm of Barty’s breathing.
You wanted to say something, to deflect, to joke, to put up some sort of defence. But when you opened your mouth, the only thing that came out was his name. "Barty..."
His hand on your knee squeezed slightly, grounding you in the moment, tethering you to him. You could feel the weight of everything unsaid between you – the years of friendship, the flirting, the tension that had been building and building until it felt like it might burst.
“I’m serious,” he said, his voice soft but firm. "I mean it. Every time. Tell me you don’t feel it too."
You swallowed, your heart racing, your mind spinning. You could feel the warmth of his body so close to yours, the heat of his hand still resting on your leg, the weight of his gaze pressing down on you. Everything inside you was screaming at you to do something, to make a choice.
"I..." you started, but the words caught in your throat. You wanted to deny it, to laugh it off, to tell him that this was just another one of his games, but the truth was, you couldn’t. Because you did feel it—the pull, the tension, the way your heart stuttered every time he looked at you like that.
"I can't tell you that, Barty."
His eyes flicked down to your lips, and for a second, you thought he might kiss you right then and there. He didn’t move. He just stayed there, inches away, waiting. For you.
"Then what–" he began to ask, but with your heart hammering in your chest, every nerve in your body on edge, eyes looking directly up into his.
"Shut up, Junior."
You leaned in, closing the gap between you, your lips pressing against his in a way that felt deliciously right.
For a split second, you hesitated again, wondering if you’d made a mistake, if Barty would pull back and laugh it off like it was nothing. Any such thought was immediately quieted when his head caught up with your actions and his hand swerved from your cheek to your hair, tangling in it as he pulled you further against him into a deeper kiss.
It was everything you’d expected from him – reckless, intense, like he had been waiting for this just as long as you had. His hand slid up from your knee to your waist, pulling you even closer as his lips moved against yours, firm and insistent.
You gasped against his mouth, and he took the opportunity to slide his tongue into your mouth, holding yours tentatively. You opened your mouth further, taking his lips between yours, dragging forth a breathy moan from him. Your intensity matched the months – maybe years – of tension that had built between you. His fingers curled at the nape of your neck in a way that sent sparks down your spine.
It was messy, frantic, but it was undeniably real. The playful flirtations, the casual touches, the late nights spent with your group of friends, all the little moments that had led to this – it all came flooding back as your lips moved together in a way that felt both unfamiliar and natural at the same time.
Barty kissed you like he had been waiting for it, like he was making up for lost time. Maybe he was. Maybe you both were.
Your fingers found purchase on the front of his shirt and you used the momentum to throw your leg over his lap, sitting down on top of him. His hand not currently occupying your hair immediately came down to your hip, stabilising you with an iron grip. He pulled you closer with it, chest flush against chest. The kiss was growing more desperate, more demanding, and you could feel the heat of his body against yours, the smell of his cologne mixing with the faint scent of the fire still barely alive behind you.
When you finally pulled apart, it was only because you both needed air. Your forehead rested against his, noses still brushing against each other, Barty even nuzzling his into yours. Your breaths coming in shallow, uneven pants. Barty’s fingers remained tangled in your hair, his other hand still gripping your waist like he was afraid you might disappear if he let go.
Neither of you spoke. The only sound in the room was the soft crackling of the fire and the heavy rhythm of your breathing. Barty kept his eyes closed, eyebrows scrunched, and you studied his face with fondness sitting heavily in your heart. You could feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest, attempting to match his with your own. Momentarily, your mind flashed back to when he coached you through your first panic attack when you were younger, fingers tightening on his chest as you were flooded with overwhelming emotion for him. What you knew to be overwhelming love.
His eyes fluttered open, dark, intense, and focused entirely on you. “You’ve no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he whispered, his voice rough and still a little breathless.
"I might," you countered, your smile brushing his.
Barty let out a soft laugh, but there was nothing teasing about it. He sounded almost relieved, like a weight had been lifted off his chest. "I swear I am not playing with you, baby," he murmured, as if it was of the utmost importance to him that you understood that
“I didn’t know,” you said quietly, your fingers loosening their grip on his shirt, though you didn’t let go completely. “I didn’t think–”
“You didn’t think I could be serious?” he finished for you, his lips quirking up in that familiar half-smile, though there was still a rawness to his expression that made your chest tighten.
You shook your head, struggling to find the right words. “I didn’t think you wanted to be serious with me.”
Barty’s smile softened even more if possible, and for a moment, he just looked at you, his thumb brushing lightly against your cheek. “I always want to be serious with you,” he said bashfully, his voice barely more than a whisper. "But you’re always trying to push me away."
You blinked, caught off guard by the vulnerability in his words. He wasn’t wrong. You had pushed him away. Every time he flirted, every time he got too close, you deflected, afraid of what it would mean if you let him in like that. Traumabonding was one thing, it was discussing the past and how it still affected you – but to open up about your emotions now? It had seemed impossible. But, sitting here with him – on top of him, really – his forehead resting against yours, his lips still tingling from the kiss you had just shared, you couldn’t pretend anymore.
“You're right," you admitted softly, having to resist rolling your eyes at his sudden grin at those words. "I didn’t want to ruin things. We’re friends. If this… if we–”
“It's more than that,” Barty said, cutting you off. "It's about want. You have to let me want you, because trust me, I will."
You bit your lip, the weight of his words sinking in. Now that the invisible line you drew in your head had been crossed, now that you’d felt his lips on yours, there was no going back.
"How do I do that?" Your voice wavered, but your gaze didn't. Only Barty would you trust with that kind of question.
He gave you a smile you were afraid to call lovesick. His hands both slid to cup your cheeks, thumbs tracing the curve of your jaw in a way that made your heart race all over again. "You tell me what you want. What do you want?" he asked, his voice low and rough, his eyes searching yours.
You hesitated, your breath catching in your throat as you looked at him. This was the moment, the moment where you could pull back, laugh it off, pretend it hadn’t happened. Or you could take the leap, cross the line completely, and see where it led you.
“I want…” You swallowed, your voice faltering for a moment before you met his gaze head-on. “I want you.”
“Then I am all yours, my love.”
Before you could respond, he kissed you again, softer this time, slower. There was no urgency, no desperation. Just the two of you, finally giving in to something that had been simmering between you for so long.
As his lips moved against yours, and you melted into him, all the tension from before fading away. It was simple and real in a way that made you wonder why you would ever shy away from this. Kissing Barty felt like clarity.
The smile that spread across your face when you pulled apart would go on to fuel Barty for days on end.
“See?” he joked quietly, his voice light but full of meaning. "That wasn’t so hard, was it?"
You pretended to scoff, though your smile didn't waver. “You really are impossible.”
Barty grinned, one hand slipping from your face to rest casually on your thigh. “Yeah, but you love it.”
You didn’t respond right away, but you didn’t need to. The look in your eyes said everything.
synopsis: being raised in the noble and most ancient house of black meant that you were still looking at shadows like ghosts, even in a healthy and loving relationship with remus lupin, the best boy you had met. when his bad day triggers your fawn response, he sees through you and tries to help you calm down. in the end, you wind up wanting needing your older brother.
wc: 5.1k
cw: fem!reader, no use of y/n, complex ptsd symptoms written by someone with ptsd, childhood abuse, panic attack, fawn response, trying to use sex to avoid anger, conversations around consent, reader's self-neglect, eventual healthy communication, breakdown, hurt/comfort, changing povs, remus' self-hatred, big brother sirius centric for parts of it, background prongsfoot, found family, fluff
You would never tell Remus that you could tell he was in a bad mood before he even entered the dorm – though, on better days, he already knew.
His feet hitting harder against the corridor outside, dragging as if his body was simply too much to bear, gave it away. Not to mention his contradictingly quick gait; one that would surely cause his hip pain to flare, pain he only ever welcomed when he was feeling particularly sorry for himself or angry at the world.
This close to the full moon, he was usually feeling both.
Perhaps part of it was on you, too. Perhaps your overt awareness of the moon cycles in an effort to care for him best, backlashed and made you anticipate the drops in his mood that could come with it, despite him not giving you an explicit reason to do so. Despite him never proving that he would be a danger to you on his bad days. You still needed to help, to make it all better, or you would remain uneasy.
Sometimes in your desire to care for him, you were actually carrying out injustices against yourself that consequently hurt you both. A lesson you would come to learn today.
Upon hearing his footsteps in the hallway, upon feeling the deferred chill penetrate your spine, you sat up straighter in your bed. Smoothing out the blanket, you dragged your textbooks into your lap in favour of the novel you had been reading, to seem more collected and productive. A bright smile already coated your lips when his hand hit the handle, in a hope to quench any turmoil in his heart before he could even voice it.
Had his walk not given it away, his face would; Remus opened the door and slumped his entire body against the doorway as he stared at you with exhaustion etched into every beautiful crevice of his face.
“Heya, dove.” The words were raspy, as if they hurt clawing their way out of his throat.
“Hi, my love,” you whispered in turn. You put your textbooks that you had not been reading aside, making space for him on the bed. Open arms, guarded heart.
Remus was limping a little as he closed the door behind him – the slam making you flinch while his back was turned. He had forgone his cane today, and was evidently paying the consequences.
Maybe it was because Regulus got a black letter from home earlier this week that he still refuses to show you. Maybe it was the fact that he showed Sirius who also refuses to tell you what it said, meaning that it had to be bad. Maybe it was caused by you barely seeing either of them – and thus not being grounded by them – this past month with how hard they had been training for the end of quidditch season.
Or maybe it was because once your brain is convinced there is something to protect itself from, it will continue to do so even long after the threat is gone and all you’re surrounded by is your sweet boyfriend and his kind brown eyes.
Either way, you could not help but instinctively fawn over him as he slumped down beside you on your bed.
As soon as he dropped his bookbag by the end of the bed, he beelined for your side. You propped up the pillows, making everything ready for him, but the lanky boy chose instead to crawl up on top of you and collapse with his head on your chest. The weight usually helped ground you, but with your body already dysregulated, you found it stifling and hard to breathe.
All of this was pushed aside in favour of your hand going up to scratch at his hair while your free arm caressed his back, soothing.
“You’re alright, sweet boy.” You willed it to be true, both for him and for you. “I’ve got you. Do you need any pain potions? A massage?”
Remus made a slight tsking noise that made it even harder to breathe. “Just need you, dovey.”
You loved him. Gods, how you loved him. And you knew he loved you. Why was the panic still rising in your chest, tingling in your fingertips?
You kissed the top of his head in response, tightening your hold on him and trying to force your body to soften. “Well, you’ve got me. All of me. Whatever you want, love.”
Remus buried his face further against your chest, tipping his nose up to brush it against the side of your neck. Tender. Sweet. Suffocating. He pressed slight kisses to the skin there, breathing you in. “All of you?” he asked, voice again growing hoarser, but this time with another intention.
You knew how to make everything okay.
The smile you plastered on widened, just for him, just to make him feel alright, to ward off any irritation remaining in his bones. With gentle fingers, you moved your hand to his chin and lifted his head at the same time as you slid further down your bed, so that you would come face to face. It shifted his weight off of you, which helped you focus on your mission. Wordlessly, you brought him in for a greeting kiss, lips pressed against each other and then opening one another, diving in.
Remus’ breath hitched that way it always did when you kissed for the first time in a while, like he couldn’t believe it, then promptly melted. His strong arms came to wrap around your waist, pulling you further against him; and just like that, you were suffocating again, but you kept shoving it down.
You led inquisitive, kind fingers to the hem of his ruffled shirt, sliding up beneath it and exploring the expanse of skin. Your lips moved together, Remus deepening the kiss further and you gifted him a soft moan for his efforts that saw him doubling down on them. You pressed your body against his, giving your all, as your hands only escaped to begin unbuttoning his shirt and loosening his tie. Trembling.
“Need you,” Remus mumbled against your lips before he began trailing his kisses down the side of your neck. You pushed his shirt off, successfully leaving him half naked, and quickly moved onto your next mission, which was unbuckling his trousers. “Gods, I need you. You’re so lovely, so good.”
You kept keening at his attention, making soft sounds you knew he liked. You couldn't say anything, though, too focussed on breathing. His tongue kissed down your neck, lapping at your pulsepoint.
It was then that Remus’ movements froze for a second. Lips pressed against your rapidly beating pulse. “Dovey?” he asked, tone still coated with desire, but checking in. You kept his face buried in your neck with a hand on the back of his head, so that he wouldn’t try to look you in the eyes. “You alright?”
You hummed in the affirmative, going back to exploring his body with your free hand. “Let me make you feel good,” you murmured, ducking your face down to his own neck, leaving open-mouthed kisses there as you slid your hand down his unzipped trousers, cupping him. He groaned.
Your movements were instinctual, habitual, but you didn’t realise how robotic they were. Even with his eyes squeezed shut in pleasure, hips bucking, Remus was beginning to pick up on it. “Mm, dove, w-wait a second.” It was all breathless mumbles.
You doubled down, grinding your palm against Remus’ length straining through his boxers, kissing down his neck and slowly trying to lower yourself with kisses down his chest. Kissing away his ire, his upset. His breath stuttered, but he managed to say your name, not as a moan but in an attempt to reach you.
What he did next made sense to Remus as a way to get you grounded again; it terrified you.
With a swift, kind movement, Remus grabbed your wrist and rolled the two of you from laying on your side to him laying on top of you. Your hand was removed from his trousers, and your face was drawn out from its hiding place, finally revealing your eyes to Remus’.
They flashed with fear for the one second you looked into each other’s irises, before you quickly averted your gaze. The unexpected movement, the sudden weight of him on top of you, the caging position you were in – it brought forth the hyperventilation you had been trying to fight back.
You’re looking everywhere but Remus, breathing hard. This was not how you wanted this to go, not how you needed it to go. Your mind is suddenly yanked backwards, 2 years, 5 years, 12 years, through dark corridors and dark eyes zeroed in on you, shadows over your face, bruises on your body, pure and utter misery. He's angry, everything is wrong, you've done something wrong.
It was all you could do not to cry; because you knew crying only made it worse.
Though you didn’t see him, you could tell Remus had caught onto this sudden switch because his voice suddenly changed from uncertain to slightly panic as he said, “Hey, hey, my love, hey, you’re alright.”
He scrambled off of you, sitting awkwardly beside you instead, trousers still unzipped, the moment frozen in time. His hands hovering above you, wanting to comfort but not knowing how. Instinctively, you rolled your body to the other side, hiding away, as one arm wrapped around you securely and the other covered your face.
Hiding. What you always did best.
It broke Remus’ heart.
He whispered your name twice, voice breaking slightly. As he grew more determined, piecing together what was happening as best he could, he settled properly beside you. Your chest was heaving more and more violently, never quite catching your breath. “Dove, it’s alright. You’re safe. You’re safe, okay? You haven’t done anything wrong. But I need you to breathe for me, sweetheart. Please, breathe for me. Copy my breath if you need to.”
Remus didn’t touch you. He sat still beside you, all movements slow and measured, as he desperately tried to conjure up memories of conversations he had had with you or your bothers about how to help you through episodes. Going back to the first years of his friendship with Sirius where he held his hands through moments like this – well, maybe not exactly like this, but close enough. It was hard to think when he was this freaked out on your behalf but he had to try.
He breathed in and out loudly, slow movements, hoping to get you to copy him. You remained in your curled up position, struggling to catch on, but he wouldn’t give up.
Grounding. You had told him about grounding, he had seen James do it for Sirius countless times after you all left. “You’re safe, my love. So safe. We’re in your dorm, it’s just you and me here. No one is angry, nothing is wrong. You’re okay.” He kept breathing for the both of you.
When he heard the violent sob that tore its way out of your throat, he thought for a second that he had said something terrible, that he had made the situation so much worse somehow.
Then, your voice rang through your head, confiding in him about how difficult it is to cry when you feel unsafe, how it only really happens when you’re with someone you trust.
He let out a sigh in relief – but it didn’t make the sound any less heartbreaking.
“That’s it, love, you’re all right. Let it out, do whatever you need. I’m here for you, okay? You’re safe.” Remus felt like he was reading off a list of what to say when someone is having a panic attack, which meant he felt like an utter buffoon, but you kept crying and you kept breathing, so he was at least not making it worse.
“Oh, my girl, you’re okay.” He was fighting tears in his own eyes as he looked at you, ached to hug you but knew he couldn’t. “Can I come around to the other side of the bed, dove?”
He was expecting a no if not silence, but you emphatically nodded your head, another sob tearing from your throat.
Slowly, careful not to startle you, Remus eased his way off the bed and walked around to the other side, so that he could see your face without you emerging from your near-fetal position. He fully ignored his screaming knees and hips as he kneeled on the side of the bed, keeping his fingers interlocked on the mattress so they wouldn’t reach for you. Your eyes were squeezed shut behind your hand and his heart hurt more than his joints when he thought about what you must be seeing behind your eyelids.
He whispered your name softly. “My love, it’s okay. Whatever it is, it’s okay, you haven’t done anything wrong. Whatever you’re seeing in your head isn’t real, not anymore, you're with me.” His voice broke on the end, but he willed it back to its soft, sweet nature to calm you. “Can you open your eyes for me, dove? It’s not real, I am. I am. It’s alright.”
Tears were still streaming freely down your scrunched up face, but tentatively, with no shortage of hesitation or fear, you began to peel open your eyes. The second you could see Remus’ concerned, loving face through your veil of tears, you broke further, hand shooting free to clasp over his.
“Oh, Remus, I’m so sorry,” you sobbed. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”
The feeling of your hand over his was a balm that empowered Remus to take further care of you, the stinging fear that you would be better if he left the room easing in his chest. He slowly turned his hands over, inviting you to clasp your hands together – sighing audibly when you did.
“What are you apologising for, sweet thing? You haven’t done anything wrong, nothing. There is nothing to apologise for. Just breathe for me.”
But you were shaking your head, cries intensifying. It looked like you wanted to say more, but couldn’t bring yourself to. Breath continuing to hitch.
“You’re safe, my love,” Remus murmured yet again, trying to catch your eye so you wouldn’t disappear into your mind. “I’ve got you, you’re always safe with me. I’ll leave if you want me to, but–”
“No!” you cried instantly, shaking your head. “No, please, please don’t.” Remus had already begun shushing you, promised he wouldn’t, but you continued. “Please stay. Remus, would you hold me?”
Remus didn’t point out that he had been until you began to hyperventilate, didn’t show you anything except an endless sea of understanding. He nodded and whispered, “Of course, my love. You’re sure I can touch you? I’ll hold you.”
You kept nodding through tears, shuffling back to make space for him.
Remus carefully slid in next to you, opening his arms so that you could position yourself how you wanted, scared to make you feel uncomfortable again. You attached yourself tightly to his side, mimicking the inverse of how you laid earlier, this time your head resting on his chest as you held him closely. He placed one hand on the middle of your back, a spot he knew made you feel protected, while the other wrapped your hand in his.
“Shhh, I’ve got you dovey.” Remus kissed the top of your head, slightly swaying you. “Do you want to talk about it?”
You shook your head as you cried, but even then you managed to bite out a few words. “I’m sorry. I knew you were upset and I wanted to make it better, I–”
When your sentence broke off with a sob, Remus tightened his hold on you, eyebrows furrowing in heartache for his sweet dove. “Oh, my love, you have nothing to apologise for. Nothing. You’re perfect, so sweet. But you never have to make me feel better, especially not like that.”
You made a hollow sound at that, and Remus continued. “Love, I would never want you to do something you don’t want to do. And I would never take my bad day out on you, you know that.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” The tone of your voice told him he shouldn’t have insisted that you knew as much; you were drenched in guilt and shame.
“No, no, my lovely lovely girl. You don’t get to be sorry, alright? This is not your fault. I’m not angry with you. I’ve never been angry with you.”
Vaguely, Remus was aware that stating absolutes like that weren’t healthy for you in the long run, that he shouldn’t reinforce that anger is inherently a bad thing. In this very moment, though, he could not care less about the long run and only wanted to bring his partner back down to him. He kept kissing your head, thumb brushing over the back of your hand.
“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” he emphasised again in a whisper, so quiet with his lips brushing against your hair. “You’re perfect. Just breathe for me, dovey, breathe. I want you to feel alright.”
You remained like that for quite some time, with Remus doing his best to ground you as your breathing finally picked up on his and slowed down, but your heart kept up its rapid speed, like it wanted to run away to where no one could see it. He hummed quietly, the way you would hum for him when he couldn’t sleep before a full moon.
“Can I ask you something absolutely awful?” You whispered at last, voice still choked.
Remus’ lips twitched where they were pressed against your hairline. “I highly doubt anything you could ask me would be horrible, my love; please ask me anything. I want to help you.”
You shook your head violently against him, making him tighten his grip on your back to steady you and protect you from yourself as shuddering heaves escaped from your chest. “No, it is. It is awful.”
“I will love you anyway. I will answer anything.”
Another sob escaped you as you opened your mouth but failed to speak. Remus kept humming against you, cradling you as he waited in patience. “Can you please–” You squeezed your eyes shut. “I’m sorry. Can you please– can you get Sirius?”
Get Sirius.
Remus almost wanted to laugh through the tears shining in his eyes at the sight of your torment. You were painfully endearing, even now.
“Sweet, sweet girl,” he murmured, peppering kisses against your forehead. “That is far from awful; that is lovely. You’re lovely. Of course I’ll get Sirius.”
You hiccuped. “I don’t want you to feel like you’re not enough,” you whispered through your continuing sobs. “I– no bloke wants his girlfriend to ask for his best friend when she’s upset, but I just– I need my brother.”
“Of course you do.” Remus squeezed you tighter, getting ready to release you. “Of course you do, my love. Luckily I’m not some bloke, okay? I’m yours. Yours. I want to help you.” Careful not to startle you, he starts untangling himself from your grasp, kissing every piece of skin near him that he knew you would be comfortable with.
“It’s just– he’s changed so much. Since. So when I see him, I know it’s over.”
Remus’ heart positively shattered for you – all three of you.
He pulled back enough to see your face, gently cupping your cheek. “I’ll run and get him, alright? Then I can leave you alone with him, or sit in the corner, whatever you’d like. It will just be a minute, are you alright to stay here alone?”
You nodded, but tightened your grip on his collar. When he looked at you in question you slowly leaned forward to kiss him goodbye – giving him time to pull away should he want to. As if he would ever want to. Remus waited patiently for your soft lips to meet his, the perfect gel for his wound.
“Just a minute, sweetheart.”
No later than he was out of your arms was Remus out the door, hastily pulling a jumper on and unzipping his trousers – his situation having calmed down somewhere between the tears. He made sure to close the door gently behind him, and then he was speeding down the corridor, heading for the boys’ dormitory.
A snowy layer of guilt and self-hatred began to fall down in his mind – how could you pick up on it so late, how do you always do the wrong thing – but Remus swallowed his pride and squeezed his eyes shut as he hurried. He would make it right by doing what you asked, by getting you your brother. That was the one thing Remus had zero qualms about; he would happily fourth wheel your pack of codependent siblings for eternity if it meant your smiles would continue to be more frequent.
For each step he took between your dorms, Remus made a new silent prayer that his mates had not stayed late at quidditch practice.
His prayers were quickly answered in the form of the unmistaken boisterous laughter of his three mates sounding down the hallway. Part of Remus, the one that still felt achingly guilty from the whole ordeal, felt a pang of fear of Sirius’ reaction. That his best mate would agree with his most cruel thoughts and claim that Remus had caused the heartbreak that was your current predicament. Though Sirius had made no threats towards him about dating his little sister, choosing instead to love and trust Remus, there was still an unmistakable weariness whenever your heart was on the line, in whatever way.
Remus hoped he had not deemed himself unworthy of that trust today.
Even if he had, he knew he would still hurry to get Sirius a thousand times over, if that would help you.
Out of habit, Remus knocked on the door twice before quickly pushing it open, not waiting for a response; it was his dorm too, after all. His eyes immediately landed on Sirius leaned back against James’ chest on his bed, cheeks rosy from practise and laughter. Meanwhile, Peter was sprawled out like a starfish on the carpet, in the middle of some deranged story that had the others in stitches.
All heads flew up with a smile when Remus entered, but Sirius’ brows were the first to furrow.
“Sorry, can I–”
“Everything alright?” Sirius interrupted, not to be mean but because he could not help himself. He sat up, detangling himself from James, whose hand automatically went to stroke his back soothingly.
“Yes, but could you come for a minute? She needs you.” Remus didn’t want to say too much here and now, both to avoid wasting time and because he didn’t want to expose your vulnerable plea to the other boys. He knows you view James like an additional older brother and Peter like a best friend, but this feels like a blood-kin kind of situation. A raised-by-Walburga-Black kind of situation.
Sirius elegantly shot up from the bed, squeezing James’ hand in parting without looking back as he sidestepped Peter’s messy limbs. It was an excellent choreography of movements, owed to ballet classes you both had told horror stories of, as Sirius swiped up one of his jumpers on the way to the door and squeezed out past Remus. A man on a mission.
Remus gave a tight-lipped smile to the two remaining boys as he closed the door, speeding after Sirius. The other boy cast a brief look over his shoulder, brows furrowed in concern. “Where is she? What happened?”
“In her dorm. She caught on that I had a bad day and it triggered her.” Remus struggled to keep up with Sirius, but he refused to slow down just on account of himself.
He was half expecting Sirius to ask him what he had done, to join the symphony of voices in the back of his head telling him that he did this to her. Instead, Sirius’ shoulders merely deflated a little as he picked up his pace.
By the time the two of them had made it to your dormitory door, Remus was out of breath while Sirius seemed to be holding his. The part of Remus that was just Sirius’ best friend was concerned about how watching his little sister, whom he adored above all else, having an episode might trigger him in turn. The part of Remus that was in love with you, though – which was all of him – was just grateful to be able to do something for you, anything.
Sirius gently pushed down the doorhandle, announcing himself immediately as he slipped into the room. “Babygirl? It’s me.”
Over Sirius’ head, Remus instantly spotted you, sitting upright on the bed but curled in on yourself. Arms wrapped around your knees that were pulled to your chest, forehead on your knees and shoulders shaking with tears and uneven breaths.
Your head picked up at the sound of Sirius’ voice, glistening eyes and deep-seated frown on display. You made a small sobbing noise that sounded like your older brother’s name.
In an instant, Sirius was by your side.
“Hey, hey,” Sirius whispered, in a voice so uncharacteristically soft it sounded foreign in his mouth, yet perfectly at home when directed at you. “Hey bébé étoile, what’s going on, hm?”
He climbed onto the bed, carefully dragging your body into his lap, so that he could cradle your head against his chest. You put up no fight, disappearing into Sirius’ embrace the moment he invited you in. The choreography from earlier continued, it was like you were born to be in each other’s arms, knowledgeable and comforting.
Remus stood in the doorway, mesmerised by the sight but unsure where to go. He could hear Sirius’ soft shushing, but not quite make out what he was saying, a mix of English and the French he usually refuses to speak.
With his hand on the doorknob, Remus was about to leave you two alone when he heard his name being called.
“Rem? Could you stay, please?” Your eyes peered around Sirius’ comforting hand on the back of your head, an insecurity creeping into your beautiful irises that Remus thought had no business living there.
“Of course, dove,” he whispered, hurriedly closing the door – careful not to make it slam this time – and coming up to sit at the edge of the bed. He made himself comfortable as you disappeared into Sirius’ neck, whose attention had remained on you.
It was strange to watch you two like this. Independence was so important to you, going to unfair extremes to prove yourself stoic and strong and untouchable. And though you are the softest soul Remus knows when you are alone, he knows how much it means for you to stand your own ground.
While he didn’t think this lessened your independence in any way, it still felt out of place to see you looking so young. Curled up against Sirius, your hand cupping his ear and tracing every single piece of silver jewellery that was placed there, each a loud fuck you to the house you both survived, evidence of your departure. Watching you ground yourself with the cool metal and matching your breathing to Sirius’, your eyes closed as he whispered against your hairline, occasionally kissing it with a featherlight touch.
It was beautiful. Remus felt a simmering pride within him for you both, for finding safety and unity in one another still, for, after every rough spot, to still be on each other’s team. His smile turned watery.
“You’re safe, bébé étoile,” Sirius whispered as your breathing evened out. “Remus isn’t like that. He would never be like that.” He looked up at Remus over your head, with an expression of gratitude and love. He didn’t even know how you were triggered or what Remus had done, yet he still felt those words to be true.
Remus could feel himself being stitched into the fabric that was your new family.
You heaved a deep breath and sat up a little, still between Sirius’ sprawled out legs, but no longer leaning on him. With still slightly shaking fingers, you wiped beneath your eyes – and began to laugh. A soft, twinkling laugh that Remus couldn’t hold himself back from joining in on, at least not when he saw Sirius do the same.
“Phew,” you said in a quiet, yet exaggerated tone. “Almost overreacted to that one. Glad I didn’t.”
Remus chuckled more at your irony, but shook his head. He had the audacity to bump his knee against yours on the small bed. “No such thing, my love.”
“I for one think you should overreact more. Have you tried hexing him when you think he’s upset with you? That one always works for me.” Sirius made a clicking noise and winked at you.
Nevermind the fact that if Sirius ever had instinctively raised his wand at James, Remus knew he would have broken it in self-disgust.
You just laughed a bit more, falling backwards on the bed, arched over Sirius’ thigh in a way that surely couldn’t be comfortable but that he didn’t have the heart to comment on just yet.
Sirius seemed to agree as he smoothed his hand up and down your shin. “You landing yet, ma puce?”
You groaned. “Don’t call me that.”
He instantly grinned, looking over at Remus. “She’s landed alright.” He clamped down on your knee and jostled it a little for good measure, making you sit up, leaning back on your hands.
Just before he thought it himself, you declared, “I’m exhausted.”
The endeared smile that spread on Remus’ face must have been sickening. “I can imagine, dovey. Feeling your feelings like that is no easy feat.”
“Yeah, well, you’re next,” you teased, but the gratitude still shone through your smile.
“Am I now? How will you enforce that?”
“I’ll give you something to cry about.” You transferred your weight to one hand as the other reached out to grab Remus by the collar and – gently, despite what it may seem – pulled him down to pile on top of you and Sirius. The latter faux shirked, as if the barely-there weight on his legs would crush him while you and Remus giggled.
It would be a while before Sirius went back to the dorm, well after you told him he could, a simmering concerned ache swimming in his eyes even as you teased one another. And even when Sirius did, Remus had a hard time agreeing to come with, despite the fact that your dormmates would be returning any minute and neither of them fancied detention for overstaying their welcome in the girls' dorm.
It was solved in true Black siblings fashion; yet another night of you crashing over at the Marauders’ dormitory. Unlike in your first years at Hogwarts when you would sleep in Sirius' bed, you stayed in Remus' this time. Though, Sirius still made his case clear. “No snogging in front of me – panic attacks I can put up with, but that is where I draw the line.”
If Remus stole a conciliatory, apologetic, lovestruck kiss or two behind the curtains at night, well, Sirius was none the wiser.
May I request C6 with Regulus? I’m in some desperate need of Reggie comforting reader 😭😭😭
there are sosososo many different ways to interpret this prompt, and somehow i chose? perhaps the darkest one? so sorry, you are really going to need that comforting now... thanks for requesting lmao xx
Prompt: C.6 "I don't know, it just happened"
Words: 5.5k
Warnings: not proofread, fem!reader, blood racism, internalised blood racism, hate crime/minor assault, emotional breakdown, mutual self-hatred, regulus has not left the black family, alluded black brothers drama, undecided side regulus, perhaps a bit cliche/romanticising, established relationship, your dad is dead (long ago, mentioned), heavy hurt/comfort, happy ending
Notes: lol i am not okay
It was a rare occurrence that Regulus Black felt light these days, in any meaning of the word.
His feet felt shackled as he trekked through the Hogwarts halls he felt were increasingly unwelcoming to him. His consciousness weighed him down like a thousand bricks as he knew he had to either take a stance against his parents or become complacent in a hope of survival. He knew he had to do the former; he had no idea how to stop himself from the latter. Trapped, cornered, cowardly – heavy.
Yet, when walking the final few metres to your dormitory that he knew housed your soft self now that you were done with tutoring first years, he felt undeservingly light. A sensation only you could inspire in him these days.
While conversations were growing tenser and tenser between you the more Regulus struggled with freeing himself from his family, your love for him had yet to falter. He knew he was only biding his time, but until then he could not help revelling in it, albeit guilt ridden.
He does not knock before entering, just carefully pushes the ajar door further open. You had told him off for knocking so primly every time – “you’re always welcome here, Reggie” – and he wanted nothing more than to please you.
“Amour?” he called out as he closed the door softly behind him, looking around the dorm for a trace of you, or at least one of your dorm mates.
None to be found.
He dropped his bookbag by the end of your bed, reaching up to scratch the back of his head as he looked around. Some of that heaviness began returning to his limbs at your absence, his hope of slipping away from the world with you for the next few hours dissolving.
Then, he heard the water running from the adjunct bathroom. A sigh of relief escaped him, though his body remained tense, and he made his way over. He could hear the water splashing from the sink and he carefully knocked on the door with one knuckle.
“Amour?” he tried again.
This time he technically got a response of sorts, though nowhere near the one he had been hoping for. All movement behind the door stilled. The water was still running in a steady stream, but whatever you had been doing with it, you had stopped. Regulus could almost picture you standing like a deer in headlights – his brows furrowed unhappily at the thought.
“Are you alright, love?”
Finally, your voice answered, but the fragility of it rattled him. “Oh, um, hi Reggie, I– I’m alright, be with you in a minute, yeah?”
You seemed distressed. Regulus did not care for it at all.
“Could I come in, amour?” He spoke to the door as if it was not there, as if he was looking you in the eyes, willing you to let him in.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” you murmured, but he just barely caught it through the wood.
Regulus seemed to have met a divulge where he had to make a choice – a relatively minor one, but it felt important nonetheless.
A large, painful part of his mind was screaming at him to leave you alone. She doesn’t want you, she’s finally seen you for what you are. Scum staining the story of her life. It is this voice that rules most of his actions, the voice keeping him and Sirius apart, the voice tying him to something he does not feel comfortable with.
Then there is another, burning hot part that aches to reach for you. The part that knows you better than the first thinks he deserves, the part that can tell by the tone of your voice, by a jerk of your finger, exactly how you are feeling and, hopefully, what you need. This part is one Regulus takes a great deal of pride in, this part feels good. Though it scares him and the first part tries to quell it, he holds it near his heart.
And it is this part that opens his mouth and says, “Could I come in anyway?”
A minute. A hesitation. A sigh.
“Yes,” you whispered.
His hand is tentative as it grips the doorhandle to the bathroom, as if it has become a part of your body from him talking to it, deserving of that same care he attempts to show you. He twists it and pushes it open.
The bathroom is swept in darkness – a conscious choice on your part, seeing as you would have to magically blow out the candles that lined the walls. He could still see you, leaning against the counter with the sink, face turned slightly away from him.
“Hi, my love,” you greeted, trying to seem casual as if he had just walked into your dorm under usual circumstances. With your hand awkwardly angled so that he only saw the inside of your palm, you adjusted the faucet. “How was practise?”
Regulus ignored your small-talk, walking up to stand beside you, body angled fully towards you as you began scrubbing at your hands once more. With the light trickling in through the open door, he swore the water looked pinkish. His breath hitched, eyes flickering all over you and the room to make sense of whatever was happening.
“Amour, what’s wrong?” His voice was rawer than he was comfortable with.
“Oh, it’s nothing, really.” You were getting a hang of the bright and airy tone of voice you were going for, but it was too late for that. “Just a long day, you know? Do you want to go get the bed ready so we can relax?”
The voices were warring in Regulus’ head at the rejection of his presence, but once more the part he could only describe as lovesick took a step closer to you, so your bodies were just barely touching. “Y/N,” was all he said.
Your ministrations grew more desperate, scrubbing water up and down your hands and forearms, breath laboured. He lifted a hand to brush against your face – when you flinched, his heart broke.
She’s scared of you.
No, she’s just scared.
He let his hand ever so slowly land on the cheek furthest away from him, cradling your jaw with the kind of light touch reserved for baby birds and broken children. He found the skin there soft and wet, and he swore he could cut himself on the shards of his broken heart.
He guided your head to turn towards him, his grip loose so that you could stop him if you wanted. Once your face was opposite his, Regulus fought every instinct in his body that told him to study you, search your face for the spawn of your pain. Instead, he closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against yours. Giving you space, privacy even, giving you the moment you clearly needed – but sparing you from doing it alone
Your hands slowed down in their scrubbing, and with his free hand reaching out blindly, he turned off the faucet. Your breath stuttered where it spilled over his lips.
“Do you reckon you want to sit down? Talk about it?” Regulus whispered, eyes still closed.
He felt you nod against his skin, grabbing a hand towel as you walked backwards the few steps needed before you could sit down on the toilet lid. Regulus followed you, eyes opening and attempting to adjust to this darker corner of the bathroom. He sat down on his knees between your legs, painful tiles be damned, and looked up at you intently.
In front of him sat the light of his life, visibly sullied. Your face was red and he could make out the tear tracks and smudged mascara underneath your eyes. You clutched the towel, hands buried within it and out of sight.
“Amour,” he whispered dumbly, unsure of what else to say, as he carefully brought his hands up to wipe at your tears.
You mumbled his name and it almost sounded like a sob.
Your hands were writhing in your lap around the towel, and he reached down to take it and help you dry yourself when you jerked your hands closer to you, towel still in grasp. “No,” you whispered.
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know,” you lied through your teeth. “I’ve just had a bad day and– and felt anxious. Couldn't help but cry over it. I don’t know, it just happened.”
Regulus gave you a sad smile, squeezing the still-wet skin on your forearms. “Uh-huh. And you felt like taking it out on your hands?”
A sob finally tore through your body properly and you brought your hands up – still in the towel – to cover your face. You leaned forward and cried into it, and Regulus immediately opened his arms to hold your shaking frame. Your towel and face were smushed into the crook of his neck and he drew big circles on your back with one hand, the other securely holding the back of your head.
He was broken, at a loss for words, trying to recall any and every memory he could find of witnessing others comforting, not trusting his own instincts. Through them all, out flashed a memory of Sirius humming to him when he had nightmares as a child, how the vibrations soothed through him until he could finally fall asleep again, in his big brother’s bed this time. Without any distinct melody or song in mind, Regulus began to hum as he swayed you just ever so slightly back and forth, hoping to bring you some semblance of safety.
Your gasps lessened until the bathroom was near-quiet again, but he did not stop his movements with you or the humming. Your heart blossomed from his efforts and broke at what you knew was to come.
You lowered your hands from your face, letting them fall into your lap with their towel. Your face was now in direct contact with the soft skin of his neck and you took the opportunity to press a soft kiss there.
“Can I please do something to help you?” he whispered into your hair.
“You are.”
He breathed in slowly. He is. “With your hands, I mean. Are you hurt?”
Tears slipped quietly down the expanse of Regulus’ neck, trailing down underneath his shirt. You tried to nuzzle deeper into him.
“I–” you stop, seemingly changing your mind. “I’m alright, I just need to… to remove magical ink from them and I can’t get it off.”
Regulus fought back the that’s all? that was creeping up his throat. He knows at least two spells that work for most permanent inks and can brew a potion for it within the hour if those don't work.
Your head squeezed against his shoulder as he nodded his head, still stroking your back. “No problem, beautiful, I can fix that.”
“No,” you whispered once more, seeming to shrink in his grasp. “I have to.”
He helped ease you out from his neck so that you were face to face once more, his hands coming up to brush over the sides of your arms. The look in your eyes was one he struggled to decipher, apart from the shine of anxiety.
“Why do you have to? Let me help you, amour.”
You took another shuddering breath, brazing yourself for impact. “You can’t see,” you whispered finally, fighting the quiver of your lips.
“I… I don’t understand.”
“You can’t see them, Reg, I’m sorry.”
“Did someone do something to you?” It was the only explanation he could conjure up for why any permanent ink would make you this distraught – and why you would hide from him like this.
You searched his face carefully, faintly nodding in a way that made him think it was a response to your own thoughts and not his question. Like you decided on something.
“Someone wrote something. I just want it gone.”
Regulus’ stomach churned. He regretted the harsh tone of his voice as he demanded, “Who?”
“It’s not important.”
“It is to me. Please. Who?”
You pulled your bottom lip in between your teeth, gnawing at it as you realised he would find out. Someone would tell him, even if you refused to show him. He would know. You tasted blood in your mouth.
With his eyes adjusted to the dark, Regulus saw the faint red on your lips as well and immediately reached out to gently pull your lip free from its torment. His fingertips lingered on your lips until he replaced them with his own with a short, tentative kiss. If you were to have blood in your mouth, he would too.
Lips still against yours he whispered again, more pleadingly this time, “Who?”
You let your walls crumble. This sweet, caring boy was in your grasp for now and you could not help but let him care while he still wanted to. “Mulciber,” you whispered back.
Regulus pulled back enough to meet your gaze, confusion filling his. “Why Mulciber? What would he have to write on you?”
Up until now he had half-thought that some of your first year tutees had pranked you in some ungraceful manner. He was certain he had never seen you and Mulciber even talk before, let alone have an altercation that could involve magical ink. He was one of the more brutal Slytherins, but he had never had any reason to talk to you, and he knew that you were someone Regulus cared for. What he had hoped would let him in on your pain only confused him further away from any answer.
“Regulus, please,” you begged, ignorant to his confusion. Tears were once more filling your eyes and he wished for nothing but to stop them.
“Okay, okay,” he whispered, hoping to convince your tears to stay where they are. “You– you don’t have to explain it, love. I can just remove it for you.”
“Could you teach me instead?” Your lip was back between your teeth, lightening in colour underneath the force it was exerted to.
“I’m afraid you wouldn’t be able to remove something from your hands yourself, you need them for the spell.” Regulus hoped his gaze seemed sympathetic.
You squeezed your eyes shut, moving your head slightly to your side. Regulus recognised your breathing pattern to follow a technique you had taught him to calm down the first time he had a panic attack around you. Afterwards, you didn't mention it, only giving him space to talk about what he was comfortable with, comfort at the ready.
His own breath was bated as he watched you make your decision. A definite tear slid down the cheek closest to him, in a hauntingly cinematic manner. At last, your eyes slowly fluttered open and you looked back into his eyes with the most devastating expression. Slipping a hand slowly out from your towel – out of Regulus’ line of sight – you brought it up to his cheek to bring his face closer to yours.
The kiss was searing, filled with a love and devotion he was not prepared for in a situation like this. He was enveloped by the smell of you, and though you still tasted of copper, your lips were painfully soft and he let himself fall deeper into you. When you pulled away, you pressed a lingering kiss to the side of his mouth.
“I love you,” you whispered. Regulus hated how it sounded like you were saying goodbye.
His brows were furrowed as he looked at you, and he hoped it looked like confusion and nothing more sinister. “I love you too, amour. You know.”
“I’ll let you remove it, if you want.”
“Please.”
Your gaze fell to your lap and remained there as you let both hands out of the towel, placing them palm-down on your thighs. Regulus had begun reaching for his wand in a holster on his belt, ready to rid you of the source of your discontent, but he was frozen still when his own eyes finally took in your hands and the two bold, dark words written on each one.
MUD on the left. BLOOD on the right.
Mudblood.
Regulus’ blood had run cold in his veins and he found himself having to adopt your breathing technique. His vision blurred as the two words seemed to grow larger, which seemed impossible considering they were written to take up as much space as possible. The handwriting was shaky, as if there had been a struggle when they were written. There were some light bruises already forming around your wrists and upper arms that further proved his fear. Mudblood. With red streaks over both works, likely from how hard you had been trying to wash them, all but scraping them off. Mudblood. The word was choking him. His hand that had remained still midair by his belt began to tremble.
He was knocked out of his trance as he saw a single tear splatter across the lettering on your right hand.
Regulus moved his gaze back up to yours to find it was still trained on your hands, eyes glossy and unseeing.
“I–” he tried, but his voice broke off. “I don't understand. Y/N, I don’t understand.”
You seemed to flinch a little at the sound of your name, but other than that you made no sign that you heard him.
“Amour,” he rectified. “Why would… what is this?”
You moved your right hand over your left, starting to scratch at the word scribbled there, nails digging deep. Regulus’ hands flew up to stop your ministrations at the sight of the worsening redness, but your whole body physically flinched away from him in a way he was sure must hurt.
Regulus was lost.
“I don’t understand. Why would Mulciber write that? You’re not a–” He cut himself off, scared of what word would slip off his tongue. “You’re not muggleborn.”
Finally, you looked up and met his eyes. Your fearful, heartbroken expression seemed to soften at the sight of him and you gave him the saddest smile that did not reach your eyes. “I’m sorry,” was all you could whisper.
Realisation dawned on him.
“Your father…?”
His half-blood best friend turned lover, who he already had not dared tell his parents about, living with her muggle mother after her wizard father passed away. It was a convenient story in times of tension and division. Death is an easy excuse, hard to verify.
Although, clearly, someone had now, and the truth had come out.
“I’m so sorry,” you whispered once more through a sob. Your shoulders were hunched and knees drawn close to your body. You looked like you wanted to disappear.
It took him a greater amount of strength than he was proud of to push the shock and confusion from the forefront of his mind and pull back up the memories of how to comfort. To focus on those and not the million of questions running through his head.
What does this mean? Why didn't you tell him? Have you been hiding from everyone, or just him? How have you been carrying something so scary and he was none the wiser? Is there an award for shittest boyfriend at Hogwarts that he can be looking forward to?
Regulus reached out for you and pulled you slowly into another hug, arms circling securely around your back. Your body stilled in his grasp, apart from the small heaves for air in between your sobs.
“What are you doing?” Your whisper was muffled into his shirt. Your frail voice and tense limbs cut him deeper than any spell could.
“I'm comforting you, sweet girl,” he mumbled into your hair. “Or at least trying to.”
“Why?” you asked miserably.
Regulus pulled back just far enough to see your face, making sure his arms were still holding you with love, drawing patterns across your back.
"Because I love you," he whispered intently. His eyes tried his hardest to lock on yours, but you still would not meet his gaze. "Because there is nothing to be sorry for."
Your expression grew incredulous, bordering on angry – if it was with him, yourself or the world he was uncertain. "I've lied to you. I've deceived you into a relationship you wouldn’t have agreed to had you known, I– I’ve put you in an impossible position–” You had to cut yourself off as another sob tore through your body. “I’m so sorry.”
Regulus shuffled impossibly closer to you and brought his hands up to cup your cheeks, thumbs stroking slowly across your cheekbones. He felt his own eyes fill with tears at the sight in front of him, anxiety rising at his chest as he struggled to find the words he knew the situation called for.
This was all unknown territory for Regulus. The two of you had had as few conversations about blood status as possible, both weary about the growing tension at school and in the wider wizarding society. You had held him the one time he dared cry in front of you over a particularly harsh letter from his mother. You had whispered sweet nothings about you're not them and I will always love you, but he thought they were just that – nothings. In turn, you had mentioned your parents and cried over your father a handful of times, but never divulged too much. He had weaved his way through comments from other pureblood students at school regarding his relationship with a half-blood, but most pureblood families have lapses with a half-blood here or there that he could usually throw back in their faces to silence them. No one dared push it further than that. When Andromeda left the family for Ted, he almost had to confront it all, confront what he now knew to be lies that had been spewed to him all his life, but even then, he managed to avoid it as he instead received the beating of his life for not alerting the family about the signs he must have seen at school. He let himself simmer with that pain instead of looking inwards, instead of seeking help. He figured he didn’t have to, not just yet.
That time had evidently passed, as he now held a sobbing and defiled sun in his hands.
No, this was uncharted territory for him entirely – but he could not afford to let it stay like that.
“My love, Y/N,” he said with a surprisingly steady voice, never letting his gaze stray from you. “Please, please listen to me. Please hear me. You are everything; it is you, you are everything. You could be muggleborn, muggle, werewolf, siren or fae. It would not change anything.”
Your eyes met his, red rimmed and glossy, confused and bewildered. This time it was your turn to whisper, “I don’t understand.”
“It is difficult–” Regulus’ voice broke as the first few tears slipped down his face. “It is all so difficult right now, I feel lost and… scared and I don’t know what to do.” The words almost clogged in his throat, like barbed wire to admit, but he knew he had to. “I should have told you all of that already, I should have shared with you so you could feel safe to share with me. I haven’t known what to do, how to do it. The one thing I do know is that I love you and I need you to be safe and I need you to be here with me. I have not been deceived, for I would always choose you.”
Your eyes were wide, but you were not crying at the moment, gaze flitting all across his face, as if to ensure he wasn’t lying, hanging onto his every word. It was the motivation he needed to continue.
“You are not allowed to be sorry, amour, I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” A small sob escaped him and his heart flipped when your right hand came forth to just barely touch his shoulder. “I should have been here for you, you shouldn’t have to hide. You should never have had to question my love for you, my loyalty. It will always lay with you, I swear it. Gods–” a heaved breath “– I’m terrible at this, you know I’m terrible, but I’ve been trying so hard for you and I will continue to. Just please let me. Let me and I will try.”
“Regulus…” you whispered, hand creeping from the brush against his shoulder to settle on the side of his neck.
He looked at you, ready to take any reaction you would give him, to tell him off for his horrible apology, for making things about him, for not being enough. Your mouth opened and closed as if you couldn’t settle on the words. Instead you let out a small breath and pulled him back into you in a tight embrace.
It took him not even a second to hold you in return with passion, hands appraising as they swept up into your hair and around your waist.
“Do you mean it?” you whimpered into him and he let his forehead fall to your shoulder as he cried.
“Of course, I mean it. Of course, of course.” He kept muttering it into you as he held you tighter and tighter.
His body was filled with an entirely new set of fear. A warm one that spread through his blood at the thought of what you had to face. Mulciber already knew and had taken action on that knowledge seemingly without hesitation. Regulus had heard what was being said amongst the Sacred 28, he knew to what degrees the hatred was building. His entire body was built on fear as he held what he now realised could be disturbingly fragile.
That is, until you whimpered another question into his hold and his body ached with a love so deep he had never thought it possible.
“Do you still love me?”
He had already said so, but he would happily say it again, over and over, damning himself for allowing you to wonder. “Yes, amour, always. Always.”
Regulus took your face in one of his hands again, cradling you as he brought his forehead back to yours. Angling his face forward, he pressed what he hoped was a sweet kiss to your lips. It was wet, metallic and everything he needed.
“I’m sorry for lying,” you whispered. He shook his head against yours.
“No, I’m sorry for stalling.”
A beat of silence. “Stalling what?” He thought you knew, but he tried to have no qualms about being explicit about it.
“Leaving.” He said it simply, hoping it would will it to be.
This time it was your turn to shake your head. “Can you leave, though? Safely? They’re becoming more and more fanatical, Reg, what if they hurt you? I’ve seen the letters.”
The fact that you have experienced what can only be classified as a hate crime, yet you have the goodness in your heart to worry about him in this way only makes him more certain of his choice.
“I have to, my love. I have to. It’s time.” He took a deep breath. “I will… I will ask Sirius for help.”
You looked into his eyes, vision blurry from your proximity. “I’m scared for you, but I’m so proud of you at the same time.”
“The feeling is entirely mutual.” Regulus tried to huff out a small laugh, but it just came out teary. “Will you please come with me?”
“To Sirius?”
“Yes.”
“Of course.”
His hand on your squeeze pressed further into you, reverent. “We can ask for help for us both. They practically wanted Ted dead when they disowned Andromeda, and she was not even the sole heir. I’m so sorry for putting you in that situation, I–”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” you assured, voice more stable and beautifully soft. “You are everything to me too, you know.”
“I’m scared,” Regulus whimpered. It’s the first time he can remember saying that out loud to someone since he was 6.
“I’m scared, too. But less so, now that I know I still have you. I couldn’t handle losing you, Reg.” Your eyes teared up again and he leaned up to kiss the corners of your eyes sweetly, collecting the tears before they had a chance to spill.
“You have me, you have me,” he whispered almost feverishly against your skin. “And I’ve got you.”
You sighed, the closest to contently you think you can get at this moment. “Will you please help me?” you whispered as you looked down at your hands.
Regulus shook himself out of his mini spiral, shook off that first voice in his head that reared its head once more and over and over, shook off anything that was not you. He mumbled an of course against your cheek before he kissed it, taking your hands in one of his.
Unsheathing his wand he never managed to retrieve the first time around, he took one last look at the ugly markings on your hands – the hate was precisely that, ugly, and it had no place on your skin. Starting with the left – MUD – he tried the first spell he knew, and it did nothing. The bile rose in his throat as he went to try the next, fearing the worst, but by the grace of a nonexistent god, the letters finally melted away. He repeated the process on the other one.
You tried to pull your hands out of his grasp at that, but his hold tightened. He healed the viscous red streaks and peeling skin from where you had scratched at them, a cold sensation soothing over your skin as he moved his wand. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes at the gentleness, but you found yourself beginning to become completely dehydrated.
Regulus brought your hands up to his lips while he put his wand away to grasp at them with both hands. He kissed the spots he had just cleared up. Long, lingering kisses in the middle of your hand, followed by soft butterfly kisses all over it. His fingers intertwined with yours, squeezing tightly, giving the flesh new sensations to remember instead.
“You’re so good to me,” you whispered, almost like a revelation. You had loved him and you had trusted him, you had just not trusted that it would be forever, that it would be more than any loyalty to his family. You were ashamed at the thought now, as you looked at the boy on his knees in front of you, crying from loving you, kissing away your pain. It filled you with something you had not believed this day would hold for you – hope.
“I’m not,” he whispered, letting your hands settle together in your lap. “But I hope to be. I want to be. I will be.”
You smiled wetly at him and leaned forward to kiss him once more. Originally intended as a peck, the kiss grew deeper, a slow passion as you held his lips between yours, feeling the love seep through the thin skin. He continued pressing kisses all over your face, much like your hands. Any teary or red skin had his lips faintly brushing over it, taking his time to dote on you. You let your breath calm down in the meantime, panic and tension slipping away from you to be replaced by a deep exhaustion as you leaned into him.
He noticed – he had to notice, swore he always would from now on.
“Are you ready to lay down in bed, amour? Face the light?” He smiled sheepishly at the poor attempt at a joke. You seemed surprised as you looked around, almost like you had forgotten you were in a shadowy dorm bathroom.
“Only if you will lay down with me.” Your tone was nearing teasing, though not quite there. He was determined to achieve it within the hour.
“I promise,” he whispered, kissing you one last time before helping you up.
And he would go on to help you to bed and hold you tight for as long as you would let him. He would listen to you cry and laugh and worry without a second thought. He would take you with him to ask Sirius for help on escaping and keeping you safe and he would devote himself to being better. He would do anything for you – because you were, after all, everything.
eventual james potter x fem!reader; inevitable angst and annoyance as james slowly matures over his time at hogwarts. slowburn. total word count: 56.3K
this was so so so beautiful and cute!! i giggled so much but also really related to james and the reader in this🩷! it really made me feel real if that makes sense?
lily forces her help on james after discovering an unsent letter he wrote to you at the end of last year. it doesn’t exactly go as planned.
CW | characters are 17-18, lily is the best wingman, banter on banter, MDNI AFTER A CERTAIN POINT (there is a separate warning before it begins)
james potter x fem!reader | 18.7k | series masterlist.
main masterlist.
AN | and so, 1-100 comes to an end, thank you so much to everyone who’s kept up with reading and supporting this series, i love you guys sm !! 🫶
There’s something about stepping back into the Great Hall after a summer away that always makes your stomach twist.
Maybe it’s the grandeur of it—four long house tables glittering under a sky enchanted to mirror the fading twilight—or maybe it’s the realisation that this is it. Seventh year. Your last first feast at Hogwarts. You glance around at the familiar faces, older now, and think how quickly everything’s changed, and how much it hasn't at all.
The Gryffindor table is buzzing, voices overlapping as friends greet each other, chatter about summer holidays, and sneak wary glances at the staff table where the new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor is already under intense scrutiny. You sit between Lily and Dorcas, with Marlene just opposite, her chin in her hand as she eyes the new teacher with suspicious intensity.
“I’m giving him a two weeks before he loses his temper,” Marlene says, not even blinking. “One, if he’s already had a mental breakdown before arriving,”
“You’re just bitter because Professor Lome never liked your essays,” Dorcas points out, stealing a bread roll from the centre plate before anyone else can. “He gave me full marks on that piece about curse detection,”
You’re half-listening, mostly looking around the room. It’s the same as ever, and yet not. Everyone’s taller. Slightly leaner. Tired in that way only seventeen-year-olds on the cusp of adulthood can be. The weight of NEWTs, of future plans, of knowing this is your last go at all of it.
The buzz of the hall dies down as Professor McGonagall stands at the staff table. The sorting ceremony has already taken place—little first-years blinking up at the ceiling, clutching their house badges like lifelines—and now it’s time for the usual announcements.
“Welcome back, students, to another year at Hogwarts. A particular welcome to our first-years, who I hope will find these halls as challenging and rewarding as the generations before them,”
You tune out a bit as she goes through the basics: forbidden forest is still forbidden, Zonko’s products are still banned, and any students caught brewing illegal potions will be given detention and a strongly worded letter home.
Then, she straightens, and there's a tiny spark in her eye that sets everyone leaning forward.
“And now, I’m pleased to announce this year’s Head Boy and Head Girl of Gryffindor. A pair who will, I trust, represent the house and the student body with diligence and pride. Please join me in congratulating Lily Evans and James Potter.”
Silence.
Then—
“What?” Dorcas shrieks before she can stop herself, hand flying to cover her mouth.
Lily’s face is a perfect blend of composed and internally screaming. You can see it in the way she holds her posture just a touch too rigidly, in the slight widening of her eyes.
A few seats down, James has frozen. Mid-sip of pumpkin juice. You think he might choke on it.
The hall erupts in applause, mostly polite, some genuine. The Gryffindor table is particularly vocal—Sirius is cheering obnoxiously loud, Remus is clapping with amused restraint, and Peter looks like someone just told him Christmas has come early.
“Head Boy?” Marlene mouths, turning to stare at you and Lily like you’ve both gone mad. “Him?”
You glance at Lily, who is clearly experiencing an existential crisis in real-time.
James slowly sets his goblet down. “I—what?” he says weakly. “Me?”
“I… wasn’t told,” Lily says, her voice barely above a whisper. “I knew I got Head Girl, McGonagall owled me over the summer, but—him?”
You smother a laugh. “You okay, Lils?”
She glares at you. “No.”
James, for his part, finally seems to have processed the information. He sits a little straighter, shoulders back, trying for composed but mostly looking like he might be sick.
“I’m already Quidditch Captain,” he mutters to Sirius, who slaps him on the back with far too much enthusiasm.
“You’ll be brilliant,” Sirius grins. “Just think—power, responsibility, and even more excuses to boss people around.”
Remus raises an eyebrow. “You do realise it’s actual work, right? Prefect meetings, patrols, schedules…”
James pales slightly. “Bloody hell,”
You and the girls settle back into your seats as the feast begins properly. Food appears across the tables in a shimmer of golden light, and the scent of roast chicken and buttered potatoes fills the air. For a while, everyone’s distracted—eating, catching up, stealing sips of pumpkin juice between bites. The announcement lingers in the air though, rippling down the table in whispered disbelief and mild chaos.
You poke at your roasties, thoughts elsewhere. You’re happy for Lily—Head Girl is so her. She’s meticulous, clever, endlessly fair. But James? It’s not that he’s a bad student—he’s clever when he applies himself—but his reputation precedes him. Pranks. Detentions. A casual disregard for rules that somehow charmed most of the school and irritated the rest. You look down the table to where he’s now loudly panicking about his term planner.
“He’s actually worried about having too much to do,” Marlene says, eyebrows raised. “Is this a new personality shift or did he hit his head over the summer?”
“He’ll be fine,” Dorcas says through a mouthful of carrots. “Maybe this’ll actually knock the arrogance out of him. Or at least make him too busy to be annoying,”
Lily just stabs a pea with unnecessary force. “I’m going to murder Dumbledore.”
You snort, covering it with a cough. “Think of it this way—you get to boss him around,”
“Please,” she says dryly, “he’ll talk about the Marauders and Quidditch and I’ll be asleep by the third sentence,”
You laugh properly at that, and the sound feels good. Light. Familiar.
Marlene leans closer, dropping her voice. “Anyway, more important question—have you had any more letters?”
You blink. It takes you a second to realise what she’s referring to.
“Oh,” you say, slowly. “No. Not since the last one. You know, the one I got right before term ended,”
There’s a beat of silence, the kind that means they’re all about to jump in.
“You’ve still got them, don’t you?” Dorcas says, eyes narrowing.
“Of course she does,” Lily says before you can speak. “She practically laminated the bloody things,”
You shove her shoulder with yours. “I did not. I just… kept them. They were nice,”
“Nice?” Marlene repeats. “They were poetry. Like, actual effort. Not ‘fancy you, meet me in the broom cupboard’—actual, personal, stupidly romantic letters,”
Dorcas sighs dreamily. “Still can’t believe we never figured out who it was. No hints? Nothing?”
You shake your head, and try not to let your disappointment show too much. “They just… stopped. That last one before summer hols—it was like a goodbye. Like they didn’t know what else to add,”
“Bit tragic,” Lily says softly, and despite her sarcasm earlier, you hear the real sympathy in it.
You shrug, reaching for a second helping of Yorkshire pudding to hide the sudden ache in your chest. “I don’t know. It’s stupid. I didn’t even know who they were,”
“But they knew you,” Dorcas says. “Really well, apparently,”
The words make something twist inside you. Because she’s right.
Whoever they were, they did know you. The letters had come at your lowest points last year—when the pressure of coursework, the drama with Severus, and everything else felt like too much. Each letter had felt like a lifeline, like someone reaching across the void just to remind you that you weren’t invisible.
You miss that. You miss them.
“I just thought maybe,” you say quietly, “there’d be another one waiting. When we got back,”
The silence around your little corner of the table grows thick with understanding. No one says anything for a moment. Then Lily bumps your knee under the table.
“Well,” she says, with the kind of finality only she can manage, “maybe they’re just waiting for the right time,”
You nod, but you don’t believe it. Not really.
The conversation moves on. Marlene brings up the new Hogsmeade permission rules (apparently no more ‘mysterious illnesses’ to get out of going—thanks to a Slytherin who faked being poisoned last year). Dorcas starts planning the best window seat in the common room for her study spot, and Lily starts stress-talking about her NEWT timetable.
But your thoughts don’t quite leave the letters.
You wonder where they are now—your mystery writer. If they’re even still thinking about you. If they’re watching you across the Great Hall, debating whether or not to start again.
You hope so.
Even if you don’t say it out loud, not even to Lily.
Even if you’re pretending not to look toward the other end of the table for who it might be.
—
It becomes a weekly ritual. Every Wednesday night, Lily Evans storms back into the Gryffindor common room around ten-thirty, throws herself onto the armchair closest to the fire, and launches into a detailed monologue about the trials and tribulations of patrolling the corridors with James Potter.
And every Wednesday night, you, Marlene, and Dorcas do your best not to laugh too obviously.
“He just won’t shut up,” Lily declares one evening, halfway through untangling her scarf from her hair. “Every corridor, every stairwell, it’s Quidditch this, Marauders that—and not even mildly interesting Marauder tales. No, no. Apparently Sirius once managed to transfigure a Slytherin’s tie into a snake and got away with it by pretending it was a defence demonstration. That’s what I have to listen to for two hours,”
Dorcas, stretched out on the rug with a textbook balanced on her stomach, snorts. “Honestly, sounds like quality entertainment,”
“You do realise he’s trying to impress you, right?” Marlene adds, not looking up from her Ancient Runes homework.
Lily looks personally offended. “By telling me about how many nosebleeds they’ve collectively caused in the name of house pride?”
“Maybe he thinks violence is your love language,” Dorcas offers with a shrug.
You laugh softly but say nothing. Lily rolls her eyes and turns to you, as she often does.
“You would die. Honestly. You should swap with me sometime just to understand the suffering.”
“I’m not a prefect,” you remind her, amused.
She huffs. “Tragic. You’d actually hold a decent conversation. Meanwhile, I’ve learnt the entire 1974 Quidditch Cup roster twice, and I don’t even like Quidditch,”
Still, she doesn’t ask for a trade from any of the actual prefects. And despite the complaints, she never actually seems to loathe their time together—frustrated, yes. Exhausted, absolutely. But somewhere beneath it all is a sort of resigned affection she doesn’t quite admit to.
You often sit by the fire after she’s done ranting, book in your lap, mind somewhere else entirely.
Because while Lily battles James's endless rambling about goal strategies and prank logistics, your thoughts drift to the letters again and again.
You miss them.
More than you like to admit.
Even now, months after the last one, you still half-expect to find something tucked inside your Transfiguration book. Or a note slid under your pillow. That hopeful little ache has never quite gone away. You know it’s silly—it’s been so long, it’s probably over—but that connection, however brief and anonymous, was something you’d never really had before.
Whoever wrote those letters saw parts of you you didn’t think anyone noticed. They wrote like they knew what you needed to hear before you even knew it yourself.
And now… it’s just silence.
—
It’s late December when Lily finds it. Just a few days shy of the Christmas Holidays, when the castle starts to shift into that enchanted, warm glow of the holidays. Wreaths bloom along the walls, garlands wrap the banisters, and the air smells faintly of cinnamon and woodsmoke.
It’s snowing outside, but the halls are still humming with end-of-term energy—homework, holiday plans, and whispered excitement about the upcoming Hogsmeade weekend.
Lily’s rifling through James Potter’s satchel.
To be fair, she asked him where the patrol rota was, and he told her—somewhere in his bag. He’s halfway through an apple and elbow-deep in a discussion with Remus about whether or not the Gryffindor team needs a strategy change after Christmas.
She pulls out quills, broken Sugar Quill sticks, crumpled bits of paper, at least two spare ties, and—at the very bottom—a small, folded piece of parchment.
Gold foil.
Your name on the front.
She freezes.
It’s unmistakable. The handwriting is the same elegant, slanted script you used to show them, the same ink, the same careful fold. But this letter has never reached you.
Her eyes widen. Her breath catches.
She looks up at James.
Still talking.
Still completely unaware that in one careless second, he’s just given everything away.
Lily takes the letter. Quietly. Carefully. She tucks it into her robe pocket and says nothing. Not yet.
But she watches him all night. She watches the way his gaze flickers towards you sometimes across the common room. The way he gets unusually quiet when your name comes up.
Later that night, in the corridor outside the common room, she pounces.
“James.”
He jumps. “Bloody—Evans, you trying to give me a heart attack?”
She crosses her arms. “I need to ask you something,”
“Okay…?”
She pulls the letter from her pocket.
He stops breathing.
“Is this yours?”
He tries—tries—to play dumb.
“I—uh—never seen that before in my life.”
She raises an eyebrow.
“No? Oh well, guess i’ll deliver it myself then,”
The way James snatches the letter from her hands you’d think it was his lifeline. It kind of was. “Don’t you dare—”
She doesn’t say anything for a beat. Then:
“It was you.”
He nods, sheepish. “Yeah.”
“You were writing the letters all last year. All that time. While she was agonising over who it was.”
Another nod.
“Why didn’t you tell her?”
“I—” He scrubs a hand through his hair. “I panicked, alright? I was going to. I really was. The last letter—I wrote it to finally tell her. Then I just… I bottled it. It felt too big. Too serious. I didn’t think she’d… you know. Want me.”
Lily stares at him.
“You absolute moron.”
He blinks. “Sorry?”
“She’s been miserable for months. She kept waiting for another letter, hoping you’d write again. Do you have any idea how much she—” She cuts herself off, shaking her head. “Unbelievable.”
“I didn’t think she liked me,” James mutters. “I mean, properly. Not just the letters. And not after everything—after how I was in fifth year—”
“You’ve changed.”
He shrugs. “I don’t know if that matters.”
Lily looks at him, and something softens.
“It does. And for what it’s worth, I think she would want to know. But—” She holds up a finger before he can respond. “—If you want to be a coward, I won’t say a word. But if you want my silence, you’re going to have to make it worth it.”
James straightens. “What does that mean?”
“It means I’ll keep your secret—for now. But only if you actually do something about it. No more hiding. No more waiting. I’m going to help you, and you’re going to let me.”
James looks like someone’s just told him he has a shot at the World Cup.
“You’ll help me?”
She nods. “But only because I’m tired of watching her mope around like a ghost every time she checks her pillow for a letter that never comes.”
His expression shifts—hope blooming like a star behind his eyes.
“Alright,” he says, determined now. “Deal.”
Lily smiles.
—
The Christmas holidays was an odd time for both Lily and James. While a welcome respite from the usual whirlwind of school activities, they brought their own pressures. For Lily, it was the mounting anticipation of how to pull off her bold plan, and for James, it was the dawning realisation that he might just have a chance with you—but only if he didn’t screw it up.
It started innocently enough: a stack of parchment and a quill. The first few letters between them were brief and clumsy, full of the usual banter that you’d expect from James Potter. But with Lily’s encouragement and careful advice, his words began to take shape. She steered him, nudging him in the right direction.
There were moments of frustration—James was a disaster with anything that wasn’t a Quidditch strategy or prank, and this was, in his mind, far too serious to be a joke. But Lily stuck by him, offering a steady hand when his confidence faltered, teaching him how to make the words meaningful.
The tone of the letters shifted as they continued. At first, James wrote about what he thought you would want to hear—grand gestures, over-the-top declarations that, in hindsight, seemed ridiculous. But Lily patiently worked through them with him, showing him that it wasn’t about showiness—it was about connection. The real connection. The sort of connection that wasn’t about impressing you with his charm, but letting you see who he really was. She made him laugh, made him reflect on his own growth, and made him understand that this wasn’t just some passing fancy.
Their letters became a sort of symbiotic process. James would write something a bit too much, and Lily would dial it back with a comment about being too self-deprecating or too dramatic. He’d write again, taking into account her feedback. Then, Lily would send him back something that was genuinely thoughtful about what he could say to you—subtle things like, “She likes someone who listens, not just talks,” and “Remember, be genuine. It’s okay to be nervous.”
They’d find themselves exchanging letters, not just for the sake of figuring out what to say to you, but out of a shared sense of friendship, a bond that neither of them had expected to form.
They started to know each other better—not just as the Head Girl and the Head Boy, but as two people who were learning to be better versions of themselves. James began to appreciate Lily in a way that went beyond admiration—he respected her, her intelligence, her patience. She had a depth to her that he hadn’t quite realised before.
And Lily, for her part, couldn’t deny that James was more than just the loud, arrogant Quidditch star he used to be. He was thoughtful. He was kind. And beneath that cocky exterior, he was actually a lot more humble than anyone gave him credit for.
—
When the holidays ended and the students returned to Hogwarts, the air was thick with a sort of nervous energy. It was a fresh start after weeks away, and the school had a distinct feeling of a new term—new opportunities, new resolutions. It was also, for Lily, the moment when the plan she had been quietly constructing would need to unfold in full force.
As they returned to their regular routines, Lily began her work behind the scenes. It started innocently enough—casual conversations in the corridors, the library, and the common room. She would slip in little details about James—never overtly, but just enough to plant the seed in your mind.
“Did you hear about James helping that first-year with their transfiguration homework? I swear, he’s actually really good at it when he puts his mind to it,”
You had glanced up from your own work at the mention of James's name, frowning a little, because honestly, you hadn’t thought about him much. Not lately. He’d been busy with Quidditch, as usual. You couldn’t deny, though, that the idea of him being helpful—genuinely helpful—sounded out of character, even for him.
Over the next few days, Lily casually dropped more snippets into conversations. “James, honestly, I’m impressed with how he’s handled being Head Boy. He really seems to be taking it seriously. Even with Quidditch on his plate, he always makes time to help out,” She’d speak with genuine admiration, her voice unconsciously laced with warmth whenever she spoke of him.
At first, you dismissed it. It was all so subtle—so carefully orchestrated—that you barely noticed it happening. But the more Lily spoke, the more you began to pay attention.
One afternoon, you were walking down the corridor to the library when you spotted James on the far side of the hall, surrounded by first-years. You were about to look away when you saw him gently helping one of them with a stack of books, his hands steady, his voice low and encouraging. A completely different side to the usual cocky, mischief-driven James Potter. You’d never seen him like this before. You’d never seen anyone so engaged in something so simple.
That night, when you sat with the girls, Lily mentioned it casually. “James was really great today, helping the first years carry their books. He’s definitely grown up. It’s funny, isn’t it? We always think of him as the prankster, but there’s so much more to him than that. Honestly, I’m starting to see him in a new light,”
You were about to say something dismissive—something that would push the conversation away. But then, you stopped. There was something in the way she said it, so earnestly, that made you pause.
“Why do you keep talking about him like that?” Dorcas asked, raising an eyebrow at Lily.
Lily didn’t even bat an eyelash. She was smooth. “Why? What do you mean? He’s really changed, that’s all,”
“She has a bit of a point,” You immediately regret backing Lily. Why did you say that?
You weren’t sure what was happening to you. Why, when you closed your eyes that night, did your thoughts drift to James? Why, when you caught his smile in the corridor, did your heart feel like it skipped a beat? Why did you feel the need to brush your hair just right every time you passed him?
What was Lily doing to your head?
—
Lily Evans was a lot of things. Bright. Commanding. Intimidating when she wanted to be. But above all else, she was strategic. And once she caught on to the fact that you had—finally—developed something resembling a real, actual crush on James Potter, it was game over. For you.
You just didn’t know it yet.
“You need a break,” she said, as if that weren’t a suspicious statement from someone who had spent the last week stress-annotating every page of her Arithmancy textbook.
You glanced at her warily. “A break from what?”
“Studying. The common room. Yourself.” She sipped her tea primly. “We’re going to the library,”
“You think the library is a break?”
“Yes, because you’re not going alone this time,” she said. “We’ll revise together,”
You narrowed your eyes. “You hate revising with other people,”
“I don’t hate it,”
“You said—and I quote—‘group studying is a punishment for introverts who can’t read in silence.’”
Lily gave you her best innocent expression. “Wow. That doesn’t sound like me at all,”
Still, she wore you down. As she often did. And twenty minutes later you were being marched into the library under the pretense of productivity.
You weren’t entirely sure when you’d clocked it. Maybe it was the faint hum of nerves in Lily’s step, or the way she seemed to be leading you rather than walking beside you. But then you turned the corner near the back tables, and there he was.
James Potter. Sat alone at a table by the window, sunlight catching on his hair like it was doing it on purpose. His head was bowed, pencil tapping rhythmically against his lip as he read, and for once he looked almost serene. Normal. Thoughtful.
“Oh,” Lily said, not even bothering to feign surprise. “James. Didn’t see you there,”
He looked up, blinking at the both of you, then smiled—wide and easy. “Hey. Fancy running into you two,”
You turned to Lily with a look. She smiled sweetly and gestured to the empty chairs. “Plenty of room. Come on,”
You gave her a long-suffering sigh, but joined them. You didn’t miss the way James straightened up a little when you sat down. Or how he nudged his textbook closer to make space.
“We’re reviewing Potions,” Lily said, as if that was the plan all along. “James, you’re good at Potions, right?”
He gave a modest shrug. “Decent. Do you need help?”
She said nothing. Just looked at you. Pointedly.
“…Sure,” you mumbled, flipping open your book. “Why not.”
—
Later that week, it happened again.
You and Lily were walking down toward Herbology, cutting across the greenhouses when a burst of motion caught your eye near the Quidditch pitch.
James was there. Not flying, not showing off—but hovering gently just above the grass, alongside a very nervous-looking first year. The kid was wobbling on their broom, fists clenched white around the handle.
“Easy now,” James called, encouraging but calm. “Keep your knees loose. You’re thinking too hard. Let the broom do the work,”
“Is that Potter?” you asked, squinting.
Lily followed your gaze and made a noise like she’d just noticed. “Oh, yeah. I think he’s mentoring first years this term. Sweet, right?”
You turned back toward him. The wind ruffled his hair, and he reached out to steady the kid’s broom with a gentle hand, his voice low and kind and patient. It was… not a side of him you saw often. Or ever.
Your stomach did a thing.
Lily nudged you. “You’re staring,” she sang under her breath.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m observing,” you said flatly. “For science.”
“Sure. For science,”
—
By the third encounter, you were onto her.
This time, Lily “forgot” her notes in the Divination tower and asked you to come with her to get them. But when you reached the corridor, who was leaning against the wall chatting with Professor Sinistra?
That’s right.
James bloody Potter.
“…Hi?” he said, eyes flicking between the two of you.
Lily acted delighted. “Oh! James! What’re you doing up here?”
“Dropping off the star charts for Astronomy club,” he replied.
Lily gasped. “Look at you. Responsible and helpful,”
You turned your head slowly, muttering under your breath. “You planned this,”
“I absolutely did not,” Lily said, far too brightly.
You stared.
She smiled wider.
James, to his credit, just looked confused.
And maybe—maybe—a little hopeful.
—
Later, in the common room, you finally snapped.
“You’re setting me up,” you accused.
Lily beamed, completely unbothered. “Yes. And you’re welcome,”
“I didn’t ask for your interference,”
She crossed her arms and leaned against the sofa. “No, but I got tired of watching you pretend not to like him every time he breathed in your direction. So I decided to help you skip to the part where you realise he’s more than just a pretty face with Quidditch shoulders,”
You covered your face with a groan.
“Oh come on,” she said. “You like him,”
“No.”
“You do,”
You peeked between your fingers. “He was really sweet with that first year,”
Lily smirked. “I know,”
You slumped further into the cushions. “I hate how well this is working,”
“I’m a genius,” she said modestly.
And honestly? She kind of was.
—
It wasn’t long before Lily noticed that she didn’t have to nudge you in James's direction anymore. You started coming to her with your own observations. It started innocently enough.
“Did you see James helping that second-year with her Transfiguration homework today?” you asked, as you sat in the Gryffindor common room one chilly evening. “It was kind of… sweet,”
Lily's lips twitched in a knowing smile, but she hid it behind the book she was pretending to read. “Oh, really?” she asked casually, though her voice was laced with an almost imperceptible hint of amusement. “That sounds like him,”
And then, the more you noticed these things, the more you found yourself noticing him. The way his hair always fell in that messy way, no matter how much he tried to push it back. The way his eyes seemed to light up when he was talking about something he loved—Quidditch, of course, but also the way he spoke about his friends, his teammates. His honesty, unpolished but real. How, after all these years, you hadn’t truly seen him for what he was—someone who, despite his flaws, actually tried to do the right thing, even when he didn’t have to.
The realisation hit you slowly, like a wave creeping up the shore. You liked James Potter. You were attracted to him.
And that made you feel insane.
—
It was a Tuesday, and the usual hustle and bustle of Potions class filled the air as students shuffled into the dimly lit dungeon. You were seated next to Lily as usual, one row behind the Marauders, but that day, for some reason, your focus was nowhere near the task at hand. You were supposed to be preparing a Draught of Living Death, but your eyes kept straying to James, Sirius, Remus, and Peter, who were across the room, clearly engaged in some kind of prank plan.
It wasn’t even subtle. They were making faces at each other, stifling laughs, and it was so obvious that Professor Slughorn wasn’t even pretending to ignore them. You couldn't help the smile tugging at your lips as you watched James pass something to Sirius behind his cauldron, a quick handoff of some joke ingredient that was almost certainly going to explode in someone’s face.
“You’re staring again,” Lily pointed out with a grin, her voice low enough so that no one else could hear.
You blinked, realising that she had caught you, yet again. “What? No I’m not, I’m paying attention!” You quickly turned your focus back to your potion, though it was already too late—the glint in Lily’s eyes told you that she knew the truth.
She raised an eyebrow, still looking amused, and shook her head. “It’s okay. I mean, I did call it though,”
You groaned, slumping in your seat, feeling your cheeks flush. “I’m insane,” you muttered to yourself, so quietly that only Lily could hear. “What am I supposed to do? He’s been a complete arse to me for years, and now I’m falling for him? I’m a lunatic. Someone, take me away to Mungo’s. Commit me now. I’m beyond saving,”
Lily’s laughter bubbled up, and she didn’t even try to hide it. “Oh, come on, you’re not insane. You just like him. It’s not the end of the world,”
You shot her a glare. “Lils, I hate him. I have hated him for six years. Six years! He’s loud, he’s cocky, he’s arrogant. And now I want to—what? Be all gooey-eyed at him?”
She shrugged, the smile still dancing on her lips. “You’re allowed to change your mind, you know,”
“About him?” you said, pointing dramatically toward James, who was still engaging in some prank or another, his laugh unmistakable even from across the room. “What is wrong with me? Maybe I need a head examination. Maybe I just need to stop thinking about it altogether. Because this? This is crazy,”
Lily laughed again, a sound that was half sympathetic, half mocking. “I think you're being a little dramatic, don't you?”
“Drama's my middle name, Lils,” you muttered, sinking further into your seat, your face growing hot as you tried to ignore the fact that, even now, you could feel the pull of James Potter’s presence across the room. “Ugh. What do I even do? I can’t just talk to him. He’s so annoying. I can’t believe this is happening,”
Lily's tone turned more serious as she leaned a little closer, her voice softening. “Maybe… maybe you should start by just talking to him. Like, really talking. Not about Quidditch or anything that’s just… surface stuff. Maybe actually get to know him, without the whole cocky idiot routine he’s always doing,”
You frowned, looking over at James again, who had just leaned back in his chair, grinning at something Sirius had said. You shook your head, resisting the pull. “I don’t know, Lils. This whole thing is just… confusing,”
Lily sighed dramatically, resting her chin on her hand. “Yeah, I get that. But you know, I think he’s just a little misunderstood. He’s not perfect—he never has been. But… I think he’s worth getting to know. And I don’t think you’d regret it, if you gave him a chance,”
You stared at her, wide-eyed. “Are you… are you implying something here?”
Lily raised her hands in mock surrender, her eyes twinkling. “I’m not implying anything. I’m just saying… you should give him a chance to surprise you,”
You let out a long, dramatic groan. “What is wrong with me? I need help,”
—
Later that evening, you found yourself sitting in the Gryffindor common room, trying to ignore the noise around you. You were perched on the edge of the couch, pretending to study, but your mind was elsewhere entirely. Not on the anonymous love letters, but on James.
How had it happened? How had the most annoying person you’d ever met—someone who had spent years making fun of you, pranking you, and generally being an all-around nuisance—suddenly become someone you were seriously thinking about? It didn’t make sense. And yet, here you were, sighing over him like some lovesick fool.
“Everything okay?” Lily asked, sliding into the seat next to you. She had that familiar, knowing smile on her face—the one that made you feel like she could see straight through you. “You seem distracted,”
You let out a frustrated breath. “I’m an idiot,” you muttered, burying your face in your hands. “I’m an absolute, utter idiot,”
Lily laughed, clearly enjoying your inner turmoil. “You’re not an idiot. You’re just human,”
“Human, my arse,” you grumbled. “I’m supposed to be in control of my emotions. I’m supposed to be the level-headed one. And instead, I’m obsessing over James Potter. I mean, James Potter. What is wrong with me?”
Lily’s laugh was warm and understanding. She didn’t press you for more, though she did, at the back of your mind, know something you didn’t. She knew that you were slowly starting to see James for who he really was. And she knew that, when the time was right, it wouldn’t take much for him to see you for who you truly were, either.
But for now, all she had to do was sit back and watch the inevitable unfold.
—
By March, the weight of the upcoming mock NEWTs had hit Hogwarts like a bludger to the ribs. The once-lively Gryffindor common room was now filled with students hunched over parchment, quills scratching like beetles in the quiet, anxious air.
Even the usual chaos of the Marauders had simmered into a tense sort of focus—less pranks, more sighing, and an abundance of sugar quills chewed to bits while everyone tried to pretend they weren’t on the verge of collective academic collapse.
You’d taken to escaping the chaos by spending more time in the library, where the silence was less oppressive and the chances of being interrupted were, blessedly, low. There was something grounding about the musty scent of old books, the feel of parchment under your fingers, and the soft rustling of pages turning around you. Here, at least, you could pretend to have control over the mounting panic.
You didn’t expect to see him there.
It was a Thursday afternoon. The sky outside was grey and moody, a typical March sulk, and you’d made your way to the far side of the library looking for a quiet corner. Your bag was heavy on your shoulder, the strap digging into your collarbone, and your fingers were already ink-stained from a particularly ambitious essay you'd abandoned halfway through breakfast.
You turned down one of the aisles and paused.
James Potter sat alone at a study table, bent over a thick Potions textbook, hair sticking up in that ridiculous, familiar way, glasses slightly askew, brows furrowed in concentration. His quill tapped thoughtfully against his lips as he scanned a particularly long paragraph, completely unaware of your presence.
There were no Marauders in sight. No Sirius lolling about with a smirk, no Peter sneaking sweets, no Remus patiently annotating with colour-coded inks. Just James. Quiet. Focused. Normal.
It was weird.
You hovered there, unsure for a moment. James Potter was not someone you’d ever associated with solitude. He belonged in groups. In crowds. Loud, chaotic ones. He was a whirlwind of motion and noise and cheeky grins. But now—
Now, he just looked… Tired. Still. Almost soft.
You blinked. Once. Twice. And then, before your brain could talk your body out of it, you approached.
“Mind if I join you?”
James startled, looking up as though you’d just Apparated beside him. His expression shifted rapidly—surprise, confusion, and then something else entirely. Something warmer.
“Oh. Er—yeah! Yes, absolutely, yeah, course you can,” he stammered, quickly moving his things to make space for you, nearly knocking over his inkpot in the process. “Didn’t expect company,”
“I didn’t expect you to be in here,” you replied, sliding into the seat beside him and placing your books on the table. “Alone, I mean. No gaggle of mischief-makers in tow,”
He gave a sheepish laugh. “Yeah, I figured I’d actually try to… I don’t know, pass transfiguration this year. Trying this whole ‘focus’ thing,”
You arched an eyebrow. “Look at you. All grown up and responsible,”
He mock-scowled at you. “Don’t make it weird,”
You smiled despite yourself. “I’m stressed about the Potions exam,” you admitted after a moment. “I feel like Slughorn could hand me a list of ingredients and I’d still forget what a bezoar does,”
James gave you a surprised, almost earnest look. “Do you want to revise together? I mean—I’m decent at Potions. Got a weird knack for it. I could help,”
You tilted your head, eyeing him. “You? Helping me revise?”
“Don’t sound so shocked,” he said, grinning now. “I can be serious when I want to be,”
“Can you?”
James snorted. “Okay, I try to be,”
You laughed, and somehow that broke the tension. The two of you slipped into an easy rhythm. You started with Potions, him explaining the nuances of antidotes and the precise slicing technique needed for Sopophorous beans.
His explanations were animated—hands gesturing as he talked, voice fluctuating with a kind of earnestness you’d never quite noticed before. It made sense why he was such a good Quidditch captain; there was something undeniably compelling about the way he communicated, even when it was just about brewing Draught of Peace.
He didn't mock you when you forgot something obvious. He didn't interrupt. He listened.
And when your hands brushed across the table, reaching for the same note at the same time, he didn't flinch away. He just smiled.
Then the subject drifted. From Potions to Charms. From Charms to Transfiguration. From school to House gossip to whether centaurs secretly judged the students during Care of Magical Creatures.
Somewhere along the way, the edges between awkward and easy blurred.
There were pauses, of course—comfortable silences where you simply worked, and longer ones filled with light teasing or surprising bursts of genuine conversation. Like when he told you about his mum’s obsession with over-feeding the stray street cat, or how Sirius once bewitched his bed curtains to play harp music every time someone said his name.
It was weird, how easy it was.
It was weirder, still, when you realised you’d lost track of time.
“Blimey,” James muttered, glancing at the high windows. “It’s practically dark out,”
You blinked, checking your watch. “We’re late for dinner,”
“I was supposed to meet the team for a strategy review,” he said, rubbing a hand through his hair, making it stand up even more.
As if summoned, Peter popped his head around the shelf with a harried expression. “There you are!” he said to James, and then looked at you, visibly surprised. “We thought you’d fallen in a cauldron or something,”
James gave an apologetic shrug. “Lost track of time,”
Peter eyed the two of you, then turned his gaze back on James and raised his eyebrows very pointedly. “Riiight,”
You and James exchanged a glance, and then you both gathered your things and followed Peter out.
—
When you entered the Great Hall late, your friends were all over you.
“Where were you?” Dorcas asked, half-standing.
“Don’t say the library,” Marlene warned. “We know you left for the library, but you didn’t come back for hours,”
“And with James Potter?” Dorcas added, now openly gaping.
You groaned, sliding into the seat beside Lily. “It’s not what it sounds like.”
“It sounds like you two met up for a shag,” Marlene suggested, delighted.
“Absolutely not,” you said, head thunking dramatically onto the table. “He was helping me with potions. That’s all.”
Lily grinned, rubbing your back. “So you finally cracked, then?”
You peeked up at her with a groan. “I can’t stand how smug you look right now,”
Dorcas leaned in eagerly. “Wait—you like him?”
You sighed and sat up. “I begrudgingly have a crush on James Potter. There. I said it. I hate myself. I hate him. I hate everything. Kill me now.”
The table burst into laughter. Marlene actually clutched her chest. “I knew it. You’ve been making heart eyes for weeks,”
Lily looked positively radiant. “It’s okay,” she said soothingly. “It’s only taken you, what? Seven years?”
You scowled. “This is the worst timeline.”
Still, you couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at your lips.
—
Meanwhile, James was in the middle of a complete overshare.
“I panicked,” he said, flopping dramatically onto Sirius’ bed. “She just walked over and sat down. And then we actually talked. Like properly talked. And she laughed, Sirius. She laughed. At my jokes,”
Sirius grinned from where he was perched at the edge of Remus’s bed. “So you didn’t ruin it. Colour me shocked,”
James threw a pillow at him. “I’m being serious.”
“I’m being Sirius,” Sirius deadpanned.
Remus groaned. “Not this again,”
Peter snorted, settling at the foot of his own bed. “So what now? You two just revise together like it’s no big deal?”
“She asked to join me,” James said, like it was still unbelievable. “And I didn’t mess it up. I even helped her with Potions,”
Sirius gave him a sly look. “You like her,”
“Yes,” James said, no hesitation. “Obviously. I’ve liked her for ages. And now she’s actually… noticing me. And it’s terrifying,”
“What happened to cool, confident James Potter?” Remus asked with a faint smile.
“He’s dead.” James exclaimed. “He doesn’t exist,”
Sirius cracked up laughing.
James groaned, grabbing another pillow. “Promise me you lot won’t screw this up for me,”
“Course not,” Remus said. “We want you to be happy,”
“Speak for yourself,” Sirius muttered. “I liked it better when he was hopeless,”
But he smiled anyway.
—
From that point on, library sessions became a thing.
At first, it was casual. A few times a week, whenever you happened to run into each other. Then Lily started suggesting you go together—“oh, James said he’d be in the library after dinner, you should head down,”—and it became routine.
You tried to tell yourself it was just studying. That was all.
But it wasn’t.
You and James talked about everything—from exam stress and professors to more personal things. Like how he hated how he used to treat people, especially you and Lily. How he couldn’t believe he’d wasted so much time being a prat. How he’d let his ego make choices he still regretted.
“I was a total wanker,” he said one evening, sitting across from you, fiddling with the end of his quill. “Back when you and Lily were still friends with Snape. I was just… angry all the time. Jealous, maybe. I don’t know. But I was awful. And I’m sorry,”
You blinked. The sincerity in his voice caught you off guard.
“Thanks,” you said softly. “That actually means a lot,”
He gave you a small smile. “I just—I want you to know I’m trying. Not just for you. For me, too,”
And you believed him.
Which was maybe the scariest part.
Because this—whatever this was—wasn’t just a passing crush anymore.
You were really starting to fall for James Potter.
—
It was a Friday afternoon, the eve of the Gryffindor versus Ravenclaw Quidditch final, and James Potter was, predictably, in full strategising mode. You’d barely sat down at your usual table in the library before he launched into a spirited rant about formations, wind direction, and something called “chaser rotation efficiency” like he hadn’t just spent the past two hours at practice already barking the same things at his team.
You, meanwhile, were fighting a losing battle against a headache and the slow, creeping guilt of having left your Potions essay untouched for two full days.
“—and I swear if McLaggen swerves left again when I signal right, I’m going to charm his broomstick to fly backwards—”
“I forgot my quill,” you interrupted, sighing dramatically and digging fruitlessly through your satchel. “Great. That’s perfect. That’s exactly what I needed today,”
“Oh—here,” James said, gesturing vaguely to his bag without pausing his train of thought. “There’s loads in there, probably. Knock yourself out,”
You slid his satchel toward you, still only half-listening as he rambled on, now something about wind tunnels and Ravenclaw’s new Keeper. You unzipped the bag and fished around, fingers grazing parchment, a broken sugar quill, and several unidentifiable sticky objects before landing on a whole bundle of rogue writing utensils.
And then—your fingers brushed something else.
Smooth. Firm. Familiar.
You pulled it out.
Gold-foiled parchment.
Your breath hitched.
It was folded and refolded a dozen times over, edges fraying, the once-glossy surface dulled and creased. There were small ink stains on the back. A faint smudge of what might have been chocolate. You didn’t even need to open it to know what it was.
But you did anyway.
You shouldn’t have. You knew that. But your hands acted faster than your brain, and before you could stop yourself, your eyes were scanning the page.
Your name was there, in that now-unmistakable handwriting. The curves and flicks that had haunted your thoughts for nearly a year. And the words—oh, the words. Soft and intimate and so completely James that you were stunned you hadn’t pieced it together before.
I know I said I wouldn’t write you anymore, but I’m afraid I can’t help myself. The truth is, I’ve been terrified of saying it out loud, of giving you something you don’t need or want. But I can’t pretend anymore. I’ve loved you for so long, in ways that I can’t even put into words. I’ve watched you, really watched you, every day, and I’ve noticed things about you that—
You were halfway through reading it when James looked up from his notes, mid-smirk.
“I know my bag’s a bit of a disaster zone, but come on—it can’t be that hard to find a—”
He stopped mid-sentence.
His smile dropped.
You slowly looked up, the letter still in your hands, your fingers clenched tight around the gold paper. Your voice, when it came, was a whisper. Distant.
“…It was you?”
Silence.
James stared at you.
He opened his mouth, then shut it again.
You saw it—the flicker of panic, the rapid calculations behind his eyes, the moment he considered denying it.
But he didn’t.
He just nodded. Once. Barely perceptible.
You rose from your seat with a quiet scrape of your chair.
“I— I need to go.”
“Wait—” James started, standing as if to follow you, but you were already gone.
You didn’t look back.
—
James slumped back into his seat like the air had been knocked out of him.
He felt like he might be sick.
He'd known it was a risk. He’d always known. That’s why he never sent that final letter. That’s why he buried it in the bottom of his bag with the other forgotten things. Because if you ever found out…
And now you had.
He ran both hands through his hair and groaned into the table.
Lily found him twenty minutes later, still in the library, head buried in his arms.
“James we need to— What happened?” she asked immediately, sliding into the seat beside him. “You look like someone hexed your soul out,”
James didn’t lift his head.
“She found the letter,”
“…What?”
James groaned again. “I had it in my bag and she went in for a quill and she found it. Read it. Said ‘It was you?’ and then just—left.”
Lily’s eyes widened.
“What? James, that wasn’t the plan—!”
“I know,” he said miserably. “Trust me.”
Lily didn’t wait for more. She stood, grabbed her bag, and strode from the library like a woman on a mission.
—
She found you in the girls’ dormitory, door slightly ajar, the room quiet except for the faint rustle of parchment and the erratic, uneven sounds of your breathing.
The gold-letter lay open on your duvet, surrounded by all the other ones you’d carefully saved. The edges were frayed and thumbed from how often you’d reread them, but now they were scattered like fallen leaves, forming a halo around your crossed legs.
You didn’t look up when Lily entered.
She sat beside you quietly.
For a while, there was only the sound of your sniffles and the occasional tear hitting paper.
“I feel insane,” you said eventually, voice shaking. “I— I didn’t think— I never imagined it would be him,”
Lily reached out gently, plucking a letter from the bedspread. “You mean to tell me you never noticed the handwriting?”
“I never thought to look,” you mumbled. “Why would I? It was James Potter. He was—he was awful for so long,”
“But he isn’t now,”
You looked at her then, eyes red, lips trembling. “No. He’s not,”
There was a long pause.
Lily tilted her head. “You really like him, don’t you?”
You groaned, flopping backwards onto your pillow with a dramatic sigh. “I guess! I don’t—I didn’t think I did, not like that, not really, not until recently, and now—now I don’t know what to do, Lily,”
Lily smiled gently. “It’s okay. It’s… a lot. I know that,”
“It’s so much,” you moaned. “It’s like my brain is having a meltdown. All the letters—I loved the letters, and now they’re his letters and it’s like this huge secret just blew up in my face and I think I want to cry but also yell but also maybe kiss him and I don’t know what order those things go in!”
Lily laughed softly. “That’s the grief talking,”
You sniffled. “Grief?”
“Yeah,” she said solemnly. “The five stages of realising you’ve been in love with James Potter,”
You gave her a look.
“I’m serious. Denial—you definitely had that one early. Anger? You stormed out of the library. Bargaining—we’re doing that now. Depression is when you go quiet and start rereading all his letters while questioning your entire existence. And acceptance—well,”
“I’m not at acceptance yet,” you insisted, even as your voice wobbled. “I’m still in a very dramatic spiral,”
“You’ll get there,” Lily said kindly. “Just… breathe, okay? You’re allowed to freak out. But this—this doesn’t have to be bad,”
“He lied to me,”
“He didn’t lie,” Lily said gently. “He just… couldn’t find the courage to tell you the truth,”
You fell quiet, chewing your lip. “Was this your plan all along?”
Lily hesitated. “Not this exact ending, but… I knew. For a while. And I may have nudged things along,”
You groaned again, grabbing a pillow and burying your face in it. “You kept it from me?”
“It wasn’t mine to tell,”
You peeked out. “He’s really upset, isn’t he?”
“Like a kicked puppy,”
—
James was falling apart.
The Marauders tried their best to be supportive.
Which, unfortunately, amounted to Sirius offering him chocolate, Remus recommending deep breathing exercises, and Peter saying things like, “Well, at least it’s out now?”
“Out?” James choked. “It’s out like a Blast-Ended Skrewt in a greenhouse! She’s going to hate me,”
“You’re being dramatic,” Sirius said. “She likes you. Even I can see that,”
“She liked the version of me who wrote the letters,” James said. “Not the idiot who shoved them in a bag and hoped they never saw the light of day,”
“She liked you, mate,” Remus corrected. “You were being yourself in those letters. You just… didn’t know how to show it in person,”
James rubbed his hands over his face. “It’s over, isn’t it?”
“No,” Sirius said, surprisingly firm. “Not unless you give up now,”
James looked at him.
“You’ve come this far. She knows now. You can’t back down. Not unless you’re okay with always wondering what would’ve happened if you tried,”
James took a deep breath.
“I want to try,”
“Then try,” Remus said, clapping him on the shoulder.
—
You stayed up most of the night rereading the letters.
Every word hit differently now.
The soft musings. The little jokes. The genuine awe in the way he’d described you.
James Potter had written them all.
And somehow, that made your heart hurt in the most complicated, overwhelming, real way.
By morning, your mind was no clearer—but you knew one thing.
You needed to talk to him.
—
James didn’t wake up until nearly noon.
He jolted upright in bed with a strangled noise, heart racing, hair a chaotic mess of pillow creases and stress, the realisation slamming into his chest like a Bludger—he’d missed practice.
He’d missed practice.
On the day of the finals.
There was a beat of stunned silence in the common room, broken only by Peter’s stifled gasp as James scrambled down the stairs, knocking over a chair, his wand, and nearly himself in his blind panic.
“Shit—shit—shit—”
“James, mate, calm down,” came Sirius’s voice, too calm, too amused for the situation.
“I missed practice, Sirius! Finals practice! I'm the captain! I was supposed to run drills, go over the formations—McLaggen was probably leading it, and now the team’s going to think I don’t give a damn—”
“Breathe,” Remus added, flicking his wand to fix James’ mess of a hairdo mid-spiral.
“I can’t—breathe! I should be—kicked off the team, I should sub myself out—”
At that, Sirius sat up properly, ruffling a hand through his dark hair. “Okay, whoa, no. What are you on about?”
James didn’t answer. He was halfway dressed, chest still heaving, hands shaking so badly he couldn’t even fasten the buttons.
“I mean it,” he muttered, voice lower now, harsher. “Maybe I shouldn’t play,”
“You’re literally the best Chaser in the school,” Peter said, face scrunched in confusion.
“I’m also a disaster. You didn’t see her face yesterday. She looked—like I’d broken her, or something. I can’t concentrate, I can’t think—I can’t lead the team if my brain’s stuck on whether or not I’ve ruined the only real shot I had with her,”
“James,” Sirius said carefully, sitting on the edge of one of the sofas. “You don’t have to ruin everything just because your crush found out you have feelings,”
James shot him a look. “It’s more than that and you know it,”
Sirius shrugged. “I do. I also know you’re being an idiot,”
“I panicked. I didn’t mean for her to find the letter—”
“No one thinks you did,” Remus said gently.
“Then why did she run?”
Sirius gave him a flat look. “I dunno, maybe because she’s been falling for you and just found out the sweet, romantic mystery boy she’s been dreaming about for a year is the same idiot who hexed her potions cauldron in fourth year? Maybe it was a lot?”
James dropped heavily into a chair and buried his face in his hands.
He muttered something into his palms that sounded suspiciously like, “I hate everything,”
Sirius stood. “You can’t sit this match out, Prongs,”
“I might make things worse,”
“You won’t,” Remus said.
“You’re just scared,” Sirius added. “And you should be. Feelings are terrifying. But you either play today and show her you’re still you, or you hide away and let her think she was right to walk away,”
James didn’t answer.
—
You were pacing the corridor outside the Gryffindor common room like a lunatic.
You’d spent half the night re-reading the letters again, still overwhelmed, still processing, but ultimately—and maybe most importantly—feeling guilty.
You hadn’t meant to run out on him like that. You did still care. A lot. Too much.
So you needed to say something. Maybe not everything. Maybe not a confession, not yet. But something.
You asked a third year if they’d seen James. They hadn’t.
You tried the Quidditch pitch. Empty.
Eventually, you made your way to the prefects dorms, hesitating at the door before quietly pushing it open.
“…sub myself out…”
You froze.
James was sitting on his bed, dressed in his Quidditch uniform, looking like the ghost of himself. Sirius was pacing. Remus and Peter were quiet. And then—
“Oh,” you blurted.
All four heads turned.
You immediately wanted to melt into the floor. “I—uh—I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, I was just—um—I came to wish you luck. For the match. Lily and I are gonna watch for Marlene, obviously, and I know you were really going on about it yesterday so… yeah.”
Your cheeks were burning. You tugged at the sleeve of your jumper and avoided eye contact like it would save you from death by embarrassment. “Anyway. Yeah. Good luck,”
You turned and practically sprinted out the door, pressing both palms to your face the moment it closed behind you.
Inside, there was a beat of silence.
Then Sirius’s slow, satisfied, “She so likes you,”
James didn’t believe it. But still—he sat up straighter. There was a faint flush in his cheeks, a tiny, hopeful ember reigniting.
He wasn’t going to sub himself out.
Not now he knew you were watching.
—
The match that afternoon was nothing short of brutal.
Ravenclaw had a reputation for smart plays and clever feints, and they came in swinging with strategy and speed. But James was a force. It was like someone had lit a fire under him—every pass was clean, every dodge intentional. He was focused. Sharp. Alive in a way he hadn’t been in days.
The crowd in the stands was on fire.
You’d never really been the biggest Quidditch enthusiast—not like Marlene or even Dorcas, who pretended to be bored most games but secretly had a very complex internal fantasy league ranking system. But today? You were completely, helplessly, entirely invested.
Your throat was raw from shouting. You didn’t even care that Lily kept elbowing you in the ribs every time you shrieked James’s name louder than was probably acceptable for someone not dating him. (Yet.)
“I’m sorry,” you rasped after the sixth time, cupping your hands over your mouth as James executed an absolutely outrageous dive to steal the Quaffle from a Ravenclaw Chaser. “But that was hot. That was so—Lily, did you see that—?”
Lily didn’t even try to pretend she wasn’t grinning. “I saw it. The whole pitch saw it. You are so painfully gone for this boy it’s almost tragic,”
You shoved her shoulder, cheeks on fire, unable to wipe the dopey grin off your face. James was glowing—wind-swept, flushed, every movement clean and confident and completely alive. It was unfair how good he looked flying. Like it was something stitched into his DNA.
Gryffindor was ahead. Barely. And the entire stadium was one collective heartbeat waiting for the final move.
It came with a streak of red and gold as the Seeker bolted upward—Marlene’s signature move—and then a roar from the crowd when she clutched the Snitch in her hand, grinning like a maniac.
“Yes!” you and Lily screamed in unison, nearly falling over the bench in front of you.
Below, the team rushed to meet her midair, swarming in a tangle of hugs and back pats, and James—James looked up toward the stands, searching, scanning, finding you.
Your breath caught. He grinned, absolutely beaming, and you—without thinking—grinned back.
—
The Gryffindor common room was buzzing. It looked like every single student in the house had packed themselves in to celebrate the win. There were butterbeers flying, someone had enchanted the couches to bounce like trampolines, and music blasted from one corner where Sirius had commandeered the record player.
You tried to stay off to the side with Lily and the other girls, laughing and pretending to be just another teammate’s supporter, not the girl who had maybe-sort-of-definitely admitted feelings for the captain.
But they were not having it.
“Go talk to him,” Dorcas demanded, poking you hard in the ribs.
“He just won the Cup, obviously you have to congratulate him,” Mary added, dragging you a few steps forward.
“I will! Just—” You resisted, flustered. “I need a second. Or ten.”
You didn’t get ten.
Because moments later, James appeared near the fireplace, sweaty and still in uniform, laughing at something Sirius said, absolutely radiant. And the girls all but shoved you in his direction.
You stumbled a bit, clutching your butterbeer like a life raft. He noticed you instantly.
His smile faltered. Just slightly.
You walked the rest of the way on your own, heart hammering like a snitch in your chest.
“Hey,” you said.
“Hey,” James replied, voice quieter than usual.
You stared at each other for a long moment.
Then Sirius, bless his idiotic timing, called from across the room. “Oi! If you’re gonna stare at each other all night, at least do it while snogging! Save us all the agony!”
You blinked. James blinked. Your face caught fire.
You coughed, trying to rally. “Congratulatio—”
“I like you.”
You blinked again. He was staring at you now, so intently, like you were the only person in the room. The words spilled out of him like they’d been waiting on his tongue for weeks.
“A lot. It might not even be liking anymore—I think I might actually be in love with you. Which is terrifying, obviously. I mean, do you know how scary that is? I didn’t mean to say that just now but it’s true and now it’s out there and I can’t take it back and I am so definitely panicking right now what am I doing—”
“James.”
He stopped.
You took a step closer.
“I like you too.”
Silence.
Then James let out a sound that was halfway between a gasp and a laugh and maybe a choke. “You do?”
“I do,”
“Like, like-like me?”
You rolled your eyes, grinning now. “Do you want me to write it in a letter that I’ll never send to you?”
“Okay, wow,” James let out a short laugh, one your grateful breaks the tension a little. “Too soon, too soon,”
He looks at you with unbridled affection as you return the laugh with an unapologic “Sorry,”, and he can’t seem to help himself.
“We should kiss now, right? Wait—should I have asked that? That sounded stupid—so stupid—oh my God, what is wrong with me, I’m gonna go cry in a corner—”
You interrupted him the only way that made sense.
You kissed him.
He froze for half a second—just long enough to register that it was actually happening—and then he melted into it like he’d been waiting forever. His hands hovered for a moment before settling, warm and firm, at your waist. His mouth was soft, gentle, hesitant in the best way, like he was afraid he’d wake up and realise this was all a dream.
But it wasn’t. It was very, very real.
And, unfortunately, also very public.
“Oi! You’re in public, you know!” came Marlene’s unmistakable cackle from across the room.
You broke the kiss, face flaming as you realised—oh no—everyone had seen.
Like… everyone.
James looked equally shellshocked. You both stared at the cheering, whooping, laughing room of Gryffindors, then at each other.
You groaned and buried your face in your hands. “Kill me now.”
James laughed, looping his arms around your shoulders and holding you tight, radiating smug glee.
“No can do,” he said into your hair. “I’ve been waiting years for this,”
“You’re insufferable,” you muttered.
“And yet,” he grinned, “you like me anyway.”
You looked up at him. “Unfortunately.”
And yeah, okay—maybe it was chaotic, and soft, and totally unplanned—but your first kiss with James Potter was exactly as ridiculous and wonderful as it should’ve been.
Lily caught your eye across the common room after the commotion of the kiss settled into a hundred knowing glances and too-loud whispers. She made a very obvious, very exaggerated “go!” motion with both hands, then shoved her way across the crowd to reach you.
“We are not doing this in front of thirty nosy Gryffindors,” she said under her breath, looping her arm through yours and all but dragging you toward the dorms.
“Wait, what’s happening—”
“Privacy, darling. Trust me,”
She glanced back at James, who was still slightly dazed, and jerked her head at him. “Potter. Move,”
He blinked. “Yeah—yep—coming.”
“Also,” she added over her shoulder to the room at large, “if anyone so much as breathes near the Head Boy’s dorm in the next hour, I will personally hex your toes off,”
There was a smattering of laughter, but everyone—whether out of respect or fear—gave a collective nod of understanding.
You didn’t even fight her on it. You let her guide you through the winding corridors until James was unlocking the door to his private dorm, a quiet space tucked away on the top floor of Gryffindor Tower.
He stepped aside to let you in first. You walked in slowly, half-expecting something chaotic, like prank supplies or an entire wall of Quidditch posters—but the room was surprisingly clean. A little messy around the edges, sure—a few rogue socks, a quill left in an ink bottle too long—but warm. Lived in. His.
“Your curtains don’t match,” you said, for lack of anything better.
He chuckled nervously. “Yeah. Peter charmed them once to be the colours of the Weird Sisters and I’ve never managed to get them back properly,”
You nodded slowly. “Cool,”
A pause.
Then—
“You’ve liked me since fourth year?”
It slipped out without warning. You hadn’t meant to say it, not so quickly, but the words burned in your chest. That letter, the gold-foiled parchment, the confession—it was still vibrating through you.
James looked startled, but only for a second. He nodded once, soft and certain.
“Yeah,”
You swallowed. “Why didn’t you ever say anything?”
He smiled faintly, stepping closer. “Because I was a little idiot. Arrogant. Immature. A menace, honestly. You hated me,”
“I didn’t—hate you,”
“You did,”
“…Okay, a little, maybe,”
That made him laugh.
“But honestly— I didn’t think I deserved to like you back then,” he said. “You were smart. And kind. And so real. You were always thinking about things, you saw people. I was just the loud idiot on a broom,”
You were quiet, because hearing it like that—laid out so plainly—made your heart ache.
He was in front of you now, barely a foot away. You thought he was going to kiss you again, but he didn’t.
Instead, James reached up and gently cradled your face in his hands, his thumbs grazing the apple of your cheeks like you were made of glass and starlight. And then he just looked at you. Like he had all the time in the world. Like he was committing every inch of you to memory.
“You have no idea,” he said, voice barely more than a whisper, “how much you make me feel.”
You couldn’t speak.
So instead, you leaned up and kissed him.
This time, there was no chaos. No crowd. No interruptions. Just you, and James, and the warmth of something blooming between your ribs.
It was slow—achingly so—your lips brushing his like a question. He exhaled into you, a soft, broken sound, and kissed you back like you were the answer.
It was… everything.
The kind of kiss that didn’t need to prove itself. One that said: I see you. I’m here. I want this.
Somewhere between one kiss and the next, you murmured, “Thank you,”
He pulled back just slightly, brow furrowing. “For what?”
You looked up at him, heart thundering.
“You didn’t make this some huge thing. You didn’t… turn it into a game, or a bet, or something loud and performative. You liked me. And you didn’t hide it, but you didn’t push me either. You just… were. You were you.” You blinked. “Thank you for being you,”
James’s face crumpled just a little, like he couldn’t decide whether to smile or cry. One of his hands dropped to your waist, the other curling behind your neck like he needed the anchor.
He pressed his forehead to yours, breathing you in.
“I don’t think you know,” he said hoarsely, “how long I’ve wanted to hear you say that,”
You smiled, dizzy with it all. “Well. Get used to it,”
His lips brushed yours again, so soft it was almost nothing. “I’m really, really in love with you,”
Your breath caught.
“I know,” you whispered.
And then you kissed him again.
And again.
And again.
-MDNI FROM THIS POINT ONWARD.-
It started soft—careful, like you were both still testing the weight of the moment. His hands cradled your face like you were something fragile, something precious, something he’d been terrified of holding wrong for years. But each time your mouths met again, the kiss deepened. Grew bolder. A little less hesitant. A little more sure.
Your fingers tangled in his hair—so soft, so stupidly soft—and James let out a noise against your mouth that had your heart stuttering in your chest. The hand cupping your cheek slid down, fingers grazing your jaw, your neck, until it found the curve of your waist and settled there, grounding you.
He was warm. Too warm. Like every inch of him was heat and adrenaline and the barely-contained relief of finally, finally having this.
You tugged him closer.
He didn’t hesitate.
Your back met the edge of the desk behind you, his chest flush with yours, and suddenly there was no air left between your bodies. Just the solid, real weight of him—every inch as solid and strong as you’d imagined when he walked through the halls like the sun had chosen him to orbit around. But here, like this, he was just James. And he was looking at you like he could drown in the sight of you.
His thumb brushed along your hipbone, under the hem of your shirt, and your whole body lit up like you’d been cursed—like every nerve ending had just remembered it was alive.
“Are we—?” he started to ask, breathless.
You kissed him again before he could finish. “I don’t know,” you murmured. “But don’t stop,”
James definitely didn’t stop.
His hands wandered with a careful hunger—like he wanted to memorise the shape of you, not just with touch but with reverence. His mouth followed the same path, trailing kisses from the corner of your lips down the line of your jaw to the soft skin beneath your ear. When he whispered your name there, barely audible, your knees buckled.
You gripped his shirt, fisting the fabric at his chest to stay steady. “God, you’re—” You stopped yourself before the rest could fall out, but the look in his eyes said he’d heard the whole thing anyway.
His lips parted like he wanted to say something—maybe something funny, maybe something devastating—but you kissed him before he had the chance. This time slower, more deliberate, your mouths fitting together like puzzle pieces that had always been waiting for the right alignment.
And it worked. Somehow, it just worked.
The kind of kiss that felt like you’d been chasing it your whole life.
James groaned softly into your mouth, and that noise did something catastrophic to your brain. One of his hands slid up your back, fingers spread wide like he was trying to anchor himself to you, and when you opened your eyes for half a second to look at him, you found him already watching you—eyes blown wide with want, with feeling, with everything.
“I’ve wanted this,” he breathed against your skin. “For so long,”
James kissed you like a man starved after that—still gentle, always careful, but no longer pulling back.
It was clumsy in places, breathless in others. Too many teeth in one kiss, your shoulder knocking into a stack of textbooks in another. But it didn’t matter. None of it mattered.
You were on fire.
And James was the match, the spark, the sun itself.
At some point, his forehead pressed to yours. You both just breathed. Hard. Laughing softly between gasps, because of course it was James who made kissing this addictive and this stupid.
You were lost in him.
In the feel of every inch of him pressed against you—his hips pinning you to the edge of the desk, his body surrounding you like a forcefield of lean muscle and freckled skin.
Heat was unfurling like liquid fire in your veins, but his mouth still traced over your jawline and across your cheek like he couldn’t stop. Like you were precious.
You gripped the fabric of his shirt, tugging hard enough to bring his gaze back to yours and then holding it, your breath hitching when you caught that look in his eyes, and his hips moved—just once, and just a little—and god, what that did to you. How it sent desire flashing like a lightning bolt down your spine to pool low in your stomach, and you had to bite down on your lip to keep from gasping out loud.
His fingers curled around your hips, digging into the soft flesh through your jeans, and then he pulled you closer like he couldn’t get enough. Closer still, until you were practically draped over the desk, your thighs parted and hips flush with his, and he was devouring you—his touch, his kiss, with no sign of being full.
God, he wanted everything.
His hands mapped out the line of your waist, your ribs, your spine, and everywhere you could feel the warm, rough slide of his touch you burned for more. Your heart was beating so fast you were sure he could feel it pulsing through your skin, and when you rolled your hips up towards his you were just as surprised by the noise you made as James was.
He inhaled sharply, swearing softly, and there would have been time to be embarrassed if you weren’t too busy being turned to mush.
“God that was hot,” James practically breathes out the words, hungry eyes half hidden behind fog-covered lenses as they drag down your body.
He looked utterly ruined already. Hair a mess from you running your fingers through it, shirt rumpled from when you couldn’t keep yourself from touching him. Wanting him.
You reached up to cup his face on impulse, your fingers tracing the lines of his cheeks, his jaw, before sliding your fingers across the arms of his glasses, delicately pulling them from his face. “D’you need these?”
The smirk that spreads across his face is just a little bit smug, but it still does things to you. “Depends,” he said, still breathless. “Are we planning on doing anything that would necessitate me being able to see?”
You laugh, dropping both your voices, and it comes out sounding rough. “Maybe not,” you say, slipping the specs into the front pocket of his shirt. “Do you need to be able to see to kiss me?”
His eyes are half-lidded, and you could count each of his eyelashes from the way he’s looking at you, lips still swollen from a few minutes ago. “No,” he murmurs, leaning down to brush his mouth over yours again, “but it does help with the view.”
He took your chin with his finger, tilting your face up so he could take in the sight of you properly. A slow-burning warmth unfurled in your stomach—no, lower than that, and for a few seconds you were both just looking, and it felt almost more intimate than the last few minutes.
“God, you’re… blurry,” he whispered, and you can’t help the sharp laugh that echoes out of your throat.
“Bugger off,” you said, without any real intent behind it. You weren’t even sure why you were acting so shy—maybe you were just overwhelmed by the situation, the feelings, or the way being with James just felt. Whatever the reason, he seemed to find your nervousness amusing.
He chuckled, dipping his head to press a kiss to the sensitive skin just beneath your ear, right there at the edge of your jaw where you were softest. “I’m kidding,” he murmured. “I’m nearsighted. And you’re definitely close enough for me to see,”
He pulled back just enough for the smirk to return, the tips of his fingers grazing over the strip of exposed skin between the hem of your shirt and the waist of your jeans and sending a shiver down your spine. His mouth was still curved in that maddeningly smug smile, but his voice was so low when he continued to talk. “I’m gonna take your shirt off now, okay?”
The question comes out quiet and gentle, but there’s a heat to it too. Asking what you want, asking what you’ll let him have.
You manage a breathless, “okay,” and his gaze is still fixed on you when he lets his hands slide up under your shirt, calloused fingers dancing over the bare skin of your waist.
Every point of contact seemed to sizzle, nerve endings you didn’t even know you had sparking alive beneath his touch. You felt like you were trembling, like every breath hit was a jolt of pure, liquid feeling.
His eyes were still trained on your face as he drew your shirt over your head, gaze drifting across your exposed chest with an unabashed—and kind of feral—kind of reverence. “God, you’re perfect—”
He pressed a kiss to the spot just below your collarbone, and you could feel the rasp of a day’s worth of stubble against your skin, burning down to your very bones. Both his hands splayed across your ribcage, like he was trying to memorise the shape of your body by touch.
You can hear the sharp intake of breath he takes when his fingers catch the edge of your bra, and he’s already murmuring again, his voice a low, wrecked sound against your bare skin. “Can I take this off too?”
You answer by helping him fumble with the hooks, the heat from his skin and his gaze almost too much to bear. By the time it hits the floor somewhere behind you, his mouth has found the delicate, thrumming hollow of your neck, and his hands are wandering lower. Across your stomach, tracing over your curves to slide across your hipbone and dip under the waist of your jeans.
Any coherent thoughts you’d been clinging on to up until this point were gone, lost in a haze of heat and want. Every touch was electric, his mouth searing a path down your neck, across your shoulder, across the bare skin of your collarbone, until he’d left a trail of warm, open-mouthed kisses along the apex of your breasts.
“You sound so good,” he whispered, the words catching against your skin. “Taste so good.”
He was everywhere, surrounding you, all his attention on the body under his touch. His nose grazed the sensitive skin just above your nipple, just a gentle brush at first, and then he flicked the tip of his tongue across the peak of your breast and every nerve in your body went white hot.
“God—” the single syllable comes out as a broken gasp. A plea, maybe, a wordless begging for more.
He chuckled softly, a dangerous, wicked sound, and then he closed his mouth over your nipple and sucked. It felt like he’d lit a fire in the pit of your stomach, like it was all you could do to breathe, and he wasn’t even finished. One of his hands was still holding your hip—steadying you as he switched his attention to the other, teeth scraping just enough to make the heat in your belly flare brighter, deeper, all of your muscles tensing at once.
Every part of you felt like it was on fire, and you were so empty. The ache between your thighs was insistent, demanding attention you couldn’t give it. You let out a breathless whine, shifting to try and get some friction, and when he raised his head to look at you, eyes all half-lidded and mouth still slightly slick, you thought you might actually go insane.
You were so caught up in the moment that it took a second longer than it should’ve to notice the cocky smile plastered across his face. He was watching you writhe under his touch like it was the best show he’d ever seen.
“You good up there?” he said teasingly. “Look like you’re about to combust.”
“Bastard,” you managed, and it sounded as breathless as you felt. You reached up to bury a hand in his hair, tugging on handfuls of messy waves and relishing in the way he cursed softly under his breath. “You’re a goddamn tease.”
He gave the underside of your breast one last wet kiss, then started pressing a line of kisses up your body towards your mouth. “A tease, am I?” He said between kisses, his voice still low and rough. “I don’t know, sounds more like I’m trying my best to be a gentleman instead of rushing into the action,”
“Some gentleman,” you laughed, and that time it came out more of a gasp than anything else. He’d drawn himself up to full height, looking down at you with a smirk that was half amused and half smug, and god, he was handsome. “You’ve got me half naked on your desk, I’m pretty sure that’s the opposite of gentlemanly,”
“That’s not my fault,” he said, mock-offended, and you let out a bark of laughter. “You’re the one who started it. With the shirt, and the kissing. All my good intentions went right out the window,”
You were still giggling—his hand was now tracing idle circles on your hip, gentle and tender—but his touch was driving you insane. He was everywhere, burning through your skin, and all it did was make the heat beneath your ribs worse. You took a deep, shaking breath, trying to slow down your heart.
Your voice came out much more timid than you expected. “You’d probably better finish what you started, then.”
His eyes caught yours, and the smile that spread across his face sent a shiver straight down your spine. “Are you asking me to take your pants off, sweetheart?”
You rolled your eyes at the endearment, but it was impossible to stay irritated with the way your heart was jumping into your throat. “I’m asking you to take your pants off, actually,”
He raised an eyebrow, expression still cocky but edged with a touch of surprise. He looked so good like that—glasses missing, mouth pink and kiss-swollen, eyes fixed on your every move. “Consider it done,”
He took your chin in one hand, his touch almost teasing, tilting your head back to give himself full access to the line of your neck. His other hand drifted to rest on your side, pulling you away from the desk to push you over to his four-poster instead.
It was a bit undignified, stumbling backwards while he was still glued to your neck, but somehow you both managed to land in a heap on the mattress, with him on top. The sheets rustled in protest, and god, you could just feel his weight on top of you, pinning you to the mattress and setting fire to every point of contact.
You barely even noticed him pulling off his own shirt and pants, your mind too clouded with desire to pay attention. You just watched, taking in the sight of his bare chest and the sharp planes of his muscles, his lean and strong and all you could do was reach up to run your hands down across his shoulders—over the freckles and moles and scars that covered his skin.
He let out a strangled sound when your hands slid over the waistband of his boxers, his eyes fixed on your face, his whole body rigid under your touch as the fabric drags down his thighs. He was breathless, his breathing coming fast and shallow, but he still managed to speak.
“You seem to be missing a few things, if you haven’t noticed.” His voice was still that same, annoyingly smooth, but there was a rasp to it too. Like talking was suddenly more difficult than it should have been.
And yeah, okay, he had a point. You hadn’t even realised you were still wearing jeans until now, but it was quickly becoming an issue. He was still pinning you to the mattress, but you managed to lift your hips up under him enough to reach the zipper on your pants.
He sat back on his heels, watching you struggle out of your jeans—he reached down to help when your legs got tangled, and you swore the smirk on his face when he got the second leg off was almost wolfish. “Careful, there, you almost kneed me in the bollocks.”
“Too bad, I was aiming for them.”
He laughed, running a hand up your bare thigh, fingers tracing across the edge of your underwear and making your whole body burn. “Nice knickers.”
“Shut up,” you said, but your voice was already hoarse, half from the effort of talking and half from the way every little touch seemed to send lightning straight to the pit of your stomach. “You literally have snitches on your boxers, you’re not allowed to make fun of me,”
“For your information, they’re my lucky boxers,” he said, as if it was the most logical thing in the entire world. “And they seem to be working,”
You were about to comment on the ridiculousness of that statement, but then he let his hand brush over the damp patch in your panties and every thought in your head evaporated in about ten seconds flat. “Oh, fuck—”
His touch was agonising. Just a single, gentle stroke traced across the edge of your underwear, but it felt like being set on fire. “You’re so wet,” he murmured, still watching your face like the world’s most beautiful train wreck, and the way he’s smirking is just a little bit cruel. “Is this all because of me?”
You should’ve found the teasing infuriating—maybe even patronising, but your head was spinning and you were so turned on you couldn’t think straight. “You know it is,” you managed to gasp out, arching your hips up into his touch and desperately trying to find more friction.
His thumb pressed across your clit through your underwear and the gasp that came out of your mouth was practically obscene. “Good,” he said. “I like that.”
He was shifting back on top of you, and his mouth was on your neck, hot and wet and distracting, and you’d almost forgotten about his thumb until it moved again—a slow, torturous circle that had you whining. “God, you sound so good,” he murmured against your skin. “Can I take these off? Please?”
If you’d had even a second of self-control left, you probably would’ve found the way he was almost begging for it adorable, but as it was all you could manage to do was nod.
You felt more than heard him swear, and the next thing you know he’s hooking his fingers around the elastic of your underwear, pulling them down your legs with a speed that says he’s having trouble keeping his own eagerness in check.
He sat back once you were completely naked—just you, sprawled out on his four-poster, bare and trembling and wanting. Every part of you felt like it was on edge, like you’d fall apart as soon as he touched you again.
He was looking at you like he was starving, eyes wandering across every inch of your body. “You’re perfect,” he murmured, “Merlin, look at you,”
You couldn’t help but shiver under his gaze, the feeling of helplessness sending another jolt of heat down your spine. You’d almost gotten used to seeing that cocky smirk of his, but now it was gone—replaced by a look you couldn’t place, like he was in awe of you.
You watched helplessly as he shifted, his body covering yours again, bare skin against bare skin. His cock was already hard against your thigh and you were so empty that you knew nothing except the urge to have him as close to you as possible. “Please,” you managed to say, words a gasp as he traced a finger over your hip.
He groaned softly at the desperation in your voice, and then he was reaching down, his fingers finding your opening and sliding in. All you could do was moan out loud, clenching around him and aching for more. “God—” His voice was ragged, rough, like he was using all his willpower just to keep himself from going too fast. “That’s it. That’s it,” he murmured, his forehead dropping against your shoulder. “You’re so tight.”
“You’re gonna destroy me,” you gasped out, as he slowly started to pump his fingers in and out. “I—” Whatever you’d been about to say dissolved into another moan. “Please, just—”
“I’ve got you,” he said, and another kiss, against your collarbone. “I’ve got you, I’ll take care of you,” And then he added a third finger, and you were certain you wouldn’t even be able to string words together anymore.
“Oh god—oh, god—” Your back arched again, hips lifting off the bed, and he curled his fingers again and the pleasure of it was so sharp it almost hurt.
“Just like that? You like that?” He murmured softly against your skin.
You weren’t even sure how to answer that, your brain so overwhelmed by heat and pleasure that all you could do was let out a helpless whine.
He kept pumping his fingers, working you open, and you were trembling with the effort of trying not to let go just yet. “I’ll take that as a yes,” he said, and you could hear the smile in his voice, and god, he was so cocky like this. “Just be patient—”
You gasped out something between a laugh and a moan. “Patient? You have some nerve—”
“Oh, I’ve got plenty of nerve,” he said, and then he pulled his fingers out with another sound from your throat. You were about to complain, but he kissed you before you could—a brief brush of his mouth on yours that was so distracting you almost didn’t notice him moving until he was between your thighs.
He had one hand on your hip and the other wrapped around himself, and the way he’s looking at you makes your whole body ache.
“You ready?” He asked, and his voice is still rough and a little breathy. You nodded, words failing you, and the sound he made was almost desperate.
“You’re so perfect,” he murmured, and then the tip of his cock was right at your entrance and you were trembling so badly you were almost whimpering.
“I’m gonna make you feel so good,” he promised, and then he started to press in. It was a torturously slow stretch, every inch of him filling you like you were made for him. You’re still too full of him—you clench around him without meaning to, and all of him shudders.
“Oh my god,” he says, and it comes out like a gasp, and when he’s finally in all the way you feel like you might cry, like he’s touching all of those parts of you you’ve been waiting for him to find.
“Oh, god,” you moan, and it’s all you can manage. It’s just too much—the feeling of him, the stretch of your body, the heat in your ribs that you can’t seem to breathe around. It’s like he’s everywhere, and you’re not sure you want it to ever stop.
“I’ve got you,” he says, and he’s starting to move, “that’s it, breathe. Just feel me.” He leans down to kiss you, messy and sloppy, just a brush of open mouths before you’re arching off the bed and his lips are on your neck.
“You look so god damn good like this,” his thrusts are slow, deep, and they’re already driving you mad. “All spread out for me.” You can’t even answer him in words anymore, every sound slipping out of your mouth a high, breathy whine.
He keeps up his torturously slow pace for what feels like a small eternity, and every time he pushes in you can feel him against the inside of you, like your body was made to take him in. “You feel so good,” he’s murmuring, “God, why haven’t we done this before?”
“Maybe if you hadn’t been a coward for the last three years—” Your response is humorous, lighthearted, and falls almost completely flat as it comes out more desperate than goading.
But everything feels so good—he feels so good, the slow drag of his cock filling you over and over, his hands on your thighs holding you open just for him, his teeth and mouth everywhere they can reach.
He laughs, the sound coming out as half-moan, and it’s incredible how he’s somehow still acting cheeky when he’s like this—like the whole world has shrunk down to the two of you and there’s still room for playfulness. “Maybe if you hadn’t been so blind you would’ve noticed me sooner,” he says, and he’s still teasing, like he isn’t literally inside you, and you’d hit him if you had the brainpower. “You could’ve had this the whole time.”
Your face is so flushed it feels like you’re on fire, every muscle in your body tense and trembling. You dig your nails into his shoulders, trying to find some kind of anchor. “You’re still a cocky bastard, you know that?” But it’s hard to keep up the banter, and all it comes out sounding like is a soft whine.
“I know,” he grins, and he’s so smug you’d almost hate him if you weren’t so desperate for him. “God why didn’t I know sex felt this good-?” He leans down again, his mouth hovering over yours, the heat of him so close that you can feel it and it burns.
“Maybe I’m just that good,” you manage to say—and yes, okay, your voice is half a gasp and the words are broken, breathless by the way he’s still moving inside you, but you still manage.
He laughs again, sharp and ragged at the edge, and you feel like you’re being unwound like some old toy, your whole body vibrating like a live wire. The stretch of him is almost too much to bear.
He’s still smirking when he says, “And you call me cocky,”
He’s picking up the pace, but only just enough to make you whine again, his head dipped to mouth at your throat again.
You’re so tight around him it’s like he’s trying to make you come apart one piece at a time, his breath warm against your skin as he keeps whispering. “But you’re right, you feel so damn good—”
He’s losing control, losing his smugness, because despite what he said about patience he looks like he’s ready to go over the edge already. But he’s still got that smirk on his face, like even now, when he’s all ragged breaths and desperate thrusts, he’s still teasing. “I should’ve done this sooner. Should’ve taken you back here back in fourth year. Should’ve had you like this when I first started thinking about you,”
His hands are on your hips, his thumbs digging into your hipbones like he’s trying to hold himself back from just snapping and going wild on you.
“Should’ve had every day in fifth year," he’s panting now, and he’s still going just as slow, making it feel like you’re being taken apart, piece by piece. “Would’ve been better than those stupid pranks.”
You can’t even laugh—you just can’t, every nerve in your body is set off like a firework. You manage, “You’re- you’re terrible,” but then you’re arching your hips up into him, your body taking over despite yourself.
“I’m terrible,” he agrees, but he’s grinning, he’s breathless and there’s a sweat on his forehead and he still looks infuriatingly gorgeous. “Doesn’t change the fact that I want you so bad I can’t think straight. Couldn’t, back then. Just followed you around like an idiot.”
“You were an idiot,” you manage, and he’s moving faster now, his arms shaking on either side of you. “You-ah—” You’re falling apart—you can feel it happening—“you were an arrogant bastard—”
He’s kissing your neck and it just makes you louder, your words coming out in ragged gasps. “I know,” he says, like he’s laughing, and you would want to smack him if he didn’t feel so good. “I was an arrogant bastard who was in love with you,”
The words hit you like a bolt of lightning. You open your mouth to respond, but right at that moment he thrusts in a way that hits that spot inside you that makes your vision go white, and the sound that comes out of you is so indecent.
“You—oh, god—” You’re trembling, you’re coming undone underneath him, and he’s doing his best to keep up the pace but you can tell there’s something desperate taking over. “I’m- god, I can’t, I’m so-“
He’s losing more and more control, his breathing ragged and his own body shaking as like he’s just barely holding himself together.
“Please,” it comes out like a gasp, “just come for me, please, come on-” And he’s begging, now, like he couldn’t stand it another minute more, “I just want you to come, please, you’re so perfect—”
He’s pressing right against that spot, over and over, and you’re so on edge you think you might be dreaming. “I’m gonna— oh, god-”
His hand has snuck down between you, fingers moving in tight, fast circles on you clit, and everything is so close and so hot you could die— “God, you look perfect, come on, that’s it, you’re so good—“
The tension in you is snapping, and you’re on the edge, you’re so close you can’t see straight. “Please, I— I-“ you’re there, you’re there, you’re going to fall but he’s falling too.
“Come on, you’re so close, just come-“ He’s begging again, and you’re shaking so hard you feel like you might fall apart—and then you do, and the pleasure hits like a lightning bolt, and you’re crying out loud, the sound breaking like a whimper, and you feel like you’re going to fall apart.
“Oh, god-” His body’s shaking, the breath leaving his chest in ragged gasps, and you’re just clinging to him, riding out the aftershocks of your orgasm and shaking so hard you think you might go insane. “Oh, god, oh, god-”
It didn’t really help that James was still going.
“God you’re so beautiful,” he’s saying, “God, you’re so beautiful, you’re so good, you’re so-“
Another wave comes over you like a shockwave, and it’s almost too much, you’re so sensitive and over-whelmed you feel like it’ll break you, but he’s still going, still moving inside you, still driving you straight through the edge of pleasure and over it into something bright-hot and almost frantic. “God, I’m gonna come, I’m gonna come—“ He’s falling apart, and he’s never looked better. “I’ll pull out I promise—”
You can’t find the words to answer him, but you manage a nod, your whole body trembling as you cling to him.
He swore, and he’d almost be swearing with that same cocky smirk if it weren’t for the fact that he’s falling apart completely, gasping out “You’re gonna kill me, you’re gonna-”
His whole body trembles, and then he’s pulling out, just in time, his body going rigid, his mouth finding yours in a messy, desperate sort of kiss. And he’s still shaking, still panting against your skin, his forehead pressed against yours like he’s never going to let go, watery ropes of his come left decorating your pussy and your torso.
“Fuck,” he’s panting, and he’s still shaking but there’s a smile on his face, like he’s drunk and blissed out and just happy. “Just- give me a minute, just a minute-”
You just lie there, feeling like you’ve just been set on fire and left to burn, and he’s pressing kisses wherever he can reach, on your neck, your temple, the corner of your mouth, until both of you are finally still, just lying wrapped up in each other.
He’s wrapped himself around you like he’ll never move again, his face buried in your neck, and your whole body feels like it’s come unglued.
After a few minutes, he lifts his head to look at you, and that smirk is back, the bastard. “So,” he says, and there’s a sly look in his eyes. “Did I live up to the hype?”
“There was no hype, James, you were a virgin,” You laugh shortly with a roll of your eyes, shifting your legs a little wider open to accommodate for the stickiness between them.
“Ouch.” He winces dramatically. “You’re gonna ruin my ego.”
He’s looking at you with so much heat you’re half-convinced he’s about to go for round two, but then he shifts, pulling away to lie down next to you, your legs tangled together. He’s still grinning, a smug sort of half-smile on his face.
“Don’t look so damn pleased with yourself,” you grumble, but you’re still so buzzed up and he’s looking at you like you’re the best thing he’s ever seen.
He’s looking at you with a kind of reverence you’ve never seen before, but he covers it up with the same stupid smirk he always wears. “So,” he says, like he’s casually mentioning the weather. “You, uh… had fun?”
You laugh—that’s a severe understatement of the year—and you can’t help but smile at the boyish enthusiasm in his expression. “Yeah,” you say, a little softer. “I did.”
He grins at that, and then he’s rolling on top of you again, covering you with his body like a blanket. “I’m assuming that means we can do this again sometime.”
The words come out as the same obnoxious cockiness, still cocky and self-assured, but there’s something almost… nervous underneath it, like he’s not really being blasé at all. You hum, tilting your chin back enough that he can bury his face in your neck. “Yeah,” you say, and you wrap your arms around his back, tracing the knobs of his spine with your fingers. “Yeah, we can probably do this again. But maybe take me on a date first next time,” You laugh.
He grins against your neck, his mouth still leaving lazy kisses on every part of your skin it can reach. “That’s fair,” he murmurs, and his breath on your neck sends a shiver through you. “I have to romance you first. I can do that.” His teeth nip at your earlobe, and you can feel the sharp edge of of a grin. “I could even be a gentleman about it, if you wanted.”
“You? Be a gentleman?” You fake gasp, like it’s the most ridiculous suggestion you’ve ever heard. “Absolutely unheard of.”
He snorts, and you can feel the smile on his mouth, hot and wet against your skin. “You’re laughing, but I could be incredibly charming if I wanted to,” He’s still just mouthing at you, running his teeth over the soft underside of your jaw. “You read my letters,”
“Yeah,” you admit, almost against your will. “I did.”
He pulls back to look at you with a lazy, smug half-smile. “And they were charming?”
You roll your eyes at him, but you’re still smiling. “They were… acceptable.”
“Acceptable,” he sighs sadly, mock-disappointed. “I don’t know how I feel about being reduced to ‘acceptable’. I put a lot of work into those letters, you know.”
But he’s grinning, his chin propped up on your chest with his chin, like he’s waiting to get a response. “Come on. I’m at least worth ‘good,’ right?”
“Yeah, alright,” you give in, even though ‘good’ isn’t nearly enough to describe his letters. “They were good. They were… nice.”
He pouts, like a kid who did a drawing and didn’t get a gold star. “Nice? Jesus, you do not understand the concept of positive reinforcement.”
“Sorry,” you say, with your best attempt at earnestness, “how about this? They were fantastic. World class even. You should be writing love letters professionally.”
It takes him a moment of studying you to realise you’re joking, but then he sighs in mock-agony, burying his face in your neck. “I can’t believe I’ve fallen for a girl who’s mean to me,”
“Yeah,” you say, and you’re laughing, now, your whole body shaking with gales of laughter. “You’re really just… the world’s biggest loser.”
He huffs good-naturedly, his face still hidden in your neck. “Says the girl whose been attracted to me for years,”
“Says the boy who wrote me sappy-ass love letters like a Victorian maiden,” you retort.
He laughs at that, but it’s not mean or mocking. “It’s a wonder you didn’t catch on, honestly,” he mutters jokingly, “I laid it on so thick I thought even you would see me pining tragically through all the ink I used to write about how obsessed with you I was.”
You bite back a smile at that, rolling your eyes at his mock-exasperation. “God, you’re dramatic.”
His mouth presses a soft, wet kiss under your jaw, and he murmurs against your skin—“You like it, though.”
It’s a statement, not a question.
And he’s right, because you do—you do like him, when he’s all bluster and bravado and bullshit, and you like him like this too, when he’s gentle and reverent and a tad bit vulnerable. “Yeah,” you say, and it’s soft. “I do.”
two boys send you a series of letters over the course of the school year. one, a sweet ravenclaw boy who wants to get to know you. The other, well— you don’t know, but he already knows you.
eventual james x fem!reader | 14.0k | series masterlist.
main masterlist.
CW | the marauders are… reasonable human beings? technically oc love interest for plot reasons, james is a yearner, girlhood in its truest form
The first morning back is crisp and golden—the sort of late summer day that makes Hogwarts look like something out of a painting. You’ve just arrived off the train, your trunk bouncing along behind you, and the air’s got that unmistakable scent of lakewater, freshly-polished wood, and the beginnings of autumn. You’d missed it. Even if you’d never admit that to anyone.
Lily walks beside you, chattering about her summer, about Petunia being an absolute nightmare (what else is new), and how she’s already dreading the mountain of work that NEWTs are supposed to be.
You hum along at the right places, nodding as if you’re paying attention, but you’re mostly distracted—scanning the crowd ahead, watching as students laugh and jostle their way toward the carriages. You can already see the back of Sirius’ head, black hair tied back with a ribbon someone must have dared him to wear, and James beside him—his usual mess of curls half-tamed under a Gryffindor scarf, even though it's hardly cold enough for it yet.
They’re not causing trouble.
And that’s… strange.
You don’t realise you’ve slowed down until Lily stops too, blinking at you.
“You alright?”
You shake your head, smiling faintly. “Yeah, yeah. Just… forgot how much taller everyone’s gotten. They look like seventh years,”
She snorts. “Speak for yourself. Potter still looks like a fifteen-year-old with too much energy and not enough shame,”
You glance back at the group of boys as they vanish into one of the thestral-drawn carriages. The usual suspects: James, Sirius, Remus, Peter. The ‘Marauders’—still the stupidest name you’ve ever heard. Though you have to admit (not aloud, obviously) that it suits them. Or… used to.
Because something’s changed.
It started at the end of last year, when James had pulled you and Lily aside—separately, mind you, in an unusual display of emotional intelligence—and apologised. Properly. Not with a joke, not with a smug smirk, but with sincerity so unsettling that it had rendered you both speechless for a good few moments. You’d shared looks with Lily afterward, both trying to decide if it was a prank, some elaborate ruse meant to throw you off-guard.
It wasn’t.
And he hasn’t gone back on it either.
Which is why you’re currently standing in the entrance hall of the castle, shoulder to shoulder with your friends, and you feel a little… off.
Because things are peaceful. For the first time in years, things are actually peaceful.
The Marauders aren’t hanging hexed signs on people’s backs, they aren’t enchanting staircases to flatten when someone climbs them, they haven’t even thrown water balloons from the Astronomy Tower. And sure, they’re still winding up Severus at every opportunity—but even that’s been reduced from full-scale ambushes to petty jibes and muttered comments in the corridors.
It’s quieter.
Less… annoying.
And that should be a good thing.
It is a good thing. Probably.
—
You settle into sixth year like slipping on an old jumper. The classes are harder, of course—double Potions is hell on earth, and Charms seems to have tripled its expectations overnight—but there’s a rhythm to it.
You get up, you go to class, you spend time in the common room with the girls, laughing and playing Exploding Snap or braiding Dorcas’ hair while Marlene does impressions of the professors.
There’s no chaos. No Marauder-related distractions. And no James Potter, appearing behind you to tug on your robes or ask if you’re sure you didn’t drop your dignity in the corridor somewhere.
It’s… peaceful.
But peace, you realise after the third week, is a little boring.
No one’s called out your name in a loud, humiliating spectacle at dinner. No one’s nicked your favourite quill only to return it days later enchanted to sing show tunes. No one’s bewitched your name onto the Prefect noticeboard with the title “Most Likely to Hex You for Breathing Too Loudly.”
And no one’s watching you anymore.
Not in that way.
Because even when it was annoying—especially when it was annoying—there was something almost flattering about it. That attention. That sense of being seen, even if it was by someone like James Bloody Potter. It made you feel... well, not special exactly. But noticed.
You’d never admit it out loud. Not to Lily, not to Marlene, not even to yourself if you could help it. But in the quiet moments—when the library’s too silent, or the common room too tame—you find yourself missing the noise.
It’s deeply inconvenient.
—
The girls are thriving, though. Lily’s top of every class (no surprise there), Marlene’s got half the Hufflepuff Quidditch team vying for her attention, and Dorcas has taken to sketching everyone in increasingly dramatic poses. She caught Sirius with his eyes closed in History of Magic and drew him like a fallen angel; he signed it and stuck it to the back of Peter’s chair.
Even that felt nostalgic.
Because back in the day—not even that long ago—Sirius and James would’ve been howling with laughter, probably doing impressions of Binns until the man floated out in exasperation. Now, they seem more subdued. Not boring exactly, but... more grown up. As if they’re slowly starting to realise the world doesn’t revolve around them.
Well. Not entirely.
You still catch James showing off in the corridors sometimes—trying to balance a stack of books on his head while walking backwards or charming Remus’ tie to change colours during class. But it’s gentler now. Less abrasive. Like he’s finally learning the difference between being funny and being cruel.
And the strange thing is: you think you might actually like this new version of him.
You’re not sure what to do with that.
—
You’re sitting by the window in the common room, watching the storm pelt against the glass, your Transfiguration notes spread across your lap and a blanket tucked round your legs. The others are upstairs—Lily’s doing prefect rounds, Dorcas is in the bath, and Marlene’s probably flirting with the Ravenclaw Beaters again.
It’s quiet.
Too quiet.
You stare at your notes, then out the window. Somewhere down by the greenhouses, you think you can see Sirius running through the rain, jacket over his head. You squint, and sure enough, James follows a moment later, slipping slightly in the mud but catching himself with a laugh you can’t hear.
They’re soaked.
They’re laughing.
And they didn’t come bother you once today.
You look back at your notes. Your quill sits idle in your hand.
You’re being ridiculous. Pathetic, even. You hated when they bothered you. They drove you mad, especially James. The constant attention, the teasing, the half-jokes that toed the line between affection and annoyance—it was exhausting.
But it also made you feel like someone had your name in their mouth. Like someone saw you.
You press your lips together.
No. You’re being selfish.
You wanted peace, didn’t you? You got peace.
And now you’re here, sulking because a boy hasn’t thrown a dungbomb near you in three weeks.
Brilliant.
—
Lily finds you later, your notes long forgotten, the storm still raging outside.
“You look like someone drowned your owl,” she says lightly, collapsing onto the sofa beside you.
You blink. “Just tired,”
“Mm,” She eyes you. “You’ve been a bit… quiet lately,”
You shrug. “Just getting used to the workload,”
“You sure it’s not something else?”
You hesitate. Then: “Do you think James actually changed?”
She tilts her head. “Honestly? Yeah. I do,”
You weren’t expecting that. “Really?”
“Yeah,” She picks at a thread on the blanket. “He’s still a prat, obviously. Still immature and annoying and thinks the sun shines out of his arse, but… he’s not mean anymore. Not like he was,”
You nod slowly.
“And he apologised,” she adds. “That meant something to me. To you too, I think,”
It did. It still does.
You think back to that moment at the end of fifth year—James, red-faced and stammering, looking more like a boy than he ever had before. You remember how he wouldn’t meet your eyes at first, how he said your name like it mattered. And how for the first time, he didn’t laugh at the end. Didn’t wink. Just waited.
You’d told him it was fine. It wasn’t, but it was getting there.
Now, it might actually be.
But still.
“I kind of miss it,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper.
Lily looks at you, confused. “Miss what?”
You shake your head. “Nothing. Just… never mind,”
She doesn’t press.
But later, when she goes upstairs and you’re alone again, you look back out the window. The rain’s slowed to a drizzle, the sky dark and drowsy. You think about James—how he used to be, how he is now. You think about how, somewhere in that strange in-between space, you stopped dreading his presence and started noticing his absence.
And the worst part is?
You’re not even sure when it happened.
—
It’s a dull, grey Thursday in early December, the kind that makes you want to burrow into your scarf and pretend the rest of the term doesn’t exist. You’re in the Great Hall for breakfast, half-asleep, cradling a mug of tea between your hands and trying to pretend that the mere idea of double Potions doesn’t make you want to fling yourself into the Black Lake.
Around you, the usual morning chaos unfolds: first-years bickering over toast, owls swooping in with letters and parcels, and Marlene arguing with Dorcas over who used the last of the strawberry jam. Lily’s scanning the Daily Prophet with her usual “this world is doomed” expression, and you’re debating whether or not to try and eat a banana when—
A piece of parchment glides gently through the air in front of you and lands, neatly, on your plate.
You blink. Then stare. Then blink again.
It’s folded perfectly, sealed with a little silver charm in the shape of a star, and it is absolutely not yours.
The table goes very still around you. Lily sets her paper down. Marlene pauses mid-swipe at the jam pot. Dorcas leans in with her eyebrows already raised.
You glance upward, half-expecting someone to shout “surprise!” or for Peeves to come crashing down from the ceiling, cackling. But there’s no sign of trickery. Just a few owls flapping overhead and a Ravenclaw table full of students minding their own business—or appearing to.
“Open it,” Dorcas hisses, eyes wide.
“I—what if it explodes?” you whisper back, only half-joking.
“It won’t,” Lily says. “Look at the charm. It’s a standard animation seal. Whoever sent it used proper magic,”
“That just makes it more suspicious,” you mutter, but your curiosity’s already gotten the better of you.
You peel the charm off and unfold the parchment.
The handwriting is careful, slanted slightly to the right, and clearly someone’s taken their time with it. The ink is deep blue and slightly shimmering at the edges—someone’s fancied this up a bit.
You begin to read.
Hi, sorry to send this in such a dramatic way, but I figured a floating letter was better than stammering at you in person and making a complete idiot of myself.
I know this is kind of out of nowhere, but I’ve… well, I’ve noticed you. And I was wondering if you’d maybe want to write to me over the holidays? Just letters, nothing weird. Or, you know, more, if you’re up for that.
No pressure though. I just think you’re kind, and funny, and I’d like to get to know you.
From, Nick (Ravenclaw, sixth year, dark blond hair, sits near the windows in Charms—just so you can place me, if you want to).
You stare at the letter.
Then read it again.
And a third time, just to be sure it says what you think it says.
It does.
You make a noise somewhere between a squeak and a choke, and immediately try to stuff the letter under your plate, but Lily’s already yanking it out of your hand.
“Oh my god,” she breathes, skimming it with wide eyes. “This is the cutest thing I’ve ever read,”
“Wait, wait, let me see—” Marlene leans across the table, grabbing the other side. “‘Just letters, nothing weird’—what does that even mean? Is he worried about sounding like a creep? Oh, this is brilliant,”
Dorcas is fanning herself dramatically with her napkin. “Do you think he wrote a rough draft? This is totally a rehearsed letter,”
You hide your face in your hands, the heat of your cheeks threatening to set fire to your fringe. “Stop. Please stop,”
“I will not stop,” Lily grins. “You’ve got an admirer. An actual, charming, respectful admirer who wants to write to you like it’s the 1800s. That’s romantic,”
“It’s embarrassing,” you groan.
“It’s amazing,” Marlene corrects. “And you have to write back,”
“I don’t even know him!”
“That’s the point!” Dorcas says. “He wants to get to know you. He gave you a perfect way out, he’s not assuming anything, he’s just interested. That’s rare,”
They’re all smiling now, all leaning in, and you can’t help it—you laugh, a little helpless and a lot flattered.
Because it’s sweet. It is. And no matter how much your face is burning, there’s a fizzy, fluttery sort of feeling in your stomach you can’t quite ignore. You glance up again, eyes scanning the Ravenclaw table.
You spot him almost instantly.
Nick: dark blond hair, just as described, pale eyes, face mostly hidden behind a book, though he’s clearly not reading. He looks up. You look down. He looks away quickly, ears going pink.
You smile without meaning to.
“Right,” Lily says, dragging her bag into her lap. “We need paper. A quill. What colour ink should we use?”
“I’m not writing him back in the middle of breakfast,” you hiss.
“Why not?” Marlene’s already pulling a little bottle of silver ink from her satchel. “Strike while the iron’s hot! He’s probably dying of anxiety over there,”
You hesitate for a moment too long, and then the decision’s made for you—because Dorcas finds a clean piece of parchment, Lily’s already got your hand in hers, and Marlene is dictating a reply out loud while you splutter about how this isn’t how people normally handle these things.
You’re still trying to snatch the quill back when a voice drawls from behind you:
“What’s all the noise about, then? Secret girls-only plot to overthrow the Ministry?”
Sirius.
Of course.
You twist in your seat and find him lounging half on the bench, half on the table a few seats down, chin in hand, eyes glinting with nosy curiosity. He’s got toast in one hand and mischief in the other.
Lily lifts her chin and says, very primly, “None of your business,”
“Oh, now I have to know,” he says, kicking his legs up beside you.
You glance to your side—and there he is.
James.
Sitting quietly at the Gryffindor table, a few seats down, half a piece of toast hanging forgotten in his hand as he watches the scene with a blank expression.
It’s only a second, but you see it. That flicker of something behind his eyes.
Recognition.
Understanding.
And something sharp that he swallows before it can show too clearly.
Because James Potter knows what giggling girls and secret letters mean. He knows.
And it shouldn’t matter—it really shouldn’t. You’re barely even friends. Civil, maybe. Tentatively polite. But whatever it is between you now, it’s not enough to warrant the sudden, stiff way he turns back to his plate.
It shouldn’t sting.
But it does.
—
You finish the letter with the girls' help. It’s nothing dramatic—just a polite reply saying you’d be happy to exchange letters over the holidays, and that you appreciate his kindness. You keep it short and friendly and completely avoid saying anything that might sound too enthusiastic.
(Which is a lie. You’re a bit enthusiastic. But you don’t need them knowing that.)
Dorcas folds the reply with military precision, Lily reattaches the little star charm, and Marlene volunteers to deliver it on your behalf—“to spare you the embarrassment,” she says sweetly, already halfway across the hall.
You look down at your plate, appetite long forgotten.
“Alright?” Lily asks, nudging your shoulder.
You nod. “Yeah. I think so,”
“You’re allowed to be excited, you know,”
“I am excited. I’m just… surprised,”
She smiles. “It’s nice though, isn’t it?”
You glance again toward the Ravenclaw table. Nick’s looking at Marlene like she’s an incoming Howler, his whole face red to the ears as he takes the letter from her hand.
You smile again.
“Yeah,” you murmur. “It is,”
—
Across the table, James doesn’t look up.
He doesn’t need to.
Because he saw the whole thing. The letter, the blushing, the girls all but bouncing in their seats. He saw Marlene walk across the hall with that parchment and Nick take it with shaking hands.
And it’s stupid. Petty.
But it hurts.
Because it’s been nearly two years since he realised he might actually like you—properly, not just in the annoying-you-is-fun way, but in the way that meant he started watching you when you weren’t looking. Noticing when you got a haircut. Learning the way your nose scrunches when you’re trying not to laugh.
He apologised. He grew up. He’s trying.
And it still wasn’t enough.
You’ve got someone now. Or the beginnings of someone.
And he’s just James Potter, watching from afar with jam on his toast and something bitter on his tongue.
He shoves the toast in his mouth and doesn’t say another word for the rest of breakfast.
—
You don’t expect the first letter from Nick to come so quickly. It arrives the morning after you get home for the holidays, hand-delivered by a glossy, silver-feathered owl you don’t recognise. Your name is written in the same neat, slanting script, and it still makes your stomach flip just a bit.
The note is folded crisply, the parchment thick and expensive-feeling. You hesitate before opening it, standing by the kitchen window with snow dusting the garden outside, everything quiet.
First off, thank you for not laughing at me. I thought I’d regret sending that letter the second I did it, and I very nearly snatched it out the air mid-flight to get it back. But you were so... kind. I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t kindness. So thank you.
It feels a bit odd writing like this, doesn’t it? But I also kind of like it. There’s no pressure when it’s just words. I don’t trip over them this way.
So, here’s me: I like Charms best. I once accidentally set my robes on fire in Herbology (don’t ask), I’m allergic to pineapple, and I think people who can fall asleep on trains are borderline magical.
Tell me something about you? Anything. Something silly, or secret, or both.
Yours (nervously), Nick
You smile like an idiot for a full five minutes before you even think about writing back.
And so it begins.
The letters come every few days, sometimes short and scrawled in rushed excitement, sometimes long and meandering with little sketches in the margins. He tells you about his mum’s failed attempt at decorating the tree with actual enchanted snow, and how it flooded the sitting room. You send back a drawing of a dog dressed in a Father Christmas hat (badly drawn, but Nick says it’s ‘profoundly moving’). He tells you he’s rereading Hogwarts: A History just for fun, and you reply with a list of reasons why that’s definitely unhinged behaviour.
Sometimes he signs off with ‘Yours, Nick.’
Sometimes with ‘Yours (hopefully).’
Once—‘Yours (unless the owl’s eaten this and you never see it).’
You find yourself checking the sky for owls more often than you care to admit.
It’s not dramatic. Not whirlwind, heart-racing, can’t-breathe kind of love. But it’s nice.
And after the year you’ve had, ‘nice’ feels revolutionary.
—
You return to Hogwarts with a small box of letters tucked at the bottom of your trunk, tied neatly with a silver ribbon courtesy of Dorcas, who insisted they deserved to be “presented like the delicate artefacts of flirtation they are,”.
The minute you’re back in the dorm, you’re swarmed.
“Show us everything,” Marlene demands, already bouncing on the edge of your bed.
“Yes, come on, let’s see what your secret Ravenclaw Casanova had to say for himself,” Lily adds, mock-prim, though she’s clearly grinning.
You hesitate only a moment before reaching into your trunk. The box feels warmer than it should, like it’s soaked up some of the good from the past few weeks.
You hand it over, and the girls descend like a pack of curious Kneazles.
“Oooh, look at this one—‘Yours (unless the owl eats it)’—alright, he’s cute,” Dorcas says approvingly, flopping onto her stomach with the letter held aloft.
“Is this a little sketch of a Thestral wearing a party hat?” Lily giggles. “He’s got your sense of humour. That’s weirdly adorable,”
Marlene sniffs, mock-serious. “I give it two weeks before they’re holding hands by the lake,”
“Two? You’re being generous,” Dorcas snorts. “I give it until Sunday,”
You hide your face in a pillow. “You’re all horrible,”
“Don’t change the subject,” Lily grins. “Have you written him since we got back?”
You nod, biting your lip. “Told him I’d meet him after lunch. Figured we could, I don’t know… actually talk in person,”
They cheer like you’ve just won the bloody House Cup.
—
You find Nick leaning awkwardly by the courtyard archway, his hands stuffed deep into his robe pockets, and his scarf trailing loosely over one shoulder. He looks up at the sound of your footsteps—and immediately fumbles to straighten up.
“Hi,”
“Hi,” you smile.
It’s quiet for a moment, but not the awkward kind. Just the sort of quiet where snow mutes everything, and your breath fogs the air between you, and the castle feels suspended in time.
“It’s nice to see your face,” Nick says finally. Then pauses. “I mean—obviously I’ve seen your face before. Loads. I’m not, like, suddenly surprised you have a face,”
You laugh.
“I know what you meant,”
He exhales, relieved. “Good. I wasn’t sure I’d manage to string two sentences together without turning purple,”
“You’re only a bit pink,” you tease. “That’s manageable,”
You end up walking the long way around the courtyard, snow crunching underfoot. It’s a bit stiff, at first—he trips over his words, you don’t know where to put your hands—but something about it feels... promising. Like maybe the letters weren’t just a fluke.
He makes you laugh. You make him stammer in a way that’s far too endearing. It’s not dramatic, and it’s not sweeping—but it feels nice.
And when he says, quietly, “I’m really glad I wrote to you,” you don’t hesitate before replying, “Me too.”
—
From then on, you start seeing him more often. You meet by the greenhouses for walks after Herbology. You sit beside each other in the library, sometimes talking, sometimes just reading in companionable silence. You laugh when he fumbles his words or stutters a bit too quickly, and he blushes when you compliment his handwriting.
It’s soft. Sweet. Easy.
And that ease is what James hates most.
He doesn’t mean to. Really, he doesn’t. But every time he sees you and Nick tucked away in a corner, talking with your heads bent close, something in his chest twists too tightly.
He tries not to look. He tries.
But he always does.
He catches glimpses of you in between lessons, notices the way your smile tilts differently when you’re with Nick, the way you lean in without thinking. He sees the way you laugh, just slightly quieter than with the girls, more private.
He sees all of it.
And it kills him.
Because Nick doesn’t look nervous anymore. Not like he did in December. He looks like he belongs next to you now, like he’s settled into a space James never even realised was open.
And James?
James is still stuck in the same place, staring from a distance and pretending he doesn’t feel like his lungs collapse a bit every time your eyes skim past him without stopping.
The worst part is that Nick’s not even unlikeable. He’s polite. Respectful. He doesn’t show off or brag. He’s never hexed someone. He’s the kind of boy you should be with.
Which makes James feel like even more of a twat for hating him.
But he can’t help it.
Because you’re slipping further away with every shared smile and hushed conversation, and James Potter—Golden Boy, Quidditch Captain, supposed heartthrob—is left standing on the sidelines, too late and too cowardly to do anything about it.
Not that he deserves to.
Not really.
Not after everything he used to be.
—
There’s a quiet little path just past the edge of the Forbidden Forest, winding between thickets of tall grass and old stone walls from Merlin-knows-when. It’s not quite on the Marauder’s Map because it’s not technically a shortcut or a secret passage — it’s just peaceful. Removed. The kind of place couples start to frequent when they want to be left alone.
You and Nick have discovered it recently.
It’s become something of a habit, heading out there after classes with a thermos of tea or stolen pastries from the kitchens, bundled up in scarves and gloves, talking about everything and nothing as the winter wind rushes through the trees. It’s your space now, and it’s lovely. Safe. Uncomplicated.
You don’t notice the stag at first.
He’s standing far off at the treeline, half-hidden behind some low-hanging branches. Massive antlers, golden-brown fur, eyes sharp even from this distance. He looks almost surreal — like he belongs in some enchanted forest painting, too noble and elegant to be real.
Nick notices your distraction. “What is it?”
You tug his sleeve and point. “Look!”
His head turns, eyes following your finger. When he spots the stag, he startles slightly. “Blimey,”
“Don’t be dramatic,” you say, smiling. “It’s just a deer,”
“That’s not just a deer, that thing’s the size of a carriage,”
You laugh. “Don’t scare him off,”
You take a slow step forward, fascinated. The stag doesn’t move. Just watches you, eerily still.
There’s something oddly… familiar about him.
And James — because yes, of course it’s James — is having what could only be described as a full-scale emotional breakdown inside his stupid stag body.
He hadn’t meant for this to happen. Not exactly.
It had started out harmless enough — a little sulking, a bit of brooding, the usual staring-longingly-across-the-classroom-at-your-empty-chair sort of behaviour. And then Sirius had made some off-hand joke about how you and Nick probably had a “special little spot” by now, and James had laughed like he wasn’t actively dying inside.
Cue: terrible decisions.
Because obviously the most reasonable response to your blossoming teenage romance was to follow you in his Animagus form. Spy on you. Lurk.
Real mature.
But he couldn’t help himself.
There you were, sitting beside Nick, cheeks pink with cold, smiling in that soft way James remembered from last year when he made that ridiculous fireworks spell in Charms just to make you laugh. And Nick — bloody Nick — looked like he’d won the lottery.
It should’ve been him. He should be the one making you smile like that.
And then you turned, eyes catching the movement in the trees. James froze. For one horrible second he thought you recognised him, that somehow you could see straight through the fur and hooves and spot him for who he really was — awkward, lovesick, completely out of his depth.
But instead, you grinned.
Properly grinned. That wide, sparkly-eyed smile that had always made something in James’ chest flutter.
“You know stags are a sign of good luck,” he said, smiling softly at you.
You tilted your head. “Are they?”
“In some places, yeah. Seeing a stag’s supposed to mean… well, something sacred. Or new beginnings,”
James, still very much standing there like a massive idiot, nearly snorted.
New beginnings, his arse.
You took a step closer to Nick, hands fiddling with your scarf. “How fitting,”
Nick’s cheeks flushed red, even under the pale winter sun. “Yeah,” he said quietly.
James felt the moment before it happened.
There was a hush in the air, the kind that hangs between two people right before something changes. A kind of invisible pull. You leaned in—just slightly—and Nick moved at the same time, closing the space with a nervous sort of determination.
And then you were kissing.
It wasn’t a dramatic, spin-you-around kind of kiss. It was tentative. Careful. Sweet.
But it wrecked James all the same.
He wanted to close his eyes, but he felt as though he physically couldn’t. He wanted to disappear, but he was literally a giant animal. Instead, he stood there, paralysed, watching the girl he loved kiss another boy while he pretended to be a woodland creature.
You pulled away first.
Nick, ever the gentleman, looked nervous again.
“Sorry,” He muttered, hands fumbling. “I didn’t mean to— I mean, I did, obviously, but I didn’t want to make it weird. Was that… alright?”
You stared at him for a moment, lips parted. “It was,”
Nick smiled, visibly relieved.
And James—full of repressed feelings and bad decisions—bolted.
He galloped full-tilt back through the trees, hooves skidding over frosty ground, lungs burning with the kind of emotion that didn’t make sense in this form.
When he finally transformed back, he nearly punched the wall.
—
He storms into the dormitory, robes askew, hair windswept and damp from snow.
Remus looks up from his book. “Alright there?”
“No.”
“Did you fall in the lake again?” Sirius asks from his bed, chewing a Sugar Quill and looking thoroughly unconcerned.
“No,” James grinds out, pacing the room. “Worse.”
Peter sits up. “Worse than the lake?”
“I watched her kiss him.”
There’s a pause.
Sirius, now mildly interested, swings his legs over the side of the bed. “You what?”
“In the forest,” James says, throwing his arms up. “I was— I don’t know—just following—walking—I didn’t mean to stay that long, but then I saw them and I couldn’t move, and then he kissed her.”
He collapses into the armchair with the weight of a man who’s just seen war.
“Mate,” Remus says gently, closing his book, “you followed her?”
James groans. “Don’t say it like that.”
“In Animagus form?”
“Don’t say it like that!”
Sirius is cackling now. “James, my boy, you absolute idiot,”
James throws a cushion at him. “Do you want me to cry?”
Peter’s eyebrows are high on his forehead. “So… you watched them snog and then what? Ran off crying in your stag form?”
“Yes, Pete, that’s exactly what happened, thank you for summing it up so eloquently,”
Remus sighs. “Look. I know this is hard. But what did you expect to happen? You’ve been watching them from afar for weeks, acting like you don’t care, and now you’re surprised that she’s moved on?”
James sulks deeper into the chair. “I didn’t think it would hurt like this,”
Sirius tosses a Bertie Bott’s bean at his head. “Then do something, mate,”
James blinks. “What?”
“Tell her,”
“I can’t,”
“Why?”
“Because!” James flails his arms. “She hates me,”
“She doesn’t hate you,” Remus says calmly. “She was just… wary. And to be fair, you earned that. But you’ve changed. She sees that,”
“Lily’s talking to you again,” Peter adds. “That’s a massive shift from last year,”
“She’s dating Nick,” James mutters.
“So?” Sirius shrugs. “Relationships end all the time. Especially school ones,”
Remus shoots him a look. “Not exactly the message we want to send right now Pads,”
“Sorry, Moony, but it’s true. James has been pining for her like a tragic protagonist in a bad romance novel for years. If he doesn’t say something soon, he’ll combust. Or do something even stupider than stalking her through the forest,”
James groans. “You’re making it sound so much worse,”
“You made it worse, mate. You literally watched her kiss another boy from the bushes,”
He buries his face in his hands. “What do I even say? ‘Hi, sorry I was a git to you for years, but now I fancy you and have no idea how to act like a person anymore’?”
“Honestly,” Remus says, “not a terrible start
James peeks up between his fingers. “I can’t just tell her,”
“Then write,” Peter suggests, surprisingly earnest. “You’re always better in writing,”
The room falls quiet.
James slowly lifts his head.
“…Do I have to sign it?”
Remus frowns. “You want to send it anonymously?”
Sirius leans forward, interested. “Like a secret admirer?”
“No, like… a vent. I get it all out with no risks,”
“You think she’d read it?” Peter asks.
James shrugs. “She might,”
Sirius leans back, chewing on his quill now. “Alright. An anonymous letter. Bit dramatic, but very you,”
“You think it’s stupid,”
“I think,” Sirius says, “it’s better than sitting here moping while she falls in love with someone else,”
James doesn’t reply.
Instead, he stands, walks to his trunk, and pulls out a piece of parchment.
And a very fancy quill.
Because if he’s going to tell you the truth—even secretly—he’s going to do it properly.
—
It arrives one cloudy morning at breakfast, right between a plate of toast and a half-soggy letter from your mum asking if you’ve remembered to send your Nan a Christmas thank-you.
You barely register it at first—the slip of parchment settling onto your plate with an elegant little flutter, the ink shimmering faintly as if kissed by starlight. You glance up, expecting to see an owl flapping off, but the air above the Gryffindor table is clear.
Weird.
You look down again. It’s not a scroll, not a Howler, not a folded scrap from Lily asking about Herbology notes. It’s stationery. Thick, cream-coloured parchment that feels almost too nice for Hogwarts post. The edges are trimmed with delicate gold foil. The writing, when you unfold it, gleams like the surface of the Black Lake at midnight.
And it is… a lot.
You don’t know me. Not properly, anyway. Maybe you think you do, and maybe that’s my fault, maybe I’ve made sure you didn’t want to. Maybe I got too used to being the kind of boy people only like in theory. I can be a bit of a twat, but if I’d ever had the courage to actually be honest with you, this is what I would’ve said:
I notice everything.
I notice the way you chew your lip when you're thinking. The way your handwriting changes when you’re writing something personal. I notice that you give away half your dessert even when you complain you’re starving, that you always carry extra hair ties in case your friends need one, that you hum when you’re nervous. I’ve noticed that you like thunderstorms more than sunshine, and that you pretend not to care when people don’t listen to you, but it bothers you. I wish it didn’t.
You’re not just pretty, you’re brilliant. You’re clever in ways people overlook, and kind in ways that make them assume you’ve never been angry. But I’ve seen it. I’ve seen your temper flare and your spine straighten and I’ve wanted to be someone who could stand beside that, not against it.
I used to think if I just waited long enough, you’d look at me the way you look at the pages of a good book — like something worth opening. But I don’t think you ever will. And I’m tired of pretending I’m fine with that.
So this is me. Being honest. Finally.
I hope you’re happy. Even if it’s not with me.
You read it three times before you even breathe.
It is—quite literally—the most intense thing anyone’s ever said to you. And they didn’t even say it. They wrote it. Anonymously. No name. No initials. Just… left it here like a bloody emotional bomb.
“Oh my God,” Marlene breathes, peering over your shoulder. “Who wrote that?”
You blink, still dazed. “I don’t know,”
“What do you mean, you don’t know?” Dorcas is already reaching for the paper. “Let me see,”
Lily sets down her tea. “That’s not Nick’s handwriting,”
You snatch the letter back instinctively, folding it like a guilty thing. “It’s not from Nick,”
“Oh hell no,” Marlene says, loud enough to turn heads from the other end of the table. “What kind of coward doesn’t sign their name to something like that?”
You flush, tucking the letter under your plate. “Can we not do this here?”
“No, sorry, we’re absolutely doing this,” she says, hands in her hair. “You just got the Hogwarts equivalent of a bloody sonnet and we’re supposed to ignore it?”
You shrug, trying for breezy but failing miserably. “It’s probably a joke,”
“It’s not a joke,” Lily says, eyebrows furrowed. “No one puts that much effort into a joke. That was… honest. Painfully so,”
Dorcas whistles low. “I can’t believe someone’s been carrying all that around. And didn’t even sign it,”
“They should’ve,” Marlene says. “You don’t get to say all that and then disappear. It’s manipulative,”
“It’s anonymous,” you say quietly. “Not manipulative,”
“They want something from you without saying who they are,”
You shrug. “I don’t care who they are,”
Which is, of course, an outright lie.
Because for the next two weeks, you read the letter every single night after the others have gone to sleep.
You tell yourself you’re just curious. That it’s like solving a puzzle, trying to piece together who might’ve written it based on the phrasing, the details. You go through every male voice in your head like a bloody index file: is it someone from your year? Another House? Is it someone who sees you more than you realised?
And worse: is it someone you’ve hurt without knowing?
Because how long has this boy—whoever he is—been noticing you? Caring about you from some hidden distance? How long has he been watching you laugh, cry, argue, love your friends… and stayed silent?
Because now that someone has said those things to you—someone who wants your laugh, your bad handwriting, your bloody spare hair ties—you’ve started comparing. And Nick, for all his sweetness and quiet charm, hasn’t said anything remotely like that.
Nick likes you. He likes your face, your smile, your laugh. He likes sitting next to you at lunch and holding your hand when you walk to class. He likes being liked.
But whoever wrote that letter doesn’t just like you. They see you. In this terrifying, intense, specific way that makes your stomach twist every time you reread it.
And that’s the problem, really.
Because now every interaction feels dimmer by comparison.
When Nick compliments you, it feels too rehearsed. When he kisses you, you wonder if he’s noticed the freckles on your shoulders, or if he’s just decided that kissing you is nice. You still like him. You do.
But you also can’t stop thinking about the letter.
—
Meanwhile, in the boys’ dormitory, James is slowly unraveling.
He hadn’t meant for the letter to actually get to you.
Well, he had, obviously. That was the plan. Fold it all up, pour his heart onto the page, let the Marauders deliver it like some weird emotional owl service. But he hadn’t expected it to work. He thought maybe you’d read it once and toss it in the bin.
But you didn’t.
You read it. And then you kept reading it.
James knows because he keeps watching you. Not stalking—definitely not stalking—just… observing. From across the common room. Or the Great Hall. Or occasionally (and he hates himself for this) while pretending to tie his shoelaces in corridors you happen to be walking through.
You’re thinking about it. He can tell.
You’ve gone quieter, more introspective. You still hang out with Nick, still smile when he tugs you along to some late lunch in the courtyard. But the spark in your eyes when you look at him doesn’t quite reach the edges like it did before. Not like it does when you’re reading.
James sees you in the library with it tucked into a Transfiguration book.
He sees you smiling at it in Charms when Flitwick isn’t looking.
And every time, it hurts.
Not because you know it’s from him—but because you don’t.
You’re holding a piece of his soul and you don’t even know it’s his.
The Marauders are no help.
“Just tell her,” Sirius keeps saying. “It’s not going to kill you,”
“Yes it will,” James mutters into his pillow. “Instant death. Right there. You’ll have to plan my funeral,”
“Moony can write the eulogy,” Peter suggests. “Something tragic,”
“I’m not writing him a eulogy,” Remus says dryly. “I’m writing him a howler if he doesn’t grow up,”
But James doesn’t want to grow up. He wants to hide.
Because this is worse than being rejected. This is watching you choose someone else while still holding onto the most vulnerable thing he’s ever written and having no idea it’s from the boy who used to trip over his words around you.
He thought writing it would help.
It hasn’t.
If anything, it’s made everything worse.
Because now he knows how close he got. And how far away he still is.
And you— well, you’ve got a letter folded fourteen times and stashed in your pillowcase like some embarrassing secret. You’ve got Nick waiting for you after class and your friends teasing you about mystery boys and you’ve got no idea that the person who sees you best is someone you’d written off two years ago.
But you’re starting to wonder.
Because whoever wrote that letter knew things even you hadn’t noticed about yourself.
They knew how you listen harder when people talk about books, how you write longer sentences when you're nervous, how you care more deeply than you let on. That kind of observation doesn’t happen overnight.
That kind of thing takes years.
—
There are times in relationships when it feels like the edges of your life blur together, and the lines that once separated who you were from who you are in someone else’s eyes start to fade. It’s a strange and subtle thing. At first, it feels like you’re merely adjusting — slipping a little to fit more comfortably into someone else’s world. But gradually, as time passes, the edges of that world begin to shape you. And in the process, you start to lose sight of where you end and they begin.
That’s what happened with Nick.
At first, you thought it was something gentle — a sweet, budding connection. After all, the letters had been lovely, hadn’t they? The way he wrote about things you’d never noticed, the way his words seemed to speak to you in places where you hadn’t realised you were waiting for someone to. He was kind, he was funny in his own way, and he tried his best to get close to you. Really close.
But the truth is— he tried too hard.
You hadn’t noticed it at first, or if you had, you dismissed it. After all, it was sweet, wasn’t it? The way he wanted to take you to Hogsmeade every weekend, the way he seemed to try to do all the right things, say all the right words. He’d bring you flowers—small, simple ones from the Greenhouse, wrapped in brown paper. You’d smile, thank him, and tuck them into a glass jar on your windowsill.
But soon it wasn’t just flowers. It was sudden plans to study together for hours, even when you weren’t sure if you really needed to. It was long conversations about everything and nothing, always turning into late-night talks that kept you tethered to him, even when your mind wandered to other things—or to other people.
You hadn’t meant for it to happen, but the truth crept in. Little by little, things started to change. At first, it was just the fact that when you sat with Nick, it was easy to forget. You didn’t think about the boy who’d written you that anonymous letter, you thought maybe this was enough—that Nick was enough. But after a while, something started to feel… off.
It wasn’t his fault, not exactly. Nick was a genuinely good person. But somewhere along the way, he began to push harder than you could keep up with. And rather than reassuring you, that energy felt suffocating. The careful gestures, the predictability, the pressure to move things forward.
You began to realise that you weren’t sure if you wanted to move forward. Not with him. Not like this.
The shift became obvious one cold afternoon in the library, when Nick tried again—really tried—to kiss you. His hand brushed yours as he leaned in, but instead of feeling that warm flutter you’d always read about in romance novels, you felt yourself stiffen.
It wasn’t that you didn’t like him. You did. But with each moment that passed, the picture you’d once thought was perfect started to crumble. In that space between the kiss and the hesitation, you saw what was missing. It was like the world suddenly tilted. You realised you’d been holding on to something that wasn’t quite real, a dream of what could be, rather than what was.
You pulled away.
“I think…” you started, the words heavy in your throat. “Maybe we need to talk,”
Nick paused, his expression flickering with concern. “Talk about what?”
“I think I’m not really sure what I want anymore,” you said quietly. It wasn’t easy. It never is. “I think I’ve been… confused. I don’t want to lead you on,”
He blinked, his lips parted as though he was about to speak but couldn’t quite find the words. “You’re saying this now?”
“I know. I’m sorry. I should’ve said something sooner,” You looked at him, trying to make it hurt less. “But I think maybe we both rushed into this, and now… I don’t know. I don’t think I’m ready for this. For us,”
There was a long silence, his face softening, eyes full of something like defeat. And then he spoke, his voice quiet but steady.
“I think I knew, somewhere in the back of my head,” he admitted. “I wanted to be the one to make you forget. To make you forget the other person. The one who… knows you. Like that letter,”
You froze at his words, staring at him. “What do you mean?”
Nick shifted uneasily, rubbing his neck, looking around as if he wanted to find some kind of answer in the shelves of books. “I mean…” he said slowly, “You were never really mine, were you? Not in the way I wanted. Not in the way I needed,”
A knot tightened in your chest. He was right, but it hurt to hear it. “You’re not wrong,” you murmured, your heart sinking. “I don’t know what I was looking for. But I don’t think it was this,”
Nick gave a soft, resigned chuckle. “Yeah, I think I figured that out a little too late,” He paused. “I tried. You know? I tried to make it work, tried to be what you needed. But I guess… you’re right. I couldn’t compete with someone who really knows you,”
“I’m sorry, Nick.” You said the words because they were true, because you did care about him, but you also knew that this wasn’t right anymore. You couldn’t force it to be something it wasn’t.
He nodded, his jaw tightening slightly. “I just… I don’t think I can keep pretending I’m okay with the idea of you still thinking about someone else. I’m not him, am I?”
You shook your head, swallowing hard. “No. You’re not,”
For a moment, you both sat there in the quiet of the library, the sounds of students working, the soft scratch of quills on parchment. It was a peaceful kind of sadness, though. Not dramatic or explosive — just two people who had tried, who had cared, and who were now realising that they had reached the end of the road.
Nick exhaled softly, meeting your eyes. “I just want you to be happy, even if it’s not with me,” he said quietly. “I think you need to find the person who really gets you. The person who sees all of you, like that bloody letter,”
You felt something tighten in your chest at his words. “I want you to be happy too. I’m sorry,”
He smiled faintly, his eyes soft. “Don’t be. It’s just… I think we both knew this wasn’t going to last, not like this. I care about you. I always will. But I can’t be the person who’s always second best. I can’t compete with someone who sees you the way you deserve to be seen,”
You nodded, your throat tight. “I get it,”
“Good luck,” Nick stood up, dusting off his robes. “I hope you find what you’re looking for. Even if it’s not me,”
And with that, he walked away.
—
It took a few weeks for the aftermath to settle in. You weren’t sure if you’d done the right thing. But as time passed, you started to understand. You’d never been in love with Nick. You’d never been in love with the idea of him, either. And even if you hadn’t fully understood what that letter meant—the one you’d read so many times, the one you’d kept hidden under your pillow—you were starting to.
You’d tried. You’d tried to make it work, to make Nick fit, to make everything make sense. But in the end, you couldn’t ignore the cracks that had formed the moment you started comparing his kindness to the depth of someone else’s words.
You hadn’t found it yet, whatever it was that you were looking for. But you knew you would. It wasn’t about finding someone who could match Nick’s sweetness, or someone who could take his place.
It was about finding someone who saw you.
—
The Marauders had a plan. A very misguided, very well-meaning plan. And, naturally, that plan revolved around James.
They were determined to fix him, to make him move on, to help him forget about the girl who had (without him knowing) already managed to ruin him. But, as usual, they hadn’t bothered to take into account the very real fact that James didn’t want to move on. At least, not in the way they thought he should.
Ever since his brief but very real heartbreak — the one that no one, especially you, knew anything about—James had been moody. His attempts at pretending he was fine fell flat. He acted like he was fine, smiled like he was fine, but everyone who knew him could see it in his eyes. He wasn’t fine. He was not fine.
But the Marauders, being the Marauders, had an answer. They were going to find him someone to kiss, someone to distract him from you.
James had tried to shrug it off. He had told his friends, repeatedly, that he wasn’t interested in anyone else. He didn’t want to be fixed, and he certainly didn’t want to forget you, not when he couldn’t forget that letter, not when every little thing about you still echoed in his head.
But the Marauders were insistent.
“Mate, you’ve got to move on,” Sirius said one evening, sprawled across the couch in the Gryffindor common room. He was half-teasing, but there was a seriousness to his voice that James couldn’t ignore. “You’ve never kissed anyone else. Never shagged anyone. How do you know you don’t like it, huh?”
James shot Sirius a dry look. “I don’t need to shag anyone to know I’m not interested in anyone else,” he muttered. He had been hoping to avoid the topic altogether, but Sirius, as always, was relentless.
“You don’t know that until you try, Prongs,” Sirius said, winking as he nudged James in the side. “Besides, you can’t just pine over her forever. You’ll drive yourself mad,”
James clenched his jaw, his fingers curling into fists. “I’m not pining,” he growled. “I’m just… not interested in anyone else. It’s that simple,”
Sirius raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “If you say so,” He flashed a grin. “But you’re coming to the Quidditch after-party tonight, right? I’ve got a plan to fix this. You need to at least try,”
And that was how James ended up, several hours later, at the Gryffindor Quidditch after-party, reluctantly swept into the chaos of his friends’ scheming. There was no getting out of it. Sirius had insisted. Remus had given him a knowing look. Peter had simply nodded along, looking vaguely terrified of being left out of the plan.
James had been forced to accept that the Marauders weren’t going to leave him alone until he did something. So, with as much reluctance as he could muster, he gave in.
The party was rowdy, with a thrumming energy that could only come from a Gryffindor Quidditch victory. It didn’t take long before Sirius had dragged James into a conversation with a fifth-year Gryffindor girl, a girl James vaguely recognised from the common room. She was nice enough, but James wasn’t interested. Still, he followed through because, well, Sirius had already set it all up.
"Just give it a try, mate," Sirius whispered, giving him an enthusiastic thumbs-up from across the room. “You might actually enjoy it,”
James barely suppressed a groan. He couldn’t explain it, but the thought of kissing anyone but you felt wrong. There was a tightness in his chest every time he tried to think about being with someone else.
He didn’t know what it meant, whether it was the letter, or the way you had slipped so easily into his thoughts, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t supposed to be here. That he wasn’t supposed to be kissing someone else.
Nevertheless, after some awkward small talk, the girl leaned in, and there it was. His first real kiss, forced and strange, under the loud cheer of the party around them. It lasted barely ten seconds before he pulled away, completely baffled by the sensation. She smiled at him, clearly pleased with herself, but it didn’t feel right. The kiss, the girl, the situation, none of it.
It wasn’t until Sirius erupted from across the room, clapping and cheering loudly, that the full weight of the absurdity of the situation hit James. Sirius, always the showman, made it a scene—announcing loudly that James had officially kissed his first girl, and proudly pointing at James with a triumphant grin as if it was some massive accomplishment. It was a joke, sure, but it made James cringe.
You were standing near the punch bowl with Marlene and Dorcas at that very moment, and you couldn’t help but roll your eyes as the whole situation unfolded in front of you.
There was something about the way Sirius made a spectacle of it that rubbed you the wrong way. The obnoxious cheering, the over-the-top comments, the way everyone turned to look at James and the girl like they were stars on a stage.
You couldn’t quite pinpoint why it bothered you so much. Maybe it was the sheer lack of subtlety. Maybe it was the fact that James didn’t seem to care much for the girl at all, or that he was only doing this to prove something. You couldn’t quite place it, but something about it left a bitter taste in your mouth.
You found yourself staring a little too long, a little too intently, at the scene. Maybe it was the stupid party. Maybe it was the fact that James had always been so full of himself. But whatever it was, it didn’t sit right with you.
Your friends noticed. Marlene raised an eyebrow and smirked. “You okay?”
You blinked, startled by the question. “Yeah, of course,” you said quickly, though your voice was a little too sharp to sound convincing. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
She didn’t buy it, but she didn’t push further. Instead, she and Dorcas exchanged a knowing look, and you felt a flush of embarrassment rise up your neck.
You glanced back at James, still awkwardly standing with the girl, still the centre of the attention. You looked away, the feeling in your chest growing uncomfortable. You didn’t like it. You didn’t like the way this felt, or the way it made you feel. And yet, you couldn’t deny the slight tug of something — something more complicated than you were willing to admit.
After the party, James felt it too. The awkwardness. The discomfort. The wrongness. He sat with the Marauders, and despite the fact that they were celebrating his “success,” James couldn’t shake the feeling that it had all been for nothing.
“I don’t know what I expected,” James admitted, dropping his head into his hands as they all sat around in their dorm. “It didn’t feel right. I didn’t… I didn’t enjoy it,”
Sirius raised an eyebrow, an almost sympathetic look crossing his face. “You didn’t enjoy it?”
“No,” James muttered, running a hand through his hair. “It just felt wrong. It wasn’t the same,”
The Marauders exchanged glances, the air thick with unspoken understanding. Of course it wasn’t the same. It couldn’t be the same. Not when his mind was still filled with someone else. Not when James wasn’t ready to let go.
“Well, mate,” Remus said softly, “I think we all know what’s really going on here,”
James shot him a look of frustration. “I’m not interested in anyone else. I don’t want to be with anyone else,”
“Alright,” Sirius said, his voice suddenly serious, “If you’re really not ready then we’ll leave you to it,”
James sighed, rubbing his eyes in defeat. “I don’t want anyone else. I just… I don’t know what to do about it,”
The Marauders fell into a thoughtful silence, each of them looking at James with a mixture of sympathy and exasperation. There was nothing they could do for him, not unless he was ready to confront the real reason he was so stuck.
And, for now, James was content to wallow. He didn’t want to move on, and he wasn’t about to let anyone push him into it.
—
There was a strange sort of silence to James’ heartbreak. It didn’t roar like his laughter or crackle like his temper. It didn’t come out in jokes or pranks or the boisterous chaos that usually followed him around like a second shadow.
No, this was something different. Something quieter. Quieter than anyone had ever expected of him. There was a whiteness to it, an absence, a stillness—a kind of stillness that looked out of place on him.
He didn't speak to anyone about it anymore. The Marauders had tried—Sirius, mostly, with his not-so-subtle nudges and jabs—but James had stopped responding. He didn’t mope, exactly. He just grew more introspective. Not solemn, not angry, just… somewhere in between. And every time someone mentioned your name, something behind his eyes would flicker and then dim again.
It wasn’t until he overheard you, Marlene, and Lily chatting in the corridor near the library that everything shifted again.
You were trying to be quiet—your voice low, tone calm, your words slightly hesitant. But James had always been good at picking you out from a crowd. It was something he hadn’t even realised he’d trained himself to do until recently. So when he passed by that corridor and caught your voice, he paused. And then he heard it.
“Well, it wasn’t like Nick did anything wrong. He’s sweet. I just…” You sighed. “I don’t know. It stopped feeling like it was about me, you know? He was chasing something, not necessarily me. And after that letter turned up, it just made it worse,”
James stopped breathing. That letter.
“You still don’t know who it’s from?” Lily asked, a note of intrigue in her voice.
You huffed out a laugh. “No. And it’s driving me mad. I feel like… whoever wrote it knows me better than I know myself. And I don't even know his name,”
Marlene scoffed. “If he knew you that well, he’d grow a spine and tell you who he is,”
James ducked into an empty classroom before they could spot him, heart pounding. His palms were damp. His whole body felt too hot, too aware. You'd broken up with Nick. Because of him. Not that you knew it was him, but still. His words had changed something.
He had told himself, after that first letter, that it was a one-time thing. A catharsis. An exorcism of all the things he couldn’t say to you out loud. But after his revelation. He found himself itching to write another. And another.
The second letter had come days after he saw you in the courtyard laughing at something Dorcas had said, your head thrown back in a way that made his chest ache. He’d gone back to the dorm, heart full and throat tight, and written about it—how he wished he could be the one making you laugh like that. How he’d never seen anything brighter than the way your eyes crinkled when you smiled.
Then came the third letter, and the fourth. And soon, it had become a habit. A ritual, almost.
When he couldn’t sleep, he wrote.
When he saw you in class and wanted to say something but couldn’t find the nerve, he wrote.
When you passed him in the corridor and gave him a polite, almost friendly smile, he wrote.
And the letters changed. They weren’t just emotional ramblings anymore—they were layered with observations, with memories, with confessions he had never let himself say aloud.
You wore your hair different in Potions today. I liked it. But I think I would’ve liked it even if it looked awful, which is… probably not a great thing to admit, is it?
You’ve got this little crease between your brows when you’re concentrating—it only appears when you’re really focused. I don’t think you know you do it.
When you walk down the corridor, I can tell what kind of mood you’re in before I even see your face. It’s in the sound of your steps. In the rhythm of it. Happy-you walks different than annoyed-you.
You never responded. You couldn’t. There was never a return address, never any way to send anything back. But James didn’t care. He didn’t need a reply. Just writing to you—being able to express it, even anonymously—felt like enough.
Sort of.
Because the truth was, as much as it helped to write the words down, it also hurt. Every letter was a reminder of everything he wanted and couldn’t have. Everything he’d spent years pretending not to feel—buried beneath jokes and hexes and all the noise of adolescence.
And you? You kept every single one.
You didn’t tell the girls about it. Not really. Not after the second letter. You pretended it was over, that it had been some sweet, silly little mystery. But in truth, you’d hidden them. All of them. In a little shoebox under your bed, wrapped in an old jumper. Some were creased from how often you unfolded and re-folded them. Some had the faintest smudge in the corner from where you’d cried, unexpectedly, at something you hadn’t realised you needed to hear.
You didn’t know what to do with them. You weren’t over Nick—not really. That kind of closeness doesn’t disappear overnight. But it was impossible to keep pretending that he had understood you like this anonymous writer did.
Whoever he was, he had seen you. Not just the version of you that most people acknowledged—the smart, sharp, sometimes-sarcastic girl who was always one step ahead of a comeback. No, this person had paid attention to the margins of you, the unnoticed edges. The things you didn’t even know were there until he wrote them down.
I think I started liking you back in fourth year. You were defending someone in the corridor—some little second-year who’d dropped their books, and some Slytherins were laughing at him. You didn’t even hesitate. You stepped right in like it was the most obvious thing in the world. That’s when I knew.
Only I’m not sure if I just like you anymore. It’s something more. Something I don’t know how to name.
Is it pathetic to say that I hear your voice before I see you? That I can pick you out of a room before I even look up? I don’t mean to. It’s just—it’s like my ears are tuned to you. Like a frequency I can’t ignore.
You lay awake most nights now, reading the letters again after the others were asleep. You tried to analyse the handwriting. You wondered if it was someone in your year. You made a list of suspects in your head and crossed off half of them, even though it didn’t bring you any closer.
Sometimes, when you caught James looking at you from across the room, you’d wonder. But then you’d scoff at yourself, because James Potter? Really? He was… well, James. All swagger and messy hair and cocky grins. You’d made peace with the fact that he wasn’t half as insufferable anymore, but he was still James.
And yet…
The letters were not the work of someone who didn’t care. They weren’t careless. They were intimate in a way that left you breathless. Each one revealed a little more—each sentence brushing up against truths you hadn’t admitted even to yourself.
They came like clockwork now—one every week, always arriving in the oddest of places. Slipped inside your Arithmancy book. Folded neatly on your dinner plate. Once, even tucked inside your scarf in the common room, which really freaked you out because it meant he was closer than you thought.
It was terrifying and exhilarating. And the worst part? You were beginning to need them. Crave them, even. His words had become a constant, something you looked forward to with equal parts dread and hope.
The box under your bed grew heavier by the week.
And James? He was slowly losing his mind. Every time he saw you reading a letter—head tilted, eyes flicking across the page, your expression soft and unreadable—it hurt in the best and worst way. You liked them. He knew you did. But the longer he went without saying anything, the more impossible it felt to tell you the truth.
Because what if knowing ruined it? What if it stopped being magical the second his name was attached?
He was a coward. Marlene had said so, loudly, and James knew it was true. He could face down a rogue Bludger, duel a seventh-year, prank Filch and escape with a grin—but he couldn’t tell you he was the one who had been writing to you.
And yet, he couldn’t stop.
He poured his soul into those margins. Into those pages that would never carry his name. Because it was the only way he could tell you the truth and survive it.
And maybe that was enough.
Or maybe, eventually, it wouldn’t be.
—
You didn’t mean to tell them. Honestly, you had every intention of keeping the whole thing a secret forever. But Marlene had a sixth sense for drama, and Dorcas had a sharper nose for mystery than a trained bloodhound. So when your bed-curtains had rustled suspiciously in the middle of the night and Marlene had caught a glimpse of shimmering ink through the crack of your open trunk, it was game over.
You’d barely managed to shove the letter beneath your pillow before she pounced.
“Aha!” she whispered in triumph, yanking back your curtains with no regard for your sleep schedule. “I knew you were hiding something!”
“Marlene, go away,” you groaned, but Lily was already sitting up, blinking owlishly, and Dorcas was dragging her own blanket across to your bed.
“Nope,” Dorcas said brightly, sliding in beside you with terrifying ease. “Spill it. Is it more letters?”
You were betrayed by the silence. The way your face didn’t even have time to arrange into a proper lie before the truth fell across your cheeks.
“Oh my god,” Lily whispered. “There’s more?”
“There’s loads more,” Marlene said, shoving aside your blankets and finding the shoebox tucked beneath your bed like a woman possessed. “Holy hell, you’ve got a whole bloody collection.”
You didn’t fight it. Not properly. Not after the fourth letter was unfolded and read aloud in a reverent hush, the girls falling completely silent around you—save for the occasional sniff or soft exhale of disbelief.
“He watched you drop your quill and memorised how you tucked your hair behind your ear,” Dorcas said, practically vibrating. “I thought blokes only noticed when girls breathed near them,”
“It’s beautiful,” Lily whispered. “It’s like something out of a novel,”
“Romantic,” Dorcas agreed.
“Terrifying,” Marlene added. “I mean, what if it’s Mulciber or something?”
You almost choked. “Please don’t even joke about that,”
Thus began the unofficial—and entirely chaotic—formation of The Girls’ Detective Agency. It wasn’t your name for it, obviously, but once Marlene had made badges (from parchment, glitter, and sheer manic determination), you didn’t have much choice in the matter.
The mission was clear: uncover the identity of your mysterious letter-writer.
Their methods, however, were… questionable.
They started with handwriting analysis. Marlene attempted to casually wander through the library, requesting to borrow ink samples from boys “just out of curiosity,” and Lily spent an afternoon in the common room “helping” people with their Transfiguration essays so she could examine their penmanship. Dorcas, who had stolen your Divination notes under the pretext of “astrological clarity,” tried to match the emotional tone of the letters to various star signs.
“I’m telling you,” she said one night with complete certainty, “this is a Cancer Sun, maybe a Pisces Moon. This is water sign poetry,”
You didn't know what a Pisces Moon was meant to mean, but Dorcas said it like gospel, so you just nodded.
Meanwhile, Marlene was not subtle. At all.
“What if it’s Remus?” she hissed once across the common room, loud enough for three people to turn around. “He’s broody. And he reads so much poetry,”
You swore you saw Remus twitch.
But you shook your head. “No. It’s not him,”
You were sure about that. Remus was clever, kind, thoughtful—but the letters didn’t sound like him. His voice was steadier, more deliberate. The person writing to you was something else entirely—someone who struggled with the weight of what he felt, who was reckless with his emotions in a way that wasn’t controlled or clean. Someone who wrote like he was bleeding onto the page.
There were flashes—little things—that made you wonder if maybe, maybe, it could be James.
But every time the thought flitted across your mind, you swatted it away.
James Potter didn’t write letters like this. James Potter was a menace with a Quidditch obsession and a lopsided grin. James Potter, who had only recently evolved into someone tolerable, wasn’t exactly someone you pictured lying awake at night, pouring his soul into parchment.
Sure, he wasn’t as obnoxious as he used to be. And sure, there was something softer in the way he looked at you lately—but you’d chalked that up to the fragile peace you’d made after last year’s chaos. There was no way he was the one leaving notes beneath your scarf.
Besides, if he’d written something this vulnerable, he would’ve shoved it into your hand and dared you to read it aloud just to watch you squirm. Right?
So, no. Not James.
You were wrong, obviously.
But that wasn’t the point.
—
The final week of term came faster than expected. sunlight glittered on the edges of everything—floating house flags outside the Great Hall doors, open windows letting in a soft breeze, a warmth that seeped into your bones. Everything felt a little too warm, a little too bright.
And still, the letters kept coming.
The last one arrived on the morning of the train home.
It was simpler than the others. A small square of parchment, no shimmering ink this time. Just words. Words that didn’t try to be anything other than honest.
I don’t know if I’ll write again. I think I might be running out of ways to say it.
I miss things I’ve never had with you, and that’s a strange kind of grief.
Have a nice holiday. Try not to overthink things. I know that’s rich coming from me.
Yours, always— even if you never know who.
That was it.
You folded the letter carefully, hands trembling, and slid it into the shoebox with the others. And then you stared at it for what felt like hours, until Lily touched your arm gently and said, “We’ll miss the train,”
And that was that.
—
James watched you leave through the frost-smeared train window, his heart quieter than it had been in months. The Marauders were deep into a loud game of Exploding Snap, Sirius laughing at every blast, Peter shouting protests, Remus rolling his eyes fondly.
None of them knew he’d written another one.
James had stopped telling them after the fifth or sixth. It felt private. Sacred, almost. Sharing it would have made it real in a way he wasn’t sure he could handle. So he kept it to himself—his stupid little secret. His confession scrawled across parchment instead of spoken out loud.
He knew he was being a coward. That had become obvious. But he couldn’t bring himself to stop. Not when he saw the way you read them, all curled up with your bottom lip caught between your teeth. Not when he noticed the way your hand trembled slightly on the paper. You felt something. He was sure of it.
But he also knew that eventually, you’d want more. And he couldn’t keep offering faceless intimacy forever. So he wrote the last one. Said goodbye. Sort of.
And then he sat on the train with his forehead pressed to the glass, pretending he didn’t care that you hadn’t figured it out. That you were probably leaving for the summer thinking about someone else entirely. That maybe, despite everything, he’d never actually be enough.
—
Back at home, the days grew longer. The pace slowed. The house was warm, the food good, the sleep long and uninterrupted. And yet every night, without fail, you found yourself at the window.
The box of letters came out the first night you returned. You told yourself it was for closure.
It wasn’t.
You read them again—each one from the beginning. Chronologically. Like chapters in a book. You traced the handwriting with your fingers, letting the words sink into you slowly.
He loved you. That was the truth of it.
Maybe he hadn’t said it directly. Maybe he hadn’t signed his name. But no one wrote like that without meaning it. No one watched you so closely, noticed so many tiny things, remembered throwaway moments from years ago unless they’d been in love with you for a long, long time.
And you were still no closer to knowing who he was.
That was the worst part.
How could someone be so close and still so invisible?
You stared out the window into the night, watching your breath fog up the glass. The snow fell softly outside, blanketing the world in silence. Somewhere out there was someone who had seen all of you—really seen you—and hadn’t asked for anything in return.
And you missed him. Terribly.
Not Nick. Not the quiet comfort of that easy romance.
But him. The one who knew the cadence of your footsteps. Who listened for your voice before he saw your face. Who remembered fourth year like it was yesterday and noticed how your hands trembled when you were angry.
You missed someone you didn’t know. And it felt like the loneliest thing in the world.
—
I know I said I wouldn’t write you anymore, but I’m afraid I can’t help myself. The truth is, I’ve been terrified of saying it out loud, of giving you something you don’t need or want. But I can’t pretend anymore.
I’ve loved you for so long, in ways that I can’t even put into words. I’ve watched you, really watched you, every day, and I’ve noticed things about you that no one else ever could. The way you bite your lip when you’re thinking, the way you hum softly to yourself when you’re studying, the way your eyes light up when you talk about something you care about. I’ve memorised the way your voice sounds when you laugh, the way you wrinkle your nose when you’re annoyed, the way you frown when you’re trying to figure something out.
And I’ve done all of this because I care about you. So much more than I should. I’ve tried to get over you, to forget you. I’ve tried to date other people, to move on. But none of them were you. None of them could be.
I don’t know if you’ll ever read this. I don’t even know if I’ll ever send it. But I need you to know that I’ve been here, always here, loving you in the quietest ways, the most secret ways.
Maybe this is selfish. Maybe it’s unfair of me to ask you to care about someone who has never had the guts to say this to your face. But I don’t know what else to do anymore. I can’t keep pretending like this doesn’t matter to me. Because it does. You matter to me, more than I can say.
I’ve always been here, waiting, in the margins of your life. Maybe that’s where I belong. But if you ever look up, I’ll be there, still waiting.
—James F. Potter
He stopped writing. Blinked down at the words like they might rearrange themselves into something less terrifying.
His hand hovered over the signature. It looked too sharp, too obvious. Too final.
He stared at it for a long time.
Folded the letter in half.
Then unfolded it.
Folded it again.
“Mate, you’re torturing yourself,” came a groggy voice from across the room. Sirius, of course. “Just send it to her already,”
James looked up. “She won’t want it,”
“You don’t know that,”
“She might hate me,”
Sirius yawned and flopped back down onto his pillow. “She definitely won’t hate you. That’s the worst-case scenario you’ve built up in that tragically romantic brain of yours. And even if she did… so what? At least you’d know,”
James looked down at the folded parchment.
He could send it. He could sneak into the Owlery now, under his Invisibility Cloak, and you’d get it tomorrow. And then you’d know. Everything.
But then you’d know.
He imagined your face when you opened it. The surprise. The disbelief. The way you’d go back and read every single letter again, this time with the truth laid bare. Would it be relief? Would it be disappointment?
Or worse—would you already know, and just not want to face it?
James tucked the letter into his pillowcase and lay back down.
james takes your cold shoulder to heart, and the rest of the boys scramble to find ways to bring him back to normal.
eventual james x fem!reader | 6.4k | series masterlist.
main masterlist.
CW | characters are 15/16, reader and lily hold grudges, marauders map creation, the boys become animagi but it’s not pretty, graphic body descriptions for the transformation, james sulks a lot, snape gets bullied and also calls lily a slur
The castle feels colder this year.
Not in temperature—though the Scottish Highlands aren’t exactly tropical—but in atmosphere. Or maybe that’s just how it feels to you as you and Lily step through the entrance to Hogwarts, robes brushing your ankles, the sound of the train’s whistle still ringing in your ears.
She’s beside you, jaw set and green eyes hardened in a way that’s unfamiliar. There’s no soft laughter from her as you pass by the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall, no excited chatter about what classes you’ll share or which teachers will be the worst. The summer did little to smooth things over. If anything, it just hardened the memory.
The memory of that day.
You can still feel it sometimes—the hot rush of humiliation crawling up your neck, the stunned silence of the courtyard erupting into laughter, the sickening feeling of hatred when you realised the Marauders had planned the whole thing.
And James Potter—James bloody Potter—had laughed the loudest.
You can still remember the way his smirk faltered, just slightly, when you met his eyes through the crowd. Just a flicker of hesitation, not nearly enough to mean anything.
And Severus—he hadn’t even checked on you or Lily. Had just gathered his things, shoved past, and disappeared without a word. As if you were strangers. As if you hadn’t defended him through everything, stood by him through the stares and the whispers and the accusations. That had hurt almost more than the prank itself.
Now, back at school, you can feel the ghosts of that moment hanging over you like a stormcloud. People stare a bit too long. The Marauders laugh a bit too loudly. And Severus Snape? He barely looks your way.
“Still no word from him?” you ask Lily as you head toward Gryffindor Tower.
She doesn’t answer at first. Her fingers tighten around the strap of her bag.
“No,” she says finally. “Not all summer.”
You don’t have to ask who she means.
You try to be angry on her behalf, and part of you is. But there’s another part that aches quietly. For the way he used to sit with you in the library, dark eyes flicking over potion texts while he muttered about new brewing methods. For the way he used to smirk when you caught him scribbling notes about you and Lily in the margins of his books. That Severus is gone now.
And maybe he never really existed.
—
James hasn’t made eye contact with you once since the start-of-term feast.
It’s been a week.
You’ve seen him, obviously. Hard not to. He’s still surrounded by Sirius and Peter and Remus at every meal, still has that same tousled hair and the same lazy slouch in his chair. But something’s…off. His usual grinning entrances into the Great Hall are now subdued, hands shoved in his pockets, eyes scanning the room like he’s looking for someone and hoping they won’t be there.
You.
You’d be lying if you said you weren’t enjoying it, at least a little. Watching the arrogant king of Gryffindor stumble down from his throne.
You breeze past him in the corridor one morning on your way to Charms. He opens his mouth—maybe to say something, maybe not—but you don’t even glance his way. Lily follows your lead, nose in the air.
“Alright,” you hear Sirius mutter behind you, “this is getting ridiculous. James, either talk to her or get over it. You’re acting like a bloody widow,”
“She hates me,” James says, voice low. “She’s not even mad. She’s just done. I dunno what’s worse,”
You smile to yourself, just slightly. Good.
—
Up in the Gryffindor dormitory, James lies flat on his back on his bed, arm flung over his face. The ceiling above him is cracked in one corner. He’s counted it eleven times already this morning.
Peter sits cross-legged at the foot of his bed, munching on a Chocolate Frog, eyes darting between the cards and James like he’s trying to decide which is more interesting.
“You could write her a letter,” Peter suggests, voice sticky with sugar.
James groans. “Right. To my mortal enemy, Sorry I dumped potion slime all over your head while I was trying to humiliate your best friend’s other best friend. Let’s start over?”
Peter winces. “Maybe…leave that bit out,”
“She wouldn’t read it anyway,”
Peter shrugs. “She used to laugh at your jokes. Remember? Even the stupid ones,”
James doesn’t answer. Of course he remembers. He remembers everything.
He remembers the way you used to sit in the common room with your legs tucked under you, books open on your lap, tongue between your teeth while you annotated the margins. He remembers how you used to call him “Potter” with that infuriating mix of fondness and disdain that made his heart beat faster every time.
He remembers the look in your eyes when the prank went wrong.
The fury. The betrayal.
James had thought he was being clever. That if he embarrassed Snape enough in front of the whole school, he’d finally back off. But the spell had ricocheted. The charm had caught your robe instead. He still sees the greenish film spreading across your chest like a bruise. Still hears the goat-bleat echoing in the courtyard, followed by laughter.
His laughter.
He hates himself for it.
—
You, on the other hand, have compartmentalised. Perfectly. Efficiently.
James Potter is a chapter closed and buried. Along with the rest of the Marauders.
You sit in the common room now with Lily, the two of you pretending to focus on your Transfiguration homework. Your quill taps idly against the parchment as Lily doodles swirls in the margins of her notes.
“Do you think he regrets it?” she asks suddenly, so quietly you barely hear.
You look up. “Who?”
She doesn’t need to answer.
You sigh, then shrug. “Maybe. But that doesn’t mean anything.”
You flinch slightly at the name. Sev. It feels wrong now. Like it belongs to someone else. A memory.
“Because he’s a coward,” you say before you can stop yourself.
Lily’s mouth tightens, but she doesn’t disagree.
You both sit in silence after that. The only sound is the crackle of the fire and the distant chatter of younger students. Across the room, James walks in, Sirius at his side. They’re laughing about something, but James glances your way out of instinct.
You don’t give him the satisfaction of looking back.
Lily does, though. Just briefly. You see her shoulders tense.
“They’ve got no idea what it’s like,” she mutters. “To be mocked for something you can’t change. To have your friends abandon you,”
You nod. Your chest is tight.
You’ve stopped expecting apologies.
—
You notice the change almost immediately.
For weeks, James Potter had been sulking through classes like a ghost, his usual antics replaced by a quiet brooding that honestly would’ve been refreshing if it weren’t so pitiful. He stopped hexing quills to fly out of people’s hands during lectures. Stopped charming the stairs to vanish underneath unsuspecting Slytherins. Even his hair seemed less windswept—as if it too had given up.
You’d assumed he’d stay that way, at least for the rest of the term.
But then, he started whispering again.
Not to you, of course. But to Sirius, and Remus, and Peter—heads huddled close together during meals, parchment slipped between sleeves, expressions ranging from mischievous to manic. It wasn’t like before, when they were preparing to flood the Potions corridor with foam or levitate someone’s trousers during Charms. This was different. Focused. Secretive.
You tried not to care.
Lily, however, did care—if only because it meant the boys were creeping around the library more than usual, and the library was her sanctuary.
You catch them one Tuesday evening, seated behind a massive stack of spell theory books in the far corner. You and Lily had claimed the table next to theirs an hour earlier, mid-revision session for Transfiguration.
At first, you barely noticed them.
Then Peter’s voice piped up, too excited for library etiquette: “What about the Infiltrators? Sounds mysterious,”
You and Lily exchanged a look.
Sirius’s voice followed, a drawling whisper. “That sounds like a weird disease, Pete,”
You peeked around the side of the bookshelf. James had his feet propped on the table, quill balanced between his teeth, a large sheet of parchment stretched in front of him and several open books littered around them.
You catch part of the title of one: Obscure Etymologies for the Crafting of Secret Societies.
Lily rolled her eyes hard enough that it was practically audible.
You nudged her with your foot and leaned in to whisper, “Should we tell Madam Pince they’re desecrating her precious archives?”
“I’d rather let her catch them herself. She’ll have them in body bags,”
From the boys’ table came another suggestion—Remus, this time: “What about The Cartographers?”
James let out a noise that was either a scoff or a dying bird.
“Sounds like we do geography homework for fun,”
You tuned them out after that. Or tried to.
Lily muttered something about “bloody egos,” and you bit your tongue to keep from laughing.
—
The name came to them at some point. Whatever they were using it for.
You heard it floating through the common room one night, spoken with reverence and entirely too much smug satisfaction.
“The Marauders,” James said, as if the words were dipped in gold.
You didn’t even have to look up from your essay to picture the smirk on his face.
“Marauders,” Sirius echoed, testing the syllables like a fine wine.
Peter clapped once. “It sounds cool, right? Like, sneaky but heroic,”
They kept repeating it over the next few days—dropping it casually in conversation, testing how it felt in different tones. “The Marauders are on the case!” “A Marauder never reveals his secrets.” “Marauders strike again!”
You were ready to strangle the next person who said it.
—
To their credit, the Marauders were quieter during first term.
Still obnoxious, still immature, but... less destructive. The chaos was channeled, somehow. It wasn’t hard to guess why.
You’d seen flashes of it: Sirius sneaking down the hallway with a blank bit of parchment that shimmered slightly when light hit it wrong. Peter nicking ink bottles from Slughorn’s storage cupboard. James with his head bent over notebooks, muttering complex layering spells to himself under his breath. Remus dragging obscure books from the Restricted Section with quiet urgency.
You didn’t know what they were building, but it had consumed them.
—
Down in the boys’ dormitory, the table between their beds had turned into a miniature workshop. Spells layered over spells, charms that blinked with gold threads, parchment that wouldn’t burn, ink that shimmered under moonlight.
“It’s going to work,” James said one night, eyes gleaming as he tapped his wand to the corner of the map. The ink curled outward like a vine, sketching the curve of a hallway before fading into nothing. “We just have to link the tracking enchantment.”
Remus looked skeptical. “Easier said than done. We need an anchor charm. Something alive, but unobtrusive,”
“A fly?” Peter offered.
Sirius shook his head. “Too small. What if it gets squashed?”
James grinned. “What about... our own magical signatures?”
Remus blinked. “You want to bind our magic to the map?”
“Only a little bit,” James said quickly. “Not like... dangerous amounts. Just enough to trace the field,”
Peter chewed his lip. “Is that even possible?”
James shrugged. “We’ll find out,”
—
It became their mission. Their purpose.
James Potter, who’d spent the start of term a sulking husk of his former self, was suddenly alive again. Energised. He woke up early to test linking spells. Stayed up late reading enchantment theory. He stopped doodling hearts with your initials in the margins of his notes, which honestly, you were thrilled about. And annoyed. But mostly thrilled.
Even Sirius, who never took anything seriously, became laser-focused.
“You’ve got to see this part,” he said to Peter one night, pointing at a new feature he’d scribbled in—secret passages that didn’t exist on the school’s official floorplans. “We can get to Honeydukes without stepping foot outside,”
Remus muttered, “Just what we need—more sugar-induced psychosis,”
“Says you, Remus,” Sirius said. “You eat more chocolate than the rest of us combined,”
Remus hesitated, then smiled. “Yeah, so what?”
—
Meanwhile, you and Lily continued your crusade of ignoring them with all the dignity of queens holding court above a gaggle of jester-boys.
Every time you caught them sneaking past curfew or darting behind tapestries, you gave Lily a look that said they’re up to something. And every time, she gave you one right back that said don’t you dare get involved.
You didn’t plan to. Honestly. You had better things to do.
Like pass your O.W.L.s. Like figure out whether or not Severus Snape was officially dead to you (you were leaning yes). Like convincing Lily that “Slug Club” was just code for “favouritism with snacks.”
Still, you couldn’t help the curiosity that crept in. The Marauders were quiet. Too quiet. And whatever they were building down in their dormitory was clearly working, because they hadn’t been caught out after curfew once since term began.
One night in the common room, Lily leaned over her Arithmancy chart and muttered, “Whatever they’re doing, they’re getting good at it.”
You frowned. “And somehow, I hate them more for it.”
—
In the boys’ dorm, James beamed at the glowing outline of the final blueprint. He tapped the parchment twice, and the lines shimmered with silver.
“We solemnly swear that we are up to no good.”
The ink shifted.
Names appeared on the parchment in miniature script, dotting across the halls of Hogwarts. Tiny footprints trailed behind each one. Students in the library. Peeves floating near the Astronomy Tower. Filch in the dungeons. Madam Pomfrey in the Hospital Wing.
And four tiny dots in Gryffindor Tower.
Peter stared. “It’s working,”
Remus whispered, “It’s really working,”
Sirius whooped, grabbing James by the shoulders. “You bloody genius! We’re legends!”
And in the corner of the parchment, four names bloomed in curling letters.
Messrs. Lupin, Pettigrew, Black, and Potter, purveyors of aids to magical mischief-makers…
“...are proud to present,” James whispered. “The Marauder’s Map,”
Sirius grinned, and Peter threw his arms in the air like they’d just won the Quidditch Cup.
Remus just sat back, watching them, a small smile tugging at his mouth.
“We did it,” he said quietly. “No more guesswork. No more getting caught,”
“No more fun getting ruined by bloody rules,” Sirius said.
James stared down at the parchment, the gold-glinting trails of names and rooms. For the first time in months, he felt right. Like he had direction. Like he was moving forward.
He thought of you. The way your eyes had hardened that day in the courtyard. The way you hadn’t looked at him in weeks.
He couldn’t fix what he’d done.
But at least now, he was building something that mattered.
—
Christmas came and went, bringing snow-dusted corridors, hot butterbeer in the common room, and an awkward quiet between you and everyone who wasn’t Lily.
James was gone for the break, whisked away to his parents’ stately manor for two weeks of holiday cheer and quiet sulking. Sirius had joined him, which wasn’t a surprise. Remus returned home to his mother’s cottage near the forest. Peter went somewhere with too many cousins.
You stayed at Hogwarts. So did Lily.
It wasn’t so bad. The castle was emptier, the air colder, the stars clearer at night. You and Lily took long walks through the frost-bitten greenhouses, played chess by the fire, avoided talking about them. It was the kind of peace Hogwarts rarely offered. It helped. A little.
But when the new term started, James came back... off.
Not angry. Not loud. Just—flat.
Even the others noticed.
“You alright, mate?” Peter asked the second night back, poking James with the tip of a Sugar Quill.
James gave a one-shouldered shrug and kept scribbling in the corner of the nearly-finished map. “Fine,”
But his eyes weren’t lit up like they had been in October. The Marauder’s Map was nearly complete—ink shimmering with spells layered so thick they practically pulsed when touched. They had built something brilliant, yes. But now it was done. The project that had distracted James from his guilt, from you, from everything... was suddenly over.
And he looked lost again.
—
Remus brought it up during one of their late-night meetings in the dormitory.
“He’s spiralling,” he said, glancing at James, who had fallen asleep at his desk with parchment stuck to his cheek.
Sirius nodded grimly. “Needs something new to obsess over. Something big,”
Peter, nibbling on a licorice wand, frowned. “We can’t just keep inventing stuff forever,”
Sirius looked thoughtful. “What if we didn’t invent something new?”
Remus raised a brow. “Do not say what I think you’re about to say,”
“I mean, come on—” Sirius leaned in, lowering his voice. “What if we finally did it?”
“...Did what?” Peter blinked.
“The Animagus transformation.”
The silence that followed was immediate and electric.
They’d talked about it for years. Since second year, really, when they’d first pieced together Remus’s secret. They weren’t stupid—not with the strange disappearances each month, the hospital wing visits, the sudden excuses. And once he’d finally told them, the reaction had been unanimous.
We want to help.
Not just in words, but in action. If Remus turned into something terrifying every full moon, then they would too. That had been the plan. It was just that... the process was terrifying, incredibly dangerous, and strictly illegal. Even Slughorn wouldn’t touch it. They’d promised they’d wait—until they were smarter, stronger, more careful.
But maybe waiting had become an excuse.
Sirius cleared his throat. “We’ve done our research. We know every step.”
Remus sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “Are you serious?”
“Always. Literally,”
Peter frowned. “It’s dangerous.”
“It’s badass,” Sirius corrected.
James stirred then, head still on the parchment. He blinked up at them blearily. “What’s badass?”
Sirius looked him square in the eyes. “We’re going to become Animagi.”
For a moment, James just stared. Then—something sparked in his eyes. The first real light since before the holidays.
“You’re serious?” he asked.
“That’s my name alright,” Sirius wiggled his eyebrows. “You guys really just keep handing me that joke,”
Peter groaned. “Every time.”
But James was smiling—really smiling—for the first time in weeks.
And just like that, the Marauders had a new mission.
—
They started the process immediately.
The first step? Keeping a Mandrake leaf in your mouth for an entire month. That meant from full moon to full moon, no swallowing, no spitting it out—not even during meals. If the leaf was lost, the whole process had to start again.
It was unpleasant, to say the least.
James nearly swallowed his on day three after Sirius made a joke during breakfast. Peter dropped his in the sink while brushing his teeth. Sirius almost sneezed his into his cauldron during Potions. Still, they persisted.
And the strangest part? The castle noticed.
Not the professors—not really. But the students did. The Marauders were quiet.
They stopped arguing in the corridors. Stopped loudly mocking Filch. They were—god forbid—well-behaved.
You noticed immediately.
“They’re up to something,” you said flatly as you watched them walk silently into Transfiguration one morning.
Lily glanced up from her notes. “They haven’t pranked anyone in weeks.”
“Exactly.”
Peter coughed and immediately turned red. James flicked a finger at his sleeve and whispered something that sounded suspiciously like a warning. They slid into their seats, saying nothing.
You and Lily shared a look.
“I don’t trust it,” you muttered.
—
Over the next few weeks, the boys carried out the enchantments meticulously.
They followed every instruction in the old Animagus guides they’d managed to find (and smuggle) from the Restricted Section.
First came the potion.
After the Mandrake leaf, they had to spit it into a crystal phial under the full moon’s light. Then came the ingredients: one of their own hairs, a silver teaspoon of untouched dew, and the chrysalis of a Death's-head Hawk Moth.
Tracking all of that down was... not easy.
Sirius broke into Greenhouse Seven. James used the map to avoid Filch while collecting dew before dawn. Peter found the moths in the attic. Remus handled the potion prep. It took weeks. They hid the phials under loose floorboards, dark closets, enchanted drawers—anything safe and undisturbed.
Miraculously, the first attempt actually worked.
Each of them had a phial filled with a swirling, dark red liquid. Their magic—ancient and wild—had started to settle.
But there was still more to do.
—
For the transformation to succeed, they had to wait for a lightning storm.
Which meant more waiting. Waiting and chanting.
Every morning at sunrise, and every evening at sunset, they placed their wands over their hearts and whispered the same incantation.
Amato Animo Animato Animagus.
Again. And again. And again.
Some days it felt like nothing.
Some days it felt like everything.
James was the first to feel it—the strange flutter beneath his wand. A second heartbeat.
“Felt it last night,” he whispered one evening. “Faint. Like... something was waking up.”
Remus nodded. “That’s good. That’s how you know it’s working,”
“Do we tell anyone?” Peter asked.
Sirius looked scandalised. “Tell people we’re illegally transforming into animals? Absolutely not.”
James smiled faintly. “This is for us.”
And it was.
—
You, meanwhile, grew increasingly suspicious.
They skipped breakfast. Showed up late to class. Never spoke to anyone except themselves.
“Okay,” you said to Lily one morning as the boys disappeared out the portrait hole before the sun had even properly risen. “I need to know what they’re doing,”
Lily yawned. “Still think they’re just inventing some new prank,”
“It’s too quiet. That’s not their style,”
“I’m not saying I care,” Lily said, tying her hair up in a ribbon, “but if they blow up another corridor and we’re caught in the crossfire, I will personally hex James Potter into the next century,”
You smiled. “Can I help?”
“Absolutely,”
But no matter how carefully you watched them, they gave away nothing.
Whatever the Marauders were doing—it was secret, strange, and somehow important.
And James Potter? He looked... alive again.
—
In the boys’ dorm that night, lightning lit the windows.
A storm had finally come.
James stood, heart pounding, phial in hand.
Remus lit the candles. Sirius double-checked the warding spells on the door. Peter wrung his hands, nervously glancing between his friends.
James took a deep breath and uncorked the bottle.
The potion shimmered. Glowed.
Now or never.
He raised his wand. Placed it over his chest.
“Amato Animo Animato Animagus.”
Then he drank.
His transformation wasn’t elegant. It wasn’t smooth. It was raw. Violent.
One moment, he was standing there with his wand pressed to his heart, eyes wide and wild as he muttered the final incantation. The next, he was writhing, collapsing onto his knees, a horrible crunch of bone and crack of skin echoing through the dormitory.
Sirius would later joke it sounded like he was turning inside-out.
And in a way, he was.
You don’t just shift into something else—you become it. Your magic burns through every nerve, rewriting you, reshaping you.
James’s fingers broke and bent backwards, elongating into thick, sinewy legs. His face tore forward—muscle grinding against bone—as antlers exploded from his skull. He cried out, a ragged, animal sound that made Peter reel back in horror.
But then it was done.
Where James had been, now stood a stag. Tall, sleek, and trembling.
It took a minute before any of the others moved.
Sirius whispered, “Bloody hell.”
And the stag turned his head toward them—eyes still so James, full of wonder and disbelief and pain.
It wasn’t easy, turning back either. James collapsed the moment he was human again, soaked in sweat and shaking from head to toe, teeth chattering.
But he was smiling.
“It works,” he rasped, voice hoarse. “It bloody works,”
Sirius went next.
His transformation wasn’t elegant either—but it was quicker.
He was determined not to scream like James had. But his pride cracked the moment his spine snapped into something long and low and his limbs folded in on themselves. His shout echoed across the dormitory walls as his body shrank, shoulders popping out of their sockets, then back in at impossible angles.
Peter had to look away. Even Remus winced.
When it was over, a large black dog stood panting on the floor—eyes too bright, still feral around the edges.
The dog wagged its tail twice before immediately slipping on the rug and bashing into the nightstand.
Remus snorted. “Still Sirius, then,”
It took longer for Sirius to change back. His concentration kept slipping. But eventually, he returned—flat on his back, grinning madly.
“That was mental.”
“Are you okay?” James asked.
“I think I dislocated something.”
“What?”
“Is there a joint in your spine?”
They laughed, exhausted.
Peter was next.
He hesitated.
He wasn’t brave like James, or fearless like Sirius. He was... Peter. The one they always pulled along, dragged into plans with too many moving pieces and too many ways to fail.
But he wanted this. Needed it.
So he drank the potion. He said the words.
And then he screamed.
His transformation was somehow worse than the others. His body crumpled in on itself—shrinking, folding, compressing. His bones cracked—so loud Sirius thought something had broken permanently. His nose disappeared entirely. Fingers curled into paws. His spine snapped in three separate places.
Then he was gone.
And in his place sat a small, twitching, frightened rat.
He stayed like that for a while. Peter’s magic was... weaker. But they waited. Helped him. Coached him through the terror and the pain.
When he finally returned, he was crying.
But he was one of them.
“You did it, mate,” James said, voice gentle. “You did it.”
Peter hiccuped and nodded, wiping at his eyes with trembling hands.
—
They sat together in silence after that, each of them bruised and aching and wide-eyed.
Four friends.
Four animals.
“Well,” Sirius said eventually, “now we need names,”
James perked up instantly. “Obviously.”
“Wait, wait, wait.” Sirius sat up straighter, despite his spine still crackling ominously. “We have to name ourselves. This is important.”
“Like code names?” Peter asked, voice still shaky.
Sirius nodded. “Exactly,”
“Right,” James said, rubbing at his antler-bruised head. “Let’s think. We need names that fit our forms,”
Sirius looked smug. “I want to be Padfoot.”
Everyone turned to him.
“...Padfoot?” Remus repeated.
Sirius shrugged. “It’s cool. Stealthy. I’m a dog, I pad around. Padfoot.”
James snorted. “Okay, sure.”
“Then I want to be Prongs,” James said without hesitation. “Because, you know—”
“The antlers,” Remus said flatly.
James beamed. “Exactly.”
Peter fidgeted. “I don’t have any names,”
“Hmmm,” James hummed animatedly. “What about Wormtail?”
Sirius looked like he was about to make a joke, but stopped when he saw Peter’s expression.
“You know, because rat tails look like worms?”
Peter nodded. “I guess it fits,”
James clapped him on the back. “It fits. Wormtail it is,”
Remus blinked. “What? No—you lot are the Animagi. I didn’t transform,”
“Yeah,” James said, “but you’re the reason we did it,”
“And besides,” Sirius added, “you’ve been dealing with this moon thing your whole life. You’ve earned the name more than any of us,”
Remus opened his mouth to argue, then closed it.
A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
“Fine,” he said. “Moony, then.”
The Marauders were born that night—not just in name, but in purpose.
They weren’t just pranksters anymore. They were more.
They were a pack.
—
The next morning, you saw them at breakfast.
All four of them, sitting together, nursing mugs of tea with varying degrees of exhaustion on their faces.
James had a bandage on his wrist. Sirius flinched every time someone touched his shoulder. Peter kept blinking, like the sunlight was too much. Remus looked pale—but content.
You stared at them from your spot at the Gryffindor table, narrowing your eyes.
“What did they do?” you muttered.
Lily glanced up, then rolled her eyes. “Knowing them? Built a secret Quidditch pitch or something,”
You weren’t so sure.
There was something different about them.
Not just the injuries, not just the tired eyes. It was in the way they sat closer together. In the way they looked at each other—like they’d done something they weren’t ready to share with anyone else.
But whatever it was, they weren’t saying a word.
Sirius caught your eye across the room. Smirked. Raised his cup.
You gave him the flattest look imaginable in return.
And still—you couldn’t help the whisper of suspicion curling at the back of your mind.
Something had changed.
—
It was only a matter of time.
You felt it before you even saw it—James Potter, shoulders squared, eyes gleaming again, laughter back on his lips. That particular swagger in his step had returned, the one that always meant trouble was brewing somewhere nearby.
He was himself again. Or, at least, the version of himself that drove you absolutely mad.
The Animagus transformation had put a fire back in him, a sort of untouchable pride that shimmered beneath every word he spoke. Barely anyone in wizarding history had pulled it off, and he’d done it at fifteen.
So of course he thought he was invincible now.
You weren’t surprised when the prank came. Honestly, you’d been waiting for it—like watching a thundercloud slowly form and stretch across the sky.
Still, the sound of Severus’s yell was enough to twist something sharp in your chest.
You turned the corner just in time to see him hanging upside down in the middle of the courtyard, robes flapping over his head, pale legs flailing embarrassingly in the air. He was trying to reach his wand, which had fallen somewhere below—but he couldn’t grab it.
James was standing a few feet away, wand raised, grinning like the entire thing was some hilarious spectacle.
The worst part? People were laughing.
Not just the Marauders. Actual students. Fourth years. Sixth years. Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws alike. Even a couple professors on the far end hadn’t noticed yet, or maybe they had and just didn’t want to intervene.
“Look at him!” Sirius was practically doubled over, clutching his sides. “He’s like a flobberworm caught on a hook—”
“Didn’t even have to cast a full charm,” James added. “He was halfway in the air before I finished the spell—”
“James!” Lily’s voice cut through the courtyard like a whip.
You saw his wand falter just slightly.
You were right behind her, the same tightness coiled in your gut as the last time—when they'd done this before, last year, with a laugh and a cruel joke and no thought to who got dragged down with it.
Severus might’ve distanced himself, but he’d been your friend. He’d been Lily’s. He’d sat next to you in every Herbology class and made dry comments that made you bite back a laugh. He’d whispered spells under his breath so you could double-check your pronunciation. He’d cared.
And now… he was this. This punchline.
“Put him down,” you snapped.
James hesitated. “Look, he—”
“Now.”
His smirk wavered. Just for a second. You saw it in his eyes—that moment of recognition, of guilt. Like last year was suddenly at the front of his mind again, bright and bloody. Like you standing there, furious and unamused, was enough to make him second-guess himself.
But before he could even lower his wand—
“I don’t need help from a Mudblood,” Severus spat from the air, voice heavy with venom, “or her stupid shadow.”
The silence was immediate.
Sharp. Cold.
The courtyard might as well have frozen over.
You felt Lily go still beside you.
You didn’t move. You didn’t breathe. Not for a moment.
Your vision tunneled—eyes locked on Severus, who was still flailing a bit, but with far more hatred than fear now. His gaze was fixed on you and Lily, wild and narrowed. His face was red, twisted with something that looked like rage and shame and wounded pride all at once.
He meant it.
You blinked.
And whatever lingering thread of respect, of friendship, of understanding you’d been clinging to—snapped clean in two.
Lily didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.
You grabbed her wrist, gently, and turned away.
You didn’t look back.
Not at James, not at Severus. Not at the crowd still watching, slowly beginning to murmur as the tension cracked and started to buzz.
You and Lily walked away, heads high.
But you could feel the weight of the moment settling like dust on your skin.
It wasn’t just about a prank anymore.
It hadn’t been for a while.
—
You sat with Lily by the lake later that afternoon, knees drawn up to your chest as you stared out at the grey water. The wind had picked up—cool and biting—and the trees across the shore swayed like they were whispering secrets between their branches.
Neither of you had spoken since leaving the courtyard.
Eventually, Lily broke the silence.
“I knew he was angry,” she said quietly. “I knew he was hurting. But I didn’t think he’d… say that.”
You didn’t respond.
She rubbed at her eyes with the sleeve of her jumper, then quickly dropped her hand again like she was embarrassed.
“Thanks,” she added.
“For what?”
“For walking away. For not… for not making me say anything. I couldn’t.”
You nodded.
There wasn’t anything to say, really.
Severus had made his choice. And he’d made it loud enough for the whole school to hear.
—
James was standing frozen.
Severus had fallen the second his concentration broke—crumpling onto the cobblestones with a groan. He’d scrambled for his wand, muttered some ugly retort under his breath, and stormed off before anyone could stop him.
The crowd was still there, some people chuckling nervously, others pretending they hadn’t found any of it funny at all.
But James wasn’t laughing.
Not anymore.
He barely even noticed when Sirius tried to get his attention.
“Mate? Hello? Earth to Prongs?”
James flinched like someone had slapped him.
“That…” he muttered. “That wasn’t funny.”
Peter frowned. “Which part?”
“The whole thing, Wormtail!”
He spun on his heel and took off, legs moving before his brain had fully caught up with what he was doing.
—
You heard your name being called before you saw him.
He skidded to a stop by the tree line near the lake, breathless and flushed and looking more like a boy than you’d ever seen him.
“I just—wait—can I say something?” James asked, voice half a gasp, hands up like he was ready to get hexed.
You stared at him. Lily stayed seated.
He swallowed.
“I’m sorry.”
You didn’t say anything. Let him flail.
“I mean really sorry,” he went on. “Not like a passing, 'oops I was a dick’ sort of sorry, but—actual—I’ve been thinking about this all year sorry.”
You arched a brow.
He ran a hand through his hair, agitated. “I know you don’t want to hear it. And honestly, if I were you, I wouldn’t either. I was a complete arse last year. I didn’t think. I didn’t care what happened to you or Lily—I was just showing off.”
“Obviously,” you muttered.
“But I do care. I do,” he insisted. “And I should’ve said it before. I should’ve apologised last year, properly. Not just some joke or half-effort.”
Lily finally stood.
James blinked, like he hadn’t expected her to move.
“What Severus said,” he continued, turning to her, “was disgusting. There’s no excuse for it. I’m sorry that you had to hear that. And I promise—if I ever hear it again, from anyone, I’ll hex them until they can’t speak anymore.”
She didn’t reply, but she nodded stiffly.
James stepped back then, gaze flicking between the two of you.
“I’ll leave you alone now,” he said. “I get it. You don’t want anything to do with me. Or any of us. But I just—needed you to know I’m sorry.”
And then he turned and left, hands shoved into his pockets, head bowed slightly.
You and Lily stood in silence for a long time.
Eventually, you said, “He meant it, d’you think?”
Lily exhaled slowly. “I think he did.”
You looked out at the lake again. The wind had softened.
James suddenly discovers that girls exist. And then seems to realise that you are one.
eventual james x fem!reader | 6.0k | series masterlist.
main masterlist.
CW | marauders are cocky little shits ofc, james is an obnoxious flirt, the marauders humiliate severus (and unintentionally lily and reader) in public
The September sun was weak and golden, casting a lazy glow over the Hogwarts grounds as students spilled out of carriages and onto the familiar stone steps of the castle.
The air was thick with the chatter of summer stories—trips abroad, new broomsticks, and fleeting first kisses on starlit beaches. The scent of warm earth clung to the castle walls, a final breath of summer before the Scottish chill crept in.
You stood with Lily and Severus near the edge of the crowd, half-listening as Lily recounted the letters she’d exchanged with Dorcas over the break.
The two had written back and forth nearly every week, mostly sharing trivial gossip about mutual friends and the latest Which Broomstick articles. But despite Lily’s cheerful recounting, you were more focused on Severus, whose face was carefully blank.
You recognised the expression by now—it was the mask he wore when he didn’t want you or Lily to see how much something bothered him. His eyes kept flickering over toward the clumps of Gryffindor boys, his lips pressed into a hard, flat line. You didn’t need to ask who he was looking at.
You spotted them easily enough—James and Sirius in the center of it all, their laughter carrying over the hum of the crowd. Peter shuffled after them, nearly tripping over his own feet in his effort to keep up, and Remus walked slightly behind, hands in his pockets, eyes darting around as though half-hoping to be ignored.
And they were different. Taller. Broader. Their voices richer with the remnants of a summer spent outside, and something about the way they carried themselves had shifted, as if they suddenly knew their presence mattered.
James, in particular, was different. The boy who had spent the past three years as an insufferable menace—the one who had hexed your bag to spew out a swarm of singing paper cranes in the middle of Potions—now strolled through the crowd with a maddening sort of confidence.
His hair was still a mess, but now it looked intentional, as though he’d spent time ruffling it into disarray. His tie hung slightly loose around his neck, giving him a roguish look, and he slung his broomstick over his shoulder with all the casual grace of a boy who knew everyone was watching.
And everyone was watching.
A few fifth-year girls by the doors were giggling into their hands, stealing glances in his direction. Even Marlene, who had always been sharp-tongued and disinterested in school gossip, tilted her head slightly as the boys passed, her eyes briefly lingering on them before she smirked and nudged Dorcas with her elbow. The two exchanged a glance that made your stomach turn sour.
“Since when did they become the heartthrobs of the castle?” you muttered under your breath, half to Lily, half to yourself.
Lily’s green eyes narrowed slightly. “Since they realised girls exist, apparently.” Her tone was dry, but you could tell she was just as irritated as you were.
James caught your eye as he passed. His grin widened. With an exaggerated flick of his wrist, he tossed his broomstick from one hand to the other, showing off his reflexes. It was a ridiculous, peacocking display, but he looked irritatingly pleased with himself as he strolled by.
“Looking forward to the first Quidditch match, then?” he called out, though he was clearly speaking to you. His voice carried easily over the crowd. “Better get a good seat, might see me break a record or two,”
You glared at him. “I’ll be sure to bring my sick bucket, just in case the show makes me ill,”
Sirius barked a laugh. “Oh, she’s missed you, James. I can tell,”
James didn’t respond right away. He just kept looking at you, his hazel eyes glittering with amusement, as though your snark was the highlight of his day.
You turned back toward Lily and Severus, deliberately ignoring him.
But the exchange seemed to satisfy him.
—
The Great Hall was louder than ever that evening. The enchanted ceiling mirrored the dusky lavender sky, dotted with early evening stars. You sat at the far end of the Gryffindor table with Lily, Dorcas, and Marlene. Severus was over at the Slytherin table, his face half-hidden behind a curtain of black hair as he bent over his meal, avoiding any and all attention.
You could feel the heat of James’ gaze before you even glanced his way. He was two seats down with Sirius, laughing a little too loudly at a joke Remus had made, occasionally glancing sideways in your direction. When you finally shot him a flat, disinterested look, he didn’t even try to be subtle. He smirked and tilted his head slightly, as if challenging you to keep ignoring him.
It was maddening.
Lily noticed. “You know he’s only doing it because you react,” she muttered, poking at her mashed potatoes.
“I’m not reacting,” you snapped back in a low voice.
“Sure,” Dorcas drawled, not even looking up from her pumpkin juice. “That’s why you’re glaring at him like you want him to burst into flames,”
Marlene snorted. “I wouldn’t blame you if you did, though. He’s bloody annoying,”
You let out a frustrated sigh, shoving a bite of bread into your mouth just to keep yourself from saying something regrettable. The longer you sat there, the more it grated on you—James’ easy confidence, the way Sirius whispered something in his ear that made him glance over at you again, both of them grinning like idiots.
Your fingers tightened around your fork.
“Unbelievable,” you muttered.
The bread was dry in your mouth, sticking unpleasantly to the roof of your mouth. You forced it down with a gulp of pumpkin juice. You were halfway through formulating a perfectly scathing glare when James’ voice rang out across the table.
“Oi, McKinnon!” he called out suddenly. “You coming to the pitch tomorrow? Early practice. Gotta keep the team sharp if we’re going to destroy Slytherin,”
Marlene raised a brow but nodded, clearly amused. “Bright and early, Potter,”
James grinned. His eyes flicked back toward you. “You should come too,” he said, voice light and teasing. “You could watch me practice. Might even dedicate a goal to you,”
It was such a pompous, ridiculous thing to say, you actually let out a laugh—but it was cold, sharp, and entirely without humour.
“Right,” you drawled, your voice dripping with disdain. “Because that would be such an honour,”
Dorcas snickered into her goblet, but James seemed unfazed. In fact, his grin widened, as though he was utterly delighted by your scorn.
You scowled and turned back toward your plate.
“That boy,” you muttered, stabbing your carrots with more force than necessary, “is going to drive me mad.”
Lily cast you a sideways glance, the corner of her mouth twitching faintly. “You do know you’re giving him exactly what he wants, right?”
You scowled. “What he wants is a concussion,”
Marlene let out a low chuckle, but from the corner of your eye, you caught James still watching you—head propped in his hand, wearing a lopsided smirk that made your stomach twist with irritation.
And yet, you could feel the heat rising to your cheeks. Stupid traitorous blood vessels.
—
The next few weeks at Hogwarts passed in a blur of early autumn mornings and late-night study sessions, but James made it his personal mission to remain a consistent, inescapable thorn in your side.
No matter where you went—whether it was rushing to Transfiguration, trying to concentrate in the library, or simply walking to the Great Hall—he was always there, hovering on the edge of your awareness.
And always, always, with that insufferable smirk.
At first, you chalked it up to him being bored.
That was the only logical explanation.
James and his friends had been tormenting you, Lily, and Severus for the past three years—hexing Severus’ cauldron to bubble over, charming your quills to squawk like chickens mid-essay, or charming your bag to fly around the classroom, spilling ink all over your notes. So, of course, this new fixation was just another game. Another way to irritate you.
But then he didn’t stop.
If anything, it escalated.
You were coming out of Charms one afternoon when you heard his voice—loud and overly casual—float down the corridor.
“Hey, did you see that Wronski Feint during practice?” he announced to no one in particular, but you immediately knew the performance was for your benefit. You stiffened as you walked by, but James’ voice carried on, deliberately and obnoxiously. “No? You should really pay more attention. Could’ve sworn you were watching me,”
You didn’t slow your stride or glance in his direction. You simply kept walking, grinding your teeth.
The next day, you spotted him leaning against the doorframe outside the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom. His tie was loose around his neck, and he was running his fingers through his hair in that deliberately careless way you were starting to recognize as his signature move. It was so predictable now that you could practically count down in your head before he did it.
Three… two… one—
“Oh, this?” he said loudly when you walked by, tugging at a lock of his untamed hair. “Yeah, just got off my broom. Early morning practice. You know how it is—gotta be the best on the field, after all,”
You turned your head sharply, fixing him with a withering glare. “Is that what you tell yourself to make up for the fact that you’re insufferable off the field?”
For a brief moment, you saw James’ eyes flash with surprise, as though he hadn’t expected you to bite back so quickly. But then the corners of his mouth quirked upward, clearly thrilled.
You stalked off before he could fire back with some infuriatingly cocky retort, but you could practically feel his grin at your back.
—
It wasn’t just the hallways. You were convinced he was orchestrating it now—finding ways to place himself in your line of sight or to make sure his voice reached your ears.
In Potions, he made a show of stretching as he walked past your table, rolling his shoulders like he was nursing a Quidditch injury, despite the fact that you were fairly certain Gryffindor hadn’t had practice in two days.
“Ugh, strained my shoulder last match,” he announced to no one in particular, though his eyes flickered in your direction. “Happens when you carry the whole team, you know?”
Dorcas, who was hunched over her cauldron beside you, snorted so quietly you nearly missed it. She glanced at you from the corner of her eye, the ghost of a smirk tugging at her lips.
You gripped your stirring rod a little too tightly, turning the ingredients with more force than necessary.
“Do you think if we hexed his lips shut he’d still find a way to talk?” you muttered under your breath.
Dorcas’ eyes glimmered with mischief. “Oh, definitely. He’d probably find a way to mime his Quidditch stats,”
You let out a sharp, unrestrained laugh, drawing the attention of the students around you. When you glanced up, you found James watching you. His hazel eyes had a glimmer of something warm in them—something that caught you off guard, if only for a moment.
But then he winked.
Your face immediately hardened. You turned back to your cauldron with a scowl, ignoring the strange, uncomfortable heat building in your chest.
—
It didn’t stop.
By the time the third week rolled around, James’ antics had grown so frequent and shameless that Lily had taken to audibly groaning whenever he opened his mouth in your vicinity.
“Honestly, does he think it’s subtle?” she muttered to you one evening as the two of you made your way to the library. “It’s embarrassing,”
You didn’t even have the energy to argue. You were too busy fuming about the incident from earlier that day when James had dramatically “dedicated” his goal during a Quidditch scrimmage to you in front of half the school.
Now, as you and Lily made your way toward the library, you could still hear his voice in your head, all dripping arrogance and showmanship.
You were mid-rant when Lily suddenly came to a stop, glancing over your shoulder with a grimace. You followed her gaze—and there he was again.
James was sauntering down the corridor toward you with Sirius at his side. His hands were tucked casually into his pockets, and he was saying something that made Sirius snicker under his breath. The two of them were a walking embodiment of cocky, lazy confidence, and it made your blood boil.
James caught sight of you and, predictably, his entire face lit up. He slowed his stride, falling slightly behind Sirius so he could meet your eyes as he passed.
“Hey,” he drawled, casual as ever, with that infuriating half-grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Just heading back from the pitch. Did you catch the scrimmage? Thought of you, y’know. Every goal,”
You leveled him with a look of pure disdain.
“Funny,” you said, voice laced with false sweetness. “Every time I see you, I think about throwing myself into the Black Lake. But you don’t see me announcing it, do you?”
For the first time in weeks, James actually seemed momentarily stunned into silence. His eyes widened slightly before his lips parted in surprise, and for the briefest of moments, you saw something flash behind his eyes—something oddly genuine, like he was genuinely caught off guard by how cutting you could be.
Then, to your utter disbelief, he laughed. A low, warm sound that made your stomach clench with irritation.
“I like you,” he said, far too sincerely for your liking. “You’ve got fire,”
And then he was walking away, still grinning to himself, while you stood there, fists clenched at your sides, your heart hammering far too quickly for someone who was supposed to be unimpressed.
Lily arched a brow. “You sure you’re not reacting?”
You glared at her.
“Shut up.”
—
It happened right before Christmas.
You remembered that because it was the first properly cold morning of the term—the kind that bit at your skin and left the stone corridors of the castle slick with condensation. You had been walking with Lily and Severus down the main courtyard steps, talking idly about your latest Charms assignment. The courtyard was crowded, full of students making their way toward the greenhouses or heading down to the lake before the weather grew too bitter.
You had been halfway through complaining about Flitwick’s unreasonable essay length when it happened.
It began with a flash of light—brief, sharp, and disorienting. For a second, you thought someone had simply cast a Lumos a little too enthusiastically. But then you heard the noise.
A loud, high-pitched squealing filled the air. It was shrill and almost cartoonish, like the sound of a pig being chased around a farmyard. You froze, confused, your eyes darting around for the source of the noise. And then you saw him.
Severus.
Your stomach plummeted.
He was standing several feet away from you, trembling slightly. His wand had been knocked from his hand and lay several feet behind him in the damp grass. His face—no, his entire head—was unrecognisable.
In place of his hooked nose and sharp cheekbones, his features had morphed grotesquely. His skin was mottled and sagging, and his eyes were comically large and bulging, like a frog’s. His mouth stretched into a wide, drooping line, slurred and drooling at the edges. But worst of all was the sound—every time he opened his mouth, no words came out. Just that hideous, animalistic squealing.
For a moment, you didn’t understand.
Then you saw them.
James and Sirius were several paces away, wands still drawn. Sirius was bent double with laughter, clutching his stomach, while James stood upright, grinning broadly, his eyes alight with the kind of reckless, boyish amusement you had once found so infuriatingly charming.
Your stomach turned.
Severus took a step back, wild-eyed and humiliated, his mutated face flushed with raw, boiling shame. You were already moving toward him, reaching for your wand, your chest tight with anger, when you felt it.
A sudden, powerful whoosh of magic slammed into you.
You heard Lily cry out beside you as the spell hit you both—an obvious bit of collateral damage, careless and incidental. You staggered backward from the force of it, blinking as your vision blurred.
When you wiped at your face with your sleeve, you realised your skin was sticky with a thin, viscous film of potion. It clung to your cheeks and hair, leaving a bitter, chemical taste in your mouth.
You stared down at your hands in shock. The tips of your fingers had turned an unnatural shade of green, the skin puckering slightly as though you’d been submerged in a swamp for hours. You felt your cheeks swell—puffy and numb—and when you glanced at Lily, you saw her frantically scrubbing at her own arms, where iridescent scales were spreading in a glittering patchwork over her skin.
The crowd around you had gone deathly silent. Students were no longer passing by on their way to class. They had stopped. They were watching.
Someone laughed.
It was Sirius.
“Merlin’s balls, Snivelly,” he cackled, doubling over with glee. “I was going for ugly, but you’ve outdone yourself. You look bloody spectacular,”
James snorted beside him, a crooked grin tugging at his lips. “Tough luck, Sev,” he drawled, wand still loosely in his hand.
You felt a sharp jolt in your chest.
It wasn’t just a prank. It wasn’t just childish rivalry. This was cruel. And what was worse—it was public.
Severus was still staggering slightly, blinking furiously, his enormous, frog-like eyes watery with equal parts rage and humiliation. His shoulders were rigid, his hands curled into trembling fists at his sides. You knew that if he could speak, he would be cursing them with every hex he could think of.
Instead, he just stood there. A grotesque, disfigured spectacle.
Your wand was in your hand before you even realised it.
“Finite!” you barked, voice shaking slightly. The spell lifted from your skin in a thin, shimmering mist. The potion residue vanished, but your cheeks were still slick with it, sticky and warm. You spun on your heel, grabbing Lily’s wrist, helping her clean the remaining scales from her arms. Your hands were trembling slightly, but you forced them steady.
When you turned to Severus, you hesitated. Your hands hovered over him uselessly, unsure how to help. You couldn’t reverse the effects with a simple counter-curse—whatever they’d hit him with was complex, possibly potion-based. You clenched your jaw.
Before you could even speak, you heard James’ voice again.
“Relax, he’ll be fine,” he said breezily, waving a hand as if he were dismissing a particularly dull lesson. His tone was light, almost bored, as though it were all just harmless fun. “We were just—”
“Just?”
Your voice rang out louder than you intended, raw and incredulous.
You rounded on him, wand still clenched in your hand, your chest tight with fury. You were dimly aware of Lily standing stiffly beside you, her fists trembling at her sides. Dorcas and Marlene had appeared somewhere in the crowd, their eyes wide, but you were too focused on James to notice.
“Just what, exactly?” you spat. “Just making him a laughingstock in front of the entire school? Just making sure everyone will talk about this for weeks? Just making sure he’ll remember this every time he walks into a room?”
James blinked, clearly startled by the venom in your voice. For a fleeting moment, you saw something flicker behind his eyes—guilt, maybe. Or maybe just surprise at the force of your anger.
But before he could speak, Sirius clapped him on the back and let out a sharp, barking laugh.
You turned sharply to Severus. His breathing was shallow and uneven. His wand was still lying several feet away in the grass, but he didn’t move toward it. He didn’t move at all. His hands were still curled into fists, shaking slightly at his sides, but his eyes—now back to normal, though still rimmed with faint red—were fixed on the ground. Refusing to look at anyone. Refusing to let them see.
You felt something cold and leaden settle in your chest.
You turned back to James and Sirius, trembling with rage, but they were already walking away, laughing to themselves. Laughing.
James’ hand was still casually ruffling his hair as they strolled toward the castle steps, as though nothing had happened. As though the entire incident was a meaningless bit of entertainment.
You felt something twist in your chest—sharp, ugly, and unforgiving.
For the first time, you didn’t just find James Potter irritating.
You hated him.
—
The Gryffindor common room was warm and buzzing with the low hum of evening chatter. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting a dim, golden glow across the room. Groups of students were scattered in their usual spots—some lounging on the worn, oversized armchairs, others cross-legged on the rug, trading Chocolate Frog cards and talking over the sound of a battered wizarding wireless crackling faintly in the corner.
It was the usual cozy, carefree scene. One you might have found comforting, even, if you weren’t still seething.
You stood near the far wall with Lily, your arms crossed tightly over your chest, eyes sharp and unyielding. You hadn’t spoken since you’d entered the room. Neither had Lily. You hadn’t needed to. The quiet, crackling tension between you was louder than any conversation.
Across the room, James sat on the arm of a squashy red sofa, laughing idly at something Sirius had just said. He had shed his outer robes, lounging comfortably in his shirt and tie. His hair was its usual mess, sticking up wildly in every direction, and he ran his fingers through it as he grinned at whatever nonsense Sirius was spouting. His broomstick was propped lazily against the wall behind him, as though he’d just returned from practice and hadn’t even bothered to put it away.
He was relaxed, comfortable—unbothered.
And that made something in you snap.
You didn’t consciously decide to move. You just did. Your feet carried you across the room with swift, deliberate steps, each one driven by the raw, simmering anger that had been building in your chest since that afternoon. You vaguely heard Lily following behind you, but your eyes were locked on James.
The room was still filled with idle conversation, but it dimmed in your ears, muffled and distant, like everything else had blurred except for the space directly in front of you. You came to a sharp stop right in front of him.
James glanced up, momentarily surprised. His grin wavered slightly when he saw the look on your face—hard and cold, all sharp angles and barely restrained fury.
“Potter.”
The casual, easygoing lightness in his eyes flickered, confused by the way you spat his name. He straightened slightly, his fingers still loosely curled around the arm of the sofa, but his grin hadn’t entirely disappeared.
“Hey,” he greeted, still wearing that maddeningly lopsided smile. “What’s—”
“Don’t.” Your voice was low and firm. Sharp enough to cut.
James’ grin faltered. He blinked, slightly caught off guard. Around you, a few people were starting to glance over. Even Sirius’ voice had dimmed slightly, sensing the shift in your tone.
You stared at James, your chest tight, the words already rising in your throat, burning hot and unchecked.
“You think you’re funny?” you asked flatly, your voice low and cold. “You think you’re charming?” Your lips curled in disgust. “You’re an arrogant, cruel bastard who gets off on making everyone else feel smaller.”
The noise in the room dimmed further. Several Gryffindors nearby turned their heads, eyes flickering between you and James. Even Sirius, who had been halfway through a sentence, fell silent, his brow furrowing slightly.
James’ eyes widened faintly at your words. His mouth opened slightly, as though he was about to respond, but you didn’t give him the chance.
“You humiliated Severus today,” you continued, voice cutting through the room like a blade. “Publicly. Deliberately.” Your eyes narrowed, and you felt your throat tighten with the force of your own anger. “You hexed me and Lily, and you didn’t even notice.” You let out a sharp, humorless breath. “Because we were nothing more than collateral damage to you. Because that’s all anyone is to you—pawns in your pathetic little game.”
James’ lips parted slightly. The easy smirk was gone now. His hazel eyes were wide, blinking slightly, caught somewhere between confusion and disbelief.
But you weren’t done.
“You’re not clever,” you hissed. “You’re not funny. You’re not some tragic, misunderstood hero. You’re just a coward with a wand and too much free time.”
For the first time since you’d known him, James Potter didn’t have a comeback.
He was still staring at you, his face oddly still, but his eyes were tight around the edges, his throat bobbing slightly. He opened his mouth once, then closed it again.
“We’re not your entertainment.” Lily stepped forward, her voice steady but cold. Her green eyes were like shards of glass as she looked at James, and when she spoke, there was no warmth left in her voice.
“Not me,” she said slowly, her tone hard and deliberate. “Not her.” She glanced at you briefly, then turned her gaze back to James. “And certainly not Severus.” She took another step closer, her voice barely above a whisper but thick with restrained fury. “Grow the hell up. You’re not a child anymore.”
You saw James’ throat tighten, saw the flicker of something unfamiliar in his eyes. His hands had slipped from the arm of the sofa, falling loosely into his lap, and he was staring at Lily as though she had physically struck him.
And for once, he didn’t say anything.
No glib remark. No boyish grin. No cocky retort.
Just silence.
Around you, the entire common room was still. All eyes were on the two of you. You could feel the weight of the stares—the sudden, suffocating attention pressing in from all sides. You could feel the tension settle heavily in the room, thick and suffocating, like the whole castle was holding its breath.
You stared at James for a moment longer, daring him to speak, daring him to try and laugh it off. But he didn’t. His eyes were on you, wide and unreadable, his lips pressed into a tight, thin line.
“I hope you have the Christmas you deserve.”
You turned sharply on your heel, the blood roaring in your ears, and without another word, you walked out of the common room. You didn’t glance back, but you heard Lily’s steps following closely behind you.
The heavy wooden door swung shut behind you with a dull, resounding thud.
Neither of you spoke as you walked through the dim, winding corridors. Your breath was still shallow with adrenaline, and your hands were trembling slightly, your fingers curled tightly into fists. You didn’t slow your stride, didn’t glance at Lily, didn’t say a word.
But you didn’t need to.
Because the image of James’ face—stunned and silent, stripped of its usual arrogance—was burned into your memory, a hollow ache had settling in your chest.
Not like it had a few weeks ago. No, this was raw unbridled loathing.
—
James Potter had been hexed more times than he could count. He’d had stinging jinxes blast him off his feet, been thrown into the air by poorly aimed levitation charms, and had more than one duel with Sirius that had left him sore and limping for days.
But none of it—not a single curse or hex—had ever landed with the same sharp, breathless impact as your words in the common room.
He sat there for a long time after you and Lily had left. Long after the crowd had dispersed, after the low hum of conversation returned and people pretended they hadn’t just watched Gryffindor’s most popular pranksters get publicly shredded.
James didn’t say a word.
He was still on the edge of the sofa, his elbows braced against his knees, fingers loosely clasped. His eyes were fixed on the carpet, unmoving.
Sirius, who had initially made a few half-hearted quips about your “overreaction,” gradually fell silent. Even he could sense that something was off. After a while, he clapped James once on the back, muttered something about heading up to the dorm, and left.
Remus, who had watched the entire thing with that unreadable, mildly disapproving expression he sometimes wore, simply gave James a brief look before heading upstairs himself.
Peter, sensing the shift, trailed after them.
And then James was alone.
He wasn’t entirely sure how long he sat there, staring at the fire as it crackled low in the grate. His jaw was tight, his hands stiff, but he couldn’t move. The words kept circling in his head, sharp and unyielding.
You’re an arrogant, cruel bastard who gets off on making everyone else feel smaller.
His throat tightened.
He didn’t know why it was bothering him so much. It wasn’t as if he wasn’t used to people being angry with him. Merlin knew plenty of professors were. McGonagall practically had a permanent glare reserved just for him. Even some of the older students rolled their eyes when they saw him and Sirius sauntering down the corridor, up to no good.
But you—you weren’t supposed to be like that.
James had spent years goading you, teasing you, pulling you into his line of fire because he liked watching you fight back. He liked the way your eyes flashed, the sharpness of your wit, the defiance in your voice. You were clever, quick, and infuriating in all the best ways.
He’d always thought you were fun. Even when you scowled and hexed him, even when you spat insults at him, there had always been a part of him that assumed you were playing along.
Because he had been.
But now, sitting alone in the dying firelight, he realised he’d been wrong.
You weren’t playing. You weren’t rolling your eyes with secret amusement or secretly enjoying the banter. You genuinely, sincerely disliked him. Loathed him, even.
And what was worse—he wasn’t entirely sure he could blame you.
—
After the Christmas holidays, James tried to shake it off. He returned to Quidditch practice, flew longer and harder than usual, pushed himself until his muscles burned.
He let Sirius convince him to pull a few small pranks—nothing serious, just minor jinxes that left a few Slytherins stomping down the hallways in a rage—but none of it worked. None of it pulled his mind from the image of you, glaring at him with cold, unrestrained contempt, your voice shaking with fury.
You were avoiding him.
And it was driving him mad.
It wasn’t as though you had ever sought him out before, but he had gotten used to your presence—used to you rolling your eyes whenever he strolled into the common room, used to the exasperated glances you shot him when he launched into some self-congratulatory Quidditch monologue.
But now, you didn’t even look at him.
You walked past him in the corridor without sparing him a glance. You sat at the opposite end of the common room with Lily, Dorcas, and Marlene, your back turned sharply whenever he walked by. When you passed by him on your way to class, you barely acknowledged him, your face hard and impassive.
It was worse than if you had hexed him. Worse than if you had screamed at him.
Because it was deliberate.
He started pulling back without even realising it. His usual attempts to show off—the casually loud mentions of Quidditch practice, the not-so-subtle hair ruffling, the needlessly flashy spellwork—gradually fell away. He stopped making excuses to linger near you, stopped trying to catch your attention with deliberately obnoxious comments.
Instead, he found himself watching you from a distance.
He would glance across the common room at you, quietly studying the way you leaned forward when you were deep in conversation, your brow slightly furrowed in concentration. Or he would spot you walking ahead of him in the corridor and, for some reason, he would slow his pace slightly, watching the way you tucked your hair behind your ear or bit your lip when you were lost in thought.
He didn’t know what he was looking for. Some sign that you weren’t still furious with him, maybe. Some proof that you didn’t completely hate him.
But he never found it.
—
Meanwhile, things with Severus shifted.
You didn’t notice it at first. It was subtle—the way he started keeping his voice lower in the corridors, the way his eyes flickered warily toward passing Gryffindors when the two of you walked together.
But then he started making excuses.
He began skipping your usual study sessions in the library, claiming he had extra Potions work. You caught him slipping away early from the Great Hall during dinner, retreating to the dungeons alone. You asked him twice to meet you by the lake on Saturday, but he mumbled something about needing to help Slughorn with an experiment and left before you could ask again.
And then one day, you saw him walking across the courtyard. Alone.
You were on your way to class with Lily when you spotted him heading toward the castle. He had his bag slung over his shoulder, his hair falling in front of his face, obscuring the sharp lines of his profile. His shoulders were hunched slightly, and he was walking quickly, his eyes fixed on the ground.
Your first thought was that he must have been hexed again, but then you saw the Marauders loitering by the courtyard steps. James, Sirius, and Peter were laughing about something, but they didn’t even glance in Severus’ direction.
Because they didn’t need to.
Severus was already slipping away on his own. Already making himself small.
Already retreating.
You felt something twist in your chest.
“Hey!” you called out sharply, your voice carrying across the stone courtyard.
Severus slowed slightly, glancing over his shoulder. His expression was wary, his eyes flickering toward the Gryffindor group before settling on you.
“Wait up,” you said, hurrying toward him.
But instead of waiting, he shook his head slightly and quickened his pace.
“Sev—”
“Just—go with Lily,” he muttered under his breath, not slowing. “I’ll see you later.”
And then he was gone, slipping through the castle doors without looking back.
You stared after him, blinking, your chest tightening with a slow, familiar ache.
Lily placed a hand gently on your arm, her voice quiet. “He’s trying to protect himself,” she said softly. “You know that, right?”
You swallowed hard, but didn’t respond.
You just stared at the castle doors, feeling something cold and bitter settle deep in your chest. Because you did know.
there’s always a few hours where you live in blissful ignorance on your return to hogwarts. it never lasts.
eventual james x fem!reader | 2.7k | series masterlist.
main masterlist.
CW | the marauders suck (it won’t last forever dw) and they bully people bc ofc they do, james is so annoying in this
The Hogwarts Express was packed as always, the air thick with the mingling scents of pasties, fresh parchment, and the damp wool of students’ robes.
You had barely set foot on the train before you were dragged into a compartment with Lily, who was already complaining about the boys.
“They’re insufferable,” she huffed, arms crossed. “I saw them at the station, and James was acting like he’d come back from summer with some grand revelation about himself,”
You raised an eyebrow. “Oh no. What is it this time? A new Quidditch move? A newfound respect for the rules?”
Lily snorted. “Worse. He’s taller now,”
You blinked. “That’s it?”
“That’s it,” she said grimly. “And he won’t shut up about it.”
You shrugged. “How bad can it be?”
Lily gave you a look that told you everything you needed to know.
—
By the time you arrived at the castle and made your way into the Great Hall, it became painfully clear that she hadn’t been exaggerating.
James Potter was tall now, and he was making it everyone’s problem.
From the moment he stepped into the hall, he was on a mission. He strode over to the Gryffindor table like a man on a mission, and before Remus could sit down, James was pressing against him shoulder to shoulder. “Oi, Remus, hang on,” he said, a wide grin splitting his face. “Did you shrink over the summer?”
Remus didn’t even look up as he took his seat. “No, James,”
James leaned in, mock serious. “You sure? Because I swear you were at least this tall last term,” He held his hand up next to Remus’s head, shifting it ever so slightly higher than necessary.
Remus sighed and turned to Sirius. “Are we humouring this?”
Sirius, lounging in his seat, smirked. “Absolutely not. Don’t give him the satisfaction,”
James, undeterred, moved on to Peter. “Pete, my good man,” he said cheerfully, throwing an arm around his shoulders. “How’s the weather down there?”
Peter swatted him off. “You’re barely taller than me!”
“But I am taller,” James pointed out, practically buzzing with energy. “And that’s what matters,”
It didn’t take long for his newfound height to become the central theme of his personality. It was as if, over the course of one summer, he had discovered his life’s purpose: to loom over everyone who was even an inch shorter than him and let them know it.
And it wasn’t just his own friends he tormented. No, James was equal opportunity about it.
Throughout the first week, you saw him standing next to anyone and everyone, sizing them up with exaggerated curiosity. “Ah,” he would announce, stepping back and rubbing his chin as if making a great discovery. “Short. Tragic,”
Some people laughed. Others rolled their eyes. A few, like Severus, scowled and stalked away, though that only seemed to amuse James more.
Sirius, Remus, and Peter suffered the worst of it.
“You know this is just going to encourage him, right?” Remus muttered after Sirius nearly punched James for his latest “short people” joke.
“I don’t care,” Sirius growled, rubbing his temples. “I’ll break his stupid tall nose,”
James, now leaning casually against the Gryffindor table, grinned. “Merlin, it must be so hard being so small,”
Sirius lunged, and James yelped, dodging behind Remus. “James, I swear—”
“—that you’ll thank me one day when you realise you were standing next to greatness this whole time?” James finished smoothly, winking.
Peter groaned. “I hate this. I hate this so much,”
“It’s been five days,” Remus muttered. “How much longer can this possibly last?”
As if to answer that question, James caught sight of you across the room. His eyes lit up.
Uh-oh.
“Ah, excellent,” he said, striding over with purpose. “I haven’t tested my theory yet,”
Your fork was halfway to your mouth. You lowered it slowly. “What theory?”
“The one where you are also, tragically, shorter than me,”
Lily, sitting next to you, let out a long sigh and rubbed her temples.
You stared at James. “Potter, you just had to run from Sirius. Do you really want to start this with me?”
James beamed with all the brightness of the sun. “Absolutely,”
You glanced at Lily, who was already shaking her head.
Then, with all the calmness in the world, you turned back to James and said, “Would you like to be short again?”
James frowned. “What?”
Before he could react, you flicked your wand under the table and whispered a spell so quietly it was almost imperceptible.
James didn’t even have time to register what had happened before his calf seized up violently. His smug expression flickered—then his leg gave out entirely.
With an embarrassingly high-pitched yelp, he keeled over.
A few heads turned. Sirius, seeing his friend crumpled on the floor, burst out laughing. “What the hell was that?”
James, groaning, pushed himself up onto his elbows. “My leg,”
Lily stifled a snicker. “What a tragedy,”
You speared a piece of roasted potato with your fork. “Hm. Not so tall now, are you?”
James glared up at you. “That was rude,”
“Was it?” you asked innocently. “I thought it was a very appropriate reaction.”
Sirius practically howled with laughter.
James groaned again, flopping dramatically onto his back. “This is bullying,”
Lily leaned down with a smug smile. “Welcome to our world, Potter,”
—
After the Great Height Incident—as Sirius had started calling it—James seemed to learn precisely one lesson: messing with you and Lily was fun. Unfortunately, that meant you, Lily, and Severus were now prime targets for the boys’ endless shenanigans.
It started subtly at first. You’d be in the library, peacefully reviewing your notes, and suddenly James would happen to walk by, stretching extravagantly. “Merlin, I keep forgetting how much taller I am than everyone now,” he’d say loudly, shaking his head in mock disbelief.
Sirius would nod solemnly beside him. “It’s tragic, really,”
Peter would sigh dramatically. “So difficult being so much better than everyone else,”
And then Remus, without even looking up from his book, would mutter, “You lot are insufferable,”
But that was only the beginning.
Soon enough, they were showing up everywhere. You, Lily, and Severus had your usual study spot under the large bay window in the library—a quiet, peaceful place where you could actually focus. Or at least, it used to be.
Now, the second you pulled out your books, the four troublemakers of Gryffindor would materialise.
“Alright, what’s on the syllabus today?” James asked one afternoon, plopping himself unceremoniously onto the bench across from you.
You sighed, not looking up from your parchment. “Potter. Go away.”
Sirius slid into the seat beside him. “That’s no way to talk to your study buddies,”
“You’re not our study buddies,” Lily said, exasperated.
James gasped, clutching his chest. “Evans, I’m hurt. You wound me.”
“I can fix that,” Severus muttered, reaching for his wand.
Remus—who, unlike the other three, had actual academic aspirations—had the decency to look somewhat guilty as he pulled up a chair. “I do actually need to study, but, er… I doubt they’ll leave if I don’t come with them,”
“Correct,” Sirius confirmed cheerfully.
You narrowed your eyes. “You enjoy this, don’t you?”
Sirius grinned. “Very much,”
They didn’t even pretend to study. James spent ten minutes balancing his quill on the tip of his nose. Sirius kept tossing sugar quills into Peter’s open mouth. Peter missed all of them. And Remus, bless him, tried to read, but his attempts were constantly interrupted by James tapping his shoulder every three minutes just to point out glaringly obvious things around the room.
By the time Lily slammed her book shut in frustration, you were about two seconds away from hexing the whole lot of them. “Honestly, can’t you go bother someone else?” she snapped.
James grinned. “Why would we, when you’re so fun to annoy?”
Severus shot him a glare so venomous it could’ve melted through stone. “You have a death wish.”
Sirius leaned back lazily, propping his feet up on the table. “Nah, we just have excellent taste in entertainment,”
You turned to Remus, the only reasonable one. “Can you control them?”
Remus sighed, rubbing his temple. “No,”
Lily groaned. “This is unbearable.”
“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” James said. “We’re simply enriching your academic experience,”
“I will enrich you straight into the hospital wing,” you muttered.
Sirius cackled. “See? Fun.”
And just like that, your peaceful study sessions were gone.
—
It started, as most things did with James and Sirius, with boredom.
You were vaguely aware of their antics throughout the day—whispered conversations in the corridors, Sirius elbowing James in the ribs while the two of them barely suppressed their grins, Remus sighing deeply whenever they entered a room. The usual signs that something stupid was about to happen.
You just didn’t expect it to happen to Bertram Aubrey.
No one really knew why James and Sirius chose him. Maybe he’d said something mildly irritating in class. Maybe he’d taken the last good seat in the common room. Maybe he’d simply existed in the wrong place at the wrong time. Whatever the case, Bertram became their next victim.
And unfortunately for him, James and Sirius had decided to test a rather bold hex.
It happened in the courtyard between classes. One moment, Bertram was minding his own business, chatting with a group of Ravenclaws. The next, James had flicked his wand and muttered, Engorgio Skullus!
For a split second, nothing happened.
Then Bertram’s head swelled.
Like a balloon.
A very large balloon.
His eyes widened—quite literally—his glasses stretching to accommodate his rapidly expanding skull. A strangled, horrified yelp escaped him as his head reached twice its original size. His expression twisted somewhere between panic and outrage as the entire courtyard exploded into laughter.
“Oh Merlin,” Peter wheezed, clutching his stomach.
Remus dragged a hand down his face despite being the one who supplied the two with the spell in the first place. “I am not involved in this,”
James, barely holding back his own laughter, clapped Sirius on the back. “Brilliant work,”
Sirius gave an exaggerated bow. “Thank you, thank you,”
Bertram, meanwhile, was screeching. “What have you done?!”
The laughter quickly turned into a scramble for safety as a very large-headed, very furious Bertram Aubrey came charging after James and Sirius.
James yelped. “Run!”
The two of them bolted, Bertram lumbering after them with the grace of an enraged troll. His head made it impossible for him to move properly—his balance was completely thrown off, his steps uneven, his weight shifting dangerously every time he turned a corner.
They didn’t make it far before a thunderous voice rang out across the courtyard.
“Potter! Black! Don’t even think about turning that corner.”
The laughter immediately died.
McGonagall had arrived.
By the time you heard about it, James and Sirius had already been sentenced to double detention.
You were sitting at dinner when the news broke, passed down through whispers and amused glances. James and Sirius trudged into the Great Hall, both looking exceedingly pleased with themselves despite the fact that James’s left hand was now stained entirely black from whatever punishment they’d been assigned.
You sighed, shaking your head as they collapsed onto the bench across from you. “What did you think was going to happen?”
Sirius smirked. “We were hoping for more running time, honestly,”
James flexed his ink-stained fingers with a dramatic wince. “But worth it,”
Lily scoffed. “You permanently traumatised Bertram Aubrey, and for what?”
James grinned. “For science,”
“For chaos,” Remus corrected, still looking exhausted from association alone.
You snorted despite yourself. “You deserve whatever detention McGonagall gave you.”
James shrugged. “Maybe. But admit it—you wish you’d seen it.”
You rolled your eyes but didn’t argue.
—
A sensible person might have learned their lesson by now.
James Potter, however, was not a sensible person.
It had been a few days since the Aubrey Incident, and though James and Sirius were still suffering through their detentions, neither of them seemed particularly remorseful*.* If anything, they were emboldened*.*
Which was why, despite multiple warnings, despite physical evidence that you were very capable of hexing him, James still thought it was a good idea to try the height joke again.
You were in the common room, comfortably curled up with a book, minding your own business. Lily was beside you, finishing up an essay, while Sirius lounged on the floor, flipping a stolen Chocolate Frog card between his fingers.
James, fresh from another detention and looking far too smug for someone who had just spent two hours scrubbing cauldrons, sauntered in and immediately made a beeline for you.
“Oh, excellent,” he announced dramatically. “My favorite short person,”
You didn’t even glance up. “Potter.”
“Just thought I’d remind you how tragically small you are,” he said, grinning as he loomed over you. “Must be so difficult, looking up at greatness all the time.”
Lily sighed. Sirius smirked.
You, still not looking up from your book, flicked your wand.
There was a sharp crack!—and then a very loud yelp*.*
James immediately stumbled, nearly toppling over as his knee buckled under him. He barely managed to catch himself on the edge of the couch, eyes wide. “Oi!”
Sirius howled with laughter.
“James,” he gasped between laughs, “I swear—you’re going to get hexed every single time you pull that.”
James groaned, rubbing his leg. “That was just plain mean,”
“You deserved it,” Lily said primly, dipping her quill into her inkpot.
James shot her an indignant look, then turned back to you. “You didn’t even look at me!”
You turned a page. “Didn’t have to,”
Sirius collapsed against the couch, still cackling. “Oh, that was beautiful,”
James sighed dramatically, dropping onto the floor beside him. “Still worth it,” he grumbled.
You hummed. “If you say so,”
He stretched his leg out with a wince. “I do,”
Sirius elbowed him. “Tell me, oh mighty tall one, how’s the view from down there?”
James groaned, flopping onto his back. “I hate you,”
Lily snorted. “You should hate yourself.”
James just sighed, staring up at the ceiling. “One day,” he muttered, “you’ll all see how truly tall I am.”
“Not if tour leg cramps permanently,” you replied absently.
Sirius grinned. “Brilliant. I can’t wait for next time,”
your second year at hogwarts is filled with expanding friendships, established routines, and… oh, right. they’re still here.
eventual james x fem!reader | 5.8k | series masterlist.
main masterlist.
CW | the marauders are arrogant twats bc they’re 13 years old, snape gets bullied, remus is a werewolf (surprise)
The summer had been peaceful. You, Lily, Marlene, and Dorcas had kept in touch through letters, swapping stories about your holidays, complaining about homework assignments set before term had even begun, and, in Lily’s case, venting about how her sister was acting now she was home. It had been nice—quiet, even.
Now, as you step onto Platform 9¾, the familiar rush of excitement settles in. The scarlet Hogwarts Express looms ahead, steam curling into the air, and the chatter of students fills your ears.
You spot Lily first, her red hair unmistakable even in the crowd. Marlene isn’t far behind, already pulling Dorcas into a hug. Within minutes, the four of you are together again, grinning and catching up as though no time has passed at all.
The train ride itself is blissfully uneventful. You find an empty compartment, settle in, and spend the first half of the journey munching on Pumpkin Pasties while Dorcas recounts her disastrous attempt at brewing a Forgetfulness Potion over the summer.
Lily nearly chokes on her Chocolate Frog laughing, and you lean back against the seat, content.
But, of course, it can’t last forever.
A loud, echoing bang erupts from somewhere further down the train, followed by a shriek and an explosion of laughter. Familiar laughter.
You don’t even need to look at the others to know you’re all thinking the same thing.
“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” Lily groans, rubbing her temples.
“They’re back,” you say grimly, as if announcing the return of an ancient evil.
“Did you think they wouldn’t be?” Marlene snorts.
Dorcas sighs. “I was just hoping for one peaceful train ride,”
Another round of raucous laughter shakes the carriage, and you swear you hear James Potter’s voice carrying over the chaos.
You close your eyes. You knew the peace was too good to last.
—
By the time you reach the Great Hall, you’re feeling optimistic again. The train ride was one thing, but surely, in a room packed with students, the boys’ presence would be more bearable.
You settle at the Gryffindor table between Lily and Dorcas, Marlene across from you, and let the warm, golden glow of the floating candles and enchanted ceiling soothe you.
The hum of conversation fills the air as students chat about their summers, first-years eye their surroundings in nervous awe, and plates begin magically filling with food.
And then—they arrive.
The doors to the Great Hall swing open with a bang, and James Potter and Sirius Black stride in as if they own the place.
You swear they’ve grown at least two inches over the summer—not just in height, but in ego. James has his hands shoved into his pockets, exuding a level of confidence that can only mean he’s about to make a scene.
Sirius, grinning like he’s just heard the funniest joke in the world, nudges him and mutters something under his breath. Whatever it is, it makes James throw his head back and cackle.
“Oh, fantastic,” you mutter, stabbing a potato with your fork.
Remus Lupin follows behind them, looking distinctly like he would rather be anywhere else. His shoulders are slightly hunched, and when James nudges him playfully, he merely sighs. Peter Pettigrew scurries after them, laughing a little too enthusiastically at whatever joke has just been made.
The four of them sweep through the hall, James and Sirius pausing every so often to ruffle someone’s hair, slap a shoulder, or—Merlin help you—wink at people they barely know. They act like they’re greeting adoring fans rather than fellow students who mostly look unimpressed or mildly irritated.
As they approach the Gryffindor table, you exchange a knowing glance with Lily. She looks about three seconds away from rolling her eyes so hard they might never return to their proper place.
“They still exist,” you say flatly.
Marlene snorts. “And they’ve somehow got worse,”
James slides onto the bench across from you, utterly unbothered by the unimpressed looks he’s receiving. Sirius drops into the seat beside him, flipping his hair dramatically as if he’s just stepped off the cover of Witch Weekly’s Most Charming Wizards issue.
“Ladies,” James says smoothly, giving a charming grin that is immediately ruined when he shovels an entire Yorkshire pudding into his mouth.
Lily fixes him with a deadpan stare. “Potter.”
“Evans,” he replies through a mouthful of food.
Sirius claps a hand over his chest, feigning offence. “Not even a hello for me, Evans? I’m wounded.”
“You’ll live,” she says dryly.
You glance at Remus, who is watching the interaction with an expression of mild exasperation. He offers you a small, knowing smile, and you get the distinct impression that he’s just as tired of James and Sirius as you are.
The Marauders have only been back for five minutes, and you’re already bracing yourself for a very long year.
—
The first few weeks of term pass by in a relatively normal fashion—lessons, homework, and the occasional prank from the Marauders that inevitably lands them in trouble. You do your best to avoid their antics, but it proves impossible when James Potter and Sirius Black seem determined to make their presence known everywhere.
Then, Quidditch tryouts happen.
You don’t attend—why would you? Watching James preen around on a broomstick sounds like a spectacular waste of time—but Marlene does. She’s been desperate to make the team since last year, and despite your lack of personal interest in the sport, you cross your fingers for her.
That evening, when she returns to the common room, she’s breathless and livid.
“You will not believe what’s happened,” she says, dropping into the seat beside you. Dorcas looks up from her Transfiguration essay with mild interest, while Lily—who has been rereading Advanced Potion-Making for fun, because of course she has—raises an eyebrow.
“You got on the team,” you guess, hoping to get the good news out of the way before whatever’s caused her fury.
Marlene nods. “Yes! As a Chaser,”
You grin. “That’s brilliant, Marls—”
“But,” she cuts in, eyes darkening, “so did Potter.”
You groan, and Dorcas winces in sympathy.
“Oh, it gets worse,” Marlene continues, leaning forward as if sharing some dark secret. “Black made it, too. Beater.”
The collective groan that echoes between the three of you is probably loud enough to shake the foundations of the castle.
Lily slams her book shut. “That’s it. I’m switching houses.”
—
Within hours, the news spreads like wildfire. By the next morning, James and Sirius are walking through the castle as if they’ve personally won the Quidditch Cup already.
And it’s not just their usual levels of arrogance—no, this is something else entirely.
They strut through the halls with their Gryffindor scarves thrown dramatically over their shoulders, as if they’ve earned them in battle rather than just being handed one at the Sorting.
James can’t seem to go five minutes without ruffling his hair like he’s been caught in a hurricane, and Sirius has perfected the art of leaning against doorframes with a casual smirk that, unfortunately, some younger students seem to find charming.
But worst of all is the way they act as though everyone is their adoring fan.
It’s one thing to be obnoxious in their usual way. You’ve suffered through their theatrics before. But now, they’ve developed a habit of stopping in corridors to wave graciously at random students, as if they’re some sort of celebrities.
“Morning, lads,” James calls to a group of fourth-years as he passes by them on the way to breakfast. They blink at him in confusion.
Sirius claps a random second-year on the shoulder. “Great to see you, mate. Hope you’re keeping well.”
The second-year looks vaguely horrified.
By the time they approach your table at breakfast, you’re already bracing yourself.
“Ladies,” James greets, sliding into the seat beside Lily without an invitation. She immediately scowls at him. “How are you this fine morning?”
You glance at Lily, who looks like she’s mentally calculating whether a murder charge is worth it. Dorcas continues buttering her toast, blissfully ignoring them. Marlene, meanwhile, has already started eating, clearly determined to not let them ruin her mood.
“We were great until you showed up,” you reply dryly.
Sirius gasps, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offence. “That hurts.”
James shakes his head, as if deeply disappointed. “I just think it’s a real shame that you can’t appreciate history when it’s happening right in front of you.”
Lily slowly sets down her fork. “What history?”
“This!” James gestures broadly between himself and Sirius. “The dawn of Gryffindor’s greatest Quidditch duo!”
Marlene snorts. “I think you’ll find I’m part of that ‘duo’, Potter.”
“You’re right,” he concedes with a smirk. “Trio, then.”
Dorcas doesn’t even look up from her breakfast. “Devastating is right.”
Marlene, at least, has the advantage of venting her frustrations on the pitch. You, however, are left to suffer through James and Sirius’s newfound fame as they continue treating the entire castle like their own personal fan club.
And it only gets worse.
—
It reaches its height a week later, when they begin personally blessing people with their presence.
You’re walking down the corridor to Charms when you hear it.
“Ah! If it isn’t my best mate!”
For one, horrifying second, you pray James is talking to someone else. But when you turn your head, he’s looking directly at you, grinning like an idiot.
“Oh, absolutely not,” you say immediately.
James throws an arm around your shoulders, seemingly unbothered by the way you tense. “Come on, now, don’t be shy! We are best mates, aren’t we?”
Sirius appears on your other side, smirking. “Obviously. It’s an honour, really. Being friends with us.”
You glance at Lily for help, but she’s just standing there, arms crossed, looking like she’s about to start hexing people. Dorcas and Marlene, meanwhile, have stopped walking entirely, too entertained to step in.
“I loathe you both,” you inform them.
“See?” Sirius nudges James. “That’s love, that is.”
“It really is,” James agrees solemnly. “I’m touched, truly.”
You shove them off and stalk ahead, hoping to escape before they can torment you further. Unfortunately, they seem to consider this a challenge, because the next thing you know, they’re doing it to everyone.
A first-year passing by? “My best mate!” James declares, clapping the poor boy on the back.
A Ravenclaw girl minding her own business? “So good to see you, friend!” Sirius calls, grinning.
A Hufflepuff prefect? “Hey, pal!” James shouts, before getting immediately deducted five points.
By the time you reach Charms, you’ve come to a horrible realisation.
This isn’t temporary.
This is their new personality.
Lily, beside you, sighs heavily. “I can’t do this for a whole year.”
“Do you think we can get McGonagall to expel them?” you ask.
“She’s got patience.”
“Damn.”
At the front of the classroom, Professor Flitwick arrives and the lesson begins. But even as you turn your attention to practicing new spells, you know this isn’t the last you’ll be seeing of James and Sirius’ ridiculous behaviour.
If anything, this is just the beginning.
—
The months pass in a whirlwind of classes, Quidditch practices, and endless drama, most of it stemming from the ongoing tension between the Gryffindors and Slytherins. While the rivalry has always been there, something about this year feels different.
Perhaps it’s the new, more brazen confidence of James and Sirius, now that they’ve made it onto the Quidditch team. Or perhaps it’s the fact that Severus Snape, despite all odds, is still your friend.
It starts subtly at first—just a few sneers, the occasional sarcastic comment thrown Snape’s way—but it quickly escalates. Every time James or Sirius walks by Severus in the hallways, one of them can’t resist making a snide remark.
“Oi, Snivellus!” Sirius calls one day, loud enough for half the corridor to hear. Severus, who’s been walking along quietly, flinches but doesn’t turn around. He knows better by now. “Do you always look like you’ve just crawled out from under a rock, or is that a new look?”
James lets out a burst of obnoxious laughter beside him. “What’s wrong, Snivellus? Afraid someone’s gonna hex you? I wouldn’t blame them, mate, looking at you is enough to make anyone want to—”
Lily’s head whips around, her eyes narrowing. You can feel her anger boiling over, and you know exactly what’s coming next.
“Potter,” Lily snaps, her voice sharp and unwavering. “Do you seriously think this is funny?”
James pauses, taken aback by her sudden interruption, but his smirk doesn’t falter. “What’s the matter, Evans? Don’t like a bit of fun? C’mon, it’s just Snivellus being—”
“You don’t get to call him that,” Lily interrupts, her tone icy. “He’s not your punching bag, Potter. You’re acting like a child.”
“Who, me?” James arches a brow, obviously trying to appear unaffected. But you can tell it stings—just a little. He’s used to being the one in control, the one everyone laughs at his jokes. When Lily stands up to him like this, it’s a shift in the power dynamic, and he doesn’t like it one bit.
“Yeah, you,” she snaps, her eyes flashing with anger.
You step forward, your hand brushing Lily’s shoulder. “Leave him alone, James,” you add, voice firm. “You’ve had your fun. Grow up.”
James’s grin falters, but it’s only for a moment. He seems to realise that this is different—he’s never had to deal with you and Lily turning on him like this. But instead of backing down, he doubles down, his expression twisting into something just shy of a sneer.
“I’m not the one making a scene here,” he says, his voice turning mockingly sweet. “If you don’t want to be involved, maybe you should’ve thought about that before you started hanging around with him in the first place.”
Lily’s face goes pale with fury. You can see the hurt flash in her eyes, though she tries to mask it with a scowl. It’s one thing to put up with James’s teasing—it’s another for him to attack her choice of friends.
And Severus is still her friend. No matter what anyone else says about him, Lily refuses to let them tear apart the friendship that’s still there, even if it’s hanging by a thin thread.
Severus is your friend too, even if you don’t always agree with him. You’ve known him for over a year now, long before he started hanging around with Slytherins who couldn’t care less about anyone other than themselves. He may be awkward, he may be prickly, but he’s not the person James and Sirius make him out to be.
“You are the problem, Potter,” you say, stepping in front of Lily, your voice low but firm. “You think you can just push people around because you’re on the Quidditch team. But this—this is just mean.”
James opens his mouth to say something else, but before he can, Lily whirls on him again, her voice sharp and full of authority. “Don’t talk about Severus like that again, Potter. I mean it.”
The entire corridor seems to go quiet, as though everyone is waiting for James’s reaction.
He stares at Lily, a strange flicker of something crossing his face—surprise, maybe even confusion. No one has ever spoken to him like this, especially not a girl. Certainly not someone like Lily Evans.
But instead of backing down, he huffs out a laugh. “You’re pathetic,” he mutters under his breath, turning his back on them both. “Snivellus is your problem, not mine.”
With that, he strides off, Sirius trailing behind him like a shadow, though you can see the tiny, barely-there smile playing on Sirius’s lips as if he’s somehow won. But you know better. They haven’t won a thing.
You turn back to Severus, who’s standing a few paces away. His face is as pale as ever, but his lips are pressed into a thin line. He’s trying to pretend that he didn’t hear the exchange, but you know he did. And you know, too, that it’s not the first time this kind of thing has happened.
“You alright?” you ask softly, glancing at him.
Severus doesn’t look at you, his voice tight when he responds. “Why do you bother?”
Lily steps closer, her voice gentle now, the sharp edge gone. “Because we’re your friends, Severus. And we’re not going to let them pick on you.”
For a long moment, Severus doesn’t say anything, and you can tell he’s conflicted. Part of him probably thinks it’s better to just keep his head down and let it pass. But the other part—the part that’s been wounded by the Marauders’ taunts for so long—wants to fight back.
Finally, he looks at you, his expression softening just a little. “Thanks,” he mutters. “But they’ll never stop.”
Lily and you exchange a glance. “Maybe not,” you reply. “But we’ll keep standing up for you. And eventually, they’ll get bored. Or they’ll find someone else to pick on.”
Severus snorts, though there’s a trace of a smile on his lips now. “Maybe. But until then, I’ll just have to put up with it, won’t I?”
Lily shrugs, her tone light. “You’re not the only one who’s had to put up with them, Severus. Just ask anyone in Gryffindor.”
You both manage to coax a laugh out of him, and for the first time in a while, Severus seems to relax. The weight on his shoulders eases slightly. Maybe the Marauders aren’t going to stop their tormenting anytime soon, but at least he’s not alone.
As the three of you walk off toward the next class, the air between you is slightly less tense. But in the back of your mind, you know the battle is far from over. Every time the Marauders catch sight of Severus, you know they’ll find a new way to humiliate him. But you and Lily are determined to make it as difficult for them as possible.
The rivalry between Gryffindor and Slytherin has always been bitter, but this year, it’s personal. And with both of you standing firmly on Severus’s side, you’re ready to fight fire with fire. Even if it means going head-to-head with James and Sirius.
—
The boys—James, Sirius, Peter, and Remus—are hanging out in the Gryffindor common room after dinner, laughing about some prank they’d pulled earlier that day. Everything seems perfectly normal, which, of course, makes it even more surreal when it all unravels.
The next day, James and Sirius are at breakfast when the owl post delivers a letter. It’s addressed to none of them directly but intended for Remus, and the moment James sees it, he knows something’s wrong.
Remus is nowhere to be found in the Great Hall. He hasn’t been since last night. His absence isn’t particularly unusual—he’s sometimes a bit secretive, disappearing from the dorm for a night every so often—but it is the first time he’s missed breakfast the day after, and that sends a ripple of unease through the group.
Then the first whisper begins, catching Sirius’ ear.
“Did you hear? Lupin’s in the infirmary. Madame Pomfrey’s already fussing over him. Got himself battered apparently,”
James’s stomach drops. He and Sirius exchange a glance, both of them instinctively pushing their plates aside and rising from their seats.
“That’s—” Sirius begins, but James interrupts him.
“Come on, we need to go,”
By the time they make it to the infirmary, they find Remus lying in a bed, pale and weak, his face drawn with exhaustion. He’s covered in bandages—some aleady darkened with blood—and he’s clearly trying to hide the exhaustion, the shame, and the fear in his eyes.
For a moment, no one speaks. James and Sirius hover awkwardly in the doorway, both of them unsure what to do or say. They’ve never seen Remus in this state before—not like this, anyway.
Remus is still in his school robes, though his tie is hanging loosely around his neck. His usual reserved demeanor is gone, replaced by a thin veil of vulnerability that’s impossible to ignore.
It’s Peter, who is always the least likely to speak up, who breaks the silence. “Remus…” He trails off, his voice barely above a whisper. “Are you—are you okay?”
Remus turns his head towards them, the corners of his mouth tugging into a tight, forced smile. He tries to sit up, wincing as he does so. “I’ll be fine,” he mutters, though it’s clear that he isn’t. His voice cracks on the last syllable. “Just need some rest.”
There’s a tension in the room that none of the boys can shake off. They’ve never seen Remus like this—weak, afraid, vulnerable. It’s one thing to see him acting off; it’s another thing entirely to see him broken.
Sirius steps forward first. “Remus if someone buggered with you—”
“No,” Remus cuts him off, his voice sharp, though it quickly falters as he struggles to sit up straighter. “No, no. It’s not that. I did it myself,”
James narrows his eyes. “What do you mean by that?”
Remus swallows, his gaze darting from one Marauder to the next. He can’t meet their eyes—not yet. It’s like he’s afraid that if he does, everything will come crashing down. “It’s not what you think,” he says quietly. “You don’t—”
“You’ve got nothing to be afraid of,” James says, his voice steady, though a hint of worry lingers beneath it. “We’re your friends, Remus. We know you’ve been through something before, and we never asked questions,” He hesitates before adding, “But if you’re hurting yourself you have to tell us,”
Remus is quiet for a long moment, his lips pressed together tightly as though the words are locked inside him. He seems to be weighing his options—whether to finally let them in on the secret or to keep lying, pretending like everything’s okay.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Remus sighs, closing his eyes in resignation. “I’m a werewolf,” he admits, barely above a whisper. His voice shakes slightly, as though he’s afraid of the words that have just left his mouth.
James, Sirius, and Peter stand frozen, staring at him as though they’ve just been hit by a lightning bolt.
“You—what?” Sirius manages, his voice thick with disbelief. “Remus… are you—”
“It’s true,” Remus interrupts quietly, his hands trembling slightly. “That’s why I’m not always… myself. Why I go away every month, why I’m sick afterwards. I didn’t want to tell you. I didn’t want to burden you with this. I thought you’d turn on me like everyone else,”
His voice cracks at the last words, and he looks away, staring at the wall as though he’s trying to hide the tears that well up in his eyes.
James and Sirius exchange a look—one that says everything and nothing at once. The silence between them is thick, charged with the weight of the revelation. They’ve never once considered that Remus might be hiding something so dangerous, so out of their control.
Peter, the least likely to be a source of comfort, steps forward slowly. His voice is soft but genuine. “We’re not going to turn on you, Remus. You’ve been our friend from the start. This doesn’t change that,”
Sirius nods in agreement. “What do you think, mate? You think we’re going to throw you out just because of something you can’t control? You’re one of us.”
Remus flinches, his head lowering slightly as he absorbs their words. He looks at each of them, trying to gauge the sincerity in their eyes. “But it’s dangerous,” he says, his voice trembling. “You don’t know what it’s like, and I… I can’t control myself when I change. I hurt people, I—”
“Don’t talk like that,” James says firmly, cutting him off. “We don’t care about that. We’re with you, Remus. You don’t have to go through this alone,”
The warmth in his voice is genuine, and for the first time since he revealed his secret, Remus’s shoulders slump with relief. He doesn’t seem to fully believe it yet, but the reassurance is enough to ease some of the tension in his body.
Remus gives a slight, pained smile. “Thanks. But I still don’t want you to be involved in my… my transformation. I can’t let you see that side of me,”
“You don’t get to decide that for us,” Sirius says with a wink. “We’re sticking with you no matter what,”
Peter, surprisingly, is the next to speak. “You’re our mate, Remus. You always have been.” He pauses, looking slightly uncomfortable. “We’re just glad you trust us with this. It’s a lot to take in, but you don’t have to hide anymore,”
Remus takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, his eyes softening. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner,” he mutters. “I didn’t want to risk losing everything, but I don’t want to hide anymore, either. It’s just…”
Sirius, ever the optimist, grins. “It’s just that you’re one of us. And we don’t leave people behind. No matter what,”
Despite the gravity of the situation, the tension in the room lifts a little, and Remus manages a small smile. “Thanks. For not… running away,”
James clasps him on the shoulder, and though there’s still a lingering weight in the air, it’s clear that they’ve all crossed a new threshold in their friendship.
But even as they assure him that they’ll never leave him, Remus remains quiet, his eyes drifting toward the window, his mind clearly a million miles away. He’s grateful, sure, but the truth still gnaws at him: the Marauders, for all their loyalty and good intentions, still don’t understand what it’s like to be him. To be the monster.
And that, Remus knows, is a struggle he’ll always have to face alone.
—
The months roll by, and despite everything that’s happened—despite the tension with Severus, the revelation about Remus, and the growing rift between Lily, you, and the boys—the school year carries on.
The boys remain their usual selves, cocky, irreverent, and mischievous. But the air around them, particularly in relation to you and Lily, feels different. There's an ever-present undercurrent of tension that lingers just below the surface, and it’s as if everyone is waiting for something to break.
It’s not just the teasing of Severus that riles you both up; it’s the sheer lack of any real self-awareness from them. The boys are still acting like they run the school, like they own the place now that James and Sirius are on the Quidditch team.
They parade through the hallways with ridiculous confidence, treating every student they pass like they're their best friend, yet somehow always managing to make it feel patronising.
You catch them laughing at some offhand joke they make at someone else’s expense, and it burns. It burns because you know they’ve become increasingly arrogant with their newfound sense of power. It’s not just about the Quidditch, it’s about the way they treat people. The way they treat Severus. And you know Lily feels it, too. She’s no longer as tolerant of their antics as she once was.
“Honestly,” Lily mutters one afternoon as she watches James try to high-five every person he passes on his way to class, “when did he become the bloody king of the school?”
You can’t help but agree, the discomfort bubbling in your chest as James and Sirius continue to bask in the attention, showing off in the middle of the corridor. “They’ve gotten worse since they made the team, haven’t they?” you say, shaking your head. “It’s really like their egos have doubled in size overnight,”
“They’re insufferable,” Lily says, crossing her arms over her chest. “And Severus—he’s still their favourite target. And you know what? I’m done with it. He’s not the one being cruel, and neither are we. We don’t have to put up with their idiocy just because they think they're untouchable,”
But while you and Lily are in agreement about the boys’ arrogance, there’s also a new shift in the dynamic, one that you can’t entirely ignore. Remus begins to integrate more fully into the group.
It’s gradual at first, with him still trying to keep a distance, unsure of his place now that his secret is out in the open. But over time, he starts showing up more at their antics, laughing along, joining in on the pranks, and sometimes even offering suggestions on how to make them even more elaborate.
At first, you and Lily both try to get used to the change, but it feels weird, watching Remus—the one member you thought had promise to be a genuinely okay guy—laughing alongside James and Sirius, plotting their next ridiculous scheme like it’s all in good fun.
It's not that you're upset with him for joining in, but you can’t help but feel like he’s shifted in ways that lengthens gap between them and normal student life. There’s something about him now that feels just a little more in tune with their world, just a little more in sync with their mischievousness.
“Don’t tell me Remus is getting in on this now, too,” you mutter one day, watching him smirk as he hands James a roll of parchment with what looks like a scribbled map of the second floor of the castle.
Lily watches, her expression darkening as she takes in the scene. “I don’t know,” she says slowly, “he’s different now. It’s like something’s changed in him since… he was in the infirmary.”
You can’t deny that, but the unease lingers. It’s a strange feeling to watch Remus embrace their reckless antics, even if he’s not quite as cruel as the others. He’s not the one making the jokes or pulling the pranks himself, but he’s laughing along, offering sly comments, and adding fuel to their fire.
The Remus you knew last year always had a moral compass, a quiet, brooding sense of right and wrong. It seemed that he used to draw the line, but now... Now, that line is blurred.
In a way, it’s almost like he’s hiding behind the same mask the others wear. He’s accepted their friendship, their loyalty, but at the cost of everything he used to stand for. You and Lily aren’t sure how to feel about that. It’s not just the pranks. It’s the subtle shifts—the way he’s become just a little more like them and a little less like the Remus he was.
“Maybe it’s just that he’s trying to fit in,” Lily says quietly one night, as you both stare out the window of the common room, watching the wind rustle through the trees outside. “I get it. But... I used to think he was alright, you know?”
“I know,” you reply softly, your heart heavy. “I don’t like it either,”
“I’m so over them,” Lily mutters, her face set in determination. “But what are we supposed to do? We can’t keep fighting with them. We’re already on thin ice,”
And that’s the crux of the problem. Every time the two of you stand up to the boys, whether it’s over Severus or the endless, grating taunts, the tension between the two groups increases. It’s as if every conversation, every interaction, is a game of brinkmanship, one where someone has to blink first.
The year ends in this odd limbo, the unresolved conflicts hanging in the air, neither fully addressed nor pushed aside. But even though the issues are still there, you can’t help but feel that something is changing beneath the surface.
Remus, for all his quiet discomfort, seems more settled in his place within the Marauders’ fold. He’s become more of a participant in their world—though not without his internal struggle.
James and Sirius, despite their show of bravado, seem to be kindling a genuine friendship with each other and the other two members of their little ‘group’.
And you and Lily? You’ve grown closer in your shared desire to protect Severus, to stand up against the boys’ relentless taunts, and to make sure that you don’t lose sight of what’s important.
As the school year wraps up, you can’t help but feel that this year is different. It’s not just about Quidditch or petty pranks or feigned friendships. There’s something more at play now—something beneath the surface that no one quite knows how to deal with. And though there are still unresolved conflicts, there’s a growing sense that things won’t stay this way forever.
Something is going to change.
You’re not sure exactly what it is, or when it’ll happen, but you’re certain it’s coming.
it’s your first year at hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry, and aside from an initial minor setback, you’re settling in well.
eventual james x fem!reader | 2.7k | series masterlist.
main masterlist.
a/n | caved and started writing that james project i was talking about, it’s gonna be seven parts (one for each year) with varying lengths, actually so looking forward to writing it
The platform is alive with noise and movement—students hugging their families goodbye, owls hooting from their cages, and the occasional burst of sparks from overenthusiastic wand-wavers.
You weave your way through the crowd, dragging your trunk behind you, and step onto the Hogwarts Express. The air inside is thick with chatter, compartments packed with first-years buzzing with excitement and older students catching up after the summer.
Finding a seat proves harder than expected. Nearly every compartment is full, and the ones that aren’t seem to have formed their own unspoken cliques already.
Eventually, you spot one that isn’t completely crammed—just four boys, sprawled across the seats, deep in conversation. You hesitate for only a moment before sliding open the door.
“Mind if I sit here?” you ask, trying to sound casual.
The boys glance at you, then at each other. One of them—messy dark hair, glasses—leans back slightly, clearly considering. Another, with neat brown hair and a slightly more polite expression, opens his mouth as if to say something, but before he can, the smallest of the group pipes up.
“Sorry, no room,” he says quickly.
You blink. There is room. Not loads, but definitely enough for one more. You glance at the seats again, then back at them, raising an eyebrow. They don’t budge. The dark-haired one with the glasses smirks slightly, as if waiting for you to argue.
You don’t bother. Rolling your eyes, you mutter, “Right. Fine,” and slide the door shut with a little more force than necessary.
Typical. First day and already off to a bad start.
Frustrated, you push on down the corridor, peering into compartments as you go. Most are even fuller than before, but finally, you spot a tiny sliver of space in one near the end of the carriage.
There’s a girl with vivid red hair sitting by the window, her nose buried in a thick textbook. The other seats are taken, but there’s just enough room to squeeze in if no one minds.
You knock lightly before sliding the door open. “Alright if I sit here?”
The red-haired girl looks up, blinking as if pulled from deep concentration. She takes in the full compartment, then shifts slightly to make room. “Yeah, go on,” she says, giving you a small smile.
Grateful, you heave your trunk into the overhead rack and drop into the seat beside her. For a moment, neither of you speak—she’s still absorbed in her book, and you take the chance to glance at the title. The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1.
“Bit of light reading?” you say, nodding at it.
She grins. “Something like that. Just wanted to get a head start,”
“Lucky you,” you reply. “I’ve barely even looked at mine,”
The girl laughs, tucking a strand of red hair behind her ear. “I was just curious, really. I’ve been trying some of the wand movements at home, but obviously, nothing happens. My sister—“ She hesitates for half a second before continuing. “She’s not a witch, so she thinks I look ridiculous waving my wand around at empty air,”
You nod. “At least you’ve got the motions down. I still feel like I’m going to snap mine in half by accident,”
She laughs again. “Yeah, I keep checking mine’s still in one piece. I practised holding it so much over the summer I thought I’d wear it out before term even started,”
You smile, settling into your seat. Talking to her already feels easier than trying to force your way into a conversation with anyone else on the train. “So, are you Muggle-born, then?”
She nods. “Yeah. I only found out about all this last year, and it still feels… strange, I guess? But exciting. I just hope I don’t mess everything up,”
“You probably won’t. And if you do, at least you’ll have company. I reckon half the first-years are going to end up turning teapots into frogs by accident or something,”
Lily grins. “At least that would be impressive. I’m more worried about setting something on fire,”
“You and me both,” you say.
The train continues rattling along the tracks, the countryside rolling past the window in a blur of green. The chatter in the compartment swells and fades as conversations shift, but you and Lily keep talking.
It’s mostly about Hogwarts—what subjects you’re most excited for, which house you think you’ll end up in, whether the moving staircases are real or just a myth.
“I don’t really mind which house I’m in,” Lily says after a while, tapping her fingers idly on the cover of her book. “They all sound interesting in different ways,”
You nod. “Yeah. I just hope I don’t end up somewhere awful. Imagine getting stuck in the one house where everyone’s horrible,”
Lily wrinkles her nose. “That’d be the worst,” She pauses. “Do you have family that went to Hogwarts?”
“Yeah, a few,” you admit. “They keep telling me it’ll be the best years of my life, which is a lot of pressure, honestly,”
She grins. “I suppose we’ll find out soon enough,”
Before long, the train begins to slow, and the hum of conversation shifts as people start shuffling into their robes.
The compartment is suddenly full of movement—trunks being pulled down, nervous chatter about the Sorting Ceremony, the occasional lost toad being retrieved from beneath seats. You and Lily exchange a glance, the weight of what’s coming finally sinking in.
“Ready?” she asks.
“Not even slightly,” you admit.
She laughs. “Same. But I suppose it’s too late to turn back now,”
The train pulls to a stop, and the doors slide open. The night air is cool as you step onto the platform, taking in the towering figure of a man calling for first-years to follow him. The castle looms in the distance, its windows glowing against the dark sky.
Whatever happens next, it’s officially begun.
—
The excitement of arriving at Hogwarts is quickly overshadowed by the nerve-wracking experience of the Sorting Ceremony.
The Great Hall is a blur of candlelight, floating above the four long tables where the older students are already seated. The air is thick with anticipation, and the chatter of the first-years falls to a nervous hush. Above, the enchanted ceiling reflects the sky outside, dark and starry.
As the ceremony begins, one by one, students step forward to place the Sorting Hat on their heads.
You watch each person ahead of you, some eager, others visibly trembling. The Hat mutters something as it’s placed on their heads, then announces their house with a flourish.
Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, Slytherin—the names echo in the hall, each one met with cheers and applause from the appropriate table.
Finally, the moment arrives. Your name is called, and your heart skips a beat. You make your way down the aisle, the eyes of hundreds of students on you, each of them silently judging or sizing you up.
You climb the steps to the platform, trying to ignore the way your knees feel like jelly. The Sorting Hat is waiting for you, perched on a stool.
You sit down, and it is placed gently on your head. The cool fabric brushes against your forehead, and for a moment, there’s nothing but silence. Then the Hat speaks, its voice low and murmuring in your ear.
“Ah, I see... courage, certainly. And a desire to prove yourself... but a touch of caution too. You’re not afraid of a challenge, though, are you? I can sense a bit of ambition lurking in there, just under the surface...”
The Hat seems to deliberate, shifting slightly as it considers you. You can feel it probing your thoughts, weighing the choices. It’s as though your very soul is being laid bare, and the pressure of it almost makes you want to squirm.
“Hmm, yes... definitely brave, but with a clever streak. Yes, yes, I know where you belong...”
Please just say it already, you think desperately, trying to steady your breath.
The Sorting Hat finally calls out, “Gryffindor!”
Relief washes over you, and the sudden, overwhelming weight of your nerves lifts. You stand, giving a small smile to the cheers from the Gryffindor table. You know, deep down, that it was the right choice for you. The bravery, the will to stand up for what’s right—it makes sense.
But as you make your way to the table, your eyes flicker over to the group of four boys who had claimed there was no room for you on the train. They’re already sitting together, grinning broadly, clapping each other on the back as they welcome the new arrivals.
You catch their eyes as you sit down, and for a moment, they stare at you like they’re half-sure they’ve seen you before. Then one of them, the one with messy black hair and glasses, smirks and gives a half-hearted wave.
Great. Just my luck.
You roll your eyes, disgruntlement tugging at the corners of your mouth until you’re frowning. The boys are all in Gryffindor too. Of course they are.
The rest of the Sorting Ceremony passes in a blur. You hear the names of other students being called, but your focus is pulled back to the group as they laugh and joke amongst themselves.
Despite your earlier annoyance, you feel a twinge of curiosity about them. You wonder if they’ll always be this rowdy, or if it’s just first-year excitement.
Lily, sitting beside you, is grinning. “Well, we’re in the same house,” she says, nudging you lightly. “At least we’ll be able to stick together,”
You nod, feeling your earlier annoyance about the boys from the train fade. It’s not like you have much choice, anyway. But then again, it’s not the worst thing. Maybe there are worse things than being surrounded by a bunch of rowdy Gryffindors.
When the Sorting is finally over, the Headmaster stands, his voice booming through the hall. “Welcome, students, to another year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Before we begin the feast, a few words—“ But the rest of his speech is drowned out by the mouthwatering smells of the food that suddenly appears on the tables.
The chatter picks up again, the tension from the Sorting easing as everyone eagerly grabs at their plates.
You’re too busy eyeing the vast spread of food before you to hear much of the rest of the speech, but you’re vaguely aware of the boys throwing a few half-hearted jests around the table, already in full swing.
—
The rest of your first year at Hogwarts passes in a blur, the excitement of arrival quickly replaced by the everyday hustle and bustle of student life.
At first, it’s overwhelming—everywhere you turn, something is new, something is strange. The moving staircases seem to change direction just when you think you know where you’re going, and the enchanted ceiling in the Great Hall never stops being fascinating, no matter how many times you see it.
It takes time to get used to the constant hum of magic in the air, the eerie whispers of ghosts, and the strange ticking of clocks that seem to come from nowhere. And don’t even get started on the sheer number of subjects you have to juggle.
In the beginning, it feels like every lesson is a battle—Professor McGonagall’s Transfiguration lessons are a challenge, with all the wand flicking and concentration required, and you can’t seem to make heads or tails of the theory behind Charms. But slowly, everything starts to fall into place. You manage to keep up, and your confidence grows.
Friendships begin to form naturally. Your dorm mates, Marlene and Dorcas (along with Lily), are both easy to get along with, though they couldn’t be more different.
Marlene is loud, confident, and a bit of a daredevil, always getting you into minor trouble when she dares you to climb a tree in the middle of the night or sneak a peek into the Forbidden Forest.
Dorcas, on the other hand, is quieter and more thoughtful. She’s often seen with a book in hand, but she has an infectious laugh and a dry wit that makes you feel at ease around her. Both are easy to talk to, and by the end of the first few weeks, you all fall into a comfortable rhythm.
Your room, though small, is cozy. There’s a large window that overlooks the grounds, and at night, when the stars are visible, it’s easy to feel like you’re part of something bigger. You and Marlene have become particularly close, while Dorcas is often found deep in conversation with Lily, especially when the two of them start discussing spells and charms that they’ve been experimenting with.
The common room becomes a safe space for study sessions, late-night gossip, and the occasional nap.
Unfortunately, you also become all too familiar with the Gryffindor boys. You can’t seem to escape them—whether it’s Sirius Black’s voice echoing through the corridors as he cracks jokes, or James Potter’s comments about other students that walk by, they’re everywhere.
While they’re certainly fun to watch, and you do start to find their antics amusing in the end, you can’t shake the feeling that they’re never really serious about anything.
It’s in your first Potions lesson that you meet Severus Snape.
Professor Slughorn, who is strangely enthusiastic about everything, divides the class into groups of three, and you, Lily, and Severus end up paired together.
At first glance, Severus is a bit odd—he’s quiet, almost brooding, and his sharp, pale face seems like it belongs to someone much older. He doesn’t seem to mind being in the same group as you and Lily, but he also doesn’t offer much in the way of conversation. Instead, he focuses on the task at hand, muttering under his breath as he carefully measures ingredients.
But despite his aloofness, you find that you get along decently well. He’s not rude, just... reserved, and he’s clearly very good at Potions. When you and Lily struggle to get the potion just right, he offers a quiet suggestion or two, and the two of you exchange surprised looks when it works.
“You’re good at this,” you remark as the potion finally takes on the proper colour, a soft greenish hue that bubbles gently.
He looks at you, his dark eyes almost piercing. “I’ve been brewing since I was a kid,”
Lily glances up from her cauldron. “Really? That’s cool,”
He doesn’t answer her question directly but gives a small, almost imperceptible shrug. “I don’t have much else to do,” His tone is distant, and you sense there’s more to the answer, but you don’t press.
Despite his oddities, there’s something in Severus you can relate to—perhaps it’s the feeling of being an outsider, the awkwardness of trying to fit in while everyone else seems so confident. Still, you can’t help but feel that there’s a lot more lurking beneath the surface, and you find yourself wondering what makes him tick.
After that first Potions lesson, you, Lily, and Severus share a few more classes together—though it’s not like you’re all best friends. Severus stays to himself for the most part, but he’s never openly hostile, and you find that you can work together when needed. He has a strange intensity about him, but for the most part, you leave it at that.
As the year goes on, you find that your time at Hogwarts isn’t quite as eventful as you might have imagined. There are no dramatic moments, no life-changing revelations—just the slow, steady pace of school life. Yet, in a way, that’s comforting. There’s a certain rhythm to everything.
Hogwarts, for now, is just Hogwarts—a school that now served as your new home.
Chapter Synopsis: On a Capitol Train filled with all the people that might give you answers, in their own unique ways, you find yourself feeling more confused and conflicted than before. Peter isn’t managing well, Sirius wants to talk but remains cryptic when you let him, and Bellatrix and Barty prove to be unpredictable companions to say the least.
WC: 8.4k
Tags: Fem!Reader, Use of Y/N, Hunger Games typical warnings of corruption, oppression and widespread pain, mentions of imminent and past death, references to loss and grief, heavy hurt/comfort, bittersweet moments, Barty and Bellatrix are their own warnings, disassociation, kind of miscommunication trope, yearning, childhood best friends (to mentor/tribute to lovers), unwanted physical touches
A/N: huge thanks to my darling aimee (@ailoda) for taking on the feat that is beta-reading this series! keep in mind that this thg au is not thg compliant; i do what i want lol. i am open to doing a taglist if people are interested<3
Perhaps it was an odd aspect to focus on, but the chairs on the Capitol train were ridiculously comfortable.
While District 7 was far from the poorest region, there was not an emphasis on luxury goods either. In large families like the McKinnons, it was not uncommon to struggle to make ends meet, and no waiting room you had ever spent time in had plush seating options. The closest you had come to riches was through Sirius’ parents, who moved from District 1 prior to Sirius’ birth on request from the Capitol. They never would say why; they would never really say anything. At least Sirius and Regulus did not have to want for anything, and they gave whatever support they could to their friends. To you.
Yet, the chairs on the train felt like the most abundant lounge you could have pictured. Textured and ruffled like it was designed for angels.
In a few weeks, that was all you could hope to be, really. Angels.
It felt easier at this moment to focus on the chair. How it felt against your thighs, how it removed aches from your bones, the ones you would have preferred to focus on, because pain was the most distracting thing of all. You wished to place your whole attention, your whole burdened soul inside the soft down of the pillow, to disappear into the microscopic world and not have to face anything.
To hide in your mind was a skill you had always excelled at, especially the past few years. Despite your mastery and best intentions, Sirius broke through.
Even as you blocked out the rest of the room, you were acutely aware of Sirius. You knew he was sitting across from you, table pushed to the side so there were no real barriers between you two. You knew he had his head in his hands, occasionally dragging his fingers through his hair and pulling, as if it would do him any good. You knew he sounded like a man at war; occasionally huffing, grunting, sighing into the nether.
And because you were so aware of Sirius, you unfortunately remained aware of Peter, as Sirius kept looking his way and occasionally speaking to him.
Curled up on the sofa a bit to the left of you, Peter laid crying. Not loud wailing, though he would have been well within his rights to do so. Just silent tears and the occasional hiccup. It tore your heart open and made you want to run further away into yourself.
Bellatrix and Barty – who you had learned seemed to only bring out the worst in each other – sat on the sofa across from Peter, chattering away as if they were not witnesses to this ironic train wreck in motion. Last time you checked in, they were gushing over the potential costumes you and Peter might be dressed in and what dynamics they hoped to see between the tributes in the arena, how their champions would play into it all. Or, at least Bellatrix was talking at Barty with enough enthusiasm to power District 12, You tuned them out long ago, until they became nothing to you.
Like you hoped you would be to them soon.
Sirius nudged your shoe with his.
Your gaze fell to where his foot laid beside yours. You had matching shoes. Even after 5 years in the Capitol, he still wore black boots, as if he was moments away from heading into a forest.
You trailed up to find his insistent eyes on you already. He seemed to have been studying your face, one corner of his lip twitching into a half-smile. He tilted his head at you, almost in question – you had no answer, so you merely shrugged.
That seemed to be enough for him.
Sirius clapped his hands together, loudly enough to disturb Bellatrix and Barty’s conversation – the latter of which sent Sirius a nasty look you had yet to decipher – but not so loud as to startle Peter. “Alright, we have no more time to spare,” Sirius declared, ending the short period he had awarded you all to absorb the shock of the moment. Though, perhaps mostly himself. “Peter, Y/N, why don’t you head to your rooms to breathe or change – there’s rows of clothes to choose from already hung up there – and then the three of us meet up in 30 minutes in the parlor to start talking strategy?”
You opened your mouth to respond, but Barty beat you to it.
“What do you mean the three of you, Black?” He somehow managed to snarl and laugh at the same time. “News flash, but your Capitol representatives are meant to be along for the whole ride.”
Sirius didn’t move his gaze to meet Barty’s as he spoke. “You are meant to be just that – representatives. You can join us for meals and public outings, but you have no business joining us outside of that.”
“How lovely of you to think you have a choice, Siri!” Bellatrix purred in a sing-songy tone of voice that did not at all match the contents of her speech. She rose from her seat and began walking in Sirius’ direction. “The parlor in 30 minutes sounds absolutely splendid. We can then discuss how to frame the tragedy that is the three of you in the most entertaining way for the interviews.”
The line of Sirius’ lips was tight and you caught a glimpse of his eyes flashing, but Bellatrix moved in front of him before you could read him further, blocking your view. You could hear him open his mouth, but Bellatrix lifted an arm to place a finger in his face, presumably over his lips. “Sh, sh, sh, little Prince, save the tantrums for the cameras.”
She flicked the finger over his nose as she moved past him to float towards the door. When you saw Sirius’ face again, his eyes were squeezed shut, head turned to the side.
Bellatrix made a whistling sound that had Barty rolling his eyes and standing up – did she call on him? If that was what she did, he apparently listened for all intents and purposes, striding through the space between you and Sirius. These Capitol people seemed to walk as if it took no effort, as if they weighed next to nothing, movements all tied together in beautiful elegance.
The smirk and wink Barty shot you as he passed was neither.
The door slammed shut with a bang that, though expected, made Peter jump in his seat where he was just beginning to sit up and gather himself. You smiled sadly at him as he stared down into the floor.
Sirius, on the other hand, opened his eyes with a sigh. He took a moment to look between you and Peter, lingering on you when you actually met his eye. There was a miniscule shake of his head, seemingly instinctive, before he cleared his throat. “Alright. I meant what I said. I’ll take you two to your rooms to collect yourselves alone, and then we’ll talk strategy.”
So much for catching up.
There were a hundred things to be said, but the mere thought of raising any of the points made your blood heat uncomfortably. Instead, you nodded and got up from your seat, squaring your shoulders.
Half on instinct, half to make some connection with the one person you truly know in this place, you moved past Sirius to give Peter a hand up. At last, when you stood before him, he looked up to meet your eyes, tears still swimming in his blue irises.
“C’mon, Petey,” you whispered, squeezing his shoulder with one hand and grabbing his hand with the other. He huffed a breath you wondered if maybe was supposed to be a friendly sign as he clutched onto you in turn, allowing you to help him up. You brushed off the invisible dust on his sleeves and smiled more assuredly this time, before turning on your heel and facing Sirius.
When he didn’t say anything, just stared emptily at the scene before him – your hands hovering over Peter, Peter’s lip audibly quivering – you once again cut through the silence. “Go on then.” Not your most politest, but you did not have it in you to be right now. You figured you should be allowed some sins, now towards the end.
Sirius seemed to snap out of it but merely nodded in turn, gesturing for you both to follow as he made his way out of the room.
The atmosphere was nothing short of awkward as you and Peter trailed behind Sirius through the impossibly long and winding corridors of the train. You had never really felt the age difference between you and Sirius while growing up, it was barely a year and you both assumed the positions of the older kids looking out for younger siblings and friends. Yet now, walking directly behind his broad back, defined with lean muscle that rippled with how tense he was, you felt so impossibly small. Not necessarily physically, just in every sense that mattered. You and Peter were like a set of puppies, stumbling after the seasoned elder, and you despised it.
You reached out a hand behind you to find Peter’s. Some of the tension seeped out of you when he gripped you in return, his firm fingers settling beside yours like a welcome weight.
“That one there is Peter’s room.” Sirius came to a stop at the end of the hall, four doors on each side. He nodded with his chin towards one that was slightly ajar as he spoke. “And yours is across the hall.” He didn’t say your name, just set his intense eyes on some vague point beside your head.
You looked away.
Squeezing Peter’s hand, you let go and gestured for him to enter his room first. Though it might not make a difference, you wanted to be with him as he entered, so he didn’t have to do it alone. Peter took small steps towards his room, pushing the door open with the tips of his fingers. To both your and seemingly Peter’s surprise, he gasped, and took a proper step into the room – it was huge, much more so than you would have expected to be possible on a train. Sirius had been right, there was an open closet filled with clothes to the right, and a bed in the middle that looked just as plush as the sofas.
“Yeah, live it up, Petey,” Sirius said dryly, a semblance of that old humour of his you remembered leaking into his voice. “It’ll be even better in the Capitol. See you in a bit.”
With more ushering than perhaps necessary, Sirius encouraged Peter to walk completely in, and shut the door gently behind him.
As Sirius turned to look at you, you turned away from him, hand already placed on your own door handle. You pushed it down and made to enter when you felt Sirius’ cold fingers curl around your elbow. It was a stark contrast to how Bellatrix would grab you, this was a featherlight touch, as if you were delicate, as if you were precious.
It made you look up at him through your lashes to find him already scanning your face.
“Y/N…” He trailed off.
You placed your fingers over his, careful to study how his face seemingly perked up at your touch, only to fall when you peeled his hand off of you. “Later, Sirius. If you want to explain, absolve your soul while you can or whatever, then do it later. Spare me right now. I just want to lay down.”
You took a small step towards the door again. Sirius pressed his lips harshly together before nodding, putting on a forced smile for a second. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right, we can talk it out later – but until then, quit talking like that.”
“Like what?”
“About absolution and doing things while you can. Quit talking like you’re dying.” You could tell by the look on his face that he was being serious, but that didn’t ease up the knot in your chest at all.
All you could do was to hum noncommittally and turn around to enter your room. You didn’t lift your eyes to look at Sirius before you shut the door in his face.
You did not have it in you to change; you would rather cling to what you had from home. Instead, you sat down cross-legged on the floor in front of a full body mirror and leaned your forehead against it, slumping in preemptive defeat.
With laboured but increasingly measured breathing, you tried to get an overview of your situation thus far, playing over the past three hours to digest.
You wish your first thought was something poetic, something deep – some grand final words you could write in your diary that would be distributed all throughout your district as an ode to your memory once you’re slaughtered in an arena by some District 2 child for entertainment. You wished that if not your life, at least your mind could be worth something.
Nothing came to you though. Your first and most eloquent thought remained: fuck.
You were truly and genuinely fucked, why would you think of anything else? A part of your mind tried to remind you of Sirius’ request, his near-plea, to not talk like that, but how could you? He didn’t tell you what else to think of if not that.
Staring at your increasingly hollow reflection, you found you were left with more questions than answers.
The events of the day flashed before you and you did your best to file away only what you thought might be of significance to you going forward. Mary’s teary face and Marlene’s insistent eyes were important to you but not helpful, so you pushed them aside. Instead, you tried to bring forth any mention of this year’s games, anything Barty and Bellatrix have said or done that can give you an indication of what lays ahead of you.
It was clear that Bellatrix knew that you and Peter knew Sirius. Reunion, conundrum, loverboy. Her hints were a far cry of subtle, let alone tasteful, though you thought perhaps that was her goal exactly. At this moment, feeling like a young girl stowed away in your room, you had no idea what to do with that knowledge – but you held onto it, knowing you had to gain answers somehow.
The one thing you could do in what felt like an ocean of confusion and despair was to try and grasp onto some form of strategy to carry you through. Not the strategies Sirius was talking about for the games, but a personal strategy, a perhaps feeble but significant attempt at maintaining your sanity. Yourself.
Thoughts would float by and you would try to keep only those that might help you survive mentally until it is finally your physical life on the line, on the pods in the arena.
Yet, even as you managed to let your hometown and your fears go, your thoughts still snaked away towards Sirius, a miniature betrayal it had committed against you every day for the past 5 years. You didn’t understand him, you didn’t understand how he avoided your every question and statement, yet still seemed so insistent on your survival and his apologies.
It had been years and all you had wanted was to hear his voice again, even hear some of the specific words he said – but now, they felt hollow even in their sweetness.
I had to go, I’m sorry, I know you.
It reminded you painfully of the words that had haunted you up until this day: I’m sorry, I had to. You’re wonderful. I love you. You’ll be okay. I love you.
I bloody swear to you, he had said to you just some hours ago, you will make it through these games. As you envisioned his face when you saw Peter and recalled how you yourself felt when you listened to his quiet cries, you knew he could not mean that anymore. There was more than you on the line.
Whether it was a panic attack or a fit of rage that was brewing, you knew you needed to shake it off. Far from 30 minutes had passed, you thought maximum 10 – you really would need a clock in the arena – but you couldn’t stay put any longer.
Climbing to your feet, you ruffled your hair and squeezed your cheeks to try and feel better, paving away the chaos to instead focus on what is right in front of you. That had to be your strategy then. Moment by moment, step by step.
Opening your door tentatively, you stepped outside it, stopping for a mere moment in front of Peter’s. Wondering if you should go inside, listening to catch whether he was crying.
You didn’t hear anything distinct, and even if you had, you didn’t think you would be much comfort for him at the moment.
The corridors you walked through were highly industrial, another stark contrast to your hometown that was mostly built on wood and a few bricks. They felt the perfect amount of inhuman – while you were sure some design and craftsmanship had gone into building even this train, it felt void of interest and love. Just as a Capitol train should be.
The humming of the wheels were distant but ever present as you explored, feeling almost like you were sneaking out past curfew.
Not that you used to have a curfew, but Sirius did, and you would ditch it together. He was never one to be construed by Walburga and Orion’s chains – as he called them – and would ask you to meet him at the corner of their property at midnight. You might run through the woodlands surrounding you, lay down in a field and watch the stars, climb onto the roof of your primary school and point out whatever landmarks you spotted across town, sharing memories even though most of them had been made together.
Sirius’ childlike laughter echoed faintly in your ears when his real voice cut through your thoughts.
At the very end of a hallway that opened up into a larger room filled with seating arrangements and shelves, there was one final door to your right. It was slightly ajar, not enough for you to look in, but enough for you to hear.
“You mean to tell me this is a fucking coincidence?” Sirius’ tone was seething even in its whisper, but the anger didn’t seem to be directed at any one individual.
There was no response in the momentary silence before he continued. “She was never supposed to be picked, which means they did it on purpose. Pete is just the nail in the bloody coffin.”
Your brows furrowed, your hand coming up to steady yourself on the wall. It sounded like he was talking to someone, but you couldn’t hear anyone else.
“I don’t bloody care if they do, I–” He drew a sharp breath, you could picture the slight parting of his lips revealing white teeth. “Sorry. No, I know, fuck. Sorry, gods – I don’t want to keep saying that. Yeah. Yeah, sure.”
His voice faded into indecipherable mumbles.
You knew he was talking about you. He had to be, and the implications hit you like an arrow – both the implications of his words and of him talking about you in the first place.
If you were trying to clear your head, this surely was not helping you in the slightest. With the effort only a tribute must possess, you pushed off the wall and kept walking into what seemed to be the parlor, head keeping straight forward and not trying to steal a glance through the gap in the door.
You set your focus on the chandelier they had somehow managed to squeeze into the middle of this open space in the middle of the train. It cast the room in a light yellow glow, highlighting the different textures in the many pieces of even-more comfortable cushions across the room.
It was a comfort you didn’t want at the moment; you walked towards the window at the end of the room instead, seeing the outskirts of your district disappearing in a haze of browns and greens.
“You’re early.”
You only turned your head slightly to see Sirius walking slowly into the room, putting a small rectangular object into the sidepocket of his sturdy trousers. His face was carefully measured, but his eyes still betrayed him, eyes boring into yours with an underlying current dancing through the grey.
“Oddly enough I didn’t feel like being cooped up.” You made an active effort to not add some comment about spending your final days in a more worthwhile manner.
Sirius still felt it based on the way the corners of his lips twitched. He neared you, standing at the edge of the sofa closest to the window you were tracing with your fingertips – it wasn’t as cold as you were hoping. “Even though you said you wanted to lay down?” he asked, a certain mirth mixing into his tone, referring to your excuse from earlier.
You shrugged, nonplussed. “I did. I only needed a minute or two.”
Sirius’ gaze softened as he leaned his weight against the sofa, crossing his arms as he regarded you. “Take as many minutes as you need, princess,” he whispered.
You turned then, mirroring his stance as you leaned against the window. His face was open, laid bare for you even in his continuing torment.
“Can you make this make sense to me?” It wasn’t the question you wanted to ask the most, but it was the one you figured you might gain the most help from. Sirius used to be your clarity in situations like these.
He breathed in deeply, looking down in respite. “Five years ago, I survived the Hunger Games and was asked to stay in the Capitol. I did. Today, against all bloody odds, you and Peter were reaped, and got stuck with me as your mentor, and those two as your Capitol escorts. Together, we have to figure out how to get you through it.”
It was a rehearsed speech, laid prepared on his tongue, the Sparknotes poison you had asked for. His tone was controlled, some bitterness still leaking through
Asked to stay.
“Why?”
Sirius looked up at you then, an exasperated smile teasing his lips. “Which why are you searching for, princess?”
Why did you stay? Why were we reaped, if you don’t think it was a coincidence?
For some inexplicable reason, you took pity on him and shook your head, trying to reflect his half-smile. “Let’s not. Let’s not.”
If Sirius could soften more with all his muscles and grit on display in his skintight black tshirt, he did. He pushed off the sofa, as if on his way towards you, beginning to speak. “Whatever you wan–”
When a high-pitched giggle made its way down the hall, he cut himself short with a frown and turned his head – you did the same.
“I’m happy to see we’re at a respectable distance this time,” Bellatrix said through a grin as she walked in, swirling down into a seat on the sofa Sirius was leaning against. “Your fans will be much more pleased this way.”
Sirius’ jaw ticked, gaze moving from Bellatrix to Barty who had trailed in behind her and opted to lean against the doorway, arms crossed much like Sirius’ and a wicked gleam in his eyes.
“I thought I told you to stay away for this meeting.” Sirius tried, despite all of you remembering just how that went last time.
“And I thought I told you where to stick it.” Barty’s tone was somehow both teasing and menacing.
Sirius scoffed, but the sound was tight as his eyes twitched at the sight before him. He looked between the two Capitol representatives with disdain. “Try to be of help then, why don’t you? Scaring the tributes is not going to help anyone win.”
Bellatrix twirled her black curls as she grinned. “You don’t want us to upset your sweetheart, Siri?”
“I don’t want you to terrify my friends, no.” Sirius’ tone was cool as he replied. “And we’re still waiting for Peter.”
“Pipsqueak is lost somewhere behind there.” Barty pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “Didn’t know where the parlor was.”
Sirius pinched the bridge of his nose. “And you didn’t help him?”
Barty snorted. “No, why would I?”
Tired of simply witnessing this miniature battle of wits, you pushed off the wall and began walking towards the doorway Barty was currently blocking. “Don’t bother, I’ll go find him,” you announced. “Then we can get this over with.”
Barty didn’t move. He still filled the doorway, grinning at you like the Cheshire cat. “You need something, sweetheart?”
“Would you move so I could go get Peter?” You were already exhausted by this, not willing to entertain his games.
“Junior,” Sirius warned quietly behind you. It took you a second to realise he was talking to Barty.
Barty’s gaze flitted between the two of you, grin never faltering. “Aren’t you going into the arena? You can’t let someone standing in the doorway stop you. Move me yourself.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t have an axe right now. So. Move,” you said dryly, referring to Sirius’ infamous weapon of choice.
Barty chuckled, but – despite your assumptions – moved to let you pass, instead walking over to plop down on the sofa, sprawled out like he owned the place. “You might make the games less boring for me after all, birdie.”
You didn’t deign it with a response as you headed down the less-lit hallway to find Peter. You could hear Bellatrix’s voice faintly in the background, grateful for a short reprieve.
It wasn’t hard to find Peter, yet you purposefully stalled on the way back. He had been roaming in the other direction, apparently on advice from Barty, utterly lost and confused. His face when he heard your voice and whipped around was enough to soften the stone in your stomach somewhat and you walked in comfortable silence on the way back.
“Ah! There they are!” Bellatrix sounded elated, clapping her hands together as you and Peter emerged. Sirius’ head picked up too, offering you both a tight smile. He had moved to stand by the window you had been by earlier, fingertips lingering the same way yours had.
As you went in, you moved to drag a chair up beside the two sofas, creating a half circle of sorts, and brought your knees up to your chest.
“Petey, why don’t you sit with me, mate?” Barty said, faux friendliness dripping all over his sentence.
“You don’t have to do that Peter.” Your response was immediate.
Peter looked between you for half a second, eyes wide, before smiling nervously. “It’s, erm, alright Y/N. I’ll just sit.” He sat down on the end closest to you, but Barty moved closer, arm over the edge of the sofa, fingertips almost tickling Peter’s hair. He was enjoying this way too much.
Sirius seemingly agreed with you, pushing off the wall with his foot and walking to stand beside your chair where he could see all of you. “Okay then. Let’s talk business.”
“Yes, let us,” Bellatrix said, sitting up in her seat. “We should start with optics. How shall we frame our little triangular tragedy here?”
“There is no more tragedy here than in every other district.” Sirius’ arms were folded, displaying every muscle he had earned over the past five years, and his face was equally as focussed. “We should focus on their strengths as individuals instead. Peter is resourceful and Y/N is–”
“Desirable. That’s how we should market her – if the Capitol’s heartthrob is all sweet on her, then surely everyone else would be too.” Her eyes were gleaming, set dead on Sirius, as if you weren’t there despite the way she was talking about you.
Your breath was caught and there was a twinging of your heart warring with the rage in your stomach, but Sirius beat you to it.
“Stop.” His tone was firm, one that would leave no room for argument had he been addressing any other two people in the world. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. Focus on what matters.”
“Stop what?” Barty laughed, inserting himself into the ridicule unfolding before you. “Addressing everyone’s favourite rumours? We would be stupid not to add it to our narrative. Just because you don’t want to say you lov–”
“That. Stop that, right now.” Sirius’ eyes were hardened as he set his sights on the two of them. “I don’t give a fuck about any rumours. These two, Y/N and Peter, are like my siblings. Sister and brother. The younger kids I looked after back home. We grew up together, yes, but we also grew apart when I moved to the Capitol. That is the true narrative and the one we will be sticking to, disproving all others. You want to be a team? You want to join our meetings? Then we must front the same picturesque storyline.”
Your neck felt like it had been snapped and your lungs punctured from the whiplash. It took every last bit of your willpower for your face to remain neutral, even as Sirius metaphorically slapped it.
You were embarrassed that the cryptic rumours they were referring to was not what spread the most alarm in your head.
Siblings. It wasn’t even funny how sour that word tasted on your tongue, and it hadn’t even been you who said it.
The Sirius who was speaking now was not one you had grown apart from, it was one you didn’t know. It was evident to you that this was a theatre, a performance, even if it lacked the theatrical joys you had previously associated with this very same boy. His face was firm, disconnected and determined all at the same time, a mix of opposites that only the Capitol could concoct in someone.
Bellatrix barked a laugh, seemingly not buying it. “Siblings? That is the narrative you prefer going with?” She tsked. “You have so many juicy television opportunities here, Black, and you go for the most boring one?”
Sirius sat down on the armrest of the sofa, shoulders squared to look broader. More intimidating. “Television, Lestrange, is supposed to last for the entirety of the games, not just the preparations before it. If you limit these tributes to a storyline that cannot follow into the arena, they are doomed to irrelevance. You don’t want boring tributes do you? You want a victor.”
He leaned back, looking at her with a gaze that told you he knew he had her. “Instead of some irrelevant rumour sob story, we explain their connections to me as a strength. An older brother who taught them, who they learned from. Give them framings and stories within their own rights. It will carry on into the arena through intrigue and comparisons in a way soapbox drama never will. I thought you knew this. It’s basic strategy, Bella.”
He was smirking now, an expression of glee that seemed more for effect, a final push, than a reflection of any genuine mirth. Bellatrix, on the other hand, had lost a lot of her usual fanatics, instead of staring Sirius down in an indiscernible manner.
“While I love that you get to hash out your drama,” you said, irony poison dripping from your words, “would somebody explain what teh fuck we’re talking about? What rumours?” You didn’t care that you were rude, you didn’t care how Sirius’ eyes twitched. You were wounded and frankly irritated to be spoken of and not to.
Sirius opened his mouth to speak, but Barty’s bark of laughter interrupted him. “What, Capitol news doesn't trickle all the way down to 7?” There was no hiding the condescension in his tone, but his glee somehow shone even brighter. “Beloved victor Sirius Black is rumoured to be in love with some girl from his district, much to everyone’s utter heartbreak.”
“Which is ridiculous considering I haven’t even been to 7 since I volunteered.” Sirius was strictly looking at Barty, ignoring your burning gaze. “Tabloids getting bored and sparking up irrelevant drama shouldn’t be involved in the Hunger Games where there is actual action to focus on.”
Bellatrix tsked. “Don’t underestimate the power of a good love story, Siri.”
“This wouldn’t be a good one – it would be far-fetched. Y/N and Peter are like my siblings. I haven’t even seen them in 5 years. Can we focus on strategies that are actually worthwhile, please?”
You felt nauseated and dizzy but nodded to signify that you were in agreement. Anything that would ease the teasing and bring you back to the fact that you were mere days away from the end of a blade.
You were beginning to grow nervous that they would refuse, that they would try to analyse the potential of a love story, when Barty kicked his legs up on the table with a loud bam and folded his hands over his stomach. “Alright, then. Whatever. Big Black and his two woodchippers take on the arena.”
Bellatrix scoffed.
“If we’re to have learned from Sirius… does that mean we have to use axes like you did?” Peter, to your surprise, piped up, looking uncomfortable with the idea.
Sirius kept his business-face on as he bobbed his head side to side. “Maybe pose with one for a couple of promo shots, depending on the public’s reactions. But in the arena, you use whatever you need whenever you need.”
You didn’t say anything. Couldn’t, despite yourself and despite the fire in your veins.
Siblings.
You watched Sirius expressionlessly and noticed how his eyebrow closest to you kept twitching. You caught him casting a quick side glance your way, but it didn’t linger enough for you to analyse.
“Have you got no input on this, birdie?” Barty’s voice drawled, and you knew he was talking to you.
Without looking at him, you bobbed your head much the same way Sirius just had. “I don’t really give a shit about rumours or narratives or what anyone thinks of anything. I care about the part where I’m stuck in an arena to fight to the death.”
In a swift movement, Barty lurched up from his seat on the sofa and crossed Peter to sit on its armrest, body leaned forward into your personal space. His fingers were somehow elegant even in their bordering-on violent endeavour as they shot out to grip your chin.
“So you want to die then?”
“Junior,” Sirius hissed, pushing off his opposite armrest at the same time as Barty to stand before the two of you. Ready to intervene.
The latter shot him a sideway glance with a wicked smirk looking between Sirius’ face and yours. “You are not fooling anyone,” he laughed heartily at Sirius before zeroing his green eyes in on you. “And you are choosing imminent death if you keep up your nonchalant attitude. It’s the Hunger Games. Play your part or get played.”
You held his gaze despite the churning in your stomach, biting back a comment about that choice already haven been taken from you. Instead, you said, in a voice a tad bit quieter than you would have preferred, “What game do you want us to play then, Junior?”
His smirk faltered for only a second before he released you with a huff. Leaning backwards, he let his body tip over the side of the armrest to land on his back on the sofa across Peter’s lap, who froze with his hands hovering in the air. You could just barely see his teeth flash. “I’m the one who gets to not care. I’m here for the circus, not the show, darling, and I’m counting on you to make it interesting. Show a little heart.”
Your eyelashes fluttered in confusion at the biting yet uncaring tone he sported, entirely uncertain where to place him. Bellatrix just scoffed once more, clearly upset with the day’s developments, while Sirius remained overtly tense beside you, fists dangling at his sides, clenched.
“Well, I think–”
Sirius cut Bellatrix off immediately. “Enough! That’s enough, alright? This is a brainstorming session, not a bickering one. The narrative is that the District 7 tributes this year are close friends, two kids I used to train and look after like siblings when we were younger. I will make a plan for how we present Y/N and Peter together and then I will go over individual strategies with them at a later point. Need I remind anyone that all of us rely on a good presentation?”
He spoke to you all, but it was clear it was pointed in the direction of Barty, who was quite literally kicking his feet over the armrest, much to Peter’s heightened nerves, and Bellatrix, who was beginning to look utterly bored with you all.
Their silence was their consent, so Sirius went on to look at Peter, accepting his meek nod. Then he turned to you, almost hesitantly.
There was a storm in your eyes at how you were being spoken of, how you were being treated – but you didn’t know if Sirius could interpret that anymore. If he could, it didn’t stop him as he nodded to himself as he began to pace around the lot of you.
“Alright. Alright. Any final inputs before we part ways for dinner?”
“What, you don’t want to dine with us, Siri?” At Sirius’ increasing distress, Bellatrix seemed to find her footing once more.
“We don’t have the time to spare. It’s late anyway.” He stopped for a second to look at his two former friends. His siblings. “There’s a dining hall around five rooms down that way. Pick out anything you want. This place is yours, be comfortable.”
Peter nodded quickly. “Yes, I know where– I, uhm, found it… earlier.” He shot Barty a weary look, referring to his earlier diversion, making the older boy nearly giggle with delight.
“Great.” Sirius’ voice was calmer now, tired. He looked between you and Peter, but struggled to let his gaze rest. “Good job today. I– I’ll see you tomorrow.
You swallowed hard and realised you would probably struggle eating any dinner. Yet, you tried to stick to your earlier idea of moment by moment, step by step, so you nodded with your lips tightly pressed together.
“Yeah thanks. Same. Let’s go, Peter.”
It took some time to wrestle an entertained Barty off of Peter, but you headed back down the same hall you retrieved him from earlier, not looking back over your shoulder as you did so.
Just like the seats, the food provided by the Capitol was delicious. It was lush and rich, to an almost too intense degree, making you feel more like cattle fattened up for slaughter and less like important guests.
You ate what you could as quickly as you could, and then you were left jumping your leg beneath the table as you waited for Peter to finish too – you knew you couldn’t leave him alone lest Barty or Bellatrix found him, but you were suddenly craving being cooped up in your room in the very same way that had stifled you earlier.
Luckily, it didn’t seem that Barty and Bellatrix wanted to play with you any longer. Maybe it wasn’t as fun when Sirius wasn’t there, or maybe they were just too focussed on plaguing him wherever he was.
You told yourself you didn’t feel bad for him. You had grown accustomed to lying.
You kept lying to yourself as Peter finished and you went back to your designated rooms, you kept lying as you hugged him goodnight and went each your way, you kept lying as you laid down on your ridiculously soft bed.
The lies were many and merry; that you didn’t care; that you cared too much; that you were okay; that you were not okay. That you had any hope of sleeping tonight.
Sleeping had never been your forté, so after the violence of the Reaping and the reunion of a lifetime, you had little luck.
You even lied as you told yourself you had tried for long enough. Truth be told, despite your time blindness you had a feeling you hadn’t been in bed for too long before you got out of it to stand in front of the mirror once more. Memorising yourself.
You did eventually change into some of the clothes the Capitol provided, though they didn’t seem real. You were wearing what was supposed to be pyjamas, but they were much too reminiscent of normal trousers and shirts for you to feel like you were about to go to sleep. It made you miss your old ratty sleep shirt at home, but even the thought of it worsened your ache. It had been Sirius’.
With a sharp breath, you decided to explore the halls once more. Not for any thrill of adventure, you just had an inexplicable need to find a window to look out of. To watch the world pass by.
You walked in the opposite direction of the parlor, further and further back, wanting to find the very end of your district’s compartment of the train. To know that behind yours were two tributes from District 8, two people you would soon be pitted against, brought a chill up your spine.
At last you meet a door in the middle of the hallway. The train was long and huge, but it cannot go on for longer than this, you thought. This must be the final room of your compartment, the one with the huge windows you had always noticed when you watched it from the outside.
Your hand falls to the handle. Gently, you open it.
“Oh–” The first thing your eyes landed on when you entered the room was not the landscape you had so longed for, but Sirius’ own staring back at you. Grey like the mountains cornering you but deep like the oceans you would pass in District 4. He was sitting down, as if he had had the same thought as you to come here to watch the windows. The thought pained you. “Sorry, I didn’t– I’ll go.”
Sirius shot up and out of his seat, taking just one step forward. “No! You don’t… you don’t have to. You shouldn’t. Come sit, I’ll go, if you want.”
There was a lot to decipher in that sentence, a lot that you frankly did not have the energy for. Instead, you regarded him for one more second before slowly closing the door and moving to sit on the opposite side of the sofa from him. It was a cream – also, stupidly comfortable – sofa that stretched out in a half-circle at the very end of your compartment of the train. The wall above it was steel grey, barricading you from the next part of the train, but the walls on either side were wide floor-to-ceiling windows; the ones you had longed for. They were certainly reinforced to a degree you could never even imagine to ensure they wouldn’t break.
You didn’t tell him whether you wanted him to leave. You just sat sideways on the sofa, leaning your head against the last bit of grey wall and looking out the window closest to you.
“If you sit down on the floor and stare straight ahead, it’ll feel like you’re flying.” His voice was softened, a stark contrast to your earlier meeting.
You still couldn’t help but bite back. “What a nice brother you are, giving out advice to the younger kids.”
It sounded like it pained him when he sighed. “Y/N–”
“Don’t.” You still weren’t looking at him, staring blankly ahead. “Just… don’t.”
You weren’t quite sure why you were upset with him. It was so much and yet nothing at all, stretching out across the past five hours and five years. You were upset with him for leaving, of course you were, and you were upset with him for changing, but of course he had. You were upset with him for confusing you so much, both through his words and actions, and perhaps, through your feelings.
There was no time or need to address them now, yet they ruled much of your visible dismay as you got caught up on how he wanted to present you to the world.
Siblings.
Sirius was quiet for a moment; then, you heard the soft sound of him walking across the room to settle down on the floor in front of the window closest to you, just like he had said you should. He stared out, but you could feel him observing you in his periphery.
“There is a lot for you to resent me for,” he whispered. “Please don’t let that be one of them.”
Part of your brain wanted to rage against him for being cryptic.
The other just asked, “Why?”
He leaned back on his arms, biceps flexing, looking with an empty gaze into the mountainside. “It’s for your own good.”
“Why?”
Maybe you were being petulant. Maybe he deserved you being petulant if he wanted to cast himself as your older brother.
Sirius made an exasperated sound and shook his head, turning to look at you – you didn’t return the gesture. “Princess, don’t make me spell it out for you, it’s worse enough as is. Everything will be better if people think we see each other in a familial sense.”
“As opposed to the truth, which is what?” At last, you turned to face him, doing your best to school away your pain, but still being left with an indent between your brows. You didn’t know what you wanted him to say.
Evidently, neither did Sirius. All he did was whisper your name, so pleadingly, so achingly it made your throat hurt.
“Being your sibling didn’t make them think any more favourably of Regulus.” The words were out of your mouth before you could help them, though thankfully with less ire than before. Just a mixture of your own confusion and heartache.
Sirius closed his eyes as if he got nauseated. He seemed to weigh his words carefully, face scrunched up as his muscles tensed. With memories of Sirius throwing Regulus around in circles, their laughter harmonising as they ran after you through the streets, you had no choice but to give him time.
“Sorry,” you mumbled, the first apology you uttered to him. “Is he…?” You trailed off. To ask was insensitive, it was cruel – but it was necessary. You needed to know.
Sirius’ face remained trapped in his pained scrunched up expression. He didn’t seem angry with your question, though you never had seen him angry with you.
“Yes.”
The word hung heavy in the air between you like a suspended body. It was everything you had expected and nothing you had hoped. You didn’t ask how he knew.
Silently, you slid off the edge of the sofa and scooted over to sit beside Sirius, whose breath hitched. Just like him, you faced the window, but you had your knees hiked up and your arms wrapped around them. You laid your head tentatively down on top of them, turned towards him. Watched as the environments flurrying by cast coloured patterns over his alabaster skin, watched as his eyebrows twitched as if he would start crying.
Watched as silent, warm tears rolled down your own cheeks.
When he peeled his eyes open and met yours, they softened. His brows were still furrowed together and he swallowed heavily.
His hand just barely shook as he reached up to wipe the tear on your right cheek away with his thumb, touch gentle and cool against your skin. You closed your eyes and sighed.
Sirius let his hand drop from your face and it felt like a loss.
Neither of you said a word for a minute. There were so many things you wanted to say, needed to ask. Yet nothing came to mind. Just two kids sitting beside one another, trying to remember how to breathe.
“Tomorrow when you arrive at the Capitol…” Sirius whispered, trailing off. You found his eyes to be redrimmed when you opened yours, once again staring out the window emptily. “Just… don’t trust anyone, okay?”
He sounded more haunted than ever. “I wasn’t planning on it,” you whispered in return, half-wanting to lighten his torment.
“And, I know– I know that should include me. I know you don’t trust me. But please, can you try to listen to me anyway?”
You watched him silently. You couldn’t deny him even if you wanted. “I will.”
Sirius nodded once, twice. Then, he shook his head and rose to his feet effortlessly. He looked down at you and reached out a hand, an open invitation.
You held his gaze for longer than you should have before you turned your head back forward to look out the window, resting your chin on your knees. You were grateful to not have to see his reaction.
Still, you could hear his soft sigh. “Get some sleep soon, alright princess?”
“Yeah,” you mumbled, suddenly fascinated by the granite. “Soon.”
Your every muscle sat at rapt attention, listening to his footsteps as he walked to the door. They ceased for a minute when he reached it, and you almost turned your head to look back at him – before the hinges finally creaked and Sirius disappeared.
You doubted you would get to spend enough time with him before your games to make the aching panic stop seizing your chest whenever he leaves. You reminded yourself that he is headed off to bed to sleep, not to the annual Hunger Games.
This time around, that would be you.
You turn your blurry eyes back to the window and find that when you stare into the middle of it, it does feel like you’re flying.
Synopsis: The Hunger Games AU; After your best friend miraculously won his games, you were never to see him again – until your last Reaping as an eligible citizen ends catastrophically for you and another one of your friends.
Words: 6.1k
Warnings/tags: fem!reader, us of y/n, Hunger Games typical warnings, grief, implied loss, heavy hurt/comfort, talk of death and poverty, Capitol Citizen!Bellatrix Lestrange, same for barty sorry, angst, some fluff, childhood best friends (to lovers), physical affection, unwanted physical touches, creepy Capitol behaviour, heavy disassociation, strategically used characters, background bsf!marylene, implied that sirius got the finnick odair treatment, nb! it's a thg au but not thg canon compliant (aka i make the rules here)
A/N: this is sooooo exciting to me. your district is only implied (district 7) in this one and there are a lot of purposefully unresolved threads 🌝 there's more to come, if you want it. and yes – the title is from the wuthering heights quote "you said i killed you – haunt me, then"
Part Two
You hated Reaping day for more reasons than most.
While no person, whether they are of eligible age or not, enjoyed being in that town square annually, watching the Capitol representatives clown away on stage as your heart and ears thundered with anticipatory fear, you were left with the biting pain of the past, present and future all at the same time.
Stood in a sea of people, feeling both as if you were drowning and had a spotlight shining on you, you feared for yourself. You writhed beneath the thought of how many times your name had gone into that bowl in an attempt at keeping your loved ones safe, you winced at the knowledge that it would be just the perfect karmic timing for you to have everything taken from you this one last time.
Clutching onto Mary’s trembling fingers with one hand and Marlene’s little sister, Mabel, with the other, you feared for your loved ones. Your makeshift found family now consisted of the McKinnons, the McDonalds, the Pettigrews and you – and you could not bear the thought of how many of you were jammed into the plaza today. Marlene and her older siblings had aged out, but you, Mary and Peter were still in for your last year. Your mouth ran dry at the thought of how many years Mabel and the McKinnon and Pettigrew boys had left. Children. They were all just children – the very reason why you all kept consistently placing your own name in over and over again, to keep them safe. While you could never decide if you trusted the legitimacy of the arrangement that you could covertly buy someone’s immunity by placing your name in more times, you also could never help but try each year.
Thus far, it had worked. Mabel had at least never been picked.
But then again, you knew of at least one person who was picked despite their supposed immunity. Odd how the guilt always forced your hand regardless; the risk was worth the potential reward.
You could feel Mabel’s breaths grow shuddering beside you, but could not bring yourself to look down at her. You just wrapped an arm around her shoulders and shoved away the doomsday feelings brewing within your chest.
You felt guilty for even fearing for yourself, because you knew well how out of everyone, your name was in there probably the least amount of times. Apart from buying the immunity of one of your friends’ siblings, you had never needed to buy anything with tickets of your name. You had been financially looked out for to a much larger degree than most could dream, and not had your hand forced. At first, the help came through the direct acts of kindness from your best friend, and then later, you would somehow just always find exactly what you needed. Whenever the Capitol increased ridiculous taxes that felt as if they were specifically designed to wring you dry, there would be a freshly opened position for you to apply for, a wad of cash found in one of the boxes you looked through, even a charity basket by your door that you would always pass on to the rowdy McKinnon home.
Part of you could hear his whispered promise to you whenever these blessings seemingly fell into your lap, but you pushed it down. It couldn’t be.
“I will always take care of you, princess”.
Above all else, being in the town square tore up your heart because you could only ever think of him. Of Sirius.
Of that day 5 years ago, when you had just started breathing normally after they called some girl’s name you did not know in the Reaping, only for your lungs to be ripped from you permanently at the sound of the reaped boy.
The second “Regulus Arcturus Black” boomed through the scratching speakers, your heart was shattered into a million pieces, never to be recovered, because it was followed up by a small yet firm: “I volunteer.”
When your head whipped to the side to witness your best friend in the whole world square himself against his inevitable death, you had found his sad grey eyes already fixed on you through the massive sea of bodies. You have no recollection of the sounds after that, but you know you were protesting, crying, trashing even, in the firm grip of Marlene as she forced you into a bear hug to stop you from trying to be a human shield for the one person you could not stomach losing. The sight of Sirius kissing Regulus’ head and squeezing Peter's arm before taking to the stage, shoulders squared and jaw lifted, already looking every bit like a child warrior, was burned into your retinas.
It took years before it was not the first image you saw whenever you closed your eyes. It still sometimes was.
That day, you had been certain your best friend was lost. When they let his loved ones bid him a quick goodbye in a solitary room after the ceremony, you had stood to the back with your hiccuping sobs, allowing Regulus the space you knew he needed. Marlene and Mary passed through, so did Peter, until it was just you left.
His parents did not show up.
While Sirius had kept up the facade with the others, his face crumbled when it met yours in your momentary privacy – save the Peacekeepers by the door. You had been hugging your front to keep from falling apart, but the second he slumped back against the desk and opened his arms for you, you were wrapped up in them.
At just 13 and 14 you were each other’s worlds. Grown up as neighbors, surviving just about everything together.
And it was because he was just 14 that you had no belief he could survive the games – at that point, no 14 year old had, and no matter how strong Sirius Black was, it took more than strength to break through that harrowing cycle.
Sirius had let his first few tears slip and fall into your hair, holding onto you for dear life. You can’t remember what you said anymore, just the way he smelled, just the way he held you and the murmurs he whispered into your skin as he swayed you.
“I’m sorry, I had to. You’re wonderful. I love you. You’ll be okay. I love you.”
You hoped to the gods you had said it back.
Though you did not know that then, you had been correct. Your best friend was lost that day – but he survived his games.
It had been a torturous few months, forced to see him paraded around like a piece of meat, only to suffer through one of the longest games anyone had seen. You had sworn you would not watch it, but could not resist taking a peek at a small screen you snuck into your bedroom, crying as you caressed his dirtied face that looked so void of the Sirius you knew. Sometimes he would find a nearby camera and stare into it as he fell asleep, almost as if he could actually see you, feel your touch. You hoped it comforted him; that thought had you returning to the screen almost every night. The only nights you didn’t were the ones where you and Regulus slept in the same bed to keep each other sane, tethered.
When you two eventually woke up to the news that he managed to outlast the final tribute overnight, you cried until you laughed only to laugh until you cried.
On the day of Sirius’ return, you had made everything ready; dusted his room, bought the ingredients for his favourite dessert, orchestrated for his parents to be elsewhere, planned what to say with Regulus, who was equally as teary. Except when the Capitol Carriage swept up by the entrance and you ran out to greet him, only Peacekeepers exited the carriage, forcing you to step back. The blinds of the carriage were shut.
You stumbled, entirely bewildered by the situation, sharing deeply concerned looks with Regulus. You had tried shouting for Sirius, you had tried asking the Peacekeepers, but you were left with nothing but silence.
While you were dumbfounded, Regulus grew agitated. With months worth of guilt piling up, it was easy work for them to bubble over into anger; he pushed past the Peacekeepers to try and bang on the wall of the carriage, yanking on the locked door handle. His screams of Sirius' name were cut off in an instant when the Head Peacekeeper slammed the back of his rifle against Regulus' neck. He lurched, tried to regain his footing, before he crumbled to the ground.
Acting more on instinct than anything else, you dragged him off to the side and held him tight to your chest, as if that would protect him. With an unconscious Regulus in your lap, you were forced to watch them carry down all of Sirius’ belongings, packed haphazardly in bags, and shove them into the back of the carriage.
It drove off without you ever even catching a glimpse of Sirius.
The next time you saw him was a few days later, on a broadcasted interview where he announced his permanent move to the Capitol. Clad in shining black clothes that could have fed the entirety of Districts 11 and 12, he had taken on the persona of the Casanova of the Capitol, the goading gladiator, the wicked victor. At just 14, he had made history.
The day after that, Regulus disappeared without any warning or trace.
All you had was a seemingly private note slipped beneath your pillow that said “Don’t go looking” – you never told anyone about it. No one seemed willing to talk about him either. You were left completely and utterly alone.
Grief settled into your veins, and you did the only thing you could: you settled into routine. Sweet, hard-working routine to keep your storms at bay until you had made some sort of life for yourself. With one job as a wooden toy carver and another as a wood sculptor, not to mention the dinner rotation at the McKinnons and the Pettigrews, you kept busy. You could pretend to forget.
Until you couldn’t. Each year when you were forced into that town square, the memories haunted you viciously, cruelly – taunting you with how little you understood, how much time had passed. Beneath it all, there was a simmering of the one emotion you never could get rid of in the grief and confusion; love. It was the singular thing that powered all within you, ranging from the determination to the resentment. Oh, how you loathed how much you loved and missed your Black brothers.
You felt Mabel jump beside you at the crackle of the sound system, as the new Capitol representatives got ready to commence the Reaping. You shared a quick glance with Mary, acknowledging how the younger girl had to be your priority right now.
“It’s alright, Bel,” you whispered, shifting to hold her tighter against your side. “That sound means it’s almost over. Soon we’re done.”
Mary squeezed your own hand in return, almost as if to say take your own advice. You smiled meekly at her, and she rewarded you for your efforts by momentarily placing her forehead on your shoulder.
The younger girl just buried herself into you and you sighed to make yourself softer. It was her second Reaping, which meant it was far from her last. You understood her fear well, but still, you wanted to quell it.
The further the representatives got into their speeches, the longer the same old video droned on for, the more you disappeared from the current moment. It was hard to differentiate between past and present in these few heavy minutes, so you preferred to be in neither, to float up and out of your body. The only thing grounding you was your two friends pressed up against you, and that was all you needed. Nothing they could say up there was of any meaning to you except those two harrowed names.
Sirius never attended the Reapings the way some of the other victors did. They would line up at the front, on occasion even make speeches themselves, but never Sirius. He had yet to be a mentor, but you knew that victors were supposed to have a meeting of sorts before each game, where one of them was selected for the year. You often found yourself wondering where that meeting took place, if it was at the Capitol or nearby, if you unknowingly were standing just a couple hundred metres from him where he waited backstage or on the train.
A part of you hoped to never find out. A part of you hoped to never be near him again.
Most of you knew that was a poisonous lie.
These were thoughts you promptly pushed away. They did you no good – it had been made clear to you that you were not to think of the noble victor Sirius Black anymore.
The muscles in your back tensed tighter, shoulders hiking higher and higher the longer into the speeches the Capitol representatives got. Knowing that a name was soon to be pulled, yet you kept yourself disconnected.
Almost over, almost over.
The sudden outburst of sound and emotion around you – cries of relief, gasps of shock, whispered reactions – alerted you to the fact that a name had been called.
However, it was Mary’s loud sob and her face turning towards yours with nothing short of horror written over it that told you it was someone you knew.
One glance up into her grieving eyes told you that no, it was– it was you.
After so many years of just barely dodging it, you had been reaped. You were reaped. You were reaped. If your thoughts mere moments before had been a cloud, dragging you up above the crowd, they now became an anchor, cementing your feet to the ground.
“Mary…” you began, but were cut off by a static crackle.
“Y/N L/N? Come now love, don’t be scared.” The glee and excitement in the Capitol woman’s voice was nauseating, but it did kick you into action – and everyone else around you too, as the crowd seemed to separate to form a physical beacon on where the three of you stood, pressed together.
Your body moved on instinct; it was as if you were possessed by Sirius’ memory, pulling Mabel's crying form against you and kissing her head much like he had done with Regulus, squeezing Mary’s shoulder with a tight-lipped smile much like he had done with Peter. Ignoring your heart and mind screaming through sobs and anger, you released yourself from both of their grips to walk down the metaphorical red carpet leading up towards the stage. Chin tilted up, face schooled into nothingness. Eyes burning at the lights that suddenly shone upon you, fighting to keep from squinting. Forcing the tremble away from your fingers by balling them up into fists as you began to ascend the steps to the stage.
“There we are, darling,” the male Capitol representative, who you had yet to bother learning the name of, essentially cooed at you, reaching out a hand for you to take.
You walked past it and assumed the position to the right of them both, staring emptily into the air.
He chuckled in a low, menacingly lilting tone. “Okay, well, we can see what kind of tribute we just selected, can’t we, Bella?”
“We sure can, Barty,” the woman, Bella, replied with a gleaming smile. “As for her comrade in arms…” she trailed off for dramatic effect before dipping her fingers with their ridiculously long and sharp nails down into the pot.
From a distance, it was easier to distort the sounds of their voices. Now up close, you couldn’t help but hear every word passing between the two representatives, no matter how loud the screaming in your own head was.
No. No, no, no, no.
“... Peter Pettigrew!” Bella shouted cheerily, with a screeching joy that all but punctured your eardrums.
No.
You squeezed your eyes shut from the first syllable, fighting the shaking taking over your body. Heavily, your shoulders slumped and your face began to fall at the revelation, before you scrambled for any and every piece of strength in your body to square up once again and face the literal sound of the music.
Deep breaths.
In the corner of your eye, you saw him climb the stairs to stand beside you. For only a brief second, you dared glance over, only to see the pure terror written all over Peter’s face, only to immediately regret it and whip your face forward again. You knew in your heart that you were not making it out of these games – and unlike with Sirius, the feeling settled like wings on your shoulders instead of rocks. If you were honest, you knew Peter would likely not either, but you could at least fight for him, in the hope that he would.
The man Bella had called Barty came up behind you both and placed a strikingly cold hand on your shoulders, twisting you to face one another. It was custom to shake hands with your fellow tribute, but for the Capitol representatives to lay hands on you like this was certainly not. You fought back the urge to shake it off.
“Now if the tributes may shake hands,” Barty said with a wicked grin, speaking loudly enough for the microphone a metre away to pick up on it – thus too loudly. “And may the odds be ever in your favour.”
Peter’s hand was trembling with such force that he could barely move it away from his body. With a quick sideway glance at the cameras, you reached forward to grab it, steadying it even as you shook it. Peter could not meet your gaze, and not a single part of you could hold it against him; you merely squeezed his hand reassuringly. That had to be enough for now.
As soon as you let go, Bella closed the Reaping Ceremony with a flourish.
You kept your chin elevated and your gaze empty as you began to move, lest it meet any of your friends and family in the many separated crowds. You weren’t sure if you would be able to keep it up if your eyes locked with Mary’s parents, with Peter’s brothers that he had to leave. Instead, you walked behind the walls with a pin straight back and let the Peacekeepers lead you through the townhouse, room after room, keeping all your emotions balled up. You signed some papers in one room, received a bag with a uniform in another. Finally you walked into the very same room that broke your heart 5 years ago, where your friends and family were already waiting.
The goodbyes were a flurry. Nothing felt real.
You hugged every one of the McKinnon siblings goodbye and nodded weakly when they begged that you would come back home to them, unable to make false promises verbally. The eldest, your Marlene, was the only one who did not plead; she grabbed each side of your face with a determined look and forced you to meet her eyes. “You will come home, Y/N. You will. I am not giving you a choice, you are making it back to us. Do you hear me?”
Even her, you could only spare a nod. But you listened and held her gaze through every word she spoke to make up for it, which seemed to be enough for now. Her hug was even more crushing now than when she kept you from running after Sirius and getting gunned down during his Reaping.
Mary had been silently crying through it all. When she hugged you, your collar was instantly wettened, and you could not help but wonder if this was how it felt for Sirius when you cried into him. You hoped it wasn’t, even as you knew it was.
When every cheek was kissed and every I love you uttered, you sized them up with a resolved gaze. You let it drag carefully over them all, committing them to memory, one last time.
Marlene could see what you were doing. With minimal movement, she shook her head – not admonishingly, but the correction was clear nonetheless. You will come back. You gave her a tight-lipped smile, and gave them all a final nod before exiting, allowing Peter to enter for his own goodbyes.
You stopped to say something to him, to hug him or give any reaction, but he scurried past you before you could. Even as you kept walking, your heart was sinking.
There was only one Peacekeeper waiting for you in the hallway.
“Where do I go now?” You hated how weak your voice sounded, but at least there were no cameras here to catch it this time.
“Mrs. Lestrange is waiting for you around the corner. She will take you to meet your mentor on the train.” Even in your shock, you were baffled by the extreme lack of emotion in his voice. It was almost like talking to a robot, except it had distinctly human eyes. You supposed that was something to get used to.
“Thank you,” you replied, unsure if that was a common custom with Peacekeepers. You were lucky enough in 7 that their presence was limited.
You heard Bella before you saw her, she was excitedly recapping the entire Reaping process to Barty, as if it did not just end and he wasn’t there for the whole thing. He didn't seem to mind; he was twirling around himself, as if your metaphorical dead body was his favourite meadow to frolic through. Her clapping hands and screeching voice made you sick to your stomach, but her eyes might as well be cameras in the court of public opinion, so you picked your facade back up.
“I was told you would take me to the train.” You interrupted one of her tirades, and when her head snapped towards you, there was a second of blazing fire in her expression before she realised that it was you – a new plaything. The glee set back into her within a second.
“Oh, this was the part I was the most excited about.” She smacked a kiss to Barty's cheek before grabbing your elbow to drag you away with her. You had to clench your teeth not to rip it away from her – these Capitol people were handsy. “It’s about time for a reunion, don’t ya’ think?”
You weren’t sure what she was saying most of the time, though you rarely were with Capitol people. Yet the pinching feeling in your stomach did not recede to make space for confusion, nor did your shoulders lower even a fraction.
There was a special entrance to the train that you could access through the townhouse, so that you would not be too swamped by onlookers. Bella was explaining the whole ordeal to you somehow, but as the metallic train came into view through the windows, the blood rushing through your head got louder and louder, even more so than her pitchy voice.
With this entrance, you only had to walk a meter unsheltered in the transition between the townhouse and the train. Shortly after the first gust of wind hit you was it again shut away as you stepped onto the metallic floorboards.
“Where are we going?” You found yourself asking Bella, unsure if she had already answered this or even if she was in the middle of a sentence.
She looked at you as if you were dumb, but it did not lessen her unnerving smile even a fraction nor stop her quick strides through the many corridors of the train. “Well, to meet your loverboy, duh.”
You stopped in the middle of a step, staring at her incredulously, unsure if you heard her correctly. A frustrated groan escaped her when she had to stop too, looking at you as if you were quite tedious. You knew who she must be referring to, but you had no idea why she would. At least like that.
“Am I not to meet with my potential mentors?” You tried to force any emotion out of your sentence.
“You’re being so silly, did you know that?” Bella took your arm once more, jostling you along with her. “Your mentor has already been decided, stupid. He’s waiting just over there, come on.”
You stumbled slightly in your step from how forcefully she dragged you. You were unsure if she even knew that she was gripping you as hard as she was, or if there was some serious disconnect between her mind and body.
She only let you go in favour of ripping open a rather large oak door and releasing an unnecessarily loud “ta dah!”.
The back you were met with was one you would have recognised in every life.
He stood hunched over a table, hands splayed out so wide they were shaking, black curls hanging messily in his face, breathing ragged. At the sound of Bella’s entrance and you being ushered in, he whipped around.
It was Sirius. Of course it was. Your heart wanted to say it was your Sirius, but you could clearly see that he wasn’t.
Though he looked different than he had on the occasional glance you stole of him onscreen, he still didn’t look the way you remembered either. No longer was he the scrawny boy you grew up with, the one you messed around in fields with, the one you read books with, the one you cried with and slept beside and walked beside and lived beside. Before you stood a weathered man, sharp in his handsomeness, pointed in every one of his features, guarded by an army of layers yet wearing more emotions than suited him. He had a few tattoos creeping up the side of his neck, the onyx ink shining in contrast to his pale skin.
The one thing that remained the same was the utter heartbreak spelled out in his eyes. It was the same as when you saw him last, only perhaps worse.
No, it was decidedly worse. When the stormy greys landed on your face, flitting about so rapidly that you were unsure how he could even see, lips parting ever so slightly, whatever tormented him settled in deeper. He looked inconsolable.
Sirius opened his mouth to say something, but closed it again. As if he didn’t know what to say, as if there were no words.
His attention was abruptly shifted over to Bella when she clapped her hands together in mirth. “Isn’t this exciting!” she exclaimed, looking back and forth between you. “Aren’t you going to hug in greeting? Aren’t you going to ki–”
“Bellatrix.” Sirius spoke through gritted teeth, all of his pain schooled away in favour of a burning fire when he faced her. His voice was so much deeper than you remembered, so much hoarser. “Get lost. This is a meeting between mentor and tribute.”
“Oh, this is hardly a meeting or classified in any way, Siri. Just–”
He cut her off once more. “I won’t tell you again.” He eyed her with a severe glare. “Leave us. Now.”
It looked like Bellatrix wanted to fight him on it, but after looking between you three more times, she evidently decided she had gotten enough out of this endeavour. “You’re too serious, Black,” she said with a giggle. “Don’t bite her face off, you dog, she needs it for the interviews.”
She seemed to all but float out of the room, but closed the door behind her with a loud bang. You kept your head craned sideways, eyes burning a hole through the door where she left, leering.
The silence in the room felt more deafening than the volume of the plaza had. You had no idea what to say – this was nothing like what you could have imagined.
You and Sirius, alone in a room. Something you had craved more than words could explain, but that you now backed away from with every fibre of your being.
“Princess.” Sirius breathed the word out like he had been choking on it. Before you had the time to turn your head fully back towards him, he had swept you up into a bone-crushing hug. “Y/N,” he whispered into your neck, almost reverently.
A minute ago you were walking down the hallways with an awful stranger, and now you were embraced by someone who, despite everything, was painfully known to you. It did not compute in your mind, everything was whirring and screeching, and unlike what he once could, Sirius did not quiet the noises.
He almost did, though. Just almost. With his arms around your back, fingers splaying around your ribs, with your nose shoved against his neck as he cradled you, his scent taking over your senses, you could almost fall into it. Could almost fall into him. Your Sirius.
He smelled the same.
You reared backwards out of his touch, back hitting the wall as you stumbled. Your eyes felt wide, almost like a cornered animal, your lips parted as you stared at him. You realised you were breathing heavily. If he was startled by you ripping away from him, his face didn’t show it.
Studying his face now gave you a wave of deja vu so strong, it almost made you dizzy. There was no way you could communicate anything effectively at the minute.
“Sirius, what the fuck?!”
You hadn’t meant for your voice to be so loud, but not even that drew a reaction from him. Kicking yourself off the wall, you walked past him – leaving a large amount of space between you – dragging your fingers through your hair as you did so. You began a sentence multiple times, but no coherent word came out. “Why are you here? What just happened?” you ended up whispering, feeling pathetic at how close to a whimper it was. “Who–” You stopped. That was a sentence you did not have it in you to complete.
Who are you?
When you turned around to face him, you found that he had followed after you, keeping a respectable distance but still within arm’s reach, as if he couldn’t allow you to get further than that. For the first time since you stepped into the town square, tears began to fight to well in your eyes. Sirius didn’t look away from them.
“I’m so sorry.” His voice was barely a whisper, insistent and imploring. “Y/N, I am so sorry.”
“For what?” You choked out, wrapping your arms around your stomach, not much unlike you had during his Reaping. Sirius’ gaze flitted down to your arms before moving back up, and it was as if you could see the memory playing across his irises.
He heaved a deep breath before rubbing his hands up and down his own face. When he lowered them, he gave you a look of defeat.
“I– let’s start over again,” he said then. He gave you a rueful smile. “Hi, princess.”
You looked at him, uncertain of whether you should start crying or laughing. You settled on a scowl in between. “I’m not sure you get to call me that anymore.” You looked away from his face as you said it, unwilling to see his reaction. “But sure. Hi, Sirius.”
When you dared a glance at him, he had his lips pressed together and a look of remorse in his eyes. You hated that you could still read him like this, for more than one reason.
“I was roughhoused onto the train last night. Told that I was to be the mentor of these games, whether I’d like to or not, no more information.” He said, as if that explained anything.
You couldn’t help the bite in your reply. “Am I meant to feel sorry for you? I was just given a death sentence. And now I have to face my ex best friend who I haven't seen in five years. This is some awful joke.”
This time you didn’t avert your gaze, the simmer within you for once bursting into a flame, however short-lived, and you got to witness how his face jerked backwards as if you had slapped him. In some way, you kind of had.
Your anger was not mirrored in his expression, but a form of determination took over his face as he spoke. “You weren’t. You weren’t.”
“What?” you asked dumbly, yet uncaring of sounding it.
Sirius stepped towards you, gingerly taking your hands into his own. His touch burned, the new awkwardness of the gesture burned. “You weren’t given a death sentence. I wasn’t and you weren’t. I bloody swear to you, Y/N, you will make it through these games.”
You couldn’t bring yourself to pull away from his touch, but you managed to at least not lean into it. There was a dangerous gloss coated over his grey eyes when you met them with your own, and for a second you got lost in them. Your voice cracked as you asked, “Why?”
Sirius let out a humourless laugh and suddenly brought you back into a hug, as if he just couldn’t help himself. Your hands were trapped between you in an embrace with one of his, but he rested his forehead against your temple and seemingly breathed you in.
“I am so, so sorry you have to ask that, princess. I’m so sorry, but I had to go.”
You shivered in his hold. These were words that you dreamed of – but had they not been nightmares? You shook your head but made no other move to remove yourself.
"It's been five years, you know? I'm not sure we even know each other at this point."
Sirius' answer was immediate. "I know you." He pressed his forehead firmer against you. "I know you."
The emotion in his voice rendered you speechless.
He pulled backwards without releasing you from the embrace, leaning away just enough to catch your gaze with his. It felt like the floor was giving way beneath you. His hand on your back travelled up to your cheek. “I'm sorry for it all. Always. And I’m sorry for calling you princess when you just asked me not to,” he added with a hint of the sheepish smile you once loved.
You opened and closed your mouth, absolutely dumbfounded, and he just stared at you patiently. Warmly. Desperately.
“Sirius–”
You were cut off by the door swinging open once more, causing Sirius to physically spring away from you, suddenly putting multiple metres between you at the sign of new guests. You almost stumbled at the change in positions, and you saw his hand twitch when he cast a glance your way, as if it ached to steady you.
“Now that the lovers have had their private greeting, maybe it’s time to include the other tribute in your strategies, Siri? Or are we just going to let itty bitty Peter die at the cornucopia?”
Bellatrix’s high pitched voice pierced through your ears, and you felt a mountain of guilt fall on top of you when your eyes fell on Peter cowering behind her, his eyes flitting wildly between you and Sirius. In your whirlwind of emotion, you had almost forgotten that he was as doomed as you were.
One glance to your right showed you that Sirius had no idea Peter had been reaped too. His brows furrowed and his lips fell into a decidedly downturned frown. “What– no, Pete,” he breathed out, arms falling to his sides.
“Hi, Sirius,” Peter squeaked, seemingly uncertain about what their dynamic was now, but relieved at at least being acknowledged.
Sirius stepped forward and physically nudged Bellatrix to the side as he pulled Peter in for his own hug. The sight stung in a way you couldn't communicate.
Over Sirius’ back, Bellatrix was grinning at you wickedly.
“Seems like you three have a conundrum or two to work through for us, don’t you?” Barty said cheerily as he emerged from behind Peter, clapping his hands down on his shoulders and making the younger boy jump in fear.
Bellatrix laughed as if that was just the funniest joke, and all but skipped up to you to tug at your cheek while turning to look at Sirius’ face that became increasingly stony at the sight of Bellatrix’s hands on you.
“Don’t you, Siri?” she pushed, giggling in a nearly maniacal manner. “Luckily, the Capitol is still far off. Gives you just loads of time to catch up, yeah?”
cw ⟢ eventual poly!bartylus!!, slytherin!reader, fluff, friends to lovers
summary: the potter twins, a marvelous duo split by the sorting hat. just like your brother you presence was addictive, drawing in the attentions of a particularly brooding black brother.
a/n: THIS IS THE FIRST OF HOPEFULLY MANY PARTS HEHEHE I HOPE YOU ENJOY MWAH!!! not proofread x
Dumbledore was convinced that both Euphemia and Fleamont Potter had carried out a divide and conquer tactic apon your arrival in the castle.
Individually, you and James were a force to be reckoned with—both incredibly charismatic, intelligent and hard-headed, with a knack for mischief. So together, Dumbledore’s head only spun at the thought of the havoc the pair of you would cause.
Luckily, on the fateful day of your arrival, you were placed in Slytherin and your beloved twin brother was placed in Gryffindor—separated for the first time ever. The moment still vivid in your mind, the second the sorting hat was on you, the way you flinched when it hummed, pondering—voice ringing loud in your ears as it announced—Slytherin.
James had frozen at the Gryffindor table, half out of his seat, hand still twitching against the bench where he’d been saving your spot—watching as your lip trembled, walking glossy-eyed to the Slytherin table.
That first night, the castle felt too big, dungeon walls suffocating, too many corridors between you and your brother.
Of course it was hard, for the both of you.
James had always been protective over you—infuriatingly so. Always reinforcing the fact that he needs to take care of his little sister. Like those three minutes made any difference at all.
It had been a slow shift—painful, even. You and James had always been a unit, bound by childhood games, matching jumpers, and the unspoken certainty that wherever one of you went, the other wasn’t far behind. But Hogwarts had changed that. The Sorting Hat had done more than divide you; it had distilled you. Pulled apart the blended pieces of your personalities and exposed them for what they truly were.
It gave you both room to grow.
Individually. Distinctively.
Earning names for yourselves outside of ‘the Potter twins’.
You’d both carved your names into the stone walls of Hogwarts in your own distinct ways—loud and clear, unmistakable.
James Potter was sunlight. A walking, talking explosion of brightness. He lit up corridors with that crooked grin and wind-mussed hair, bounding through the castle like he owned every inch of it. Gryffindor Quidditch captain, chaotic and loud and brilliant in all the ways that made people want to follow him into a duel or disaster.
He was the kind of boy who laughed with his whole chest, who spoke like everything he said mattered, arms slung around friends like they were lifelines. Always in motion. Always burning. A golden retriever in human form, all reckless energy and genuine joy.
And then there was you.
Cool where James was burning. Still water to his wildfire. But no less dangerous.
No less alluring.
They called you the evil twin—never to your face, and never with confidence. Not seriously. Not really. But the name clung to you like smoke. It suited you in the way all the best lies do: close enough to truth to be dangerous.
There was a calm to you, deliberate and composed, but it was the kind of calm that made people lean in too close, not noticing that they were slipping under the surface until it was far too late. You moved with the kind of grace that made people watch without realising they were watching, your smile soft, voice smoother still, and eyes always gleaming with something slightly wild.
They whispered about you long after you left a room.
Head Girl before your quill ever touched the application parchment. A perfect record—at least on paper.
Your charm was quieter than James’, more calculated, more disarming. Beautiful, brilliant, and just a little terrifying. You made people nervous, even when you were smiling. Especially when you were smiling.
There was a glint in your eyes that made hearts skip and stomachs drop, that whispered of games and secrets and consequences. A wicked sort of glimmer, like you knew every thought in their head and were already deciding what to do with it. Like the sea right before a storm.
Yin and yang, Dumbledore had once said, half in jest. Opposing forces in perfect balance.
You enter the Great Hall like a secret unfurling—quiet and unannounced, not so much walking as gliding between tables, untouched by the noise that fills the air.
Steps silent across the stone floor, a slip of motion through the chaos of breakfast—chatter and cutlery and laughter clanging off the walls. You pass the Gryffindor table without so much as a murmur trailing behind you, and still, not one person notices.
Not until your hand touches James’ shoulder.
He jerks so violently he nearly knocks his goblet over, a string of startled swears tumbling from his mouth as his fork clatters against the plate. Pumpkin mash splatters. Someone at the table yelped. Sirius choked on his toast, and Remus actually gasped as if someone’s just hexed him.
Every head turned.
And James was clutching his chest like you’d stabbed him.
“Bloody—! Merlin’s sake, you can’t just—!”
You tilt your head at him, ever so slightly, a small smirk twitching at the corners of your lips—eyes glinting with amusement. “Jamie,” you say in a sing-song lilt, sweet and syrupy, “You wouldn’t happen to still have the History of Magic textbook you borrowed from me, would you?”
A hush falls over the table—just long enough to make you notice.
“Er. About that,” he says, eyes darting like he’s working out whether to lie or apologise. “I might still have it. Might. Can’t say what condition it’s in, though.”
Your smile fades instantly, its replacing expressing shockly serious.
“James,” you say flatly, eyes narrowing. “Did you ruin my book?”
He winces. “Define ruin—”
“James.”
“It wasn’t on purpose!” he insists quickly, shoulders raising like you’re about to hex him in the middle of the Great Hall. “There was this—uh—Sirius spilled ink on the table and then Remus knocked it over and there was just a lot going on.”
You stayed silent, blinking at him, unimpressed.
“I’ll get you a new copy,” he says, guilt creeping into his voice. “Later today. You’ll have to stop by the common room, though.”
You sigh like it physically pains you. “Fine. I’ll try to come by around seven.”
He grins, pleased with himself. “Sorry, Poppet*.*”
You roll your eyes, but the edge of your mouth twitches. Straightening, with a roll of your shoulders as you draw your hand away from him, letting it fall to your side. And when you glace up again, the stares hadn’t stopped.
Like they’d forgotten to look away, the silence hung in the air for barely a second, scanning the table momentarily—before offering a small smile—slow, sweet, almost smug.
The kind of smile that ruins people.
“M’kay, see you later, Jamie,” you murmur, then turn and slip back into motion.
Eyes follow you as you go—every turn of your heel, every soft shift of fabric, every second you exist within their line of sight. James barely registers it at first—too busy spearing his toast again, already halfway back into conversation. But then he pauses.
His eyes flick to Sirius. Then to Remus. Then to Marlene.
All three of them are still staring across the hall. Still tracking your path back to your table.
“Oh for Merlin’s sake,” James groans loudly, glaring. “Stop gawking at my sister.”
Marlene blinks, caught. “She’s terrifying,” she mutters, almost to herself.
“In a really…good way,” Remus adds, dazed.
Sirius only grins.
James lets out a strangled sound and buries his face in his hands.
The portrait swings open without hesitation, at exactly seven o’clock sharp, you’d been there enough times that even the Fat Lady doesn’t bother asking questions anymore.
James is already waiting on one of the overstuffed armchairs by the fire, textbook in hand. You barely slowed as you approached. He tossed it up with a practiced flick of the wrist, and you caught it one-handed.
“New copy,” he says proudly. “Didn’t even steal it. Aren’t you proud?”
You hum in approval, flipping it open to scan the pages. “No ink stains. No food crumbs. No smell of dungbombs.” You close it with a satisfied snap. “Miracles do happen.”
Before he can retort, you’ve already turned toward the couch, where Lily is perched cross-legged with a steaming mug of something floral and her usual tower of parchment. She smiles when she sees you, shifting over to make space without being asked.
Tucking the textbook under your arm as you lower yourself beside her.
James raises a suspicious brow, but you and Lily are already whispering to each other, heads tilted close and expressions conspiratorial. It’s nothing terribly sinister—something to do with Hogsmeade, and getting Slughorn to move a test back a week—but it’s enough to draw curious glances from the far side of the room.
You feel them. The eyes.
But you don’t look. Don’t need to.
Sirius was pretending not to stare. Which is laughable, really, because his entire body was angled toward you, elbow propped on the back of the couch, fingers tangled in his hair in that careless way he probably thinks is charming.
And Remus was worse. He’s trying to read, bless him, book in his lap and everything—but his eyes haven’t moved from you since you sat down. He shifts like he’s uncomfortable, chewing the inside of his cheek. You think you catch the faintest hint of a blush creeping up his neck.
You say nothing. Keep your voice low as you murmur something into Lily’s ear that makes her snort softly behind her hand.
After ten minutes of easy conversation, you rise without ceremony, slipping the textbook fully under your arm and smoothing your skirt.
“Well,” you say lightly, brushing a hand over your robes. “This was fun.”
Lily smirks. “We’ll finalise tomorrow?”
“Perfect” You glance to James. “Thanks for the book, Jamie.”
“No problem, Pop.”
You turn, finally acknowledging the two boys across the room with a glint of something wicked in your eye.
“Goodnight, boys,” you said sweetly—voice soft as silk, almost melodic. The slightest edge of a smile curves your lips as you roll your eyes, and then you’re already walking toward the exit, the hem of your robes trailing behind you like smoke.
You don’t look back.
But if you had, you would’ve seen Sirius run a hand through his hair and lean back with a low whistle.
“Merlin,” he mutters. “I’d swear she’s half siren if it weren’t for you, Prongs”
James, who’s still watching the portrait door swing shut, scoffs. “Oh, come off it.”
“What?” Sirius grins, unashamed. “It’s not my fault your sister is—” he gestures vaguely toward the door, “—whatever that is.”
Remus doesn’t say a word. His book is still open in his lap—he’s not reading it.
“I’m just saying,” Sirius continues, “if she weren’t your sister…”
“But she is my sister.” James rebutted, slouching back in his seat—swiftly ending the conversation.
The corridor curved with quiet shadows, lit only by the flicker of distant torches. Your footsteps echoed faintly against the flagstone, a soft rhythm in the stillness of the dungeons. It was late, you’d spent more time in the Gryffindor common room than you’d realised—most of the castle already asleep, save for the odd prefect or wandering ghost.
You turned a corner near the potions classroom and nearly walked straight into Regulus Black.
He stopped short, posture already impeccable, as if even in surprise he couldn't be caught off guard. There was a brief flicker of something in his eyes—recognition, hesitation—and then he stepped slightly aside, giving you room without a word.
“Burning the midnight oil, Black?” you asked, voice soft with the sort of casual familiarity that made his name sound like something you owned.
He glanced at you, dark eyes catching in the torchlight. “Prefect rounds. Took longer than expected.”
You fell into step beside him as naturally as breathing, and he adjusted his pace to match yours without needing to be asked.
“What was it this time?” you mused. “More Gryffindors smuggling sweets from the kitchens?”
“Fourth-years,” he said with a small exhale—amusement undercutting his otherwise smooth tone. “Said they were practicing for a future in espionage.”
“Ambitious,” you said, a smile tugging at your mouth. “Almost enough to make me proud.”
Regulus didn’t respond, but you felt the brief flick of his eyes on your profile, like he was trying not to look too long. Like he was trying not to seem too interested.
You didn’t comment, but you noticed.
By the time you reached the entrance to the Slytherin common room, barely mumbling the password before the metal hinges whined, door opening slowly. Inside, the green-glass lamps glowed low, casting dreamy reflections against the water-like ceiling. The fire in the hearth crackled lazily, golden against the dark velvet furniture.
Dorcas sat half-curled on the rug, absently flipping through a magazine; Evan was draped across a couch like he owned it, cards floating above his face; Pandora leaned near him, humming as she threaded a strand of starlight-colored ribbon through her hair. It was a tableau of sleepy elegance.
Without hesitation, you crossed the room and lowered yourself to the center rug near the fire. Your hand stretched toward the flames without thought. A spark rose up, obedient and curious, dancing into your open palm.
Twirling it between your fingers like silk, the heat never burning you, the flame curling comfortably around your touch. Pandora’s fingers stilled in her braid, watching.
Wandless magic.
Dorcas tilted her head, eyes bright. “You really have to teach me how to do that one day.”
You didn’t look away from the fire. “Of course,” you said lightly. “But there’s a bit of a learning curve.”
“Like what kind of curve?” Evan asked, not looking up. “Burn-your-dormitory-down levels?”
“More like third-degree-if-you’re-clumsy,” you replied with a grin.
“I could do it,” a voice said behind you, full of loud confidence.
Barty stepped forward from where he’d been balanced on the arm of the sofa, his hair tousled, shirt rumpled, and a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth like he’d been waiting for the perfect moment to make an entrance.
You turned your head slightly, one brow raised. “Could you now?”
“First try,” he goaded, brows arched in light challenge. “Swear on my father's boring haircut.”
Regulus snorted, not even looking up from his book. “You’ll burn yourself stupid.”
“I’ll be fine,” Barty said, already striding forward. “How hard can it be?”
He reached toward the fire, trying to mimic the smooth gesture you’d used, fingers tense with focus and impatience.
A small spark leapt up—and immediately sputtered, flaring far too quickly. The flame caught his skin with a sharp sizzle before he could react, and he yelped, flinging his hand back with a curse.
“Bloody hell!”
The room erupted with laughter.
Pandora’s hand clamped over her mouth as if to shove the laugh back in, both Evan and Dorcas threw their heads back in sync, barking out a laugh—sound mixing with yours, loud and delighted, as Barty glared at the fire like it had personally betrayed him.
“Under control, was it?” you teased.
He cradled his palm like it was a war wound. “Minor setback. I didn’t even flinch.”
“You flinched so hard you almost somersaulted.”
“Semantics,” Barty grumbled.
“Let me see,” you said, standing and stepping closer.
He hesitated only a beat before holding out his hand, palm-up. A faint red welt bloomed across his skin, angry and hot. Your fingers brushed against his as you took it, and you felt the brief hitch in his breath. You didn’t comment.
A whisper of magic curled from your palm, cool and quiet, threading over the burn like mist. The redness faded almost instantly, leaving only smooth skin and the faintest echo of heat.
Barty stared down at your work like it was a trick he couldn’t quite understand.
From the couch, Evan leaned forward, smirking. “You just wanted an excuse to hold her hand.”
“Shove off,” Barty muttered, pulling his hand back quickly, though not too quickly.
You shook your head, half-exasperated half-amused, and turned toward the hall. “I’m going to wash up.”
As you stepped away from the firelight, you caught movement in the corner of your eye. Regulus was still in his usual spot—half reclined in the reading chair by the window, a book open but forgotten on his lap.
His gaze was fixed on you, unreadable and unblinking.
You held it for just a moment, a soft smirk just barely twitching at the corners of your lips, before disappearing down the hall.
Unsurpisingly, both you and Regulus had more in common than you’d care to admit.
Both the less outlandish sibling, the ‘quieter’ ones—not necessarily in sound, but in presence. While James and Sirius blazed like bonfires, reckless and radiant, you and Regulus were something else entirely.
Subtle, magnetic.
You didn’t need to shout to be heard. You’d both entered a room and the air seemed to still slightly, as if waiting to see what you’d do.
Both of you understood what it meant to watch. To study a room before deciding what piece you wanted to play in it. You weren’t loud, nor silent just quietly unnerving. Regal, even.
There was a stillness about Regulus, an almost surgical precision to his movements and his clipped tone, like everything he did was measured twice before execution. He was painfully composed, almost uptight, his dry wit tucked behind an unimpressed brow and unimpeachable posture.
And where you differed—you were made of wild starlight and strange tides, chaos in your blood even if it rarely cracked your veneer, eventhough you rarely indulged. And where Regulus pulled inward, you leaned out. You loved a little disorder, havoc—a challenge; your eyes shining when something didn’t go to plan, smirking like you were always in on a secret.
There was a certain wickedness in your stillness—one that made Regulus look twice. Then three times. Then constantly.
Each thing he learned about you surprised him more than the last.
So he decided, quietly and with a calm sort of resolve, that he’d had enough of watching you from afar. He wanted a closer look.
The first time was in the library.
You were tucked into the corner of a row, arms full of books, hair falling across your face as you read the spine of a heavy tome. You didn’t notice him at first—or maybe that’s just what he told himself, though he should’ve known better. Regulus moved with the silence of a shadow, but when he was only inches away and just about to speak, your voice floated out, lightly entertained:
“Planning to sneak up on me, Black?”
He blinked, lips parting in the barest hint of surprise. “I wasn’t—”
Without sparing him a glance you handed him the book at the top, and he took it instinctively—letting his fingers linger on yours just that bit longer than necessary. And you held in a quirk of your brows, the squint of your eyes—making a mental note.
Because Regulus was nothing if not purposeful.
He didn’t say anything else at first, only helped, taking the weight from you and beginning to shelve them wordlessly. There was a moment—just before he reached for the last one—where his fingers paused. The cover was worn, clearly read many times.
Icarus.
A Muggle myth. One of his favourites, though no one knew that.
His hand hovered just a little too long, thumb brushing over the faded title.
“What did you think of the ending?” you asked suddenly, your tone soft but cutting through the quiet like a quill to parchment.
He almost stammered, nearly asking how did you know? But caught himself, clearing his throat before replying. “Tragic. I liked it.”
You tilted your head, teeth sinking into your bottom lip—scanning his face—something glinting behind your eyes that he couldn’t quiet put his finger on.
The way the corners of your lips threatening to curve into a smile, had him struggling to swallow, voice honeyed in his ears—“Of course you did.”
And you were gone, just like that, leaving him standing—ears hot, brain playing your voice, your smile on loop.
Regulus prided himself in his ability to read a person, and yet with you—every interaction left him more confused, more intrigued, more captivated. There was some sort of riddle about you, something flickering in the depths of your eyes that made him want to unravel it—you.
The next time he saw you, you’d agreed to meet after his Quidditch practice to finish a joint assignment for Potions. Waiting just outside the changing rooms, arms crossed loosely over your chest, leaning against the cool stone wall with your bag slung over one shoulder.
The first person out wasn’t Regulus, but Barty—lips splitting into a wide smirk like he’d been expecting to see you there.
“Well, well,” he drawled, striding over with no shame, his hair a windswept mess and his jersey clinging to his frame. Immediately he closed in on you, arm slinging lazily over your shoulders, a light scent of cigarettes and oak filling your nose.
“To what do I owe the pleasure, pretty?”
Groaning, your nose crinkling at the contact, you didn’t push him off though—”You’re sweaty, Junior,”
He only leaned in closer, grin laced with mischief, letting his breath fan over your jaw. “You love it.”
“I love showers, actually. You should try one.”
Tongue darting out to wet his lips, his eyes flickered across you face, the corners of your lips fighting to stay down—eyes glimmering with that twinge of defiance that had him only smirk even wider—“Only if you come with.”
Your brow cocked up slightly, narrowing your eyes as your plucked his arm off of you, placing gently back by his side—palms still wrapped around his wrist. He watched your movement eagerly, the smirk that was already etched onto his lips, adopting a positively wolfish quality when you leaned up into him—lips almost brushing the shell of his ear as you whispered.
“You wouldn’t last five minutes, Junior,”
Pulling away just as quickly as you came in, leaning back against the wall leisurely, rolling your eyes at the way Barty scanned your figure—adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.
Then the door opened again, still not Regulus.
“Evan,” you called sweetly, “come collect your lost dog before he starts shedding on me.”
“C’mon, Crouch” Evan replied with a snort, catching him by the collar and dragging him off. “Leave her alone before you melt her into the floor.”
Barty turned just before they were out of sight, voice loud despite the distance—playful, “Miss you already, Treasure!”
For a few more minutes you waited, the corridor quiet now except for the flickering of enchanted sconces and the distant echo of voices. When Regulus finally emerged, his tie half-undone and hair damp around the edges, cheeks still reddened from the bite of the air—adjusting his uniform.
“Did you wait long?”
He’d already began the walk out, following after him, you hummed a small no—slipping through the hallways in the East Wing to find an empty classroom. It wasn’t hard task at all, settling in with the low scrap of the stool against the stone floor and opening your textbooks.
As he flicked through the pages of the book, your gaze dropped instinctively to his hands—his knuckles bruised and bloodied, red blooming like petals across pale skin.
Without hesitation, you scooted forward in your seat and took his hand in yours.
“We could’ve stopped by Pomfrey,” you said, brows knitting slightly as you examined the scrapes.
He didn’t pull away. Just kept his gaze fixed on your hand, the way you held his delicately, and your fingers, the way they moved so gently across his skin.
“It’s nothing,” he muttered. “I’ll heal.”
A frown had etched itself onto your lips as you continued to inspect his hand, if you weren’t so engrossed in your assessment, you would have noticed the faint flush of his ears, or how his eyes flickered back and forth between your face and your hand.
Your motions were slow and attentive, pressing your palm along the bumps of his knuckles—the heat of your skin ghosting over his—the simmer of magic was so soft he almost didn’t notice it.
There was a flicker of discomfort in his eyes as the wounds healed, but he didn’t flinch away.
And as your palm crossed over the edge of his hand, the final gash closed before his eyes, the skin was almost perfectly anew, as if nothing had happened—the only indication being a fading pink hue.
You continued to trace over the now-faint marks, fingertips ghosting along the healed bone, the tenderness of your touch leaving him slightly breathless.
“Better,” you whispered, half to yourself.
Regulus just stared at his hand when you let go, still feeling the echo of your touch, the whisps of your warmth. “Thank you,” he said finally, voice quieter than usual, lips still parted—stretching and rolling his fingers, watching the bones move comfortably under the skin, free of the light burning sensation.
When he looked up, you were already watching him—head tilted, expression cool—neutral.
Sighing out a breath his lips were moving before he could stop them, “I—how?”
A quiet hum escaped your lips, hands crossing over your lap as you leaned into the wood of your chair, “Well, James and I were really clumsy—more James than me, obviously,”
Recollecting, your lips curled into a smile, shrugging slightly as you continued, “Our mum got tired of us walking around bruised and battered when she was busy, so she taught me how to heal without a wand,”
The ghost of a smile almost twitched at the corners of his lips. Almost.
A short silence veiled the room as you fell into a working rhythm, mindlessly highlighting and note taking before the clattering of Regulus’ quill against the table broke your concentration. Eyes immediately shifting up to him—his lips pursed into a tightline but the words were already out. Blurted abruptly, cracking the silence just as his quill did.
“Teach me,”
Your brows raised into a suprised arch, confusion flickering across your face for brief moment, lips parting to respond. When he shrunk into himself slightly, shocked by his own outburst, muttering a small, “…please?” under his breath.
The response fell heavy on your tongue, lips stretching into an amused smirk and huffed chuckle bubbled low in your chest.
The wood of the chair scrapped and screeched loud against the stone as you stood, wordlessly making your way around the table. His eyes tracked your movements, just barely becoming frantic in their flickering when you sat beside him—knees brushing, so close.
Regulus breath caught when your gazes met, heat prickling at the base of his neck, hands curling into half-fists on the table, and you kept your eyes on him. Even as you leaned over closing his books, making space on the desk—warmth of your body vaguely gracing him.
He couldn’t bring himself to look away, tear his gaze from yours—as much as it made his stomach flip from its quiet intensity—the confidence that swam in your eyes. It sucked him in, making his adam’s apple bob in his throat.
All-consuming.
At the sound of a single galleon, lazily spinning on the table, you broke your stare—letting your sights fall onto the coin as it clattered to a halt. “Have you done wandless magic before?”
He sucked in a deep breath, allowing his lungs to fill completely—using that time to regulate his heart that threatened to beat out of his chest—before pushing all the air back out, forcibly rubbing his palms into the fabric of his robes.
“Once—accidentally,”
With a nod, you hummed at his words, waiting for him to continue, eyes back on him—boring into the side of his head. “I—uh, got the lights to turn on when i couldn’t find my wand,”
His eyes shift between you and the coin as you picked it up, rolling it between your fingers as your spoke, “Okay, lets start with something simple, shall we?” The way you watched him made his mouth painfully dry, he couldn’t even trust his voice to answer, silently nodding at you words.
“Try move the coin.”
When he whipped his head towards to, lips parted in slight disbelief, protests creeping up his throat—Regulus clamped his mouth shut at the smile on your face, the way your eyes crinkled at the corners swimming with mischief as you leaned in. Placing the coin back onto the table with a soft clink, instinctively he held his breath, short-circuiting at the sudden proximity—so close he could smell you, a light vanilla scent with a twinge of maple and freshly burnt fire-wood.
You made him so nervous, he found himself a bit pathetic.
And the honeyed cadance of your voice did nothing but make his heart race faster than it already was, “Just breathe, Regulus. Focus on the coin and where you want it to move—relax,”
Easier said than done.
Gods, even the way you said his name—he almost lost the rest of your sentence, letting it echo in his mind over and over again.
When you reclined, leaning back into your chair, he felt the urge to mourn the loss of warmth—rolling his shoulders back, focusing his gaze. Or at least, he tried to.
The coin sat quietly on the table, unmoved, unbothered by the sheer force of his will alone. His jaw tensed, brows pinched together, fingers twitching slightly as if the movement alone might spark the magic into life.
Nothing.
With a breath that was equal parts frustration and surrender, Regulus leaned back and exhaled sharply.
“Can you—” he muttered, glancing at you from the corner of his eye, —can you not watch me?”
You blinked, caught off guard. Then a quiet chuckle slipped from your lips as you raised your hands in surrender, the teasing edge of your smile tugging at the corners. “Alright, alright,” you murmured, “Sorry.” Voice light and easy, but your eyes still sparkled with that same mischief that made his stomach clench. “Didn’t realise I was that distracting.”
“You are,” he muttered under his breath, almost too quiet for you to hear.
Still, you didn’t comment on it. Instead, leaning in again—slowly, gently—and placed your hand on his shoulder, the heat of you palm instantly radiating through his robes, hairs raising down his spine. His eyes flicked to the contact, then to your face again. You were closer than before.
“You’re thinking too hard,” you murmured, your thumb brushing once over the fabric of his robes. “And you’re not breathing.”
“I am breathing,” he argued weakly.
“Barely.”
You didn’t move your hand as you spoke again, your voice quieter now, velvet-soft and steady. “Close your eyes. Envision it. Just you and the coin. No pressure.” Regulus hesitated for a beat, then followed your instruction, lids fluttering shut.
A few moments pass before your voice reaches his ears again, “Can you see it?” and he nodded slowly, jaw tightening in focus.
“Alright,” you continued, tone low almost hypnotic now, “imagine it moving. Just a bit. Like there’s an invisible string tugging it toward you.”
He sucked in another deep breath, picturing it. The cool glint of the galleon. The subtle shine under the tinted light of the classroom. The gentle tug, like a current.
And then—scrape.
The softest sound of metal shifting against wood reached both your ears. His eyes shot open. It had moved—just barely a few centimeters, but undeniably there. His breath caught, disbelief flashing across his face.
When he turned to you, a bright beam had already split across your face, the sort of proud, delighted smile that hit him harder than the adrenaline from the magic—your hand finally slipped from his shoulder, leaving a coldness in its wake—fingers grazing the fabric of his robes. “You did it!” you said, eyes bright. “See? Easy.”
He let out a stunned breath, caught between awe and the bloom of success, heartbeat still rapid beneath his ribs. The warmth of accomplishment mingling with the quiet thrum of your presence, you. He was still processing when you reset the coin with a smooth sweep of your hand.
“Again,” you urged, nudging it into place. “Try further this time.”
He nodded, more focused now—confident. When he closed his eyes again, he could still hear the echo of your voice in his head. Could still imagine your hand on his shoulder, steading—warm.
And this time, it slid farther—too far.
The coin zipped forward, clattered off the edge, and hit the floor with a metallic clink that echoed around the empty classroom. You let out a short burst of laughter, delighted, as his head dropped, a sheepish huff escaping him. But the tension had melted from his shoulders, replaced with slow blossoming of something lighter. Pride.
He bent down to retrieve it, fingers brushing the cool metal before placing it back on the table. You were already settling beside him again, the warmth of your presence sparking something just under his skin. “This is the next step,” you said, tapping the surface of the table.
Regulus was still watching you.
Then you extended your hand, with a single finger, you hovered just above the coin—twirling it in a slow, controlled motion—and like it had a will of its own, the coin lifted.
Spinning, following the gentle twirl of your finger. A slow spiral, then faster, gathering speed until it hovered in the air, dancing in place.
He was entranced, gaze stuck on the coin even as it settled down, coming to a graceful halt—landing perfectly in the center of the table. He’d known magic, of course he did—but it felt different, raw and effortless. The same way the flame had danced between your fingers in the common room the other night—mindlessly intuitive, captivating. The coin spun like it wanted to please you. Everything did, it seemed.
He was still staring at the coin, hesitating—doubt creeping in through the back of his mind, like an unwanted invasive parasite—it barely flickered across his face. An almost imperceivable break in his expression, but you saw it.
Taking the coin again, you reached for his hand—laying your palm flat under his, eyes flickering to his face for permission before continuing. When he didn’t pull away, you placed the coin in the center of his hand, the warmth of your skin on his made the sharp bite of the metal feel that bit colder against his hand.
It lifted and spun confidently against his skin, puppeteered by the twist of your finger.
“Feel that?” Voice just above a whisper.
And he could feel it, a steady thrumming faintly circling in his palm, the buzzing with your magic. Swallowing before he spoke, a small “Yeah,” passing into the air between you.
“Now,” you spoke quietly, catching his other hand and bringing it to hover above the coin. “Picture that same feeling at your fingertips. Like it’s moving from your hand into the air—let it flow through you.”
He concentrated. You stayed close. Hand still gently cradling his from below, a silent encouragement, he started mimicking the slow twirling motion in the space above the coin.
For a few long moment—nothing.
Then, it happened. The coin jerked, slightly. Then again, shakily dragging to a stand. A tremble, stuttering before a spin. Jerky at first, but then it righted itself—smoothly gaining speed, falling into step with the command of his finger.
And your laughter, it rung through the room—soft, radiant—spilling from your chest with that same pride from before. He was too stunned to say anything. Blinking down at the coin with wide eyes, then looking to you, breathless, like he wasn’t quite sure it had actually happened. A smile—an actual, full smile—slowly curved onto his lips.
Rare and quiet, it lingered like a secret only the two of you shared.
The low buzz still resonating in his palm, the echo of your magic mingled with his own. The feeling of your hands—warm, steady, coaxing power out of him with nothing more than your voice and a bit of stubborn charm.
And even as the coin fell suddenly into his hand, all he could do was look at you.
Relish in the way your eyes shone with a glimmer of excitement, how your hands curved around his, jogging them slightly in enthusiastic joy of his accomplishment.
The coin was stagnant in his palm, Regulus flipped your hands, surrendering the cold metal into yours—and yet his hands lingering in your hold. He knew he probably should have moved his hands, the second he resigned the coin back into your possession; that was his cue. But he felt stuck, frozen under your sights.
Bewitched.
Even as your lips moved before him, the words almost fell deaf on his ears—taking a few seconds to let them echo in his mind, how did it feel? He responded with a sighing breath, as if relinquishing all remaining tension in his body, “…Good,” nodding his head as his continued, “really good actually,”
His small confession has your lips stretching even further along your face, and acknowledging hum rumbling in your throat as your touch slowly slipped away from his. Quietly tucking the coin into your bag before you started to pack up.
Just when you closed your notebook Regulus’ voice glided across the air, just above a faint murmur—if the room had any other sounds than the quiet rustling of papers, you wouldn’t have heard it.
“You’re a really good teacher,”
A small huff of laugh passed through your nose, tucking your notebook under your arm as you stood and offered a small, warm smile. “It’s easy,” you said lightly, “when you have a good student.”
Regulus shook his head faintly, a huff of something like disbelief leaving his lips—but the curve of pride hadn’t quite left his mouth.
The two of you walked in comfortable silence through the halls, your steps in sync. His hands tucked in his pockets, your bag slung over your shoulder. The dungeons were dim, washed in the dull blue of lantern light, shadows stretching along the stone. He kept glancing sideways at you, like there was something still lingering on his tongue he hadn’t quite worked up the courage to say.
Just as you reached the bottom of the girls’ dorm staircase, your hand curling loosely around the bannister, Regulus spoke.
“Wait—” His voice was low, tentative. Pausing, you turned slightly. “Hm?”
He stood a few steps back, one hand curled around the strap of his satchel, the other still shoved in his pocket. “Would you…” he paused, gaze dipping before finding yours again, more certain now. “Will you show me more?”
There was a beat of silence.
You tilted your head, watching him closely, fingers curled loosely around the railing. Blinking once, twice, reading the sincerity in his face, the open want—not desperation, harmless interest. He could see the cogs turning in your head just for a moment, before you murmured with a shrug, “Yeah.”
Descending the stairs again, you fell into step beside him as he led the way up the other staircase. The boys’ dorm was quiet when you reached it, the door creaking softly open under his hand. The warm scent of parchment, cologne, and something distinctly him met you in the space.
You paused at the threshold.
It wasn’t unfamiliar—you’d lounged across Barty’s bed enough times, lazily flipping through books while he tore the room apart looking for a missing assignment. You’d perched at Evan’s desk, rifled through his scribbled notes, borrowed a quill Barty’s nightstand. But never while Regulus was there. You’d never stepped into his space, not when he was in it.
He didn’t seem to notice your stillness. He moved through the room with ease, like you weren’t watching—dropping his books in a stack by the desk, slipping his robe off one shoulder, then tugging his jumper over his head. His shirt was rumpled beneath, sleeves already rolled up, collar slightly askew. You caught yourself staring.
He looked over his shoulder.
“You coming in?” he asked, voice a little lower now, pitched in that way it sometimes got when it was just you.
Without a word, you stepped in, toeing the door shut behind you and dropping your bag just beside the frame. You mimicked his motions easily, slipping off your jumper and draping it over the back of a nearby chair, fingers brushing absently along the edge of his desk as you walked further in.
It was a clean room. Structured, but not stiff. His bed was neat, the desk organised, quills and books perfectly aligned. But there were touches—human ones. A framed photo of the Quidditch pitch mid-game, a green ribbon pinned to the wall—a burnished Slytherin scarf neatly folded at the end of his bed, and a single piece of parchment stuck to the wall above his workspace.
With a soft exhale, you flopped onto his bed, letting your arms stretch out as you gazed up at the canopy. The hangings were dark, almost velvet black, and they made the whole space feel smaller, quieter. Private.
Regulus glanced over, amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth. He returned to his desk, potion book in hand, eyebrows arched in mild disbelief.
“You make yourself comfortable wherever you go, don’t you?” he said dryly, a smirk threatening at the corners of his lips.
You didn’t reply—just smirked smugly, twisting your head into the sheets below, stretching your limbs out, still gazing up at the dark, heavy curtains draped above the bed. The movement made your shirt shift, riding up slightly—just a touch above your waistband, exposing a sliver of skin, soft and warm under the low lamplight—the stretch of your abdomen and the small indent of your navel.
He was staring.
He didn’t realise how long until you sat up, balancing your weight on one arm, eyes still wandering lazily over the ceiling.
“You’d think your parents taught you it’s rude to stare,” you said lightly. “But you and your brother are just the same.”
Regulus cleared his throat, heat blooming high on his cheekbones, but he said nothing.
Your attention drifted to the stack of books on his desk—and the singular piece of parchment, handwritten in a precise script, pinned above it.
“What’s that?” you asked, nodding toward it.
He followed your gaze. “A line from a poem.”
You hummed, intrigued. “What’s it say?”
He crossed the room, settling a book on his night stand before he sat on the bed beside you.
You didn’t meet his gaze right away—still reclined, your hair spilling over the edge of the bed like ink, one hand absentmindedly twirling the galleon between your fingers.
Stretching out onto his stomach, bringing his chin on his forearm to look at you properly. He watched you for a moment. The way the gold shimmered in your grip, the way your mouth twitched with unspoken thought. You could feel his eyes on you, but you didn’t mention it.
When he finally spoke, his voice was soft—gentle and low as he recited the line, something breathy and melodic in French. His accent was quiet but careful.
The coin fell still in your lap as you turned your head toward him.
“It sounds pretty,” you murmured. Your eyes traced his face, steady and curious. “What does it mean?” His gaze didn’t leave yours, sucking in a breath through his nose, the mattress beside you dipped as he promped himself up onto his elbows, words slow and hypnotising in your ears.
“Let night come on bells end the day, the days go by me still I stay”
You blinked at him, for a long moment, just letting the words rest heavy in the air between you, and his adam’s apple bobbed in his throat when you spoke, voice barely above a whisper, more breath than words—as if anything louder would crack the air as it stilled around you.
“It sounds extra pretty in your voice.”
Regulus swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. You were too close. Not close enough. The lamp behind you casted golden shadows across your face and your lips were slightly parted, just barely.
Before he could stop himself, the words were already tumbling out.
“I think you’re pretty.”
You didn’t say anything, just kept your eyes on him—blinks slowly as you took in each feature.
And then he was leaning in. Slowly, but not hesitantly—fingertips skimming along your jaw, guiding your face toward his with reverence more than boldness. He tilted your face toward him like he’d done it a thousand times before.
The ghost of a smile tugged at your lips, and as he got closer, you hummed, tone somewhere between amusement and a quiet gentleness, “Such high praise,” Gaze flickering between his eyes and his lips one last time before his mouth was on yours.
Regulus’ lips brushed yours with a delicate sort of caution, like he was afraid to startle the moment. His hand stayed warm at your jaw, thumb ghosting along the edge of your cheekbone, grounding himself in the quiet thrill of the contact.
When you kissed him back, slowly, deliberately, and it was like you lit a fuse under his skin. He moved closer, shoulders angling toward you, the hand on your jaw trailing down—fingers curling gently around your neck, not possessive, but fervored.
There was nothing rushed about it. Only the press of mouths and the occasional, breathless hitch of air as your noses brushed and he tilted his head, deepening the kiss slightly—still cautious, still a little hesitant.
But then then he heard it—just barely there, a small breath of contentment through your nose as your fingers slid up the front of his shirt, curling into the fabric.
That did it.
His lips moved with more intent now, more certainty, like he’d been holding back and couldn’t anymore. He tasted like peppermint and something you couldn’t quite place, and every time he pulled away even a fraction, he came right back—drawn to you like the pull of gravity.
Somewhere in the flurry of warmth and movement, the air around you shifted.
The curtains.
The ones above his bed rustled faintly, and then, slowly, they began to close—not all the way, but just enough to wrap the two of you in the hush of privacy. The dark velvet swept inward in a lazy draw, like someone had tugged gently at invisible strings. The air around you seemed to slow, thick with suspended magic and the soft scent of something like cedar and parchment.
Pulling back from the kiss, just barely, your lips brushing his as a breath of laughter escaped you. The kind of soft, genuine giggle that bloomed right in your chest and spilled out in surprise. Your forehead dropped back lightly against the pillow as you whispered, voice honeyed with delight, “Did you just—?”
He didn’t say anything at first. But there was the faintest flush at the tips of his ears, even as the corners of his lips twitched in a sheepish smile. You cupped his jaw gently, brushing your thumb along the edge of his cheek as you teased with a squint of your eye, voice low and fond, “Already showing off.”
He just huffed a laugh, dipping his head slightly—forehead pressing to yours, breaths mingling in the narrow space between you. His hand found your waist again, sliding over your hip to pull you closer, until your bodies were all but tangled together in the middle of his bed.
Then he paused.
Looked at you.
Really looked at you—eyes searching your face, the softness of your features in the low dorm light, the flush on your cheeks, the swollen curve of your lips, still flushed lightly from his kiss. His thumb brushed your waist absently, reverently, like he was trying to memorise the moment through touch alone.
You blinked up at him, slightly breathless, lips curving into that small smile—that quiet, knowing one—that had his pulse quickening.
“How long have you been waiting to do that?” Voice just above a whisper.
A beat.
His answer was just as quiet.
“…Too long.”
You didn’t say anything, you didn’t have to.
Because then his lips were on yours again, more insistent this time—hungry but still careful, still delicate. Like he was trying to learn the shape of your mouth with his own. His hand slid to the small of your back, curling to bring you even closer, your chest brushing his with every inhale.
Dinner came and went. Neither of you moved.
Body sprawled across the bed, head in Regulus’ lap, legs stretched out and one arm flopped over your middle lazily. His hand drifted idly through your hair, almost absentminded in its rhythm, as he spoke—quiet and thoughtful, voice lilting into stories you never expected him to share.
He told you about how he hated summer, because his skin burned too easily—how the Black family manor always smelled like dust and old magic. How he and Barty used to sneak wine from the cellar and sit on the roof, trying to name constellations. How his favourite book growing up wasn’t even magical—it was a Muggle text he smuggled in and read by candlelight.
You blinked up at him with a soft smile, utterly content, not interrupting—just listening.
For a man you’d once believed was of few words, he sure had a lot to say.
Not that you weren’t complaining.
There was something soft about him now—looser. Less controlled. Like the tightly wound strings he kept knotted around himself had started to loosen just enough to let you in, like he’d been waiting for the the chance to bare himself. And Merlin, he was affectionate. Not in the loud, boisterous way others might’ve been. But with soft hands and stolen glances. A touch at your hip, the gentle brush of knuckles down your arm. Aching for contact in any form, so careful about how he was gave and received it, like it could be torn away at any given moement—still so foreign, even in his own mind.
Your thumb traced slow circles into his knee as you murmured, “Can you read the line again? From the poem?”
Regulus looked down at you, a faint smile tugging at his lips. He nodded, brushing a piece of hair from your forehead before turning toward the parchment pinned above his desk. He recited it again in that soft voice—low and smooth, almost like a lullaby.
You closed your eyes, humming in contentment.
When he finished, you whispered, “Lemme show you something.”
And before he could ask, your hand curled into a fist. You held it up between you both. His brows furrowed slightly, watching with interest.
Then, you slowly unfurled your fingers—and from the centre of your palm, a small bluebell flower sprouted, delicate and glowing faintly with the magic that coaxed it into being.
“This,” you whispered, eyes flickering with warmth and voice like a secret, “is what I think of when I hear your voice.”
For a long moment, Regulus didn’t speak.
Just stared.
The shock in his eyes wasn’t loud. It was quiet and still, like everything else about him. But it was there. Etched into the way he looked at you—not just at the flower, but at your face. Your expression, the tenderness written across it with no ulterior motive, no mischief behind your eyes. No teasing lilt in your tone.
Just you.
And he didn’t know what to do with it.
His fingers reached out gently, brushing the fragile petals like they might dissolve under his touch. And when he looked back at you, his voice was barely above a whisper.
“You really are something,” he said, with a kind of awe that made your stomach twist in a way you weren’t prepared for.
Covering the sudden flutter of your chest with a scoff and biteless roll of your eyes. You didn’t give him the chance to say anything more, before you sat up abruptly, hair whipping slightly at your speed—movements fluid and unbothered as the mattress dipped under the concentrated weight of your knees.
Regulus frozen against the headboard, wide-eyed when your leg swung over his middle—settling on his lap in a straddle that was far too flippant. His hands hovered awkwardly at first, unsure where to settle—eventually, they found your hips, fingers curling there hesitantly.
The small smirk on lips only widened—at his obvious flush, relishing in the way the blush crept up his neck and spread across his cheeks.
“Relax,” you teased, brushing your fingers through his dark curls, tucking and retucking the strands behind his ear like you were sculpting something. And then, you nestled the bluebell flower in the space you’d created—right behind his ear.
“There,” you said with a proud grin, leaning back slightly to admire your work. Your hands slid down his neck, wrists resting lazily on his shoulders as you laced your fingers behind him, just barely hovering over his surely goosebump ridden skin. Tilting you head, you let your gaze rake over him like you were evaluating an art piece.
“I think blue might be your colour, Reg.”
Your tongue darted out to wet your lips, and you subtly shifted in his lap—closer, pressing into him with purpose. Regulus huffed a small scoff, finally finding a bit of his footing again, though his voice was still slightly strained. “Must you always be this brazen?”
You shrugged innocently. “It’s fun having people on edge.”
He hummed lowly, eyes flickering with something darker now—his grip tightening slightly on your hips. “Really?”
You leaned forward with a smirk, lips brushing his as you replied in a hushed, mocking whisper, “Reaaaally.”
That was all the prompting he needed.
His mouth met yours with vigor, kissing you like he couldn’t help it. Like he’d been waiting to. Desperate, yet controlled. His hands squeezing at the flesh of your waist as he pulled you closer, chest pressing flush to his, heat blooming between you, smiling into the kiss.
Pulled back slightly, lips still grazing his, and whispered against his mouth, “You must like brazen then.”
And that made him grin.
Actually grin. Wide and rare and perfect.
His hands gripped your waist more firmly as he kissed you again, feverish now, all slow control forgotten in favour of something more frantic and yearning. The kind of kiss that stole the air from your lungs and made time slip sideways.
So engrossed in each other, you didn’t hear the door creak open.
Didn’t notice the soft shuffle of footsteps.
But the moment the familiar sound of Barty’s voice filled the room, everything stopped.
“I brought teacakes,” he called out lazily from the other side of the dorm, “because you missed supper. I figured you were sulking or something—”
You and Regulus froze mid-kiss.
Legs still straddled across his lap. His hands halfway up your back. The flower still behind his ear.
Regulus’ eyes flew open. Your hand slapped over your mouth to muffle a curse.
“I left extra lemon ones, since—wait.”
Barty’s voice was closer now. Suspicious—”…Why are your curtains closed?”
Regulus was already looking at you, panicked. You swatted his arm sharply when he didn’t say anything, eyes wide and insistent. “Was Potter here?” Barty asked, a little louder this time.
“She—uh—” Regulus stammered. “She was here. Earlier.”
Stammered.
You physically winced.
He never stammered. And now Barty definitely knew something was off. There was the unmistakable sound of someone standing up. Then footsteps. Getting closer.
Barty’s voice was cool and skeptical. “So…she was here earlier…”
He paused just outside the curtain.
“…and just left her bag behind?”
Your eyes widened in horror. Your bag. You could envision where you’d left it—sitting in plain view.
A pained expression split across your face as Regulus turned to you with a look that screamed, what do we do??
But there was no time.
Because the curtain was already being drawn back.
Regulus didn't move. Neither did you.
Time seemed to stall between one breath and the next, and there was Barty—standing there with a half-eaten lemon teacake in one hand, his brows slowly climbing higher and higher as he took in the sight before him.
You, still straddling Regulus.
Regulus, pink-faced and looking about two seconds from imploding.
And the flower, still tucked delicately behind his ear.
A beat of silence.
He gasped—actually, audibly gasped, clutching his chest as if you'd physically wounded him. “Treasure,” he breathed, eyes wide and betrayed, “I cannot believe you traded me in for Black.”
You groaned. “Junior.”
“No—don’t you Junior me,” he said, stepping back like your words had scorched him, pressing a hand against the curtains pillar for support.
You slid off Regulus’ lap in a single, painful motion, trying to maintain any shred of dignity, which was difficult with your hair mussed and your shirt slightly rumpled from where Regulus had been clutching at the back of it.
Regulus didn’t even try to salvage anything. He just stared at the ceiling like he was mentally calculating how fast he could die and be buried—red down to the collar of his shirt.
“I thought we had something, Treasure,” Barty continued with a theatrical sniff, flopping onto his bed. “A shared love of mild chaos, midnight escapades, and morally ambiguous hexes.”
You just rolled your eyes. “Oh, please.”
He stared at the ceiling, hand still on his chest. “I’m heartbroken.”
“You’re eating a teacake.”
“I’m grieving, let me be.”
And then, his voice softened a little, still dramatic but now with an edge of sincerity. “I mean… obviously everyone’s had a crush on you, but I didn’t think he’d be the one to do something about it.”
You blinked, head whipping to Regulus, eyes narrowing. “You’re not denying it.”
He just shrugged lightly, like he didn’t see the point.
Barty’s laughter was smug as hell. “See?” he said, sitting up.
Regulus groaned softly beside you. “Is this going to end soon?”
Barty glanced between you both, a wicked little smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “So tell me,” he said, casually now, propping himself up on one elbow, “is this a new study method? Because I must’ve missed this chapter in Advanced Charms.”
“Jun—”
“No, no—really, I’m curious,” he said, waving his teacake for emphasis. “Do you rate each other’s technique? Is snogging now a core requirement for N.E.W.T. preparation?”
You bit the inside of your cheek, trying very hard not to laugh. It didn’t help that Regulus looked like he was actively contemplating vanishing spells, dropping his head into his hands.
Then he softened again, leaning his chin into his palm as he watched the two of you. “For what it’s worth, Reg… you look good like this. Like an actual person instead of a walking anxiety spell.”
“I hate you,” he muttered, hands slipping from his face to reveal a withering look.
Barty beamed. “That’s more like it.”
With a smug little wave, Barty finally stood, sauntering backwards toward the door with his usual flair.
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do—which, to be fair, is a very short list. Night, lovebirds.”
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