Hello!! Love your work!! Could you write more garret gram please???🙏 such an amazing character and super hot! Love ❤️
You Look Good Wearing My Name
Pairing: Garrett Graham x Reader
Word Count: 1722
Request open!
Off campus masterlist
Garrett had been in the middle of a perfectly ordinary conversation when you walked into the hockey house common room wearing his jersey for the first time.
That was the problem.
Not that the conversation had been important. He couldn’t even remember what Dean was talking about. Something obnoxious, probably. Something involving hockey, or girls, or both. Garrett had been half listening, half leaning against the kitchen counter with a bottle of water in hand, when the sound of your footsteps made him look up.
And then you were there.
In his jersey.
Loose on your frame, the hem hitting mid-thigh, the sleeves hanging just a little too long over your hands. His number on your chest. His name across your back.
Garrett stopped breathing.
Actually stopped.
Dean, who had been talking, frowned at him. “Dude?”
Garrett didn’t answer.
Because his brain had very helpfully decided to abandon all useful functions at once.
You looked from Dean to Garrett, caught the way Garrett was staring at you, and slowly your mouth curved. “What?”
Garrett opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
Dean looked between the two of you, then grinned like the bastard he was. “Oh, this is good.”
You glanced down at the jersey, suddenly a little self-conscious under Garrett’s stare. “Is it bad?”
That seemed to snap Garrett back into his body.
“No,” he said too quickly.
Dean’s eyebrows shot up. “That was suspiciously fast.”
Garrett ignored him and kept looking at you, his gaze fixed in a way that made your skin warm. “You,” he said, then paused, like his own brain had shorted out. “You look…”
You tilted your head. “I look what?”
He swallowed.
Dean made a gagging noise. “Oh my God. He’s broken.”
Garrett shot him a glare without taking his eyes off you. “Shut up.”
You smiled, clearly delighted now, and stepped farther into the room. “You were saying?”
Garrett’s grip tightened around the water bottle in his hand. “I was saying,” he started, then stopped again because apparently language had become optional, “that you look good.”
“Good?” you repeated, pretending innocence.
He laughed once under his breath, equal parts disbelief and helplessness. “That’s not fair.”
You glanced down at the jersey again and tugged lightly at the hem. “It’s just your shirt.”
Garrett stared at you like you had just said the most ridiculous thing in the world. “No,” he said, voice lower now, “it’s not.”
Dean made a disgusted noise. “I’m leaving before I have to watch this.”
“You’re always leaving when things get interesting,” Garrett muttered.
Dean pointed at him. “That is because you are doing this in front of me on purpose.”
Garrett finally tore his eyes away from you long enough to glare at him. “Get out.”
Dean grinned wider. “Gladly.”
He tossed Garrett a look that said good luck, then disappeared down the hall, leaving the two of you alone in the common room.
The silence that followed was somehow worse.
Garrett took a step toward you, then stopped like he wasn’t sure what to do with his own hands.
You folded your arms, trying very hard not to smile too much. “Are you done staring?”
He let out a short breath, almost a laugh. “No.”
Your expression softened for half a second before you masked it again. “That bad?”
Garrett tilted his head, eyes still locked on the jersey. “That good.”
The words hit harder than they should have.
You tried to act normal. “You look like you’re having some kind of crisis.”
“I might be.”
“Why?”
He gave you a look that was half incredulous, half completely undone. “Because you’re wearing my name.”
Your face changed immediately.
You glanced down at yourself as if seeing it for the first time. The jersey was familiar, soft from being worn and washed so many times, but on you it looked different. Intimate. Almost too much. Garrett knew exactly what it meant to wear someone’s name in this house, on this team, in this life.
And he had not realized he would react like this.
“You said I could borrow it,” you said quietly.
“I know I did.”
“I’m just wearing it.”
He looked at you, then shook his head once. “Yeah. That’s the problem.”
You frowned, but not in an upset way. More like you were trying to understand the way his voice had dropped.
Garrett shoved a hand through his hair and stepped closer, stopping right in front of you. He was smiling a little now, but it was a different kind of smile. Not cocky. Not teasing. Something softer and much more dangerous.
“Do you know what that does to me?” he asked.
Your breath caught. “No.”
His gaze dipped to the jersey again, then back to your face. “You wearing that?”
You swallowed. “Garrett,”
“You look like you belong with me.”
The room went very still.
Your heart gave a loud, stupid thump.
Garrett seemed to realize what he’d said at the exact same moment you did, because his expression shifted almost instantly. He looked mildly horrified, which was somehow both extremely attractive and deeply unfair.
He coughed once. “I mean,”
You were already smiling now, and that made him groan.
“Oh, no,” he said, pointing at you. “Do not do that face.”
“What face?”
“That face where you act like I just said something that made you happy.”
You blinked slowly. “Did you not mean it?”
Garrett stared at you for one long second, then muttered, “That is not helping my case.”
Your smile widened.
He looked helplessly at the ceiling, then back at you. “You’re enjoying this.”
“A little.”
“A little?”
“A lot.”
Garrett took another step closer, until there was barely any space left between you. His voice dropped to something low and intimate. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
“You’re the one who lost his mind over a jersey.”
“I did not lose my mind.”
“You absolutely did.”
He gave you a look. “You walked in wearing my name and expected me to act normal?”
“Yes?”
“Then that was your first mistake.”
You laughed, soft and warm, and Garrett’s expression changed again, like that sound alone had done something to him.
He reached out and caught the fabric at your hip, fingers curling lightly into the jersey. “You should not be allowed to look that good in my clothes.”
You nearly stopped breathing.
“Your clothes?” you repeated, voice quieter now.
Garrett’s mouth twitched. “You know what I mean.”
“Do I?”
His eyes flicked over your face, then down to the jersey one more time. His thumb moved once against the material at your side, absent and careful and completely unfair.
“I mean,” he said, “if you keep wearing things like this, I’m going to start getting territorial.”
Your brows lifted. “Territorial?”
He smiled, but it had an edge to it now. Playful and possessive all at once. “Yeah.”
“And what does that mean?”
Garrett leaned in just enough that his breath brushed your cheek when he spoke. “It means I’m going to keep thinking about the fact that everyone in this house knows this is my jersey.”
Your stomach did a ridiculous little flip.
“And?” you asked, because your brain had apparently gone into self-preservation mode and abandoned dignity.
“And,” he said, voice even lower, “they’re going to see you in it and know exactly who you’re with.”
That made your cheeks heat instantly.
Garrett noticed, of course he did. He always noticed.
His smile softened at the edges when he saw your reaction, and for a second he looked almost shy, which was so unlike him that it made your chest tighten.
Then he kissed you.
It was quick at first, just a gentle press of his mouth against yours, like he couldn’t help himself. But when you made a small sound of surprise and reached for his shoulders, Garrett gave in completely and deepened it, one hand sliding to the small of your back to pull you closer.
The jersey bunched between you.
His jersey.
On you.
It did absolutely nothing to calm him down.
When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours and let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like he was trying to recover.
You looked up at him, smiling now in a way that was probably way too soft. “Still think it’s a problem?”
Garrett stared at you for a second, then laughed under his breath. “Yeah.”
You blinked. “Yeah?”
He brushed his thumb over your hip through the fabric and said, “It’s a huge problem.”
That made you laugh, and he looked stupidly pleased with himself for having caused it.
Then he added, quieter this time, “You should wear it more often.”
Your smile softened. “You want me to?”
Garrett looked at you like the answer should have been obvious. “Of course I do.”
“Because it’s comfortable?”
“Because it looks good on you.”
You studied his face. “That’s your whole reason?”
He gave you a slow grin. “No.”
“Then what else?”
Garrett’s hand slid from your waist to your back, warm and steady, before he leaned in again just enough to make your pulse jump. “Because every time you wear something of mine, I get this stupid little reminder that you’re mine.”
The words hung there between you, charged and hot and far too easy to feel.
You stared at him.
Garrett looked back, entirely unbothered now, all that earlier uncertainty replaced with confidence again. He was smiling like he knew exactly what he was doing to you and had no intention of stopping.
Finally, you shook your head, trying and failing to hide your grin. “You are so smug.”
“Only because I’m right.”
“You are unbearable.”
“And yet,” he said, sliding his hand to your waist again, “you’re still standing here in my jersey.”
You glanced down, then back at him, and because you couldn’t help yourself, you reached up and tugged him closer by the collar of his shirt.
“Maybe,” you murmured, “I like seeing you lose your focus.”
That did it.
Garrett’s expression went completely still for one long beat.
Then he let out a quiet, rough laugh and kissed you again, slower this time, like he had all the time in the world and absolutely no intention of letting you forget exactly whose name was on your back.
Summary: After yet another horrible date leaves you stranded, you call your best friend, Garrett Graham, for help. Now, if only Garrett can convince you that he's the right guy for you, after all...
Warnings: none! some swearing but besides that, just a fluffy love confession :)
If someone had told you three hours ago that your date would be the biggest, most egotistical jerk in all of Briar University, you would’ve saved yourself from the trouble and had a cozy night in your dorm instead. Wishful thinking, right?
The guy had spent almost the entire time bragging about his own achievements in life. You’d feebly respond with an Oh really? Or an Ah, I see from time to time to try and show interest, but beyond that, you spoke all of 20 words the whole dinner. To top it off, he asked at the end if you’d pay (“I spent the rest of my savings on beer kegs for the frat party, sorry.”) and once he realized you wouldn’t be putting out on the first date, he suddenly lost all interest and told you it wouldn’t work out.
Hence your current predicament, stuck under the awning in front of the restaurant as rain fell in buckets around you. Your date had driven you, and after the painfully awkward shared meal, he took off before you could even tell him goodbye.
Your finger hovered over the familiar contact for a moment in contemplation before sighing and tapping the name Garrett Graham. After a few rings that seemed to endlessly echo in your ears, the call connected and you were met with the voice you knew and adored.
“Hey, Y/N, everything okay? I thought you had a date with that guy. What was his name again? Chad?”
“It’s Brad,” you huffed. “And I did. It was horrible. He asked me to pay for our tab and talked about himself the whole time. Even told me I dressed like a hooker when I told him I wouldn’t pay for it myself.”
“I’ll fucking kill him.” Garrett’s suddenly angered voice surprised you. “You look drop dead gorgeous. No wonder he misses shots in hockey and bagging the hottest girl on campus.”
“Yeah, well, the ‘hottest girl on campus’ is stuck out here in this damn hurricane level rain. Did I mention he was my ride?”
You heard shuffling on the other end of the phone. “Stay right there. I’m on my way.”
“Wait, Garrett, you really don’t have to-“
The call disconnected before you could finish telling him you would’ve found a ride elsewhere.
You and Garrett had been close for about as long as you could remember in college. He needed someone to vent to about his dad and hockey issues, and you were desperate to make new friends, thus forming an unlikely alliance. You hung out together often and were basically attached at the hip, but nothing romantic ever stemmed from it, much to your secret dislike.
Besides, you wanted something real, and you knew Garrett didn’t do the whole relationship business. You’d be damned if you let yourself become one of his puck bunnies, just another name to add to the roster of girls falling at his feet.
So what if you fell for him?
A wolf whistle pulled you out of your spiraling thoughts. “Daaaamn, little lady, you come here often?”
You hadn’t noticed the familiar black jeep pull up along the curb, nor did you see the familiar face of your best friend hopping out to open the passenger door for you. Garrett’s face was mostly covered by the hood of his jacket to protect him from the rain, but even so, you could see his boyish smile shining right at you.
“Oh, shut it. What took you so long?” You teased as you ran and hopped into the car. “I could’ve drowned out here!”
“I’d be your lifeguard, baby.” He winked as he closed the door and ran around to the other side as your heart raced.
Stop it! You mentally chided yourself. He’s your best friend!
Once inside, he reached back and dug around for something before handing it to you. “Figured you could use this, considering you’re soaking wet and shaking.”
He handed you one of his jackets that smelled so unmistakably of him, even before you put it on. “Thanks, Gar. You always know just how to make me feel better.”
“Of course. I meant it when I said I’d do anything for you.” Garrett paused for a moment, staring into your eyes and giving you one of his soft smiles that turned your insides into mush. Subconsciously, you started to lean closer to each other, to the point where you could just make that one last push and…
Beep!
The sound of the car behind you laying on their horn ripped the two of you apart. They flipped the bird, to which Garrett eagerly returned, before he shifted gears and the two of you were on your way.
“Why do you always go on dates with these shitty guys? You deserve so much better than them.” Garrett’s questioning gaze travelled back and forth between you and the road.
You scoffed, “And who else would I go out with? Half of the guys at this school are already locked down and the other half are looking for a one-night stand or booty call. Do you know how hard it is to be either overlooked or viewed as a piece of meat? What guy would be willing to look at me, in all of my craziness, and still want to choose me every day for anything other than my body?”
“Me.”
“…what?”
“I said me.” Garrett’s response was sure without a hint of hesitation.
“Okay, seriously? Cut the shit, Graham.”
“Fuck it.” Garrett abruptly veered the steering wheel to the right before bringing the Jeep to a lurching stop on the side of the road. His intense stare held yours as he continued, “You really don’t get it, do you?”
You were growing both confused and extremely frustrated with each passing moment. “Get what, Garrett? How you lead me on constantly? How I don’t know what we are because you’re scared of commitment? Because that’s what I’m getting.” Tears of frustration began to well in your eyes. “I’d rather a guy flat out tell me he’s not interested than give me hope for something that’ll never happen.”
“No, no, baby, that’s not what I ever intended to do to you. Please look at me.” He attempted to catch your fleeting gaze, but every time he did, you looked away. “Okay, we’re really doing this.”
He opened his car door, shutting it behind him before walking around and opening yours. He knelt, his hands finding your cheeks.
You couldn’t believe what he was doing. “Garrett! Are you crazy? Get back in the car! We’re on the side of the damn road!”
“I need you to listen to me, because this is really important, okay?” He drew in a deep breath. “You’re it for me. That’s it, it’s you. I’m in love with you, and there isn’t a single universe or timeline where we don’t belong together. I search for you in every room and I feel empty when we’re apart. Nobody gets me in the ways you do. We’re inevitable, baby. Just say you’re as far gone for me as I am for you, and I promise to make you the happiest woman in the world for as long as we both live.”
“Garrett, you can’t just drop all this on me when we’re on the side of the road.” You sniffled. “Do you know how long I’ve been waiting to hear you say that? How often I’d hoped you would feel the same? I’m terrified.”
Garrett’s eyes displayed an array of emotions; hope, anxiety, nerves all swirled into one, but his face remained guarded as he swiped at your cheeks with his thumbs.
“I love you, Garrett.” You continued. “If you’re far gone for me then I’m just as bad. Everything with you just makes sense.” You paused briefly, trying to articulate how you felt. “But If we do this, I need you to choose me every single time. This could very well break me if you can’t or you’re too scared too. I need you to be all in.”
His response was instant, “I choose you, every single time. I mean it when I say you’re it for me. We’re in this for the long run. It’s you and me, baby. Always gonna be you and me.” He pressed your hand to his chest, right over his rapidly beating heart. “Yours, forever.”
Your lips finally broke into a wide grin, one mirrored completely mirrored by Garrett. His eyes flickered down to your lips and back up before leaning in toward you, hands wrapping around your back. Your hands found his curls as you met in the middle for a sweet, long awaited kiss.
Beep!
Yet another honk from a passing car startled the both of you apart, but this time it was met with soft shared smiles and sweet giggles. Garrett stood up, pressing one last brief kiss to your lips before shutting your door and heading around to his side.
“I’m still gonna kill that fucking Chad, by the way.” “Garrett! Absolutely not!”
a/n: Thank you all so much for the love on my first Dean fic! I'm taking requests for all 4 off campus boys, so feel free to drop in my inbox whenever! hope you enjoyed our loverboy Garrett giving you the love confession you deserve <3 as always, likes, reblogs, and comments are all greatly appreciated.
LOVER, YOU SHOULD'VE COME OVER. (part 1)
— CHARLES LECLERC X EX GF!READER
"it's never over."
part 2
SYN: you've convinced yourself you've moved on. the second charles leclerc dedicates his home race win to you, it all goes crashing down again.
CONTENT: angst angst angst, fem!reader, drunk confessions, kissing, no there's not a happy ending </3
WC: 2.4k
RADIO CHECK: small oneshot! ib the song by jeff buckley. can be read as a standalone but if you want a happy ending there's a part 2! enjoy <3
THE ARCHIVE
The final sound of an engine comes exactly an hour and half after the lights go out.
You’re sitting in your apartment, curled up on your expensive, cashmere couch, staring at a black TV screen and trying not to look out the window. You know if you cave, you’ll see exactly twenty Formula 1 cars slow around the famous Monaco hairpin. You know if you focus too hard, you’ll see exactly which one belongs to him.
Charles Leclerc.
Your ex of three and a half years, currently racing in what he believed was the most important Grand Prix of the year, and for the first time in years, you aren’t there.
You aren’t standing in Ferrari’s garage, you aren’t waiting in the paddock to comfort him from shitty race results. Instead, you’re sitting in your apartment, staring aimlessly at nothing like you have been for two hours straight.
Your living room is completely silent. You feel the heavy absence that settles over it. The absence of him. There’s still polaroids on the shelf beside the TV, there’s a Ferrari bullet-point pen that cost a stupid amount of money sitting on the coffee table. You haven’t touched anything that belongs to him—you haven’t been able to. You see traces of him everywhere, like the dent in the wall he’d made when you’d both come home too drunk one night and the leftover snacks in your pantry.
For ten months, you’ve lived in an apartment that might as well belong to him. You knew you should’ve moved ages ago, out of this apartment that wasn’t ever solely yours, out of this town, out of this country. But you hadn’t. So here you were.
The roar of the crowds outside are deafening, the kind of screaming that can only mean one thing.
He’s about to win it.
You know if you turn on the TV, every single channel will be broadcasting it. His face, his voice on the radio, that familiar red that you’d grown to hate. You can already hear the chants of his name outside, the anticipation of the long-awaited home race win he’d chased every year you were together.
Your fingers are itching for the TV remote, your gaze is drifting to the window outside.
“Charles Leclerc wins the Monaco Grand Prix!”
You cave.
The screen flickers back at you, painstakingly clear as his car crosses the checkered flag. The screams from the crowd fill your head, the sound of victory, of relief, all mixed into one.
You hate how your heart stops when his voice comes on. You hate how you can pinpoint every single emotion running through him by his tone—how you know he’s been crying since he’d started his final lap.
You hate how you aren’t there.
The TV is playing his interview when you force yourself off the couch and into the kitchen.
“I want to thank everyone—everyone who supported me. My friends, my team, my family especially. My…”
He pauses then. You hear him pause, but keep your back turned, grabbing the nearest bottle of wine and a glass.
“I can’t—I won’t say names,” your fingers tremble as you listen. “I’m not too sure if she… they’re watching. I hope they are. But I want to dedicate this not just to myself, but to them. For supporting me through it all. Thank you.”
You don’t realize you’re completely frozen on the spot, or that your fingers are clenched so tight they leave indents on your palm. All you can think about is him. Charles Leclerc. And how he’s just dedicated the biggest win of his career to you.
The crowd is still roaring outside. The broadcast moves on, and you realise this moment isn’t devastating to anyone else other than you. He’s celebrating. Everyone's celebrating.
You leave the glass on the kitchen counter, only grabbing the bottle of wine instead. When you sit back down on the couch, taking the first sip, you tell yourself you don’t care.
It doesn’t work. It never has.
The first knock comes at exactly one in the morning.
The bottle of wine is finished, though clutched against you like a lifeline. The TV is still playing, always flicking back to replay his victory every half an hour. You aren’t sure why you haven’t turned it off yet, but the distance between the remote and your hand is too far for you to be bothered with.
The second knock makes you glance over, makes your heart sink with an unmistakable kind of knowing.
“Baby,” you hear, and immediately, you feel the world starting to crash down around you. Charles’s voice is muffled, but clearer than ever. You hear the the slight rasp in his voice, the edges of alcohol that haven’t worn off yet.
He’s drunk. But so are you.
You don’t register standing up, or even walking to the door. The only thing that snaps you back is the cold handle, and the equally as cold bottle in your other hand.
“Baby please,” he says, and you hear him lean himself against the door, like he’s trying to steady himself. “Open the door.”
“Go home, Charles,” you say, though your fingers are still clenched around the door handle.
There’s silence for a few seconds, as if he’s processing the sound of your voice.
“I am home.”
The click of the door unlocking resounds in your ears, and when the door swings open, you immediately want to close it again. He’s standing there, shirt unbuttoned at the top, his hair messy from champagne and his eyes still partially glowing with the light of winning. He doesn’t look shocked at the sight of you, like he knew you’d give in—that you always do.
You hate the fact that he looks like he belongs, like he never even left in the first place.
“Charles,” you say, because you don’t know what else to.
He’s staring at you, every inch of your face like he’s trying to relearn it.
“I left early.”
“What?”
“I left the celebrations early.”
He shifts on the spot, almost stumbles, before catching himself.
“I left because I needed to see you.”
“Charles,” you repeat, and he steps closer. “I—”
“I dedicated my win to you. My home race. I didn’t even know if you were watching—I didn’t know you still lived here.”
He’s standing right on the threshold of the door now, right between you and the rest of the world.
“I won it,” he says, voice dropping almost to a whisper. “I won Monaco. The race I’ve dreamed of since I was a kid, and all I’m thinking about it you.”
You should be shutting the door on him, blocking him out before you let him back in again. He’s close enough you can smell his familiar cologne, the one that you’d only just managed to get rid of. He’s close enough you can reach over and touch him, run your fingers through his hair like you used to, let him kiss you and apologize over and over again.
“What am I supposed to…” your fingers clench around the bottle, and you take a step back. “You can’t just show up here—you can’t just do this, Charles.”
“Do what?” he answers. “Tell you the truth? I can’t tell you how much I miss you and how much I need you back? I can’t tell you that I still love you—”
“You don’t mean that.”
“Of course I mean that,” his voice grows slightly louder, frustration and want mixing into one. “On my last lap, all I could think was is she watching? And when I won it, the first thing I did was fucking dedicate the win to you.”
You see it then. The pure, raw emotion that shows on his face up close. You wonder if he’s been drinking not out of celebration, but to drown out the thought of you. You aren’t sure which you’d prefer.
“You weren’t there,” he says, voice cracking at the end like it hurts him to say it. “I couldn’t run to you—I couldn’t stare at you from the podium. I looked at every grandstand, every crowd that screamed my name, and you weren’t there—”
“You shouldn’t need me there anymore.”
“And yet I do,” he moves closer, the door shutting closed behind him. “I need you so bad it hurts. I can’t focus on anything else, I crashed the first time I got back on track after we broke up. Free practice in Brazil, turn 1.”
You knew that. You’d switched off the TV as soon as he’d come on the radio and confirmed he was okay, and hadn’t watched a race since. Until today.
“Every podium I get, I want to run to you,” he says. “Every shitty result, I still want to run to you. I couldn’t care less about anyone else—fuck, I would’ve ignored the whole team today if you were there. I am ignoring the team by being here, and you’re telling me that I don’t mean a word I’m saying?”
The words hit hard. Harder than they should, with ten months apart. Your mind struggles to form a sentence, and when he moves closer, you can’t bring yourself to step away again.
“You look fine whenever I see you,” you manage to say, voice strained. “Like nothing ever changed.”
“You know better than that.”
“Do I?” you answer, and his jaw clenches. “Why are you here now? Why are you showing up after almost a year, drunk and telling me how much you miss me right when I’ve moved on?”
“You haven’t moved on,” his gaze flickers to the TV, still on, sitting there like proof, then it settles back on you. “You wouldn’t have let me in otherwise. You wouldn’t be drinking.”
The empty bottle in your hand suddenly feels like a joke. He was right. Of course he was fucking right. Since when has Charles Leclerc ever been wrong?
“Go home, Charles,” you say, voice dropping in volume. “This isn’t—you’re not supposed to even be here. Go back and celebrate with people you actually love.”
“I love you.”
“Stop it.”
“I love you so much. I always have and I always will—baby, please.”
“I can’t do this with you any—”
“Then force me out. Force me out of your life and I swear I’ll stay out,” he says, and your throat is closing up at the words. “I promise. I’ll pretend like I’m moving on. I’ll pretend I don’t think about you every second of my life. I’ll do it if that’s what you want me to.”
You stare at him. You stare at the face you’d loved for years, the face you’d memorized through late nights and early mornings in bed. You stare at his eyes, red rimmed, desperate. Your heart is screaming at you now, to reach forward and kiss him, to take him back like nothing ever went wrong.
“I can’t be who you need me to,” you find yourself saying instead, and it comes out like a whisper. “I can’t come second. I can’t sit there and wait my whole life knowing I’ll never compare.”
“I’ll—”
“You can’t hold onto me and racing at the same time. Don’t you remember how bad it was before? How late you stayed up at night obsessing over lap times and how early you left solely to train? I can’t do that—I can’t live like that.”
He blinks, slowly, standing straighter even slower.
“I’ll never come first,” you say, and when he reaches for you, hands sliding around your waist and pulling you close, you don't pull away. “You know that.”
“Do I?” he says, repeating your own words from earlier. He leans closer, gaze flickering to your lips. “Do I know that?”
Your heart is pounding in your ears. The space between you two is so easily closable, lessening with every word.
“You should,” is all you say, eyes starting to shut on instinct.
You don’t know when the gap closes completely. You feel his lips on yours—soft, familiar. The bottle of wine in your hand drops, shatters, and neither of you address it. Your hands are already moving to his hair, fingers tangling in it like second nature.
“Charles,” you say somewhere between everything. It doesn’t come out like the beginning of something this time. It comes out final. He presses you closer, grip tightening around your waist. The kiss deepens, building with ten months worth of frustration, and you swear tears are starting to fall down your face. “Charles.”
Just like that, he pulls away. His grip is still firm on you, and he’s panting, gaze locked on your lips.
“I’m not letting you choose me over racing.”
He freezes completely.
There’s a faint, dull ringing in your ears when his hands drop from your skin, taking all the familiar warmth away. It isn’t hurt that flashes across his face, but realisation. He stumbles again when he takes a step back, still drunk and not quite there yet, but he’s there enough to know what the sentence means.
“Okay,” he says, quiet, and the single word makes you want to rip your hair out. “I’m…I—”
He stops himself, and doesn’t start again until he’s at the door.
You’re still standing in the entryway, shattered glass on the floor, the kiss lingering on your lips.
“Charles,” you say, for what feels like the millionth time.
“Don’t say you’re sorry,” he says before you can. “Don’t apologize.”
He brings a hand up, wipes at his lips slightly, runs his hand through his hair and reaches for the door handle.
“I’m sorry,” you say anyway. “I’m so sorry.”
The door opens, and he’s right on the threshold of it when he glances back at you.
“I don’t regret it,” he says, and you’re not sure if he means coming here tonight, dedicating his home race win to you, or your relationship as a whole. “Any of it. All of it.”
You don’t answer. You watch him hesitate, watch him stare at you like he’s scared of forgetting.
The door slamming shut echoes throughout the entirety of the apartment. The TV is still playing in the background. His voice comes through the speakers, his car crosses the checkered flag, and the reporter says his name like a miracle, a blessing, and a curse all in one.
LOVER, YOU SHOULD'VE COME OVER (part II)
— charles leclerc x ex!gf reader
“it's never over.”
part 1
SYN: you've convinced yourself you've moved on. you haven't. it's been a year and a half since that night, since charles' win in monaco, since that drunken confession. he's engaged now, to someone who looks like everything he's ever wanted. he's moved on—or at least you think he has. you refuse to acknowledge the fact that you hope he hasn't.
CONTENT: still slightly angsty, fem!reader, cheating (i don't condone but it's fiction guys), more confessions, zero hate on alexandra i love her and charles this is for the plot </33, charles MIGHT be considered a piece of shit..., cute little epilogue moment at the end!
WC: 3.6k
RADIO CHECK: ib the song by jeff buckley. so DID end up doing a part 2 for the people who wanted a happy ending!! hope you guys like this one as much as you liked the first <3
A year and a half passes by quick. Quicker than usual.
You don’t live in Monaco anymore. You live in Italy, in Milan, in an actual house, not an apartment. It’s so much bigger than your old place, and yet it feels nowhere near as empty. The garden is full, well kept and beautiful, the driveway is so much longer than it needs to be, but perfect nonetheless. It’s fit for someone who has their life together, someone you hope is you.
You’ve kept yourself busy. You’ve made a name for yourself here in Italy. You’ve built businesses, managed companies, barely given yourself time to rest solely because you didn’t need to.
A year and a half of work, of dedication and patience, and now, you find yourself right back where you started. Standing in a Formula 1 paddock, cameras pointed at you, whispers following your every move.
“Charles Leclerc’s ex—how do you think she’s feeling now that he’s engaged?”
You’ve heard the sentence in more variations than you could count.
Charles Leclerc, your ex, the man who’d showed up to your apartment drunk and desperate—the man who’d dedicated his first ever home race win to you, was engaged to someone else.
She’s gorgeous. Half mexican, half french, all elegance and soft smiles. They look good together, at least on all the pictures you stumble across on social media. Alexandra Saint Mleux—even the name sounded perfect, and you knew it’d sound good with his last name attached to the end instead.
He’d moved on.
Sometimes, when you’re halfway through a bottle of wine, his words from that night in Monaco replay through your head.
“I’ll pretend like I’m moving on. I’ll pretend I don’t think about you every second of my life. I’ll do it if that’s what you want me to.”
And he’d done it. He’d moved on. You just weren’t sure if he was still pretending or not, and the smallest part inside you, the part you’d covered up with work and stress, hoped he was.
“Is this your first time in the paddock?”
You blink, tearing your gaze away from the expanse of familiarity, focusing on the woman next to you instead. She’s got a nametag, the brand that’d invited you written across the top, and is staring at you.
“I can show you around. Got any interest in a particular team? Most start with Ferrari. You might know Charles. Charles Leclerc. He’s quite popular, especially in Italy.”
You think she’s joking. A longer study of her expression tells you she’s dead serious.
“I—” you stop, searching for the right words. “No. It’s alright.”
“Not your first time?”
“Not really.”
“I see,” she says, turning back to her phone like she’s checking something. “We’ll start with Mercedes then. Maybe—”
“Actually,” you say, already walking past her. “I need to do something. Catch up with a few people. I’ll meet you up at the paddock club later. Thirty minutes?”
You don’t hear her answer.
It was partially a lie. You just needed space. Space to figure out what you were really doing here, to figure out if you wanted to leave halfway and make up with it by donating a shit ton of cash.
The paddock is as busy as it always is. A reporter almost crashes into you, a mechanic pushing a trolley of tyres cuts through your path, someone’s shouting what sounds like ‘Charles!’, but you don’t want to listen and prove yourself right. It smells like burnt rubber, like fuel, like something so familiar that it hurts.
You don’t know why you accepted the invite. You could’ve chosen something else—the Italian open, maybe, or even golf, instead of something with so much emotional baggage attached to it.
The steps to Ferrari’s motorhome come into view.
“—and what are your thoughts on how this weekend might go? Any concerns? Mercedes looks strong, are you worried?”
You turn the corner, still debating why you were even here, when a crowd of journalists crash into you. Your heels catch on the concrete beneath you, a camera knocks into your side, and a string of curses escapes you before someone pulls out of the way.
“Fuck, thank you,” you say, swiveling around, tugging at your dress. “I—”
The world stops.
You recognise the hand that’s enclosed around your arm, the rough skin from gloves, the warmth that something insides you aches for late at night. You recognise the cologne, the scent that makes you think of an apartment in Monaco, a shattered wine glass on the floor and the sound of victory in the background.
“What are you—” Charles stops, hand falling away from arm. “You’re here.”
His voice makes your heart stop—makes the blood in your veins turn cold. Maybe it’s because the last words you’d heard in that voice were I don’t regret it, any of it. All of it, the last expression on that perfect face being betrayal.
When you look up at him again, it still is.
Did he regret it now? Dedicating the most important win of his life to you?
“I am,” you answer, carefully, wary of the crowd around you. “And so are you.”
He laughs at that, quiet, “I’m…yeah. I’m here too.”
The paddock is always loud, always moving, and yet it now falls hushed. Microphones are pointed at the two of you, trying to pick up any conversation, the fans are a mixture of realisation that you’re here, or not knowing who you are at all.
You watch him study you. You watch him take you in, the new hair length, the lines of your face, the smallest changes to the way you hold yourself. He looks the same, you decide. Still in red, still as handsome as ever. The only change you focus on is his finger, like you can see the wedding band that’ll sit there in a few months.
You’re still in love with him. The stark, realization slams into you like a tidal wave.
“How’ve you been?” He asks, like he’s noticing the cameras. “Heard you live here now—in Milan.”
“Yeah,” you say, fixing your hair, trying not to say too much but give too little. “I moved a year and a half ago. April.”
You can see him do the math in his head, figuring out the dates, what had happened a month prior.
“Right,” he lands on, nodding slow. “Yeah, that—”
He stops again, and you smile, quietly repeating another yeah.
“You look good,” he says, and the two of you glance to the cameras, the people surrounding you. “Like you’re doing well.”
“I am.”
“Of course you are.”
“You seem like you’re doing well too.”
“I’m trying.”
His gaze flickers behind him, to Ferrari’s motorhome.
I can’t talk here.
You know that’s what he’s saying. You know because it’s the same look he’d give you during interviews, the same look through crowds, at events. You haven’t forgotten—that silent language he’d only ever let you learn, the small touches that meant more than they seemed.
You wondered if she’d learnt it too. His fiancée.
“Were you heading in?” he asks, cocking his head. “Or are you—”
“No, yeah,” you say, moving aside, causing reporters and fans to stir again. “I was.”
“Right. Me too.”
He raises his hand slightly, like he’s motioning for you to go first, so you do. You keep your head down as the crowd follows, as Charles catches up and holds the door open.
The door shuts just as someone shouts, “Charles! Where’s Alexandra?”
The silence after hurts. It’s heavy silence, the kind that’s filled with anticipation.
“I’m—”
“You’re—”
You both stop. Charles runs a hand through his hair, blowing out a breath like he’s going to start pacing. Your fingers clench beside you, itching to do something. Reach for him, run them through your own hair, you don’t know.
“Not here,” he mutters, turning away again. “There’s windows.”
“You’re being so cautious—”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” he answers immediately. Defensively. “I’m—of course I’m cautious. My girlfriend—”
You watch him pause at the word.
“Your fiancée,” you say, quietly, and he looks at you again. A camera flashes, and the two of you instinctively turn away again. “Charles.”
The name, for the first time in your life, is foreign on your tongue.
“No,” he says. “No, fuck, you can’t be here.”
“Charles—”
“You can’t be here. Fuck—I can’t—”
Another camera flashes, and then you’re moving. He doesn’t even hesitate when he follows you down the hallway, to the door you know is on the left with his name on it.
“Why are you here?” he asks when his driver room door slams shut. “After what? After a year?”
“A year and a half.”
“Why?” you stay by the door while he paces. “I’m engaged. I’m fucking engaged and you decide to finally show up and I—”
“I’m not here for you.”
He stops.
Your nails dig into the side of your thigh, your heart is loud in your ears.
“I was invited. By a brand that I’m doing a—” you smile, bitterly. “I’m not here for you, Charles.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I’m—”
“You could’ve said no. You could’ve gone somewhere else—I know you’re rich enough to decline a brand invite with no bad press.”
“Am I not allowed here anymore?” you ask, fingers stilling. “Just because of you? I’m never allowed to step near a Formula 1 paddock again?”
“That’s not what—”
“It might as well be.”
Your eyes stray to the room. It’s the same as it always is. His helmet in the corner, race suit hung in the specific way you taught him because he used to just throw it over a chair. There’s a tube of lip gloss sitting on the table, a fur coat folded in the corner.
He watches you notice.
“Is she here?” you ask, dragging your gaze back to him. “Today?”
“What?”
“Your fiancée.”
He looks at the lip gloss, the coat, the flowers on the table like they belong to her too.
“She’s somewhere else. Williams garage, I think.”
“With Carlos’ girlfriend.”
“Yeah.”
You think he’s about to ask you how you knew. You see him remember—remember how it used to be you.
“What about you?” he asks, leaning against the table. “Your boyfriend.”
“I don’t have a boyfriend,” you scoff. “You know that.”
“I don’t.”
“You still follow me on Instagram.”
“You don’t, and you know I’m engaged.”
“Hard not to know when Vogue Italy does an article on it.”
He lets out a humorless laugh. You look away again, leaning your head against the door like it’ll protect you.
There are so many things you want to ask him.
Did you mean it? Have you moved on? Do you love her? Do you miss me like I miss—
“Why’d you leave?”
He asks a question first, one that makes you want to ask ‘Why didn’t you?’.
“You know why.”
“Tell me.”
If you focus hard enough, his drivers room could be your apartment back in Monaco. It feels the same. The tension, the constant reminder of you shouldn’t be here playing through your head. The only difference is this time you’re by the door.
“I couldn’t stand it,” you say. “Being in the same place as you. Knowing I could run into you—knowing I might do it on purpose.”
“So you left.”
“I left.”
“And yet here we are.”
You smile again, “Me being here doesn’t mean anything. You know that.”
“Do I?”
“It shouldn’t. You’re engaged, Charles. To a woman that’s so unbelievably perfect.”
“Alex isn’t—” he sighs again. “She’s beautiful. Perfect, if that’s what you want to call her. But she’s not—”
You know what the next words are.
“Did you mean it?” you ask, before he can finish. “The things you said to me that night? That you’d pretend to move on?”
“I meant everything I said that night.”
“Even now?”
“Especially now.”
He stands up properly, and you think you can’t breathe when he moves closer.
“I miss you,” he mutters, so quiet as if he’s scared someone will hear. “I miss you so much.”
You close your eyes, looking away again. His hand ghosts over your jaw, tilting it back towards him.
“We can’t.”
“I miss you.”
“I know.”
“I meant it. I meant every word. I told you I’d pretend—I meant it.”
“I know that.”
You open your eyes when his thumb traces your cheek.
“Why are you here?” he asks again, still quiet. “Please.”
“Because I miss you too.”
The words feel like a confession. Like a secret, a sin that’s spilling out of you before you can stop it.
“I’m—fuck,” you say, laugh, because you don’t know what else to do. “It’s been a year and a half, and I still miss you. You’re moving on—you will eventually when you marry her.”
“I’m not moving on.”
“You’re engaged, Charles!” you say, and his hand drops. “You’re engaged to a girl who loves you, and you might not love her as much as she loves you but you will. You will later.”
“When? When I’m older? When I’ve got kids or when I’m on my deathbed regretting the fact it wasn’t you?”
“You and her are good together.”
“You and I are good together.”
“No, we aren't,” you say, and he moves away. “We were never good together. You haven’t changed, have you? Since that night?”
“What is that supposed to—”
“She’s someone who understands. Who understands she’ll come second. I can’t come second, Charles.”
“You won’t come second.”
“I don’t believe that.”
He studies you again. The look on your face, the hand that’s itching for the door to leave before you’re trapped again. Trapped in the whirlwind of him.
“I love you.”
“I know you love me.”
“I’ll leave her.”
“Charles.”
“If you love me back, I’ll leave her.”
“That isn’t fair. You’re engaged—you’ll break her heart.”
“It’ll be worth it if I get to have you.”
“You’re going to leave her for a chance. For a possibility. What if it doesn’t work? What if we break up and it’s over for good and you’re wishing you had—”
“Then I’ll do it all over again. Love you all over again.”
It’s stupid. It’s the most stupidest reasoning you’ve ever heard, and yet the words you’ve been aching to hear for a year and a half.
“You can’t.”
“I will.”
You think you might be crying. He reaches for you again, hand around your waist, fingers warm on your skin.
“I love you,” he says again, like a plea. “I’ll always love you.”
He’d said that to her too. On one knee, ring in hand, promising a life together that’s shattering every second you stay here. Maybe it’s pity holding you back, your morals, your fucking common sense. Maybe it’s the fact you’re in his drivers room, the paddock, with all those cameras waiting for the second you step into view again.
“I can’t,” you say, and it’s barely a whisper. “Fuck. I can’t.”
He physically shudders, leaning forward, his head resting on your shoulder.
“Please,” he mutters, and you stand there, turning over his words in your head. “Fuck. Please—”
“You can’t leave her.”
“I will.”
“How?” he pulls away, wipes your tears with his thumb. “She’ll hate you.”
“It won’t matter," he mutters. "I don’t care how long it takes. I need you.”
It’s so full of truth it makes you sick.
“Do you mean it?” you ask, and he’s already nodding. “I—”
“I mean it. If it doesn’t work, fine, but it will. It’ll work. I know it’ll work.”
His eyes are wide, waiting for those three words, searching for an answer in your expression.
You give it to him.
“I love you,” you say—pratically gasp, and he shuts his eyes. “I love you so much, and I don’t know why.”
He goes quiet, like he’s savouring it, like he’s realising what it means.
“I have to go,” you mutter, and he only holds you tighter. “I’ll be here. I’ll—I’m not leaving. Leaving this. I need time.”
He waits a few seconds before answering.
“Yeah—I’m,” he pulls away. “Yeah. Okay.”
“I’ll talk to you after.”
After the day ends, after the weekend, after he leaves her, you don’t know. It seems to be enough for now.
“Yeah. After.”
You reach up and fix your hair, the smudges of your makeup, to make it look like you haven’t just changed your life and ruined someone else's.
He stays there when you turn the door handle. Even when you close it, you know he’s still staring, still waiting.
“Fuck,” you mutter, pulling at your dress and walking down the hallway.
The motorhome is fuller now, with new mechanics, new engineers and faces you don’t recognize. The doors open, and a face you do recognize walks through the door.
“Hi,” Alexandra, his fiancée, smiles when you pass her. “How are you?”
“I’m good, thank you,” you answer, and she nods, continuing past to the hallway you’d just walked out of. You don’t turn around and watch, like you’ll be able to see her life falling apart because of you. You don’t turn and apologize though she won’t know why.
You keep walking, out of the motorhome, out of the gates of the paddock. As soon as you’re home, you pay an absurd amount of money to the brand that’d invited you, the kind of amount that has them apologizing to you instead.
The first knock comes at exactly one in the morning, a week later. You aren’t drunk this time. Neither is he when you open the door.
He looks tired. Tired because of work, because of the media, because of the news that ‘Charles Leclerc and Alexandra Saint Mleux break off their engagement due to undisclosed reasons.’
“You’re here,” you say, leaning against the doorframe.
He smiles, moving closer, hands already sliding around your waist, “I’m here.”
You hope he never leaves.
Monaco is exactly how you remember it.
It takes months for Charles to convince you to move back. You refuse to live in an apartment, so he buys a house in Monte Carlo, one that overlooks Port Hercules and has a stupidly long driveway like your house in Milan.
You’re expecting scandal, whispers when you walk past, glares as they remember you were the one who broke up the supposed to be ‘marriage of the decade’.
“I’ve always loved her,” Charles says instead, to the public, the press. “I’m not denying it. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life sitting in regret that I never tried making it work.”
So instead, Monaco had welcomed you back with open arms.
You wake up to him, to mornings where he’s there, and not off training. You fall asleep to him, his phone and all those lap times far away, left charging in the kitchen.
“Do you regret it?” you’d asked him once. “At all?”
“Regret what?”
You’d shrugged, “Any of it. All of it.”
“I don’t regret anything when it comes to you. Fuck, actually—I just regret letting you go the first time.”
It feels so familiar, yet so different. It feels right.
You’re back in Italy now, in a holiday house near Lake Como. He’s sitting out on the back deck, hot chocolate in one hand because you’d forced him to get rid of his caffeine addiction. It’s already dark outside, cold enough that you have a blanket wrapped around your shoulders.
“Do you think we’ll ever move out of Monaco?” he asks when you sit beside him. “In the future.”
“When we’re married?”
He glances at you, “you want to get married?”
You consider it. The weight of the words, the life it’ll bring after.
“Maybe,” you say, bringing your knees up to your chest. “Yeah. I think so.”
You hear him set down the cup, but you keep your eyes ahead of you, at the lake, the light reflecting off of it.
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
He moves closer, shoulder bumping against yours, and you look at him.
“You’re not about to propose here, are you?” you smile, stealing the cup and taking a sip. “Romantic, but probably not what a girl would dream of.”
“No. Of course not,” he answers, scoffing out a laugh. “I’ve got it all planned.”
“Do you?”
“I do,” he says. “I’ve had it planned for ages. For years.”
You know he isn’t lying.
“Tell me.”
“No, that would ruin the surprise.”
“You’ve already told me you’re planning on doing it.”
He smiles, leaning over and kissing you on the forehead, “I’m not telling you.”
“Do you plan everything?” you tease. “Your proposal, where the wedding will be, how many kids we’ll have—”
“Two.”
“Two?”
“Boy and a girl if we’re lucky,” he shrugs. “Anything at all I consider lucky if it’s with you.”
You laugh, and he thinks it’s the prettiest sound he’s ever heard.
“Could’ve had this sooner,” he says. “You. Us.”
“You have me now.”
“I just wish we hadn’t lost all those months.”
“Charles,” you say, and this time it’s you who’s reaching for him, for his face to tilt it towards you. “I love you. I’ve always loved you.”
He practically melts into your touch, eyes shutting.
“I love you too.”
Your fingers graze over his skin, before you pull them away.
“Come inside,” you say, standing. “It’s cold.”
He watches you go, still wrapped in that blanket. Your hair is slightly messy, your face is bare, and yet you look so beautiful it’s devastating.
“Charles,” you call, and he’s moving, following you like it’s second nature. It was—it is.
“You’re thinking,” you say, as he wraps his hands around your waist, blanket falling to the floor while you fuss over something in the kitchen. “What’re you thinking about?”
“You. Always you.”
And when you laugh again, kissing him, letting him prop you up on the kitchen counter, it feels perfect.
summary: after being dumped for “being bad luck”, you don’t expect that drowning your sorrows will lead to getting married with a fellow heartbroken soul
a/n: Surprise! I am still working on my Vegas fics! It’s just…there’s only so many ways you can get accidentally married in Vegas and I’d like to make them all unique
a/n2: this is set in the 2024/2025 seasons
Masterlist
yn
liked by lando, carmenmmundt, oscarpiastri, and 2,111,445 others
tagged: lando
yn: 4 years with the best man I know 🧡🧡 here's to many many more, my love 😘
view all comments
user1: I love them so much
↳user2: couple goals for real
↳user1: exactly!
oscarpiastri: congratulations on four years!
↳yn: thanks osc!!
user3: I love how lowkey they are?
↳user4: seriously the best thing a famous couple could be is quietly in love
↳user5: yes!
↳user3: *side eyes certain couples* I completely agree
lando: 🧡🧡
↳yn: 💋💋
user6: …ok is it just me or was that very…underwhelming?
↳user7: no seriously??? She posted so many nice pictures and wrote poetry about him today and the most he's commented is 2 hearts???
user8: all men do is disappoint, honestly
user9: has anyone else seen ln4fans post?
↳user10: …how dare they??? yn has been by lando's side for YEARS…
ln4fan
liked by user, user, user, and 728,183 others
ln4fan: save my man! This is not his season and I do believe it's all yn's fault! He's had 3 dnfs and a dns in the last 6 races and it's only been the races that yn's been at. He really needs to dump the bad weight
view all comments
user11: wow
user12: I couldn't agree more!
user13: every single word you just said was wrong actually
user14: I've never seen anyone be so extremely wrong in my life really
user15: finally someone else is saying this!! I've BEEN saying it for years oh my god
↳user16: I don't know why you're celebrating? Lando and yn have been in love since before he started f1? Like he talks about their unspoken thing all the time
↳user17: be for real she's totally not fit to be a wag — she's never at the races, she's done nothing to support his brand…
↳user16: she has her own life? She doesn't need to revolve her life around his
↳user15: but a little more support to him wouldn't be too much to ask?
user18: I'm still stuck on the fact that Lando has had so much bad luck lately
↳user19: I went back to see which races she's been at and what lando finished and it's not great
↳user18: what really?
↳user19: he's never scored higher than 7th when yn is at a race — and that was only a single race, more commonly it was 9th or lower
↳not_lando: what?
↳user18: that's so crazy!
f1gossip
liked by user, user, user, and 1,823,813 others
f1gossip: Trouble in paradise? Fans spotted Lando Norris and long term girlfriend yn ln fighting after his disastrous qualifying today. Is this just a bump in the road or are certain rumors (that state that yn is Lando's bad luck charm) true?
view all comments
user20: Lando if you make my girl yn cry, I'm gonna make you fight
user21: dump her dump her dump her
↳user22: oh my god get a life
user23: I've been a Lando fan for pretty much his entire career and have watched them grow up together…I've never seen them act like that
↳user24: no my heart is literally breaking for them
user25: are we children of divorce right now?
↳user26: I think we might be
↳user25: 😭😭
user27: I need more information right now actually…
f1gossip
liked by user, user, user, and 1,922,111 others
f1gossip: Something must be in that Vegas air — mere hours after Lando and yn were spotted arguing, Alexandra Saint Mleux (Charles Leclerc's girlfriend) was seen storming through the Harry Reid International Airport. Is this the end of another one of the paddock's iconic relationship?
view all comments
user28: I don't know what's happening in Vegas but if it touches either of the lily's I'm hopping on a flight and fisting fighting them myself
↳user29: mood
user30: ok but we don't actually know if yn and lando are broken up!
↳user31: dude…they're totally broken up
↳user30: we don't know that yet! Let me have hope
user32: good! I never liked her
↳user33: just say you're jealous and get over yourself
user34: petition to ban Vegas forever? I can't take this anymore
↳user35: SIGNING RIGHT NOW
Private Messages: The Leclerc’s
Instagram Stories
user36 responded noooooo this is the worst timeline
oscarpiastri responded did you guys really break up?
user37 responded what do you mean you broke up???
user38 responded FINALLY YOU DROPPED HER
alex_albon responded lily is yelling at me right now what do you mean you guys broke up?
user39 responded this is gonna be good for you
user40 responded girl I'm so sorry
lilymhe responded what happened?? The one race I actually miss
user41 responded omg he actually did it
carmenmmundt responded call me hun
user42 responded was it mutual??
Private Messages: Charles and yn
lasvegasgossip
liked by user, user, user, and 17,222,125 others
lasvegasgossip: word on the street is that a famous but heartbroken athlete got hitched last night…who could it be?
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user50: oh my god who's in Vegas this weekend?
↳user51: the raiders and the browns are in town
↳user52: so are the knights and the kraken
↳user53: and so is f1…
user54: so many teams in the city this weekend and yet it could be any athlete that's not playing too
↳user55: I'm more focused on the heartbroken part like who's recently been heartbroken??
↳user56: I mean Lando Norris and yn ln just broke up?
↳user57: there's like 5 recent breakups with the hockey teams it could be
↳user58: there's no one in the football teams that could be described as heartbroken?
↳user59: there was something weird happening with Charles Leclerc and Alexandra Saint Mleux?
↳user60: so it could literally be anyone?
user61: I'm placing money on lando
↳user62: he does seem like someone who would get spontaneously drunk married
↳user63: drunk?
↳user62: all marriages in Vegas are drunk
f1fan
liked by user, user, user, and 2,822,193 others
f1fan: in a shocking turn of events, Lando Norris finishes the 2024 season with a DNF, DNS, DSQ, and a rare DNQ respectively — what a massive disappointment this must be for the British driver that was the favorite underdog of the season
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user64: HA this is totally because he dumped his biggest support system like a loser
↳user65: harsh but I agree
user66: who do I need to fight?? Like what the hell was that
↳user67: that was KARMA and JUSTICE for yn!!
↳user68: JUSTICE FOR YN
user69: I just…what the fuck happened? He was literally catching up to max and then all that shit happened??
↳user70: she probably cursed him or something honestly
↳user71: seriously! Like did you see how she confirmed the breakup? He was all respectful and she…wasn't
↳user70: I still cringe when I think about it
user72: the whiplash I get between this post and charles'… good lord 😂
↳user73: Charles took all of his bad luck and dumped it on Lando!
↳user72: for real!
charles_leclerc
liked by maxverstappen1, scuderiaferrari, oscarpiastri, and 2,778,445 others
charles_leclerc: what an amazing end to the season — thank you to Ferrari and to my good luck charm. now it's time to rest and recharge for next year
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user74: hell yeah!
↳user75: you totally rocked it!
maxverstappen1: Congratulations Charles liked by charles_leclerc
↳user76: they still don't follow each other btw
user77: fricking amazing to watch this!
oscarpiastri: congrats!!
user78: good luck charm??? Who??
↳user79: it's not Alex is it?
↳user78: highly unlikely - it seems like they've broken up. they haven't been seen together since Vegas and while Alex has privated her instagram, the number of posts have gone way down
user80: calling it now! Charles is the one who got married in Vegas
↳user81: iconic if true!
user82: 4 wins right in a row? Sexiest thing I’ve ever seen
Private Messages: Charles and yn
charles_priv
liked by notyn, madmax, op81, and 2,945 others
tagged: notyn
charles_priv: spending the winter break with my wife ♥️♥️
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notyn: the best winter break I've ever had
↳charles_priv: same chérie
madmax: when did you get married???
↳charles_priv: when I got drunk in Vegas
↳notyn: not gonna lie I don't remember anything about that night…
↳charles_priv: me either
↳madmax: hilarious but congrats
pierre: you've been married for months now and are just telling us???
↳charles_priv: …oops?
↳notyn: that's on Charles!
↳charles_priv: chérie!
↳pierre: oh you're perfect for one another
op81: awkward but congratulations
↳charles_priv: we would appreciate it if this news doesn't reach Lando
↳op81: yeah that's not going to be a problem, I don't even know who you people are
op81: but fyi he's hard key moping
↳notyn: he made his bed
arthur: it was great to get to know you! Might have to take your side if you get a divorce
↳charles_priv: Arthur!
↳arthur: only one of you 2 made me fresh baked cookies and it wasn't you
↳notyn: you're welcome arthur 💙
↳op81: wait cookies are in the table?
↳charles_priv: only for Leclerc's!
↳op81: you adopted me so I count! liked by notyn
↳notyn: he's got a point babe
f1gossip
liked by user, user, user, and 1,182,283 others
f1gossip: romance in the air? Charles Leclerc has been spotted with a new girlfriend in recent weeks — who might this mystery woman be?
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user83: don't worry guys it's just me
user84: who is she????
user85: that's so fast?
↳user86: really?
↳user85: it's only been a couple of months
↳user86: a lifetime for him honestly
↳user87: ummm rude??
↳user88: but fair I feel
user89: twitter detectives! Who is she?
↳user90: no idea yet! It's still too new
↳user89: but I need to know??
user91: I don't really care who she is because HE looks so happy with her
↳user92: he does! And I'm so happy for him
Private Messages: Charles and yn
charles_leclerc
liked by yn, pierregasly, maxverstappen1, and 2,111,203 others
tagged: yn
charles_leclerc: that mystery woman happens to be my wife, thank you
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user93: holy shit PLOT TWIST
↳user94: I honestly did NOT see this coming
↳user93: it definitely wasn't on my bingo card for the year
maxverstappen1: Congratulations again you guys
↳yn: thanks max!
user95: I'm loving this so much?? Like Lando really dumped her for being bad luck and then Charles is literally dominating this season liked by yn
↳user96: It's even better! He calls her his lucky charm
↳user95: I can see why!
landonorris: what the hell is this?!?
comment has been deleted by the author
yn: love you too babe! liked by charles_leclerc
user97: did you guys seriously get married in Vegas?
↳yn: we did!
↳user97: …and you're gonna stay married despite it starting in Vegas?
↳yn: well something good had to come from our broken hearts liked by charles_leclerc
↳charles_leclerc: despite the beginning, you are the best thing that's ever happened to me liked by yn
f1
liked by user, yn, user, and 2,991,988 others
tagged: charles_leclerc
f1: This weekend decides it all! Should Charles Leclerc score a single point this weekend, he becomes the 2025 World Drivers Champion — will this be the year the Monégasque driver takes home the championship? Or will Max Verstappen become a 5x champion?
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user98: Charles! Charles! Charles
↳user99: Leclerc! Leclerc! Leclerc!
user100: we're all rooting for you Charles!
yn: it'll be my husband for sure
↳user101: alright there Mrs Leclerc, flexing on us
↳yn: 😂😂
user102: I'm so sat right now
↳user103: BIG SAME
↳user104: it's gonna happen for sure!
charles_leclerc
liked by yn, arthur_leclerc, maxverstappen1, and 3,102,291 others
tagged: yn
charles_leclerc: I got to marry my lucky charm all over again
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How to Fall for Trouble || Sirius Black x fem!reader
summary: You never meant for anyone to find your seventh-year bucket list — especially not Sirius Black, the very boy topping it. But when he stumbles across it and secretly starts helping you tick off each ridiculous, rule-breaking goal, things get messier, softer, and far more magical than you planned.
warning: Fluff, slow burn, mild angst, mutual pining. Mischief, midnight sneaking, and a bit of rule-breaking. Mentions of Amortentia (love potion). Heart-clutching Gryffindor chaos and one very flustered Sirius Black
Main masterlist || Navigation
You make the list on a sleepy Sunday afternoon, the kind when the rain won’t stop and the castle feels half-asleep. The common room glows gold with firelight, parchment scattered everywhere, and the faint hum of chatter from groups huddled over homework. You’re supposed to be writing your Potions essay, quill in hand, ink smudged on your fingers — but your mind drifts elsewhere.
Seventh year. The last. The thought sits heavy in your chest. You’ve spent so much of it buried in exams and N.E.W.T. prep that you’ve barely noticed how fast it’s slipping away. Every corridor you walk feels like it’s already becoming a memory. You promised yourself this year would feel different — that it wouldn’t just disappear like all the rest.
So, on a whim, you pull out a clean piece of parchment, flatten it over your knees, and at the top, you write:
“Things to do before I leave Hogwarts.”
It looks silly at first. Childish. You tap your quill against your chin, thinking. But then you smile — because why not? Everyone else has goals about careers and scores and responsibilities. Maybe you just want to live a little before the real world starts.
The first thing comes easily.
Your quill hesitates only a second before you write:
1. Kiss Sirius Black.
You grin, rolling your eyes at yourself. “Obviously not happening,” you mutter, but you leave it there. Maybe it’s a joke. Maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s just something daring enough to make your heart race when you look at it.
After that, the ideas tumble out quickly.
2. Sneak into the kitchens after curfew.
3. Charm the Great Hall ceiling to show fireworks instead of stars.
4. Pull a harmless prank on McGonagall.
5. Sneak into the boys’ dorm and switch all their pillowcases to pink.
6. Brew a potion not on the syllabus — and actually make it work.
7. Dance in the rain on the Quidditch pitch at midnight.
8. Sneak into Filch’s office and leave a cupcake on his desk labelled “For my favourite person.”
9. Fly over the Black Lake at sunrise.
10. Make Dumbledore laugh during breakfast.
By the time you finish, your cheeks hurt from smiling. You fold the parchment neatly and tuck it into your bag, ink still fresh at the edges. It’s ridiculous, completely unserious — but for the first time in a long while, the world feels a little bigger.
And maybe, you think, just maybe, seventh year won’t be so ordinary after all.
Sirius Black wasn’t usually the type to snoop.
Well— that wasn’t entirely true. He didn’t mind snooping when it was funny, or when it involved James’s secret stash of Honeydukes chocolate, or when it meant reading the occasional detentions list for sport. But this—this was different. He hadn’t meant to find it.
It happened on a Thursday afternoon in the common room. You’d left your bag open on the couch when you went upstairs, parchment half-spilling out. Sirius had been sprawled on the rug, flipping through a Quidditch magazine, pretending to study. His eyes had caught on the parchment because your handwriting was unmistakable — slightly slanted, ink-dark, a little impatient.
He’d just meant to put it back. Really. But then he saw the title.
Things to do before I leave Hogwarts.
Sirius grinned instantly. “Merlin,” he muttered under his breath, “how dramatic can one girl be?”
He almost tossed it aside. Almost. But curiosity was his worst quality. So he skimmed it — eyes darting down the page, half-expecting doodles of cats or homework notes. Instead, what he found made him stop completely.
1. Kiss Sirius Black.
He blinked. Then blinked again.
“…what?”
For a solid ten seconds, Sirius just stared at the words, waiting for them to rearrange themselves into something else. They didn’t. His own name sat there in neat black ink, innocent and bold, the very first item on the list.
He could feel a smirk tugging at his lips, uninvited and unstoppable.
“Number one?” he murmured, half to himself, half to the universe. “Not bad, love. Not bad at all.”
The rest of the list blurred for a moment — fireworks, pranks, the Quidditch pitch, a cupcake for Filch — but Sirius barely registered them. His mind stuck to the first line, looping it again and again like a song he couldn’t turn off.
She wants to kiss me.
He tried to brush it off. Loads of people want to kiss me. But somehow, that didn’t sound as smug in his head as it should have. Because it wasn’t just anyone — it was you. The girl who rolled her eyes when he winked, who corrected his essay margins with a sigh, who never blushed even when he was trying his very hardest to make her.
Sirius leaned back against the sofa, parchment dangling between his fingers, and grinned to himself.
“This is dangerous information,” he whispered. “Very, very dangerous.”
For a moment, he thought about putting it back. He really did. But the mischief was already sparking behind his eyes.
Because now he knew something you didn’t — and Sirius Black never could resist a secret.
He folded the parchment carefully, slipped it into the inside pocket of his robes, and tapped it once like a promise.
“Guess we’ll have to help you with your little list, sweetheart,” he said softly, voice curling with amusement.
“Can’t have you leave Hogwarts without crossing off number one, can we?”
He grinned, stretched, and sauntered toward the stairs — that list burning a hole in his pocket and a new plan already taking shape in his head.
2. Sneak into the kitchens after curfew.
You didn’t think much of it, really. Sneaking into the kitchens wasn’t exactly a rare occurrence, not with how often you forgot dinner because of late-night studying. It was a quiet kind of rebellion — harmless, familiar. You’d barely made it past the tapestry when someone cleared their throat behind you.
“Bit late for a stroll, isn’t it?”
You jumped, turning to find Sirius leaning lazily against the wall, wand light glinting off his grin. Of course. It had to be him.
“Bit late for you to be following people around,” you shot back, crossing your arms.
“Following?” He clutched his chest like you’d wounded him. “Please, love. Coincidence. Just happened to be on my way to—”
“To the kitchens?” you finished, one brow raised.
His smirk deepened. “You know me so well.”
You didn’t think too hard about it when he tickled the pear on the portrait and ushered you inside first, or when the elves practically cheered at his arrival. You didn’t even question the way he seemed to know exactly which trays hid the treacle tart. You just let it happen — the laughter, the butterbeer, the stolen biscuits. You talked about nothing and everything until the candles burned low and your cheeks hurt from smiling.
You left with crumbs on your sleeve and a strange warmth in your chest, the kind that lingered even after you said goodnight. You had no idea Sirius walked back to the tower with the same dizzy smile, mentally crossing off number two from a list you didn’t know he had memorized.
3. Charm the Great Hall ceiling to show fireworks instead of stars.
The next week, the Great Hall ceiling exploded into fireworks.
It happened in the middle of dinner, one loud pop echoing through the room before golden bursts of light spiraled into the shape of a phoenix, then a lion, then the words Mischief Managed written across the stars. The entire hall gasped, then laughed, teachers scrambling to stop it, students cheering wildly.
You sat there, blinking up at your own spell gone completely overboard. You hadn’t meant for it to work that well. Beside you, Sirius just leaned back on the bench, grinning like a cat that had stolen the whole jar of cream.
“Didn’t know you had such a flair for drama,” he said, elbow nudging yours.
“I didn’t do that much,” you muttered, watching another burst of crimson light streak across the enchanted ceiling.
“Sure you didn’t,” he said, eyes gleaming, “but if you ever feel like trying again, I might know a few… additions.”
You didn’t notice how his gaze softened when you looked up at the fireworks. You didn’t notice the quiet pride in his smirk, or the fact that he’d been in the hall early, wand raised, whispering the charm before you even arrived.
4. Pull a harmless prank on McGonagall.
And then there was McGonagall.
It started with a whisper in the corridor, a dare to leave a small surprise on her desk before Transfiguration. Nothing major — just a charm that would make her teacup sing God Save the Queen whenever it was lifted. You’d planned to do it yourself, but somehow, when you arrived that morning, she was already scowling at a very melodic teacup.
Sirius didn’t even try to hide his grin as she stared down the class, trying to find the culprit. You buried your face in your notes, biting back laughter, heart pounding. When the class ended, you caught him watching you as he passed, voice low and amused.
“Harmless prank, wasn’t it?” he murmured. “Consider it… taken care of.”
You frowned, confused for half a second — but his wink disarmed every question before it could form. You shook your head, smiling despite yourself, completely unaware that somewhere deep in his pocket, that crumpled parchment now had three neat little imaginary check marks beside your name.
5. Sneak into the boys’ dorm and switch all their pillowcases to pink.
It was supposed to be quick. In and out before anyone noticed. You’d waited until nearly midnight, the castle quiet and shadowed, your wandlight low as you crept into the boys’ staircase with a bundle of bright pink pillowcases tucked under your arm. You’d planned it perfectly: everyone would be asleep, you’d swap the cases, and by morning the entire dorm would look like a flamingo convention. Easy.
You tiptoed into the room, heart pounding, the scent of broom polish and parchment filling the air. James’s snoring echoed faintly from the far bed, Remus had a book still open on his chest, and Sirius’s bed— of course— was messy, blankets tangled like he’d fought them in his sleep. You grinned to yourself and got to work, gently tugging off the first pillowcase, biting your lip to keep from laughing.
You were halfway through the second when a voice murmured from the dark, low and amused.
“Now, what exactly do you think you’re doing, sweetheart?”
You froze. Your wand nearly slipped from your fingers. Then, from the shadows, Sirius sat up — hair mussed, eyes glinting in the dim light, smirk already forming.
“Merlin’s sake—” you hissed. “Do you ever sleep?”
“Not when there’s a girl sneaking into my dorm with suspiciously pink fabric,” he said, stretching like a cat. “Should I be worried?”
You rolled your eyes. “Go back to bed, Black.”
He swung his legs over the edge of the mattress, leaning forward, the lazy grin never fading. “See, I’d love to, but now I’m curious. Care to enlighten me?”
“It’s for my list,” you muttered before you could stop yourself.
He tilted his head. “Your what?”
“Nothing. Forget it.”
Sirius stood, the hem of his T-shirt brushing his hips, silver chain catching the light as he stepped closer. “Oh no, no, I think I’ll remember that. But since you seem so determined—” He plucked one of the pillowcases from your arm, twirling it around his finger. “—you might as well have a little help.”
You blinked. “You’re offering to help me?”
He grinned. “Of course. Can’t let you commit pillowcase sabotage alone. Terrible form.”
You should’ve said no. You should’ve told him to get back in bed and stop being smug. But somehow, ten minutes later, the two of you were whisper-laughing as you replaced every pillow in the room, trying not to wake anyone. You nearly fell over each other when Remus mumbled something in his sleep, and Sirius caught you by the waist, pulling you against him to steady you. The world went quiet for half a heartbeat — just his breath close to your ear, the faint thud of your pulse, the pink fabric slipping from your hand.
When you finally stepped back, you couldn’t meet his eyes. “Thanks,” you whispered.
“Anytime,” he said softly, and there was something in his tone that wasn’t teasing anymore.
By the time you slipped out of the dorm, you were grinning like a fool. You told yourself it was just because of the prank — because in a few hours, the entire Gryffindor Tower would wake to a sea of pink. You didn’t let yourself think about the way his fingers had lingered a second longer than they needed to, or the way your stomach had flipped when he’d said “sweetheart” like it was something sacred.
You didn’t know Sirius was standing at the window long after you left, looking down at the courtyard, smiling to himself like he’d just made a very dangerous discovery.
6. Brew a potion not on the syllabus — and actually make it work.
You hadn’t meant for it to work. Honestly. It was supposed to be just another one of the ridiculous challenges on your list — “brew a potion not on the syllabus,” nothing too complicated. But then Slughorn had left the storeroom unlocked, and curiosity got the better of you, and somehow you found yourself hunched over a bubbling cauldron in the corner of the dungeon, a candle flickering dangerously close to your sleeve and your heart thudding so loud it felt like it might echo off the stone walls.
You’d read about Amortentia before — the most powerful love potion in existence, capable of smelling different to everyone depending on what they found most attractive. You’d told yourself you were just testing your skill. Just seeing if you could. It wasn’t like it would mean anything.
The potion shimmered, iridescent, spiraling like liquid starlight. You leaned in, cautiously, watching the pearly vapour curl toward you — and that was when it hit.
The scent was intoxicating, warm and sharp all at once. Smoke and cinnamon. A trace of leather. Wind after rain. Something wild and bright that you’d know anywhere. Your chest went tight, breath catching before you could stop it. You blinked, trying to clear your head, but the smell didn’t fade. It was Sirius. Every bit of him distilled into something heartbreakingly beautiful.
You staggered back, shaking your head. “No. Nope. Absolutely not,” you muttered under your breath. “That’s… that’s wrong. That can’t be right.”
“Can’t be what?”
You nearly dropped your ladle. Sirius was leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, grin lazy and amused. His tie was loose, his sleeves rolled up, and of course he’d picked now to show up.
“Merlin’s beard, Sirius! You nearly gave me a heart attack,” you hissed, quickly moving to block the cauldron.
He raised an eyebrow. “You’re brewing something. And judging by the smell—” he sniffed dramatically, “—something dangerous.”
“It’s nothing,” you said too quickly.
“Nothing smells like that?” He stepped closer, nose wrinkling playfully. “Wait. Don’t tell me that’s— oh, it is, isn’t it?” His grin widened. “Amortentia. Naughty, naughty.”
“It’s just an experiment,” you mumbled, turning away so he wouldn’t see the flush creeping up your neck.
“An experiment, huh?” He leaned over the cauldron, inhaling deeply. “Smells like…” He trailed off for a second, expression flickering. “You.”
You blinked. “What?”
He straightened, smirk returning like nothing happened. “Lavender, ink, and a bit of trouble. Definitely you.”
You wanted to roll your eyes, but your brain was spinning too fast. You forced a laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”
He shrugged, stepping around you until you were almost chest to chest. “Maybe. But tell me, what do you smell?”
You hesitated. The air between you was too warm, too charged, and for a second you thought about lying — about saying something easy, like chocolate or rain or firewhisky. But the words got stuck in your throat. “It’s— it’s nothing.”
Sirius tilted his head, watching you closely. “You sure? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
You swallowed hard. “Positive.”
He grinned again, all teasing and charm, but his eyes lingered on you for a beat too long before he turned to leave. “Whatever you say, love. But if you start acting funny, I’ll know who to blame.”
When he was gone, you exhaled shakily, staring into the shimmering potion. The steam still curled up, sweet and smoky and painfully familiar, wrapping around you like a secret you couldn’t unlearn. You dipped the ladle one last time, whispered, “I am so doomed,” and watched the reflection of your red cheeks ripple across the surface.
7. Dance in the rain on the Quidditch pitch at midnight.
Gryffindor had won. The stands were roaring, scarlet banners flashing in the wind, and somewhere in the middle of the chaos, Sirius was grinning like he’d swallowed the sun. You’d been screaming yourself hoarse, the thrill of the match buzzing through your veins long after the final whistle. The rain had started halfway through the last lap, turning the pitch slick and golden under the evening light, but no one cared. Victory looked good on him — hair plastered to his forehead, cheeks flushed, eyes bright. You told yourself you were just going down to congratulate him, nothing more, but your heart clearly didn’t get the memo.
You found him near the goalposts, surrounded by his teammates. James had just thrown an arm around his shoulder, yelling something about “bloody legends,” when he caught sight of you lingering a few feet away. Sirius’s gaze followed, and for a second, the noise seemed to fade — just you, the smell of rain, the grass glistening like emeralds. He said something to James, who smirked (of course he did), and then Sirius jogged toward you, broom in hand, grin still wide.
“Came to bask in our glory, did you?” he teased, voice rough from cheering.
You laughed, shoving your hands into your robe pockets. “Just thought I’d say congrats. You were brilliant out there.”
“Was I?” He stepped closer, dripping rain, looking unfairly good in the grey light. “You almost sound impressed.”
“Don’t get used to it,” you said, but the smile tugging at your lips gave you away.
A thunderclap rumbled above, followed by a sudden downpour — the heavens opening in full celebration. The students shrieked and scattered toward the castle, but neither of you moved. The rain was cold, but the air between you was warm, charged, alive.
“You’re soaked,” you said, brushing water from your lashes.
“So are you,” he replied, and somehow that was funny enough to make you laugh, loud and real. He watched you like he couldn’t look anywhere else. Then, in that careless, impulsive Sirius Black way, he dropped his broom and held out his hand. “Dance with me.”
“In the rain?” you asked, half laughing, half breathless.
“On the list, isn’t it?”
Your heart skipped. You froze, eyes widening. “What— how do you—?”
But he only smirked, stepping closer until you could see the raindrops clinging to his lashes. “Come on, love. Don’t ruin my fun now.”
He didn’t wait for an answer, just twined his fingers through yours and spun you onto the slick pitch. The world tilted — laughter, water, thunder — his hand steady at your waist, his smile softer now, almost reverent. You forgot how to think. You forgot why you’d ever promised yourself not to fall for him.
When the rain finally slowed and the cheering inside the castle faded, you were both breathless, soaked to the bone, grinning like idiots. Sirius squeezed your hand once, then brushed a strand of hair from your cheek, eyes dark and unguarded. “Guess I can cross that off the list too.”
You stared at him, heartbeat stuttering. “You—”
He only grinned wider, tapping the tip of your nose with his dripping finger. “Later. You’ll thank me later.”
And just like that, he was gone — running back across the field, laughter trailing behind him, leaving you standing in the rain, half in love and too scared to admit it.
8. Sneak into Filch’s office and leave a cupcake on his desk labelled “For my favourite person.”
You had no idea what was wrong with you lately. Every time you even thought about the list, Sirius seemed to appear — right place, right time, with that infuriating smirk and some perfectly convenient excuse. He’d shown up for the kitchen raid, somehow “guessed” you wanted to charm the Great Hall ceiling, and now, as you stood outside Filch’s office clutching a cupcake in one hand and your wand in the other, you couldn’t help thinking this was getting suspicious.
“Remind me why we’re doing this again?” Sirius whispered beside you, crouched low in the corridor shadows.
“We?” you muttered. “I never invited you along.”
He flashed you a grin that didn’t belong anywhere near a dark, forbidden hallway. “Please. You’d be caught in five minutes without me.”
“That’s not—”
“Shh.” He pressed a finger to your lips, eyes glinting. “Filch’s office is just there.”
You rolled your eyes, but your heart was doing that stupid fluttery thing again. The corridor smelled like dust and damp parchment, the lanternlight faint and flickering. You crept toward the door, wand poised, muttering, “Alohomora.” The latch clicked, and Sirius let out a low, impressed whistle.
Inside, the office was exactly as miserable as you’d imagined — shelves lined with confiscated items, chains hanging from the ceiling, and that faint smell of cat and despair. You set the cupcake down carefully in the middle of the desk, the little parchment tag fluttering — For my favourite person.
Sirius leaned over your shoulder, breath ghosting your ear. “You know, if anyone ever left me one of those, I might just melt.”
You gave him a side-eye. “You’d never deserve one.”
“Harsh.” His tone was light, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “All this charm and no cupcake? Tragic.”
You turned to face him, whispering, “Are you trying to get us caught?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He was far too close now, close enough that you could see the raindrop still clinging to the end of his hair from earlier, close enough that your voice caught before you could say anything else. He noticed, of course. Sirius always noticed.
When you slipped out into the hallway again, heart pounding, he followed a step behind — humming, smug, unbothered. You squinted at him. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“Just helping a friend make her dreams come true,” he said innocently.
That was what did it — that exact line, too pointed, too knowing. You stopped walking, staring at him. “Wait,” you said slowly. “How do you—?”
But he just smiled, that maddeningly perfect, infuriating smile. “Goodnight, sweetheart.” And then he was gone again, disappearing around the corner like smoke.
You stood there, cupcake icing still on your fingertips, trying to shake the feeling that he was two steps ahead of you — and that maybe, just maybe, you didn’t really mind.
9. Fly over the Black Lake at sunrise.
It had started as a joke. You’d scribbled Fly over the Black Lake at sunrise onto the list one night half-asleep, more wish than goal. You couldn’t actually fly — not properly, anyway — and you’d long since accepted that broomsticks were for people braver, lighter, less prone to falling off. But when Sirius found you standing at the edge of the lake one morning, clutching the folded list and squinting into the pink horizon, it was clear the universe had other plans.
“You planning to jump or something, sweetheart?” he called, voice lazy, wind-tossed.
You turned to find him there, leaning on his broom, hair catching the early light. He looked like he belonged to the dawn — wild and golden and alive. “Just thinking,” you said.
“About?”
You hesitated. “About number nine.”
His grin curved slow and dangerous. “Ah. The infamous list again.”
You froze. “The what?”
But he only shrugged, stepping closer, broom balanced casually against his shoulder. “C’mon. I’ll take you.”
“What?”
“Over the lake. Sunrise waits for no witch.”
You blinked. “Sirius, I can’t fly.”
“Good thing I can.”
You tried to protest, but his hand was already extended, his smile too disarming to resist. Against every rational thought in your head, you took it. His fingers were warm even in the morning chill.
“Up we go, love,” he murmured, swinging his leg over the broom and tugging you gently to sit in front of him. The world tilted as the broom rose, smooth and effortless, air whipping past your face. The ground fell away, replaced by endless reflection — the lake mirroring the sunrise, rippling like liquid fire. You gasped, clutching at his arm.
“Relax,” he said softly, close enough that you felt the words against your ear. “I’ve got you.”
You nodded, but when the broom dipped slightly, instinct took over — you spun and pressed yourself into his chest, burying your face there, heart pounding so fast it felt like you were flying without the broom at all. His laughter started, but it died almost instantly, replaced by silence — the kind that hummed, fragile and electric.
Sirius had been touched before. Hugs, handshakes, the casual roughhousing of boys who grew up on pranks and chaos. But this was different. Your breath was warm against him, your fingers clutching at his shirt, and something in his chest cracked open.
“Hey,” he said quietly, his voice gone soft in a way you’d never heard. “You’re alright. Look—” He angled the broom just enough for you to peek. “See? The sunrise’s showing off for us.”
You dared to open your eyes. The sky was a painting — pinks melting into golds, the castle glowing in the distance. You let out a shaky breath, still holding him tight. “It’s beautiful,” you whispered.
He smiled, though you couldn’t see it. “Yeah. It is.”
The words were easy, but they didn’t mean the sunrise. They meant you — the way your hair glowed in the light, the way your laughter still trembled with fear and wonder. He wanted to stay there forever, with the cold wind biting his face and your heartbeat pressed against his ribs.
When they finally landed, the world felt different — softer, quieter, like something had shifted. You stepped off, cheeks flushed, trying to steady your legs. “That was—”
“Terrifying?” he teased, voice a little too steady for the way his heart still raced.
“Maybe a bit,” you admitted, smiling up at him.
He grinned back, but for once, it didn’t reach his eyes — they were too full, too bright, too raw. “Guess that’s another one off your list.”
You frowned. “What— how do you—”
He just laughed, brushing a stray curl from your forehead. “You really don’t know, do you?”
Before you could answer, he turned away, heading toward the castle, leaving you standing there with the sunrise and the dawning realization that he knew everything — and that maybe, so did you.
10. Make Dumbledore laugh during breakfast.
For the next few days, you did your very best to pretend that flying over the lake hadn’t meant anything. That you hadn’t felt Sirius’s heartbeat against your ear, or the way his voice went quiet when he told you to open your eyes, or how the world had never looked that beautiful before. You laughed when your friends teased you, rolled your eyes when they mentioned him, and ducked out of sight whenever he came around a corner. It wasn’t that you were angry. It was worse — you were confused.
He hadn’t said anything, either. No teasing, no smirks, no sly comments about your mysterious “list.” He just looked at you sometimes — not in the usual cocky way, but like he was trying to read something written between your ribs. It made your stomach twist. You needed a distraction, something easy and harmless, and luckily, item ten was exactly that: Make Dumbledore laugh during breakfast.
Simple. Foolproof. Non-emotional. You could do that.
So, the next morning, you positioned yourself at the Gryffindor table, surrounded by giggling second-years, trying to come up with something clever enough to make the Headmaster chuckle. Across the Hall, Sirius sat with the boys — laughing with James, tossing toast at Remus, pretending like everything was perfectly fine.
You tried not to look, but your eyes betrayed you. He looked good, of course he did — hair messy, tie loose, a trace of ink on his fingers. The same fingers that had steadied you on the broom. You swallowed hard and focused on your plan.
Dumbledore was already sipping his tea, his twinkling eyes watching the morning chaos unfold. You leaned toward one of the enchanted platters and whispered a quick charm under your breath. A heartbeat later, the bowl of porridge on his table let out a cheerful meow.
The entire Hall froze — and then erupted into laughter. Even McGonagall’s lips twitched, but what made your chest tighten was Dumbledore himself, eyes crinkling as he laughed softly, the sound warm and unbothered. “Ah,” he said, patting the table fondly, “a most talkative breakfast indeed.”
You grinned, a rush of victory flooding through you — until your gaze drifted back to Sirius. He was already watching you. Not smiling, not teasing. Just watching.
You looked away too quickly, pretending to be engrossed in your toast. He didn’t call your name, didn’t try to come over, but you could feel the weight of his eyes across the Hall.
By the time breakfast ended, you slipped out first, heart pounding, the sound of Dumbledore’s laughter still echoing faintly behind you. You told yourself it was fine. You were fine.
But as you passed through the empty corridor, a scrap of parchment fluttered from your pocket — the list, creased and soft at the edges, a few items crossed off in a hand that wasn’t yours.
You froze.
And just below number ten, someone had scribbled, in neat, lazy handwriting that could only belong to one person:
“You forgot number one, love.”
1. Kiss Sirius Black ??
The day blurred past in half-thoughts and echoes — laughter, footsteps, conversations you didn’t quite hear. But through it all, one thing wouldn’t leave you alone: you forgot number one, love. It replayed over and over in your head, Sirius’s voice threaded through the words, lazy and low, as if he’d whispered it right into your ear.
You’d found the note after breakfast, tucked between your books, the familiar parchment crinkled with faint ink smudges. You’d tried to focus in Charms, tried to laugh with Marlene at lunch, tried to tell yourself that he was just teasing, that it was another joke — but your heart refused to listen. The memory of him on the broom, the warmth of his breath in the cold morning air, the way he’d looked at you across the Great Hall — it was all too much.
By evening, you couldn’t stand it anymore. You needed air, space, anything. The Astronomy Tower was quiet at this hour, drenched in the faint pink and indigo of a dying sunset. The castle below was alive with flickering lights, laughter echoing faintly from the courtyards. You leaned against the stone railing, letting the wind cool your flushed cheeks, your fingers clutching the folded list so tightly it might tear.
“Thought I might find you here.”
You didn’t even have to turn. His voice was unmistakable — soft, rough at the edges, that kind of casual drawl that sounded like trouble wrapped in charm.
“Sirius,” you said quietly, not turning around. “Do you ever knock?”
He laughed, the sound low and easy. “Didn’t realize towers had doors worth knocking on.”
You sighed, still staring out at the sunset. “You’ve been awfully good at finding me lately.”
“Guess I’ve got a knack for it.”
He walked closer, slow and unhurried. When you finally looked at him, the fading light caught his hair and turned it silver, his eyes reflecting the sky — dark grey, storm-touched, full of something you couldn’t name. He wasn’t smiling for once.
“Been avoiding me,” he said, and it wasn’t a question.
You swallowed. “You noticed.”
“Hard not to.” His tone softened, the teasing falling away. “Did I do something?”
You almost laughed — because it was such a ridiculous question, coming from him. “You tell me,” you said, holding up the parchment. “You seem to know my secrets better than I do.”
His eyes flicked to the list, and a slow grin curved his lips. “Ah. That old thing.”
“Sirius.”
He raised his hands, mock surrender. “Alright, alright. I may have stumbled across it.”
“‘Stumbled’?” you repeated, arching an eyebrow.
He had the decency to look at least a little sheepish, though the corner of his mouth was still twitching. “Found it in the common room one night. Meant to give it back, but then…”
“Then you decided to make my life a living mystery?”
“Then I realized it’d be more fun helping you cross things off.”
You stared at him, torn between annoyance and something that felt alarmingly like affection. “You could’ve just told me.”
“And missed seeing your face every time something ‘coincidentally’ worked out? Not a chance.”
You rolled your eyes, but your chest ached in a way that made it hard to breathe. “You’re unbelievable.”
He stepped closer, the air around you shifting. “Maybe. But you smiled, didn’t you? You laughed. You lived.” His voice dropped lower. “That list wasn’t just a list, was it? It was you trying to squeeze every last bit out of this year before it’s gone.”
The words hit harder than you expected. You looked down, blinking against the sting in your eyes. “It’s stupid.”
“It’s brilliant,” he said quietly. “It’s you.”
You finally looked up — and the distance between you was gone. He was close enough that you could see the faint constellation of freckles near his collarbone, close enough to smell the faint trace of smoke and rain that clung to him. Your pulse fluttered.
“You really shouldn’t read other people’s lists,” you whispered.
He smiled, that slow, familiar, heart-stopping smile. “And you really shouldn’t make me number one if you didn’t mean it.”
You froze, breath catching. “I— I didn’t—”
But he shook his head gently, stepping closer until your back brushed the cold stone of the railing. “You did. You just didn’t think you’d get this far.”
Your voice came out barely audible. “And what if I didn’t want you to know?”
He leaned in, his breath brushing your cheek. “Then you shouldn’t have let me fall for you halfway through helping.”
That broke something loose inside you — the ache, the fear, the longing you’d been holding back all year. You met his eyes, and everything in them told you the truth: he’d known from the start, and he’d never once stopped choosing you.
The silence stretched, delicate and heavy, until finally he whispered, “Tell me to stop, and I will.”
You didn’t.
Sirius kissed you like it was inevitable — slow and steady at first, then deeper, like he’d been waiting for this longer than he’d ever admit. The world fell away — the fading light, the cool wind, even the castle below. All that existed was the warmth of his hands cupping your face, the way your heart felt too big for your chest, the quiet sound you made against his lips.
When you finally pulled apart, you were both breathless, laughter bubbling up between you like relief. He rested his forehead against yours, eyes still closed, and for the first time, he looked utterly at peace.
Then he slipped a hand into his pocket and held up the crumpled list between two fingers. “Guess that’s one more thing to cross off, love.”
You laughed, half-shocked, half-dizzy, shoving his shoulder lightly. “You’re impossible.”
“Maybe,” he said, tucking the parchment into your hand, his thumb brushing your knuckles. “But now you’re stuck with me.”
The sun disappeared behind the hills, the stars beginning to appear — the same ones that had watched over all your chaos and laughter and quiet moments. You looked at him, his grin softening into something real and rare, and whispered, “I think I can live with that.”
And as the first stars blinked awake over the castle, Sirius kissed you again — this time slower, sweeter — while the list, now complete, fluttered forgotten to the floor beside your tangled shadows.
Summary : When everyone turns sixteen, they get a soulmate mark. Sirius’s appears at midnight — a glowing ⯌ — and the Marauders celebrate with him. The next morning, he proudly shows it off, while across the hall, you nearly choke on your breakfast seeing the same mark hidden under your sleeve. You cover it up fast — no one can know.
Warning : This story contains emotional tension, harsh words, and scenes of heartbreak and self-doubt. It explores themes of soulmates, denial, and the pain of being tied to someone you can’t stand — or maybe can’t stop thinking about.
a/n : sooo i am rlly sry for posting this so late i js lost all my motivation to write these past few months and i have soooooo many incomplete wips !! lets all give a big thank you to @marsbar1389 and @dollheart64 , this fic would not have been possible without you both~
part 1
The first night it happened, you convinced yourself it was nothing.
A sharp sting bloomed beneath your skin, right where the ⯌ lay hidden under fabric and stubborn denial. You hissed softly, fingers flying to your wrist as your heart skipped. The pain faded after a few seconds, leaving behind a dull ache, like a bruise pressed too hard. You told yourself it was stress. Or exhaustion. Or the echo of leaving Hogwarts too fast, too suddenly, without looking back.
By the third night, the lie fell apart.
The mark burned.
Not a soft glow. Not warmth. It burned like fire trapped under your skin, like something was trying to tear its way out. Every pulse felt sharper than the last, flaring when you tried to sleep, when your thoughts drifted too close to the castle, too close to the lake, too close to Sirius Black. Winter break had started the very next morning after everything unraveled, and you had left before sunrise, bags packed in silence, heart locked down tight. Two weeks later, the pain had only grown worse.
You sat on the edge of your childhood bed, curtains drawn against the pale winter light. The room felt smaller than you remembered, too neat, too controlled, your mother’s idea of perfection lingering in every polished surface. Another spike of pain tore through your wrist and you gasped, doubling over, teeth sinking into your lip to keep the sound in. Your hands shook as you reached for the small vial on your bedside table. Antidotes. Ministry-approved suppressants meant to dull soulmark reactions. Temporary relief, nothing more.
You swallowed one without water.
The burn dulled, retreating just enough to let you breathe, but it never disappeared. It never truly did anymore. Every day since you’d left Hogwarts, the pain had returned stronger, angrier, as if the mark itself was furious with you for running.
A knock came at the door. It opened before you could answer.
“You’ve been in here all day,” your mother said coolly, eyes flicking to the shadows under your eyes. “Your latest test results were disappointing.”
Your fingers tightened around the bedsheet.
“A small dip,” she continued, voice precise and sharp. “I expected better.”
You nodded. You always did. The door closed. Silence rushed back in.
And then the pain came again.
Hotter. Deeper.
You slid off the bed, knees hitting the carpet as you clutched your wrist, breath coming out in broken gasps. The antidote wasn’t working, or maybe it was, but whatever this was had grown beyond it. Your vision blurred. The room tilted.
And suddenly, you weren’t there anymore.
You were hovering in a manor.
Sirius was sitting on his bed, shoulders hunched, hair messier than usual, eyes dark with exhaustion. His wrist was bare. No vials. No potions. No antidotes anywhere near him. He was gripping the bedpost like it was the only thing keeping him upright.
James’s voice echoed faintly, distorted, like it was coming from underwater. He was standing nearby, expression tight. “Mate, just take it. You don’t have to be brave about this.”
Sirius laughed softly, but it sounded wrong. Empty. “If I take it,” he said, “it stops, yeah?”
Remus nodded gently. “The pain. The pull. It’ll quiet down.”
Sirius looked down at his wrist, at the faint silver ⯌ glowing against his skin. He shook his head once.
“No.”
James frowned. “No?”
“If it hurts this much,” Sirius said quietly, “then she’s hurting too.”
Your chest clenched painfully.
“I’m not dulling it,” he went on, voice rough but steady. “Not if she’s going through this alone. Not if this is the only way I know she’s real.”
Remus’s breath caught. James went silent.
Sirius swallowed, jaw tight. “If this is what it takes to stay connected… I’ll take it.”
The pain hit you like a curse.
You cried out, collapsing fully onto the floor of your bedroom as his agony tore through your nerves, white-hot and merciless. Your wrist felt like it was on fire, like the mark was screaming. Then the vision shattered, snapping away as suddenly as it had come.
You lay there shaking, tears soaking into the carpet, heart pounding so hard it hurt. Slowly, the burn eased, not gone, never gone, but quieter now, like it had said what it needed to say.
He wasn’t taking the antidotes.
Because of you.
You pressed your forehead to the floor, breath hitching as something inside your chest cracked open. “Idiot,” you whispered, voice breaking. “Reckless, stupid—”
But the words didn’t land.
Because for the first time since the lake, since the mark appeared, since fate tied you to the boy who had hurt you more than once, the pain didn’t feel like punishment.
It felt like proof.
Somewhere, miles away, Sirius Black was hurting too. And he was choosing it. Not out of pride. Not to win. But because he refused to let you suffer alone.
And for the first time, terrifying and soft all at once, you wondered if fate’s cruel joke wasn’t cruel at all.
Just unbearably patient.
Dinner was a carefully controlled thing, every movement measured, every smile practiced. The candles along the table burned evenly, their light reflecting off polished silver and crystal, and you sat straight-backed in your chair with your hands folded in your lap, eyes fixed on your plate. The silence felt deliberate, stretched thin like a warning.
Your mother was the one to break it. “Your marks,” she said lightly, though the edge beneath her words was unmistakable. “They’ve dropped.”
You lifted your gaze slowly. “Only slightly.”
She looked at you then, cool and assessing. “There is no such thing as slightly. Not for you.”
Your father didn’t bother looking up from his meal. “We didn’t raise you to be average.”
The word settled heavily in your chest. Average. You nodded, because that was what was expected of you, because arguing would only sharpen the knives already aimed your way. Your wrist twitched beneath the table, a faint warning pulse that you ignored.
“Winter break is meant for improvement,” your mother continued, lifting her glass. “Not locking yourself away like a sulking child. Hogwarts may tolerate mediocrity in others, but not in our family.”
At the mention of Hogwarts, the mark flared sharply, heat licking beneath your skin. You inhaled slowly through your nose, schooling your face into calm. Your uncle cleared his throat, attempting a softness that didn’t quite land. “She’s young,” he said. “There’s time.”
Your mother’s smile thinned. “Time disappears faster than people think.”
The shift in the air was immediate. You felt it before the words came.
“We’ve been discussing your future,” your father said at last, setting his fork down. He looked at you now, his expression neutral, almost kind. It made your stomach drop. “Long-term arrangements.”
Your mother set her fork down with care. “We need to talk about your bond.”
Your chest tightened.
“You’ve been careless,” she continued calmly. “Allowing it to be seen. Allowing speculation.”
Your father’s gaze remained on his plate. “The boy is unsuitable.”
You swallowed. “It’s not a choice.”
“That’s a convenient myth,” your mother replied coolly. “Soulmarks indicate compatibility, not destiny. They are… suggestions.”
Your wrist pulsed beneath the table, heat blooming slow and angry.
“We are not aligning ourselves with a Black who disgraced his own family,” your father said flatly. “Blood traitor. Unstable. Loud. A boy with no future.”
The mark burned hotter, like it bristled at the words.
“There are other options,” your aunt added, voice gentle and false. “Families who understand obligation. Alliances that would secure your future properly.”
You looked up sharply. “I’m already bonded.”
Your mother met your gaze without flinching. “Bonded does not mean bound.”
The pain spiked suddenly, sharp enough to steal your breath.
“Marriage can be arranged,” she continued, unbothered. “Contracts can override sentiment. The Ministry allows it. It would be… unfortunate, of course, but not unheard of.”
Your fingers clenched into your napkin. Override. The word echoed in your head.
“You would learn to adapt,” your father said. “Many do.”
“And the boy?” you asked, voice shaking despite yourself. “What happens to him?”
Your mother shrugged. “The mark will fade. Or it won’t. Either way, it will cease to be your concern.”
Your chair scraped loudly as you stood, the sound breaking the room’s careful order.
“No,” you said, the word trembling but unyielding.
Your mother’s expression hardened. “Sit down.”
“I won’t.”
“This conversation is not finished.”
“It is for me.”
You turned and left before anyone could stop you, before the scream clawing its way up your throat could escape. The corridor outside was dim and cold, and the moment you were alone your knees buckled. You pressed your back to the wall, sliding down as the burn in your wrist surged violently, furious and raw, like the mark itself was rejecting everything they’d said.
They weren’t threatening. They were planning.
You pressed your sleeve to your wrist, breath coming fast and uneven, and for the first time the fear sharpened into something else entirely.
You had to leave.
Tomorrow, Hogwarts reopened.
Whether it was coincidence or fate dragging you back toward the very thing your family wanted to erase, you didn’t care. Staying meant surrender. And somewhere, miles away, Sirius Black was hurting too, his mark burning for the same reason yours was.
You had come alone.
You’d chosen the empty compartment, the window seat, the quiet hum of the train as it cut through the countryside. You hadn’t looked for Evan’s grin, or Barty’s sharp eyes, or even Regulus, whose presence usually grounded you. Today, you couldn’t bear to be seen. Not with everything sitting raw under your skin. The pain had dulled somewhere between London and Hogsmeade, not gone, just folded away, like something waiting to be unfolded again.
When the train finally slowed, you didn’t rush. You let the others pass you, let the laughter and shouts fade ahead, until stepping onto the platform felt less like entering a storm.
Cold air brushed your face as your boots met the ground. Snow clung to the edges of the platform, thin and pale, the sky washed clean and bright. For a moment, there was nothing. No burn. No ache. Just stillness.
Then your mark stirred.
Not pain. Not fire. Something else entirely.
Warmth spread through your chest, sudden and gentle, like breath returning after you’d forgotten how to inhale. It bloomed outward, soft and bright, a feeling so unfamiliar it stole your breath. Relief. Recognition. Like a flower opening where there had only been tension, petal by petal, light pooling in your ribs.
He’s here.
The thought came without fear. Only knowing.
Your eyes lifted, drawn across the platform by something deeper than sight. And that’s when you saw him.
Sirius stood with the others, laughter half-frozen on his face, James mid-sentence beside him, Remus listening quietly, Peter hovering near the edge. Lily was there too, scarf pulled tight against the cold, her hand brushing Sirius’s arm as she spoke. He looked almost normal like this, surrounded, anchored, like nothing in the world could touch him.
And then he stilled.
You saw the exact second it hit him. The way his smile faltered. The way his breath caught like he’d just remembered something vital. His hand drifted toward his wrist without thinking.
He turned.
Slowly at first, scanning the crowd with a furrowed brow, then sharper, more urgent, until his eyes met yours across the platform.
You didn’t move.
Neither did he.
Whatever had bloomed in your chest had reached him too, bright and undeniable, and the look on his face told you everything. Wonder. Recognition. Something painfully hopeful breaking through disbelief.
The world rushed on around you, students weaving past, voices rising and falling, but in that single held moment, it felt like the universe had leaned in and gone quiet. He’d felt it too.
The moment stretches, thin and trembling, until Sirius shifts his weight.
It’s barely noticeable, just a step forward, but you see it. Feel it. The warmth in your chest tightens, turning sharp at the edges, like the flower there is afraid of being touched too soon. His eyes don’t leave yours as he moves, expression open in a way that feels far too dangerous.
Panic curls low in your stomach.
You don’t think. You just move.
You break eye contact first, turning sharply as the crowd thickens, slipping between students before your resolve can falter. Robes brush your shoulders, voices overlap, laughter crashes in around you like a wave, and within seconds you are no longer where you were standing.
Sirius stops.
He hadn’t expected it. You see it in the way his hand lifts and then falls uselessly to his side, fingers curling like they’ve closed around nothing. He scans the platform, eyes sharp now, searching, but the crowd has already swallowed you whole.
James says his name again, louder this time. Lily glances between him and the moving mass of students, brows knitting together. Sirius barely hears them.
The warmth in your chest flickers as you push deeper into the crowd, heart pounding hard enough to drown out everything else. Each step away feels wrong and necessary all at once. The mark doesn’t burn in protest. It doesn’t punish you.
It aches.
A quiet, wounded pull, like something reaching out and finding only air. You don’t look back. If you did, you might not stop yourself.
...
You don’t stop walking until the crowd thins and the noise settles into something manageable. Your chest still feels tight, the warmth there dimmed but not gone, like an ember tucked carefully away. Only when you reach the edge of the platform do you slow, drawing in a shaky breath and lifting your head.
“About time.”
Evan’s voice hits you first, familiar and sharp and grounding all at once. He’s leaning against a post like he’s been there forever, arms crossed, eyes scanning you with the kind of concern he pretends he doesn’t feel. Relief loosens something in your chest before you can stop it.
Barty is beside him, grinning too wide, eyes bright with something unreadable. “We thought you’d decided to dramatically vanish before term even started,” he says lightly, though his gaze lingers on your face a second too long.
Regulus stands just behind them, quieter, posture straight, expression careful. His eyes flick to your wrist without meaning to, then back to your face. He doesn’t ask. Not yet.
“I took the long way,” you say, voice steadier than you feel.
Evan snorts. “Figures.”
Barty steps closer and bumps his shoulder into yours, casual but solid. “You look like you survived something,” he murmurs, low enough that only you can hear.
You let out a small breath that might have been a laugh. “Something like that.”
Regulus watches you for another moment before speaking. “Come on,” he says finally. “Before they start sorting luggage by force.”
As you fall into step with them, the noise of the platform fades into the background again. Evan talks about nothing important, Barty chimes in with commentary that makes Evan scoff, and Regulus walks close enough that his sleeve brushes yours now and then, a quiet reassurance.
For the first time since arriving, your shoulders ease.
But as you walk, you feel it again. Not pain. Not heat. Just a distant pull, faint but persistent, tugging somewhere deep in your chest.
Sirius is still there.
And even surrounded by friends, you know this is far from over.
You’re sitting with Evan, Barty, and Regulus in the Slytherin common room, firelight flickering low against the stone walls, the lake outside pressing its dark weight against the windows. You’re there, physically at least, but your mind keeps drifting, snagging on thoughts you refuse to name. Your wrist feels normal. Too normal. Like the calm before something breaks. They notice anyway. Evan watches you over the rim of his glass, eyes sharp despite the lazy way he’s slouched into the sofa. Barty’s chatter slows, his grin tilting into something more observant. Regulus doesn’t look at you at all, which somehow makes it worse. He always sees more when he pretends not to. “So,” Evan says eventually, tone casual but eyes intent, “you’re being weird.” You scoff, a little too quickly. “I’m always weird.” “Yes,” Barty agrees easily, leaning closer, “but this is the broody, staring-into-the-distance kind. Very tragic heroine of you.” Regulus exhales through his nose. “You’ve been like this since the incident. Incident.
You stiffen despite yourself.
Evan straightens then, expression shifting from amused to deliberate. “Hey,” he says, softer now. “We’re Slytherins, not statues. You don’t have to sit there pretending nothing’s wrong.”
Barty nods, suddenly earnest beneath the theatrics. “Yeah. Just because we’re ambitious doesn’t mean we’re heartless.”
Regulus hesitates, then adds quietly, “We notice when you’re not alright.”
Something in your chest loosens at that. Just a fraction. Enough to let them in.
They don’t push for explanations. Instead, Evan launches into a ridiculous story about a first-year who tried to challenge him to a duel and tripped over his own robes. Barty embellishes it mercilessly, reenacting the fall with exaggerated flair until Regulus mutters something about dignity that absolutely no one listens to.
Against your will, you laugh.
It startles you, the sound of it. Real laughter, not the brittle kind you’ve been offering all day. Evan grins triumphantly. Barty beams like he’s cured something incurable. Even Regulus’s mouth twitches, just barely.
For a while, it works.
You let yourself lean into them, into the noise and warmth and familiar chaos. You forget the pull in your chest. Forget the platform. Forget the way your heart had bloomed and then panicked all at once.
Then your mark reacts.
It’s subtle at first, a faint stirring beneath your skin, like a memory waking up. The warmth returns, slow and insistent, blooming again in your chest, but this time it doesn’t feel gentle. It feels directional. Like something is calling you.
You nod automatically, but your hand curls in your lap. The room feels smaller suddenly, the air too thick, the fire too hot. Whatever they tried to shield you from has found you anyway.
The distraction fades.
And no matter how close they sit, no matter how hard they try to anchor you, the pull doesn’t stop.
You go to the Astronomy Tower because it’s empty.
That’s the whole reason. You don’t want an audience. You don’t want questions. You don’t want to see anyone’s face when you read your mother’s letter and feel that familiar, quiet collapse in your chest. So you climb the stairs, push the door open, and step out into the cold night air without looking around.
You don’t notice Sirius at first.
He’s already there, farther down the tower, leaning against the stone with his back turned, cigarette burning low between his fingers. The wind carries the smoke away before it can reach you. You’re too busy unfolding the parchment, too used to the weight of disappointment to be careful.
The letter is exactly what you expect.
Your grades are mentioned first. Not bad. Not good enough. “Above average,” she writes, as if the words are an accusation. She talks about potential. About wasted opportunity. About how effort means very little without results. You swallow and keep reading because stopping won’t change what’s coming next.
It never does.
Marriage.
She introduces it calmly, like a solution rather than a sentence. Arrangements. Suitable families. The importance of reputation. She writes as if this is already decided, as if you’re simply being informed rather than asked. Your hand tightens around the parchment, heart pounding.
She mentions your bond only briefly. Says it has been taken into account. Says it won’t be an obstacle. That it can be managed if necessary.
Your mark burns suddenly, sharp and furious, heat flaring under your sleeve like it’s reacting to being reduced to a problem. You gasp quietly, pressing your wrist against your side, eyes stinging as you stare out at the stars.
Behind you, Sirius turns.
He hadn’t meant to listen. Hadn’t meant to read anything. But the way you stiffen, the way your breathing changes, pulls his attention whether he wants it or not. When you shift, the letter catches the light just enough for a few words to be clear.
Marriage.
His stomach drops.
Before he can stop himself, the mark on his own wrist pulses, hot and sudden, like it’s echoing yours. He swears under his breath, cigarette forgotten as he straightens.
You sense him then.
You turn, heart jumping into your throat, and find him watching you, expression unreadable but tense in a way you’ve never seen before. You jerk the letter back to your chest instinctively.
“Did you read that?” you ask, voice tight.
“I saw one word,” Sirius says honestly. “And I wish I hadn’t.”
For a moment, Sirius says nothing.
The wind tugs at his hair, smoke curling uselessly into the night as his fingers tighten around the cigarette. His jaw works like he’s biting back a dozen thoughts at once. The burn on his wrist hasn’t faded. If anything, it’s growing sharper, more insistent, like it’s demanding he pay attention.
“They shouldn’t be deciding that,” he says finally, quieter now. Not angry. Not joking. Just… certain.
You shake your head, eyes fixed on the stars. “They already have,” you reply. “They just thought I deserved to know.”
The silence settles again, heavy but not empty. Your mark throbs in time with your pulse, a steady reminder beneath your skin. You don’t look at him. You don’t trust yourself to.
Sirius lets out a short, humorless breath. He flicks the cigarette over the edge of the tower, watching the ember disappear into the dark below.
“Funny thing,” he says, staring straight ahead. “They always start with something small. Grades. Friends. What you wear. Who you talk to.” His voice is casual on the surface, but there’s an edge underneath it, something worn thin. “Then one day you realize every choice you’ve ever made had their fingerprints all over it.”
You don’t respond, but your shoulders tense.
“My mother used to keep lists,” he goes on, almost absentmindedly. “Acceptable names. Acceptable futures. Acceptable mistakes.” A sharp exhale. “Didn’t matter what I wanted. Wanting was the problem.”
Your grip tightens on the railing. The words slide under your skin too easily, settling somewhere uncomfortable and familiar.
“They called it guidance,” Sirius adds. “Said it was love. Said I’d thank them one day for shaping me into something respectable.” He laughs quietly, bitter and soft. “Turns out respectability feels a lot like a cage.”
Something in your chest aches. You hadn’t meant to say anything, but the words slip out anyway. “They do that too,” you murmur. “Make it sound like care. Like you’re ungrateful if you push back.”
Sirius turns his head slightly, really looking at you now. Not smirking. Not measuring. Just listening.
“They tell me I should be grateful,” you continue, voice low. “That I’ve been given every opportunity. That if I fail, it’s because I didn’t deserve them in the first place.” You swallow. “I didn’t realize how much that sounded like control until you said it out loud.”
For a second, neither of you speaks.
The wind rushes past, tugging at your robes, the stars steady and indifferent above you. Your wrist pulses again, warm and insistent, and you don’t pull away this time.
Sirius looks back at the sky, jaw tight. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “That’s how they get you. Makes you think you’re alone in it.”
You aren’t sure when it happens, but the space between you feels smaller now. Not safer. Just… understood.
And that realization sits heavy in your chest, impossible to ignore.
Before you can say anything, Sirius reaches for the letter.
Not roughly. Not gently either. Just decisively, like he’s made up his mind and isn’t interested in arguing with it. For a split second your fingers tighten around the parchment, instinct screaming at you to hold on. Then you let go.
He scans it once. That’s all it takes.
You watch his jaw clench, the muscle ticking as his eyes move over the lines. The night wind tugs at the parchment, trying to steal it from his hands, but he holds firm.
Without looking at you, he lifts his cigarette, tapping it once against the stone railing. The ember flares brighter as he shields it from the wind. Slowly, deliberately, he brings the flame to the edge of the letter.
The parchment catches.
Fire races along the corner, curling the page inward as the ink darkens and disappears. The words vanish one by one, swallowed by heat and light. The smell of burning paper fills the air, sharp and final, and your breath catches as you realize there’s no going back from this.
Sirius watches until the flames bite too close to his fingers, then lets go. The remains crumble into ash, scattering over the edge of the tower and disappearing into the dark below.
The wind carries the last of it away.
Sirius stays quiet for a moment after the ashes are gone, eyes fixed on the place where the letter disappeared into the dark. The night feels steadier now, like something sharp has been removed from the air.
Then he speaks, voice lower than before.
“For what it’s worth,” he says, not looking at you, “I think you’re really smart.”
The words land without ceremony. No teasing. No edge. Just honest, almost hesitant, like he’s not used to saying things that matter out loud.
He shifts his weight, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Grades don’t mean half of what people pretend they do,” he adds. “Some of the cleverest people I know don’t test well. They just… see things differently.”
He finally glances at you then, expression unreadable but intent. “Doesn’t make them any less brilliant.”
Your mark gives a faint, warm pulse beneath your sleeve.
You finally let out a shaky breath, forcing your gaze back to the stars. The night feels softer now, somehow, like holding the letter between you and Sirius never happened, like the fire and the ash never burned.
Sirius doesn’t move closer. He just stays there, leaning casually against the railing, but you can feel his quiet attention, the way it’s tuned to you. There’s no teasing, no challenge—just… presence. And that, somehow, is enough.
“I—” you start, then pause. Words feel heavy tonight, like they might break something if you get them wrong. Instead, you tuck your wrist fully under your sleeve and shrug lightly. “Thanks,” you murmur. “For… you know.”
“For what?” His voice is soft now, careful, not like the usual Black sarcasm you’re used to.
“For noticing,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper. “For… caring, in a way. Even if it’s just about the letter.”
He nods, slow, deliberate. “Yeah. I notice.” There’s a brief, faint smile tugging at his lips—not smug, not teasing. Just real. “Figured we could use… someone who gets it.”
You blink at him, unsure whether to laugh or sigh. “Someone who gets it?”
Yeah.” He shrugs, lighting another cigarette, though he doesn’t take a drag. “Someone who knows what it’s like to have people decide your life for you.” His gaze flicks over the tower railing, then back to you. “We don’t have to fix it tonight. Just… talk. Maybe not let it eat us alive alone.”
For the first time in weeks, you nod. Not because it solves anything, but because it feels good to be seen. To be understood.
You lean back slightly against the stone, giving yourself a moment to breathe. Sirius takes a slow puff of smoke, letting the silence stretch comfortably between you.
It’s tentative, fragile, but it’s there—something that looks like the start of a friendship.
And for now, that is enough.
The next morning, the Astronomy Tower feels further away than it actually is. You wake with the memory of last night pressing lightly in your chest, warm but confusing. At breakfast, the letter from home doesn’t matter. Sirius doesn’t smirk at you across the Great Hall, but there’s a brief, almost imperceptible nod when your eyes meet. You almost miss it if you’re not paying attention.
It starts slow. A shared table in the library one afternoon, where neither of you admits that you both prefer silence to noise. You’re bent over your Arithmancy notes, he’s flicking through a stack of Transfiguration textbooks, but occasionally your eyes brush, a wordless acknowledgement of the other’s presence. It’s not teasing. It’s not rivalry. It’s simply noticing.
By the second week, your friends start to pick up on it. Evan nudges you subtly as Sirius leans over to reach for a book just a little too close to your elbow. Barty smirks knowingly when you and Regulus are walking toward the same hallway that Sirius happens to be in, shoulders brushing. Even Regulus, ever careful, can’t entirely hide the way he watches you shift uncomfortably when Sirius greets you with an easy, friendly “morning.”
The next morning, the Astronomy Tower feels further away than it actually is. You wake with the memory of last night pressing lightly in your chest, warm but confusing. At breakfast, the letter from home doesn’t matter. Sirius doesn’t smirk at you across the Great Hall, but there’s a brief, almost imperceptible nod when your eyes meet. You almost miss it if you’re not paying attention.
It starts slow. A shared table in the library one afternoon, where neither of you admits that you both prefer silence to noise. You’re bent over your Arithmancy notes, he’s flicking through a stack of Transfiguration textbooks, but occasionally your eyes brush, a wordless acknowledgement of the other’s presence. It’s not teasing. It’s not rivalry. It’s simply noticing.
By the second week, your friends start to pick up on it. Evan nudges you subtly as Sirius leans over to reach for a book just a little too close to your elbow. Barty smirks knowingly when you and Regulus are walking toward the same hallway that Sirius happens to be in, shoulders brushing. Even Regulus, ever careful, can’t entirely hide the way he watches you shift uncomfortably when Sirius greets you with an easy, friendly “morning.”
Sirius himself doesn’t acknowledge the scrutiny. He keeps the gestures small. A shared joke in the common room, a quiet word during potions, a brief comment about homework or the weather that feels more like conversation than confrontation. Each one builds like a stepping stone between the two of you. You’re cautious, distant, and yet… slowly, your defenses start to relax around him.
You catch yourself laughing one evening in the courtyard because of something he said about a ridiculous Quidditch strategy, and it feels like a small rebellion against everything you’ve been carrying. He grins at you—not a smirk, not a challenge—but genuinely pleased. You nearly choke on the sound of your own laughter, aware that somewhere, both friend groups have probably noticed.
The subtlety doesn’t last. A misplaced glance, a shared chuckle, a hallway conversation just a little too close to a lunch table… and suddenly everyone knows there’s a quiet truce forming between you and Sirius. James leans over to Lily with a knowing grin; Peter whispers to Remus, who just shakes his head with a small smile; Regulus frowns slightly but doesn’t say anything, letting it happen. Even Barty and Evan can’t help rolling their eyes at how transparent it all is.
Yet for both of you, the slow pace is deliberate. No grand gestures, no declarations. Just small moments, day by day, building trust, understanding, and a friendship that doesn’t need labels yet. The mark still pulses occasionally, warm and steady, reminding you both that fate is watching, but right now, it doesn’t matter. What matters is the laughter, the shared silences, and the quiet knowledge that someone else understands—someone who’s been through enough to know why it’s important to be careful.
By the end of the month, the friendship is undeniable. Both groups notice, some teasing, some curious, but neither of you cares to explain. It’s yours. A tentative, fragile alliance that has survived the fire of letters, the weight of family expectations, and the stubborn pride of two people who aren’t ready to give in yet. And every time you pass in the corridor, every time he flicks a book in your direction or nudges you with a grin, the mark pulses faintly, warm and alive, reminding you both that this… this slow, steady connection is something rare.
The air in Hogsmeade was crisp, filled with laughter and the smell of butterbeer and fresh pastries. You ducked into Honeydukes, trying to convince yourself it was just about picking up a few sweets. That’s when you saw him—Sirius—already hovering near the chocolate frogs, casually examining a display as if he belonged there more than anyone else.
“Fancy seeing you here,” he said the moment he noticed you, sliding up beside you with that infuriatingly confident grin. “Buying sweets for… yourself? Or are you plotting to steal mine?”
You glanced at him over the top of a candy jar, eyebrow raised. “Oh, I don’t need anyone’s sweets, Black. You can keep yours. I’m here for… quality control.”
Sirius laughed, leaning on the counter, eyes sparkling. “Quality control, huh? That’s a new excuse. I might steal that one.”
You smirked, ignoring the way your stomach fluttered. “Feel free. I’ll watch and judge your taste mercilessly.”
He leaned closer, just enough that your shoulders brushed, voice dropping into that dangerous tone that made it impossible to ignore him. “Judged by you? I’ll take my chances.”
You rolled your eyes, hiding a grin. “You’re terrible at this, you know.”
“Terrible?” he echoed, mock offense in his voice. “I prefer… hopelessly charming.”
You shook your head, laughing softly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Hopelessly arrogant, you mean.”
He shrugged, leaning back with a lazy grin. “Same thing. Depends on who’s looking.”
You caught the glint in his eyes and knew the game had started. A slow, playful dance of teasing words and glances, just the two of you amid the bustle of Hogsmeade. Around you, the rest of the Marauders were scattered: Peter wandering hand in hand with his soulmate, James and Lily lost among stacks of books at the bookstore, Evan and Barty trying their luck at the Muggle arcade, and Remus, predictably, refusing to leave the safety of the main street, muttering about how reckless everyone was being.
Sirius leaned closer again, voice low and teasing. “You know… I could probably convince you to share a chocolate frog with me.”
“Convince me?” you repeated, amusement dancing in your eyes. “And what would I get in return for such generosity?”
He smirked, eyes alight with mischief. “My company. Hard to refuse, really.”
You laughed, shaking your head. “I suppose it could be… tolerable.”
The line at Honeydukes had thinned out, the store quieting down except for the occasional tinkle of the door as someone came in. You and Sirius lingered near the back, still laughing over a ridiculous argument about who could eat more Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans without vomiting.
“You’re cheating,” he accused, wagging a chocolate frog at you. “There’s no way you’ve had five in a row and still look… unscathed.”
You rolled your eyes, smirking. “I’m clearly built different. Unlike someone who just lost to a candy quiz.”
He stepped closer, leaning against the counter so that the space between you shrank. His grin softened, eyes flicking down to your lips for just a second before meeting yours again. “You’re insufferable,” he murmured, but the tease had gone quiet, replaced by something warmer.
You felt it too—the shift, subtle but undeniable. The playful tension from earlier lingered in the air like static, pulling you both in. Your fingers brushed as you reached for a candy jar at the same time, and for a moment, neither of you moved.
“Merlin…” he breathed, voice low, almost a whisper. “I’ve wanted to do that all day.”
Before you could respond, his hand cupped the side of your face gently, and he leaned in. The kiss was soft, careful, hesitant at first, like testing the waters. Then it deepened slightly, warm and steady, full of the teasing energy that had been there all day but now softened into something real.
You pulled back just enough to look at him, heart hammering, and he mirrored you, forehead resting against yours. “I’ve… been waiting for that,” he admitted, voice rough with amusement and something like awe.
You laughed softly, brushing a wet strand of hair from your face. “That was… surprisingly not awful,” you teased, though your cheeks were flaming.
He smirked, still holding your gaze. “Surprisingly? I’ll take it. But next time, don’t act like you’re not thrilled.”
And for the first time that day, amid the quiet sweetness of Honeydukes and the fading bustle of Hogsmeade, you felt it—this messy, chaotic, perfect start to something neither of you wanted to stop.
Summary : When everyone turns sixteen, they get a soulmate mark. Sirius’s appears at midnight — a glowing ⯌ — and the Marauders celebrate with him. The next morning, he proudly shows it off, while across the hall, you nearly choke on your breakfast seeing the same mark hidden under your sleeve. You cover it up fast — no one can know.
Warning : This story contains emotional tension, harsh words, and scenes of heartbreak and self-doubt. It explores themes of soulmates, denial, and the pain of being tied to someone you can’t stand — or maybe can’t stop thinking about.
a/n : lowkey this was so annoying and hard to write because i had no ideas what to do and also sorry if this fic feels very random at some moments idk how to do a pt2 so u need to give me ideas-
The Gryffindor dorm was alive that night — candles flickering low, laughter spilling into the shadows between four-posters, and James Potter counting down every minute like it was Christmas morning. Sirius was sprawled across his bed, pretending he didn’t care, but the restless tapping of his fingers on the blanket gave him away. Sixteen. Tonight, he’d find out if fate had chosen him someone — or no one at all.
Remus glanced over his book, voice soft but teasing. “You’re shaking the bed, Pads.”
“Am not,” Sirius said, though his grin was sharp and a little nervous.
“You kind of are,” Peter piped up, earning a pillow to the face. James was grinning, wide and golden as always, eyes darting between the clock and his best friend.
“Thirty seconds!” he announced, and suddenly it felt like the whole room was holding its breath. Sirius sat up, heart thudding. He wanted to laugh — he wanted to look unbothered — but Merlin, what if he didn’t have one? What if the universe decided Sirius Black didn’t deserve a soulmate?
“Ten!” James shouted, and the Marauders chorused along.
“Nine!” “Eight!” “Seven!”
Sirius’s pulse pounded in his ears. The air buzzed — something electric, almost magical.
“Three! Two! One—!”
Midnight struck. A glow flared across his wrist — faint, gold, and real. Sirius’s breath caught as the light swirled and settled into the shape of a smooth, curved symbol
⯌
gleaming faintly before fading into his skin.
For a moment, nobody spoke. Then James whooped so loud it probably woke half the tower. “He’s got one! Bloody hell, Pads, you’ve got one!”
Remus was smiling quietly, Peter clapping excitedly. Sirius just stared at his wrist, mouth slightly open, laughter bubbling up from somewhere deep in his chest. He turned his arm over, tracing the mark like he couldn’t believe it.
“Looks like fate actually likes you,” Remus said softly.
Sirius huffed a laugh, still breathless. “Guess so.”
But later, when the lights dimmed and the others drifted off to sleep, he lay awake — the mark glowing faintly in the moonlight — wondering who in the world his symbol matched, and whether they were out there thinking of him too.
Breakfast the next morning was practically buzzing with gossip. Word had spread fast — Sirius Black had gotten his soulmark. He strolled into the Great Hall with that usual swagger, hair perfect despite the early hour, grin already in place. James and Peter trailed behind him, both barely containing their laughter. Sirius didn’t waste a second; halfway through breakfast, he stood dramatically and rolled up his sleeve. The faint ⯌ shimmered against his wrist, catching the morning light. The reaction was instant — gasps, groans, and even a few dramatic sighs echoing through the hall.
You nearly choked on your toast the moment Sirius rolled up his sleeve. The ⯌ gleamed in the sunlight, clear as day, and your heart just about stopped. You coughed quietly, forcing a calm expression, hoping no one saw the way your hands trembled.
Across the table, Regulus sighed. “Typical. He has to make everything dramatic.”
Barty rolled his eyes, muttering, “He probably practiced that reveal in the mirror.”
You gave a weak laugh, pretending to agree, though your stomach twisted hard.
Under the table, you tugged at your sleeve, just enough to peek. The same symbol shimmered faintly on your wrist
⯌
glowing like it knew. You yanked your sleeve down instantly. No. This couldn’t be real. You hadn’t told anyone when it first appeared, and you weren’t going to now. Let Sirius Black have his crowd. The universe clearly had a sick sense of humour.
Sirius had been glowing all day — literally and figuratively. His mark shimmered faintly every time he moved, and he hadn’t stopped smirking since midnight. Still, the excitement was starting to dull under one irritating thought: his soulmate hadn’t revealed themselves yet. He’d half-expected some dramatic moment, someone rushing up to him, sleeve pulled back — but nothing. Just the same old faces and a growing ache of impatience.
He walked through the courtyard with the Marauders, pretending not to notice how everyone else seemed perfectly paired off. James and Lily were laughing about something stupid, heads close, eyes bright. Remus was murmuring to that quiet Hufflepuff boy who’d turned out to be his soulmate, and Peter was lost in thought — probably daydreaming about Sybil Trelawney, the eccentric girl from Beauxbatons who had his mark. Sirius shoved his hands into his pockets, jaw tight.
That’s when they crossed paths with the Slytherins — or as everyone called them, the Skilttes. Regulus walked in the middle, looking perfectly bored as usual, with Barty and Evan on either side, their fingers loosely intertwined, both of them wearing those matching smug smiles that made Sirius want to hex something. And then there was you. The picture-perfect Slytherin princess — sharp uniform, calm smile, eyes that gave nothing away.
Sirius had reached his limit. The constant whispering about soulmates, the glowing marks everywhere, the fact that his hadn’t even shown themselves yet—it was eating at him. So when they crossed paths with the Skiltes again near the courtyard steps, he didn’t even try to stop himself. “Oi, Reggie,” he called, voice dripping with mock cheer. “What symbol did our precious little Black heir get, then?”
Regulus froze for a split second before rolling his eyes, his usual mask slipping into place. “Why do you care?” he muttered, but Sirius just smirked and crossed his arms. The Marauders had stopped behind him, all ears now, eager for some entertainment. After a moment, Regulus sighed dramatically and tugged up his sleeve, revealing a neat ⚚ gleaming faintly on his wrist. “Satisfied?”
James let out a low whistle. “Fitting,” he said. “Looks like something straight off a family crest.” Regulus shot him a withering look while Barty and Evan snickered from behind, clearly enjoying the show. Sirius rolled his eyes, gaze landing on you. “And what about you, princess?” he asked, voice laced with that smug bite only he could pull off.
You didn’t flinch, though your stomach twisted. Slowly, you rolled up your sleeve, showing nothing but smooth skin. “Nothing,” you said coolly.
Sirius’s smirk turned cruel. “Figures. Guess even the universe knew better than to waste a soulmark on you.”
You folded your arms, eyes narrowing. “Better that,” you said, “than being cursed with you as a soulmate. I actually pity whoever got stuck with that.”
oh how you did actually pit yourself
That hit. His grin faltered, just barely. “Or maybe mine just has standards — something you wouldn’t understand.”
You stepped closer, voice dropping low, every word razor-sharp. “Standards? Right. Must be why she hasn’t shown up yet — says a lot about you, doesn’t it? Maybe she knows better than to get tangled with the boy who ruins everything he touches.”
For a moment, nobody spoke. Regulus stared, Barty and Evan exchanged proud glances, and James muttered something about “bloody hell.” Sirius’s jaw clenched, anger flashing in his eyes — but he didn’t reply. He just turned away with a scoff, tossing over his shoulder, “You’d make a great Slytherin, you know that? Cold and heartless.”
You didn’t let him see the way your hands shook as you rolled your sleeve back down. “Better cold,” you muttered, “than stupid.”
That night, back in your dorm, the castle was quiet — too quiet. The green glow from the lake shimmered faintly across the stone walls, and you sat on your bed, knees pulled close, trying to pretend your chest didn’t ache. The argument replayed in your head again and again — Sirius’s voice, sharp and careless, the way his eyes had glinted when he said the universe didn’t think you were worthy of love.
You swallowed hard, pressing your sleeve to your wrist. It still hurt — not the mark, but everything that came with it. You’d been so careful this morning, dabbing foundation over the faint silver glow before leaving the dorm, making sure not even your closest friends would notice. It had worked — no one saw. No one knew that your mark matched his. The boy who hated you since first year. The boy who’d sneered your name like it was poison.
Hot tears slid down your cheeks before you could stop them. You hated this. Hated the mark, hated the fate that tied you to someone who’d rather laugh than look at you. “Of all people,” you whispered, voice breaking, “why him?” The walls didn’t answer. Only the soft, cruel glow of your wrist beneath the makeup did the faint ⯌, mocking you quietly in the dark.
Sirius had never been this restless in his life.
He’d always imagined the day he’d meet his soulmate — loud, dazzling, a perfect story to brag about. He’d imagined a spark, a glance across the room, something dramatic. But two weeks had passed since that mark appeared, that stupid ⯌ shimmering on his wrist like it had something to say — and nothing. Not a single sign.
He tried to brush it off at first, laughing when James joked that maybe his soulmate had taken one look at him and run for the hills. But every night, when the others fell asleep, he’d catch himself tracing the mark with his thumb, half-expecting it to burn or glow or do something. It never did.
“You’re brooding,” James said one morning, plopping down beside him at the Gryffindor table.
Sirius scowled. “I’m thinking.”
“About what?” Remus asked from across the table, voice gentle but curious.
“My soulmate,” Sirius muttered, poking at his toast. “Or the lack of one.”
James’s grin softened a little. “Hey, maybe she’s younger. Maybe she hasn’t even turned sixteen yet.”
Remus nodded. “Could be. Or she’s from another school. You know, Durmstrang, Beauxbatons — the world’s a lot bigger than Hogwarts.”
Sirius groaned. “So what, I’m supposed to wait around while my mystery soulmate learns her symbol?”
Peter snorted into his pumpkin juice, earning himself a glare. “Sorry,” he said quickly, though his grin didn’t fade. “You’re just… not exactly the patient type, Sirius.”
James leaned back in his chair, smirking. “Yeah, mate. You’ve already checked your wrist more times than Lily’s checked her eyeliner.”
That earned him a bread roll to the face.
Still, Sirius couldn’t laugh it off completely. Not this time. Because the truth was, it hurt. Everyone else seemed to have found their match — James and Lily couldn’t stop smiling, Remus was writing poems for that Hufflepuff boy, even Peter wouldn’t shut up about Sybil bloody Trelawney and her “mystical connection.” Meanwhile, Sirius Black, the boy who always had someone’s attention, couldn’t even find the one person the universe had supposedly made for him.
He leaned back against the bench, eyes drifting over the Slytherin table almost unconsciously. Regulus sat there, talking animatedly with Barty and Evan. And beside them—her. You. Laughing softly at something Regulus said, looking so unbothered it made his jaw clench.
For a moment, something flickered in his chest — irritation, curiosity, he couldn’t tell which. He forced himself to look away, muttering under his breath, “She’s probably too busy hexing first-years to care about soulmates anyway.”
Remus caught the tone but didn’t comment. He just said quietly, “You’ll find her, Pads. When it’s time.”
Sirius wanted to believe that. Really, he did. But as he stared down at that damned mark again, he couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe — just maybe — his soulmate already knew who he was.
And wanted nothing to do with him.
If there was one thing Sirius Black was good at, it was pretending.
So that’s what he did.
For the past few days, he’d thrown himself into being loud again — charming, reckless, the boy everyone expected him to be. If his soulmate wasn’t going to show up, fine. He’d go back to what he knew best: smiling too wide, laughing too loud, flirting with anyone who so much as glanced his way.
You’d seen him that morning outside the Great Hall, leaning against the doorway, a Ravenclaw girl giggling beside him. His signature smirk was back, casual and bright, and his friends were cheering him on from behind like it was all perfectly normal. To everyone else, it was normal. Sirius Black flirting was just another day at Hogwarts.
You paused mid-step, tray in hand, pretending to adjust your sleeve while watching him from the corner of your eye. The way he tilted his head, the way she blushed — it made your stomach twist, though you told yourself it was just annoyance. Of course Sirius couldn’t go a week without attention. Of course he had to act like the universe hadn’t tied him to someone he couldn’t stand.
He laughed then — that stupid, careless laugh — and it was louder than it needed to be. You rolled your eyes and muttered under your breath, “Pathetic.”
Regulus, walking beside you, raised a brow. “Who?”
You blinked, forcing a calm smile. “No one.”
You walked off before he could ask again, ignoring the heat that had crept up your neck. You had better things to think about. Better things than Sirius Black and the way he made pretending look so easy.
The afternoon sunlight spilled golden across the Hogwarts grounds, the lake glittering like glass. Students had scattered everywhere — sprawled under trees, dipping their feet in the shallows, laughing over shared snacks. It was one of those rare weekends when professors gave up on trying to control chaos and just let everyone breathe.
You were stretched out on the grass near the water’s edge, shoes off, robes discarded in a neat pile beside you. Regulus lay on his stomach nearby, doodling lazy constellations in the dirt with his wand while Barty and Evan argued about whose soulmate bond was “stronger.” You rolled your eyes and threw a blade of grass at them, earning a dramatic gasp from Barty.
Across the field, the Marauders were gathered under an oak tree — James and Lily tossing crumbs to the giant squid, Remus pretending to read while Peter snored beside him, and Sirius sprawled on his back, one arm flung over his eyes. You could hear their laughter drifting on the breeze — warm, careless, alive.
It was strange, how quiet everything felt. No insults, no hexes flying between houses. Just this odd, suspended peace. Even Sirius didn’t look like the loud, smug boy who always had something to say; for once, he just looked… calm. The wind toyed with his hair, sunlight catching on the faint silver mark on his wrist — that same damned ⯌ you’d seen in your mirror a hundred times.
You tore your gaze away, heart twisting.
“Stop staring at him,” Regulus murmured without looking up. “You’ll give yourself wrinkles.”
You scoffed and flicked another blade of grass at him. “Wasn’t staring.”
“Sure you weren’t,” he said, smirking. “And I’m not related to that idiot over there either.”
Across the way, Sirius laughed at something James said — loud and free, like he had no idea how cruel the world could be. You forced yourself to look back at the lake, pretending the sunlight didn’t sting your eyes.
The lake glimmered lazily under the afternoon sun, the air thick with laughter and the faint smell of grass. Around him, the Marauders were scattered in their usual sprawl — James and Lily arguing playfully about who could skip stones farther, Peter half-asleep in the grass, and Remus trying to read despite James’s constant interruptions.
Sirius sat a little apart from them, legs stretched out, wand twirling idly between his fingers. From a distance, he looked fine — relaxed, easy smile, sunlight catching on the silver ⯌ on his wrist. But inside, he was unraveling.
He’d tried everything.
Flirting, joking, pretending.
He’d told himself he didn’t care — that maybe his soulmate wasn’t even at Hogwarts, that it didn’t matter anyway. But it was hard to believe that when everyone else around him seemed to have found their match.
Remus’s soft laughter with that Hufflepuff boy. James’s fingers brushing Lily’s as they passed the last stone. Even bloody Peter had his name scrawled inside Sybil’s dramatic letters. And Sirius? He had a mark and no one to match it.
He glanced down at it again — that cruel little symbol, shining faintly against his skin — and his stomach twisted.
What if you’d been right? What if his soulmate really was avoiding him?
The thought hit like a curse. It made sense, didn’t it? He’d been an ass to half the people in this castle — loud, proud, reckless. Maybe whoever was meant for him had seen the mark, recognized it, and decided he wasn’t worth it. Maybe she’d looked at him and thought, not him.
The idea made his chest ache.
“Oi, Pads,” James called, tossing a pebble that landed near his shoe. “You look like you just found out Snape’s your soulmate.”
Sirius forced a laugh, shaking his head. “Just thinking, mate. Dangerous hobby, I know.”
You tossed a pebble into the lake, watching it skip twice before sinking. The water was cool against your legs, the sunlight warm on your skin. For once, it felt like the world wasn’t spinning too fast — laughter echoed from every direction, and even the Slytherins seemed lighter today.
Barty plopped down beside you, nearly splashing water onto your robes. “Merlin’s beard, Y/N, I almost slipped! You’d have to save me.”
You smirked. “Please. I’d let the giant squid handle that.”
Evan snorted behind you. “You’re heartless.”
“Efficient,” you corrected, kicking a little wave toward them.
A few feet away, the Marauders were making their way down the hill, voices loud and familiar. James was grinning like always, Lily swatting him with a folded bit of parchment, while Remus and Peter trailed behind with that “here we go again” look. And, of course, Sirius — hair wind-tossed, hands shoved in his pockets, acting like the sun rose for him.
You rolled your eyes before you could stop yourself.
You nudged him with your shoulder. “Over my dead body.”
By the time the Marauders reached the shore, the Slytherins had already braced themselves. James gave a mock salute, Sirius smirked, and Remus sighed the sigh of a man who knew he’d be cleaning up chaos soon.
“Well, well,” James called, grinning. “Didn’t know snakes could enjoy sunlight. I thought you all hissed at it.”
Barty gasped dramatically. “And I didn’t know lions could count past ten.”
Evan laughed so hard he almost fell back into the grass. Lily groaned, muttering something about “boys and their house pride.”
Sirius leaned lazily against a nearby rock, eyes flicking briefly to you before he smirked. “Careful, Snakes. Wouldn’t want to get your robes dirty out here in the wild.”
You gave him a sweet, poisonous smile. “Please, Black. I’ve seen you fall off your broom more times than I’ve washed these.”
“Ouch,” James said, feigning a wince. “Straight to the ego.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Remus murmured, half-hiding his grin.
You turned back to the lake, pretending the sight of Sirius’s grin didn’t do something strange to your chest. For a second, the laughter around you blurred into background noise — just the water, the sunlight, and the ache you couldn’t name.
“Oi, someone dare Y/N to do something stupid,” Barty called suddenly, his grin too wide to mean anything good. You groaned, not even bothering to look up. “No. Absolutely not. Not again.”
“Oh, come on,” Evan said, flicking a pebble into the water. “Last time was funny.” “You made me hex my shoes together,” you shot back. Regulus smirked from beside you. “You did faceplant into a staircase after that.”
“That was your fault,” you muttered, though you were fighting a smile. Sirius stretched out on the grass, sunlight catching in his hair. You stood, brushing the grass from your robes. “I’m leaving before your stupidity spreads.”
You turned to go — but the grass near the edge was damp, slick from the lake. One wrong step and your foot slipped. You barely had time to yelp before the world tilted and you plunged straight into the water with a splash.
The lake erupted with laughter. Sirius, being closest, instinctively reached out — but instead of saving yourself , you caught his wrist and yanked. He stumbled forward with a curse, losing balance and crashing right in after you.
For a second, there was only chaos — splashing, shouting, everyone howling with laughter. You came up sputtering, hair plastered to your face, Sirius beside you, eyes wide and dripping.
“Real smooth, princess,” he said between laughs.
“Shut up,” you hissed, splashing him right in the face.
James and Regulus were already getting up, still laughing. “We’ll grab towels!” James called. “Food,” Barty added, waving a hand as he and Evan wandered off toward the castle.
Remus barely looked up from where he was sitting with his boyfriend under the tree, both of them lost in quiet conversation. Lily was helping Peter write a letter nearby, the two of them pretending not to notice the chaos at all.
You were still laughing, completely forgetting that you were soaked from head to toe. The grass squished beneath your hands, the lake water dripping down your arms, but you couldn’t stop — it was too funny, too ridiculous.
Beside you, Sirius pushed his wet hair back with a sigh, shaking his head. “Merlin, you’re impossible,” he muttered, but there was a hint of a smile tugging at his lips.
He stood up first, water streaming off him as he ran a hand through his hair, the sun catching on the droplets. You stayed where you were, still giggling softly.
He sighed, then held out his hand. “Come on,” he said, half teasing, half tired.
You blinked up at him, still catching your breath from laughing, before slipping your hand into his. The moment your fingers touched, the warmth startled you — but you brushed it off, letting him pull you to your feet.
As you stood, your sleeve rolled up slightly, and the water soaking through your clothes had done its damage — the foundation had completely washed away. The ⯌ on your wrist shimmered faintly under the sunlight, clear and undeniable.
You didn’t even notice. You were too busy brushing grass off your robes, muttering about how cold the lake was. But Sirius froze, eyes locked on your wrist, breath catching in his throat.
The laughter around him blurred into nothing. All he could see was that mark — his mark — glowing softly on your skin.
James and Regulus came trudging down the slope, arms full of towels, both still laughing about something. Behind them, Barty and Evan followed with a couple of food boxes they’d managed to charm from the kitchens.
He blurts it out before he can stop himself — “Y/N… your wrist…”
Everyone turns.
You look down, freeze, and realize what he’s staring at. The smudge of foundation is gone — and there it is, the mark you’ve hidden for months. The one that ties you to everything you’ve tried to run from.
The laughter dies immediately.
Regulus’s eyes widen, recognition flickering like lightning. Evan and Barty exchange a look — that mix of curiosity and unease. Even Remus’s conversation trails off mid-sentence, his smile faltering. The entire world seems to narrow down to the space between Sirius and you.
You can feel his gaze — confused, a little betrayed, and something else. Something that makes your throat burn.
You yank your sleeve down. “No. You’re wrong,” you mutter, voice sharp but trembling. You don’t wait for the look on Sirius’s face to change — don’t wait for the questions that will come, or for James’s worried voice. You turn and storm off, heart hammering so loud it drowns out the world.
The mark burns beneath the wet fabric as you walk — and for a second, you almost hate Sirius for noticing. For seeing you when you’ve spent weeks trying to be unseen.
But the worst part — the part that sticks — is the look he gave you before you left. Because he’s given you every reason not to trust him with something like this. Every smirk, every jab, every cruel little joke that made your walls thicker and your smile faker.
The path where you’d gone quieted the world — and then James’s voice cut through it like a knife. “WTF?!” The single word made everyone snap to attention, heads turning, towels and food forgotten in their hands.
Regulus was the first to actually look shaken, his usual smirk wiped clean. He stared at the spot you’d been standing and then at Sirius with an expression that was half disbelief, half something like worry. “No… that can’t be,” he breathed.
Evan and Barty exchanged a look that went from teasing to stunned in a heartbeat. Barty’s grin vanished; Evan’s face went slack. “She… that was her mark?” Barty asked, as if saying it out loud might make it less real.
Sirius stood rooted, towel hanging limply from one hand, water still dripping off his hair. He swallowed like he’d been kicked. “Yeah,” he said finally, too quiet for the circle of noise to reach him properly. “The mark. On her wrist. Everyone saw it.” His voice broke near the end and nobody could pretend they hadn’t heard.
Remus pushed himself up, whole posture suddenly alert and serious. He looked between Sirius and the path you’d taken, jaw tight. “We shouldn’t—” he started, then stopped, because none of them had a plan for this exact kind of mess.
Lily’s face went white but soft with concern; James’s hands curled around a towel like he was ready to throw it at someone. Peter fumbled with his parchment, eyes wide and useless. For a second the only sound was the lake tapping the shore, and over it all the group’s collective breath caught.
The air that followed was heavy and raw. Conversations stuttered into silence. Jokes that might have landed yesterday died in throats. Everyone who’d been laughing a moment before now felt like witnesses to something fragile and terrible — and all of them, whether they wanted to admit it or not, knew the rules of whatever fate had just unspooled.
Sirius finally let the towel slip from his fingers and sink to his sides. He didn’t know what to do next; none of them did. The only thing he felt certain of was that the lake, the sun, even the chatter — all of it had shifted. Nothing would slide back into ordinary after that.
𝓟𝓸𝓵𝔂!𝓶𝓪𝓻𝓪𝓾𝓭𝓮𝓻𝓼 𝔁 𝓻𝓪𝓿𝓮𝓷𝓬𝓵𝓪𝔀!𝓯𝓮𝓶!𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓻 [ lily evans x reader ]
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Summary - After a prank in earlier years goes horribly wrong, leaving someone humiliated, Y/N begins to distance themselves from the Marauders. The boys you once loved and trusted—the ones who used to make you laugh, who felt like home—now feel like strangers. Over the next two years, your friendship quietly dissolves, leaving teachers and classmates puzzled at the sudden coldness and avoidance.
Warning - angsty , friends to strangers, prank gone wrong, forced proximity, awkwardness, longing, yearning , eventual jealousy, replacement and deep ANGST, mention of lucious malfoy
A/n - OK so this chapter talks about the relationship between the black brothers ? Are we ready? So this chapter is a bit short compared to the others, ? M' Sorry.
The castle feels heavier on nights like this, the full moon pressing its light against the stone as if it knows what secrets it holds. Your patrol ends, footsteps echoing faintly in the empty corridor, and yet you don’t turn toward the dormitory. Instead, your mind drifts to the infirmary. Remus is there—pale, worn, but alive. You know his secret now, the truth of his furry problem, and it gnaws at you. Civil, maybe even friendly—that’s what you’ve become with him. And that’s why the thought of visiting him tonight lingers, tempting, dangerous, necessary.
But the infirmary isn’t just Remus. It’s James, Sirius, Peter, and Lily too. To step inside would mean facing all five of them, together, without a sparky comment, without the armor of rivalry. The thought of it feels like walking into fire—dangerous, but maybe necessary.
Your boots scuff against the flagstones as you finish your round, the castle quiet except for the distant hum of the night. You’re half lost in thought—Remus in the infirmary, Lily at his side, the weight of the full moon pressing down—when you stumble into someone at the corner.
You look up, startled, and find yourself staring into the sharp, younger face of Regulus Black. Sirius’s brother. A year below you.
“Sorry,” you mutter quickly, stepping back.
He tilts his head, dark eyes glinting with curiosity. “Where’s your partner?”
You hesitate, then manage an excuse, voice low. “He’s sick.”
Regulus nods, as if that explains everything. You glance around, then ask, “And where’s yours?”
A faint smirk curls his lips. “She ditched me. For a date.”
The words hang between you, absurd and a little bitter. You snort, shaking your head, and let the retort slip out before you can stop yourself: “Ditched you for a date when you’re right here?”
It’s genuine, almost flirty, and it catches him off guard. His smirk breaks into a laugh, and you find yourself laughing too, the tension of the night easing for a moment. The sound echoes softly in the corridor, two voices tangled in amusement, unexpected and strangely warm.
Then, as the laughter fades, he shifts awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. From his pocket, he pulls out a folded letter and holds it out to you.
“I know you and Sirius aren’t on talking terms,” he says, voice quieter now, “but… if you could, it would be great if you gave him this.”
You look at the letter suspiciously, brows furrowed. Regulus’s sheepish look only deepens, his hand still rubbing at his neck, eyes flicking away from yours.
For a moment, you weigh the request. Then you give a small nod, slipping the letter into your pocket. No words needed.
He exhales, relieved, and with a final glance, you both turn down opposite corridors, footsteps fading into the hush of the castle.
Your shift ends, and the weight of the night clings to you as you slip back into your dorm. You reach for the small comfort tucked away—a bar of chocolate—and slide it into your jacket pocket, The thought of the infirmary pulls at you, heavy and insistent.
The corridors are quiet as you make your way there, moonlight spilling across the stone. You stop outside the door, heart thudding, every choice you’ve made tonight pressing down on your shoulders. For a moment, you just stand there, contemplating your life decisions, wondering if stepping inside is bravery or folly.
You take a deep breath and push the door open. The familiar scent of antiseptic greets you, sharp and clean. Madam Pomfrey looks up from her work, her eyes widening in surprise at the sight of you.
And then—her expression shifts. Surprise melts into something softer, warmer. Her face lights with utter happiness, her eyes glistening as though tears threaten. There’s a nostalgia in her gaze, a look that seems to reach back through years, as if your presence has stirred some memory long buried. The corners of her mouth tremble with a smile that is both tender and wistful, her whole face transformed by the weight of what she sees in you.
You move past Madam Pomfrey, her expression still lingering in the corner of your vision—surprise melting into happiness, her eyes glistening as though some memory has been stirred, her face softened by nostalgia. But you don’t dwell on it. You carry yourself forward, toward the bed where Remus lies.
He looks pale, worn, but steady, Lily perched at the foot of his bed like a quiet sentinel. The three boys—Peter, Sirius, and James—cluster on the left side, their voices hushed until they notice you.
The moment you step closer, their heads lift. Surprise flickers across their faces, sharp and unguarded. James’s brows shoot up, Sirius’s grin falters, Peter’s mouth parts slightly. They hadn’t expected you here, not tonight, not ever.
But Lily—Lily’s reaction is different. Her face lights with warmth, her smile soft and genuine. Ever since the Severus incident, you and she have grown closer, a bond stitched together by shared understanding and quiet resilience. Her happiness at seeing you here is unspoken but palpable, a gentle counterpoint to the shock radiating from the others.
The room feels charged, every gaze pressing against you, every silence heavy with history. And yet, beneath it all, there’s Remus—frail but present, the reason you came.
Remus lies there, pale and worn, his skin stretched thin over exhaustion. The sight of him makes you flinch—his skin pale, his body marked with fresh scars that speak of the night’s battle. His eyes flutter open, and when they land on you, the tension in his face eases.
James leans in from the other side, ruffling Remus’s hair with a grin. “Still handsome, even half-dead,” he teases. Remus lets out a laugh, weak but genuine, and you find yourself smiling subconsciously at the sound.
You reach into your jacket pocket and pull out the chocolate. Remus’s eyes widen, his hand shooting out to grip it tightly, as though it’s a lifeline. Peter, sitting nearby, smiles knowingly. “I brought some too,” he says, placing his own offering beside Remus’s table. You add yours next to his, the small pile growing into a quiet testament of care.
Chocolate—Remus’s comfort in these dark times. A simple sweetness against the bitterness of his reality.
Sirius squeezes Remus’s hand, his grin softer now, less careless. And then Remus turns back to you, his voice hoarse but steady.
“You came.”
The memory comes rushing back as you sit by Remus now, but then, you were younger, less guarded, still learning the edges of friendship. That was the year you four—James, Sirius, Peter, and you—had pieced together the truth of Remus’s little furry problem. The whispers, the absences, the infirmary visits—it all clicked. And instead of recoiling, you decided to visit him.
The infirmary smelled the same then, sharp and clean, but the boy in the bed was different. Remus was curled in on himself, shoulders shaking, tears streaking down his face. He looked at you all with wide, terrified eyes, voice breaking as he whispered, “I’m a monster. You won’t want to talk to me anymore.”
For a moment, the weight of it pressed down, heavy and raw. But then James snorted, Sirius barked out a laugh, Peter’s eyes went wide, and you couldn’t help it—you all started laughing. Not cruelly, not mockingly, but at the sheer absurdity of the thought.
“Monster?” James grinned, leaning against the bedframe. “You’re Remus. You’re the one who keeps us from failing Transfiguration.”
“Exactly,” Sirius added, shaking his head. “If you think we’re ditching you, you’re mad. You’re stuck with us.”
Peter nodded furiously, his round face earnest. “We’d never stop talking to you.”
And you, quieter but no less certain, said, “You’re our friend. That doesn’t change.”
The laughter faded into warmth, into comfort. Remus blinked at you all, disbelief slowly giving way to relief. His tears dried, his shoulders eased, and for the first time, he let himself believe he wasn’t alone.
That night, the bond between you all deepened—woven not just from mischief and shared secrets, but from the promise that even in the darkest corners, none of you would abandon him.
Back in the present, you’re sitting by Remus, lost in your thoughts—the memory of third year still echoing in your mind, the warmth of laughter and comfort lingering like a ghost. Your hand shifts absently, brushing against your jacket, and you feel the faint rumble of paper in your back pocket.
It jolts you. The letter. Regulus’s letter. You remember the sheepish look on his face, the way he rubbed the back of his neck as he asked you to deliver it. You hadn’t thought about it since, but now, here, surrounded by them all, you realize what you have to do.
You take a slow breath, steadying yourself, and pull the folded parchment free. The black seal catches the light, stark and unmistakable.
Sirius’s reaction is immediate. He gasps—silent, sharp—as his eyes lock onto the seal. Recognition flashes across his face, his grin vanishing, replaced by something rawer, heavier. His hand tightens around Remus’s, but his gaze is fixed on the letter in your hand.
The room shifts, the air thickening with tension. James leans forward, brows furrowed, Peter’s eyes dart nervously between you and Sirius, and Lily’s smile falters into quiet concern.
You clear your throat, breaking the silence. “Regulus gave me this. Said it was for you.”
The words hang heavy, and Sirius’s face hardens. He snatches the letter from your hand, jaw tight, eyes burning with something between anger and hurt. For a moment, he just stares at the seal, thumb brushing over it like it’s something poisonous.
Then, with a sharp movement, he rises, heading toward the fireplace. His intent is clear—he’s about to throw it in.
“Don’t,” James says suddenly, standing and grabbing Sirius’s arm and pushing him into his chest , locking him. His voice is firm, but his grip is stronger, holding him back physically. The two lock eyes, tension crackling between them.
“James, it’s Regulus,” Sirius spits, his voice low and bitter. “You know what he’s like. I don’t need his words.”
James tightens his hold, muscles flexing, and you can’t help but notice—Merlin, when did they both get so ripped? Years apart, and suddenly they’re taller, broader, sharper. The thought flashes through your mind unbidden, ridiculous in the moment, but impossible to ignore.
“Maybe,” James says, voice steady, “but burning it won’t change anything. He wrote to you, Sirius. That means something.”
Sirius scoffs, trying to pull free, but James doesn’t let go. “It means he wants to drag me back into his mess. I’m not playing his games.”
James leans closer, his tone softening but his grip unyielding. “Or maybe it means he’s reaching out. Maybe he’s trying, in his own way. You’ll never know if you don’t read it.”
The room is silent, everyone watching. Remus’s tired eyes flick between them, Lily’s smile has faded into quiet concern, Peter fidgets nervously. You sit frozen, the absurd thought of their strength still lingering in your head, but beneath it, the weight of the moment presses hard.
Sirius’s hand trembles around the letter, his face dark, torn between fury and something deeper. James’s grip doesn’t falter, his voice steady as he adds, “Don’t throw it away, mate. Not without knowing what’s inside.”
sirius pov
James finally lets go of his arm, the tension between them still humming in the air. Sirius scoffs, shaking his head, and with a sharp flick of his fingers, he breaks the seal. The parchment unfolds, and his eyes skim the words written in Regulus’s neat, careful hand.
Brother,
I know you don’t want to hear from me. I know you’d rather pretend I don’t exist. But I don’t know who else to turn to. Mother and Father have made their decision—they’re forcing me into the Dark Lord’s service. They say it’s the only way to preserve our family’s name, the only way to prove loyalty. I don’t want this, Sirius. I don’t want to wear his mark, I don’t want to serve him. I’m scared. I’m terrified of what it means, of what I’ll become if I do. They don’t care. They’ve already chosen for me.
You left, and I thought you were selfish. But now I see—you were brave. You escaped them. I can’t. They’ve bound me to their will, and I feel like I’m drowning. I don’t know how much longer I can resist. I don’t know if I’ll have the strength to fight them. But I needed you to know. I needed someone to know that I never wanted this. That I’m not like them, not really. I’m still me. I’m still your brother.
If you hate me, if you never want to see me again, fine. But please, don’t forget me. Don’t let me disappear into their darkness without someone remembering who I was.
—Regulus
Sirius’s eyes burn as he reads, the words cutting deeper with every line. His mood shifts violently—anger giving way to something rawer, heavier. A spark ignites deep inside him, a fire he can’t name. His chest tightens, his throat feels thick.
Behind him, James leans in, skimming the letter over his shoulder. His sharp intake of breath—a gasp—snaps Sirius out of the train of his thoughts.
Sirius lowers the parchment, his hand trembling. He doesn’t know how to describe the feeling clawing at him. Grief? Rage? Fear? It’s all tangled together, a storm he can’t untangle.
James’s voice is quiet, steady. “Sirius… he’s reaching out. He’s scared. This isn’t a trick.”
Sirius swallows hard, his jaw clenched. “He’s weak. He should fight them.”
James shakes his head, his hand gripping Sirius’s shoulder. “Not everyone can fight the way you did. You ran, you broke free. He’s still trapped. That doesn’t make him weak—it makes him desperate.”
The room is silent, everyone watching. Remus’s tired eyes soften, Lily’s lips part as if to speak, Peter fidgets nervously. Sirius stares at the letter, the words echoing in his mind. I’m still your brother.
Grief. That’s what it is. Grief for the boy Regulus was, grief for the brother he lost, grief for the family that never gave either of them a choice.
The fire crackles in the hearth, waiting. But Sirius doesn’t move toward it again. He just stands there, letter trembling in his hand, the weight of Regulus’s words pressing into him like a brand.
He’s still clutching the letter when his gaze flicks instinctively to the place you had been sitting. Empty. When did you leave? He hadn’t even noticed.
Peter’s voice breaks the silence. “[Name] left a while ago,” he says softly, eyes darting toward Sirius. Sirius only nods, jaw tight, the letter trembling faintly in his hand.
Remus reaches out, his fingers brushing Sirius’s wrist before gently taking the parchment. He skims the words quickly, his expression tightening, then passes it down to Lily. She reads with care, her brow furrowing, lips pressed together. When she looks up, her eyes are warm, steady, and full of thought.
“Maybe…” Lily begins, her voice quiet but firm, “maybe James could take Regulus in. Like he did for you, Sirius.”
The words hang in the air, heavy and daring.
James blinks, startled. “Lily—” he starts, but she presses on.
“You know what it meant for Sirius, having you. A place away from all of that. A family. Regulus is scared, he doesn’t want this. If he’s reaching out, maybe he needs the same chance Sirius had.”
Sirius’s face darkens, torn between fury and grief. “He’s not me,” he snaps, though his voice cracks at the edges. “He’s still tangled in their world. He’s still—”
James steps closer, his expression conflicted. “He’s your brother.” The words are simple, but they land heavy. He glances at the letter again, the desperation in Regulus’s words echoing in his mind. “And if he’s asking for help… maybe we should give it.”
Sirius shakes his head, pacing a step away, his hands raking through his hair. “You don’t understand. He’s been part of them for years. He’s—” He falters, the grief choking him. “He’s not like me.”
Remus’s voice, hoarse but steady, cuts in. “Maybe he’s more like you than you think. You both grew up in the same house. You both wanted out. You just… found your way sooner.”
Peter’s gaze softens, her hand resting on Remus’s arm. “If James could open his home once, he can do it again. Sirius, you don’t have to carry this alone.”
James exhales, running a hand through his hair, muscles tense. “I don’t know if it’s possible. My parents… they took you in because they saw who you were. Regulus—he’s complicated. But…” He looks at Sirius, eyes steady. “If he’s asking for help, I’ll try. For you.”
Sirius freezes, the letter still trembling in his hand. He doesn’t know how to describe the feeling clawing at him—grief, rage, hope, fear. It’s all tangled together, a storm he can’t untangle. But for the first time, the possibility of saving Regulus flickers in the room, fragile and dangerous, yet alive.
You’re back in your dorm, the silence pressing in around you. The scene you left behind replays in your mind like a film you can’t stop watching. You’d slipped out quietly, because it felt like you were intruding on something sacred—their safe haven.
The way James had his arms around Sirius, holding him back from the fire, muscles taut with conviction. The way Lily leaned in, her voice steady and kind, suggesting hope where none seemed possible. The way Peter smiled softly, offering chocolates to Remus, trying to ease the heaviness. And Remus himself, fragile but surrounded, cared for in a way that made the room glow with belonging.
It was all too much. Too soon. You didn’t belong in that constellation, not really. So you left.
Now, lying in your bed, your mind drifts back to the letter. What could it have said? Was Regulus threatening Sirius? No… probably not. You remember the way Regulus looked when he handed it to you—sheepish, nervous, like a dull shadow had settled over him. He wasn’t the sharp, arrogant boy you remembered. He seemed different. Changed.
The thought gnaws at you. If Regulus was reaching out, if he was scared, then maybe the letter wasn’t a weapon—it was a plea. A plea Sirius almost burned.
You turn over, staring at the ceiling, the weight of it pressing down. You feel caught between worlds: theirs, where bonds are unbreakable, and yours, where you hover at the edges, watching, wondering.
teacher's pov
In the staff room, the air is thick with parchment dust and the faint scent of tea. Dumbledore sits at the head of the long table, eyes twinkling behind his half-moon spectacles, while Minerva McGonagall leans forward, sharp and attentive. Slughorn, round and genial, stirs his cup, and Madam Pomfrey, cheeks flushed, recounts what she saw.
“You should have seen it,” Pomfrey says, voice brimming with excitement. “They came—well, she came—to the infirmary. Sat with Remus, spoke kindly to Peter, even handed Sirius something. A letter, sealed in black.”
The teachers exchange glances, a ripple of surprise running through them.
Flitwick nearly squeals, his high voice breaking through. “Progress! At last! We’ve been trying to get them to reconcile for years.”
Minerva nods, lips twitching into the faintest smile. “I partnered her with James in Transfiguration for precisely this reason. And Remus on patrols. They need to see each other as more than rivals.”
Slughorn chuckles, tapping his spoon against the rim of his cup. “And I’ve made her work with James and Sirius in Potions. Nothing like shared explosions to build camaraderie.”
Pomfrey’s eyes glisten, nostalgic. “It reminded me of their younger years. The way they laughed together, the way they cared for Remus. It felt… right.”
Dumbledore steeples his fingers, his voice calm but deliberate. “Friendship is a powerful magic. Stronger than any spell. If they can find their way back to one another, it may shape more than their school years—it may shape their futures.”
The room hums with energy. Minerva raises a brow, her tone sly. “So, when do we think it will happen? A week? A month?”
Slughorn grins, leaning back. “I’ll wager by the end of term. Nothing like exams to bring people together.”
Flitwick shakes his head, eyes sparkling. “Sooner. I say within a fortnight. The bond is already rekindling.”
Pomfrey presses a hand to her chest. “I’ll bet it happens in the infirmary again. That room has seen more healing than just wounds.”
Even dour Professor Binns, drifting near the hearth, mutters something about “history repeating itself.”
And so, the staff of Hogwarts—wise, meddling, hopeful—begin their quiet game. Bets are made, predictions whispered, all of them conspiring in their own way to nudge you and the Marauders back together. Perhaps even into something more.
𝓟𝓸𝓵𝔂!𝓶𝓪𝓻𝓪𝓾𝓭𝓮𝓻𝓼 𝔁 𝓻𝓪𝓿𝓮𝓷𝓬𝓵𝓪𝔀!𝓯𝓮𝓶!𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓻 [ severus snape x reader ]
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Summary - After a prank in earlier years goes horribly wrong, leaving someone humiliated, Y/N begins to distance themselves from the Marauders. The boys you once loved and trusted—the ones who used to make you laugh, who felt like home—now feel like strangers. Over the next two years, your friendship quietly dissolves, leaving teachers and classmates puzzled at the sudden coldness and avoidance.
Warning - angsty , friends to strangers, prank gone wrong, forced proximity, awkwardness, longing, yearning , eventual jealousy, replacement and deep ANGST, mention of lucious malfoy
A/n - Hii so I know I am posting this after a VERY LONG TIME , hope people are still there who still read this 😭 !! , soo I don't know if you guys would like Severus x reader but lets see what happens !! also lily is being a slay diva over here , we love her ok? also i wanted to finish this 3 parts , but I guess we will be looking forward to a part 4
Remus pov
The common room was quiet when Remus returned from patrol. His shoulders ached from the endless rounds of corridors, but the hush of Gryffindor Tower was a balm. He settled into his usual chair by the fire, book in hand, letting the warmth seep into his bones. For once, there was peace. No Sirius draped across the rug, no James plotting Quidditch strategies, no Peter snoring in the corner. Just silence, and the steady flicker of flames.
He had almost convinced himself the night would stay that way.
The door banged open. Sirius stormed in first, James on his heels, Peter trailing behind like a frightened shadow. The air shifted instantly — sharp, tense, buzzing with something Remus couldn’t yet name. He lowered his book, frowning.
“What happened?” His voice was calm, but his eyes narrowed as he took in Sirius’s clenched jaw, James’s thunderous expression, Peter’s pale face.
Peter cracked first. “We—uh—we saw Y/N. With Snape. In the Room of Requirement.” His words tumbled out, shaky. “James said—he said—” He faltered, glancing nervously at James.
Remus’s stomach dropped. “What did you say?”
James didn’t answer. Sirius smirked, brittle around the edges. Peter swallowed hard. “He accused her of… of shagging him. And then Snape—Snape kissed her. Right in front of us.”
The book slipped from Remus’s hands, thudding against the floor. His chest tightened, panic clawing at his throat. “You did what?”
James bristled. “I—she was with him, Remus! What was I supposed to think?”
“You were supposed to trust her!” Remus’s voice rose, sharper than he intended. He surged to his feet, pacing, hands trembling. “Merlin, do you have any idea what you’ve done? I thought—” His breath caught, ragged. “I thought maybe she’d forgive us. That maybe we could fix this. But no. You had to go and ruin it again.”
Sirius scoffed, defensive. “Oh, come off it, Moony. She’s been running around with Snivellus for weeks. What, you think she was going to come crawling back to us?”
Remus spun on him, fury blazing in his eyes. “She wasn’t going to crawl back, Sirius. She was going to choose. And maybe—just maybe—she would have chosen us again. But now? After this? You’ve made sure she never will.”
The silence that followed was suffocating. James’s bravado faltered, guilt flickering across his face. Sirius looked away, jaw tight, smirk gone. Peter shifted nervously, wishing he could vanish into the floor.
Remus pressed a hand to his temple, heart pounding. “Do you even understand? She was our friend. She was—” His voice cracked, softer now, raw. “She was home. And you’ve driven her further away than ever.”
James opened his mouth, but Remus cut him off with a sharp shake of his head. “Don’t. Don’t you dare try to justify it. You were supposed to be better than this.”
The fire crackled, filling the heavy silence. Remus sank back into his chair, staring at the flames, panic gnawing at his chest. He had thought—hoped—that reconciliation was possible. That maybe, with time, you’d forgive them. But now?
Now he wasn’t sure there was anything left to forgive.
The Great Hall was already buzzing when you and Severus stepped through the doors. Lucius and Narcissa were waiting, perfectly composed as always, though the faint curl of amusement at Narcissa’s lips gave her away.
Because the hall was no longer its usual grandeur.
Every house banner, every table, every polished surface was drenched in pink glitter. It shimmered in the morning light, catching in the folds of robes, clinging to hair, raining down in little sparkling clouds whenever someone moved. The Gryffindor lion looked positively ridiculous, the Slytherin serpent gleamed like it had been dipped in sugar, and the Ravenclaw eagle glittered so brightly it was almost blinding.
You couldn’t help it — you grinned. Severus’s lips twitched, rare and reluctant, and when you raised your hand, he met it with a sharp, satisfying high-five.
“Perfect,” you muttered, pride swelling in your chest.
Lucius smirked, brushing a speck of glitter from his sleeve. “Flawless execution.” Narcissa tilted her head, eyes sparkling. “And harmless. Just the right touch.”
The laughter of students rippled through the hall, but it was quickly drowned out by the sharp, unmistakable voice of Professor McGonagall.
“POTTER! BLACK! PETTIGREW!”
Her shout cut through the chatter like a blade. The Marauders froze mid-step, glitter raining down from their hair as though the castle itself was mocking them. McGonagall’s eyes blazed, her finger stabbing toward them.
“Detention. All three of you. Tonight. And if I see so much as a sparkle out of place again—”
James sputtered, Sirius gaped, Peter looked like he might faint. But McGonagall was immovable, her fury absolute.
You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. Severus’s smirk deepened, Lucius and Narcissa exchanged a look of smug delight.
And then James’s eyes found yours.
For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to that single glance. His hazel eyes gleamed, not with anger, but with something else — pride. Approval. A spark that said, "Nice one. That’s our girl."
Your chest tightened. Against your will, warmth flickered inside you, a dangerous swell of pride at his recognition. For one terrible moment, you wanted to smile back.
But no.
You shut it off, burying it deep, forcing your gaze away. You weren’t theirs anymore. You wouldn’t be.
It had been weeks since that night in the Room of Requirement. Weeks since Severus kissed you in front of James and Sirius, weeks since the glitter prank painted the Great Hall pink and left the Marauders fuming in detention.
And yet… you still didn’t know what you and Severus were.
You’d shared a few kisses since then — quick, stolen, sometimes lingering — but nothing had been spoken aloud. No promises, no declarations. Just moments. And moments, you were learning, could be dangerous.
Because Severus wasn’t alone.
Mulciber. Wilkes. The others. They hovered around him like shadows, their laughter sharp, their words dripping with disdain. You didn’t like them. You didn’t like the way they spoke about students who weren’t purebloods, as if they were less than, as if they didn’t deserve to walk the same halls. It made your stomach twist, made your chest tighten.
Sometimes, when Severus was with them, you wondered if you were seeing the same boy who had offered you chocolate in the corridor, who had kissed you with fire in the Slytherin common room. Or if you were seeing someone else entirely — someone harder, sharper, colder.
And you didn’t know which version of him was real.
You tried to ignore it, tried to focus on the quiet moments you shared — the way his eyes softened when he looked at you, the way his voice dropped when he said your name. But Mulciber’s sneer, Wilkes’s cruel jokes, the muttered slurs that made your blood boil… they lingered.
You weren’t sure if you belonged in Severus’s world. And you weren’t sure if he belonged in yours.
The spring air was soft, carrying the scent of blooming lilacs as you and Severus walked the garden path. For once, the castle felt quiet, the hum of students fading into birdsong. You almost let yourself relax — until you saw them.
Up ahead, Avery, Lily, and Dorcas were bent over a table piled with parchment and boxes, organizing a donation drive. Their voices were bright, their laughter warm, as they sorted books and coins for muggle children’s education. The sight made your chest ache in the best way. Sweet. Kind. Hopeful.
You smiled faintly. This… this is good. Then you heard it. A scoff. You turned, and Severus’s lip curled in a sneer. “Pathetic,” he muttered, eyes sharp with disdain. Your stomach dropped. “What?”
He didn’t stop. His voice grew louder, harsher, each word cutting like glass. “All this fuss for broke little muggles. As if they deserve our charity. They’ll never be anything more than what they are — useless.”
Your breath caught, fury rising hot in your chest. “Sev—”
But he wasn’t finished. His gaze flicked to Lily, and his tone sharpened into venom. “And her. How could I ever have been friends with that pathetic mudblood? Playing saint for creatures beneath her. She disgusts me.”
That was it. You stopped dead in your tracks, heart pounding, anger blazing. “Don’t you dare,” you snapped, voice trembling with rage. “Don’t you dare call her that.”
Severus blinked, startled, but you pressed on, words spilling sharp and fast. “Muggles are still human. They deserve dignity, education, a chance — the same as anyone else. And Lily? She’s better than half this school combined. She’s kind, she’s brilliant, and she’s doing something good while you stand here sneering like a coward.”
His jaw tightened, but you didn’t let up. “If this is who you are now — if this is what those people have turned you into — then I don’t even recognize you. Or maybe you’ve always been like this, and I was too blind to see it.”
The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating. Severus’s sneer faltered, but the damage was done. You turned away, chest heaving, eyes burning. For the first time since that night in the Room of Requirement, you weren’t sure you wanted to be near him at all.
“Fuck you ,Severus.”
You turned. Lily stood just a few feet away, her hands still clutching a stack of parchment, her face pale but her eyes blazing. She had heard every word.
Severus stiffened, color draining from his face. “Lily—”
But she shook her head, sharp and final. “Don’t. Don’t you dare speak to me.” Her voice cracked, but her fury held. “I thought… I thought maybe you could change. But you’re worse than ever.”
Her gaze flicked to you then, softer, grateful. “Thank you,” she whispered, before turning back to Severus with a look that could cut stone.
And just like that, she walked away ,you stood there, heart pounding, the weight of Lily’s gratitude and Severus’s shame pressing down on you both.For the first time, you weren’t sure if there was anything left between you and him at all.
You turned on Severus one last time, disappointment heavy in your gaze. No words, no anger now — just a look that said everything. That you were done. That he had crossed a line you couldn’t ignore.
Then you walked away.
Lily was already moving quickly down the garden path, parchment clutched tight in her hands, her shoulders stiff. You caught up just as she stopped, her breath hitching.
“Lily,” you said softly.
She turned, and for the first time you saw the tears brimming in her eyes. Her voice cracked as she whispered, “I heard him. I heard everything. I thought… I thought maybe he could change. But he’s worse than ever.”
The words broke into sobs, sharp and sudden, and she pressed a hand to her face, trying to hide it.
Your chest ached. Without thinking, you reached out, pulling her into your arms. She stiffened for a moment, then collapsed against you, trembling.
“He doesn’t deserve you,” you murmured, steady and fierce. “Not your friendship, not your kindness. You are brilliant, Lily. You are good. Don’t let him make you doubt that.”
Her tears soaked into your shoulder, her breath uneven. “I just… I don’t understand how he could say that. How he could mean it.”
You held her tighter, brushing a hand through her hair. “Maybe he’s lost himself in the wrong crowd. Or maybe he’s always been like this. But either way, it’s not on you. You don’t have to carry his cruelty.”
For a long moment, you stood there together in the garden, the laughter of Avery and Dorcas fading into the distance. Just you and Lily, her tears slowly quieting, her breathing evening out.
When she finally pulled back, her eyes were red but steadier. She gave you a small, grateful smile. “Thank you,” she whispered.
You squeezed her hand. “Always.”
And as you walked with her back toward the castle, you knew one thing for certain: whatever Severus had become, you weren’t going to let him drag Lily down with him.
The corridors were quiet, the kind of silence that pressed against your ears. You adjusted your robes, wand in hand, ready to start patrol. Beside you, Remus shifted, his brows drawn together in that thoughtful way he always had.
It was still strange, being paired with him. Most nights you barely spoke — just clipped words, directions, the scrape of shoes against stone. And yet, when you glanced at him now, you caught yourself staring. The slope of his nose, the softness of his lips, the way the lamplight brushed against his hair.
You shook the thought away, heart thudding. No. Don’t go there.
Before either of you could move, a voice rang out. “[name] ! Remus!”
Lily came running down the corridor, parchment fluttering in her hands, her red hair catching the torchlight. Remus’s brows knit in confusion, and you tilted your head, waiting.
She skidded to a stop, breathless but grinning. “So… I asked Filch if three people could take a round together.”
Remus blinked. “And he agreed?”
Lily’s grin widened, mischief sparking in her eyes. “Well… technically, I bribed him. Cat food. He couldn’t resist.”
You laughed, the sound slipping out before you could stop it. “Slay, Lily.”
Remus’s lips twitched, the faintest smile breaking through his confusion. “You bribed Filch with cat food?”
“Worked like a charm,” Lily said proudly. “So from now on, it’s the three of us. No more awkward silence patrols.”
You glanced at Remus again, catching the way his expression softened, the way his eyes flicked to you and then quickly away. Something in your chest tightened, but you buried it deep.
“Alright then,” you said, forcing your voice steady. “Three it is.”
And as the three of you set off down the corridor, Lily’s chatter filling the silence, you realized the air felt lighter. Less suffocating. Maybe, just maybe, this wouldn’t be so bad.
And as the three of you set off down the corridor, Lily’s chatter filled the silence, her voice bright and steady, weaving through the heavy air like sunlight breaking through clouds. She talked about Charms class, about how Dorcas had nearly set her own hair on fire, about how McGonagall’s patience was thinning by the day.
At first, you just listened. Remus did too, his brows still drawn, though the crease softened with every word Lily spoke.
Then she said something about bribing Filch again — how Mrs. Norris had practically purred at her feet — and you laughed, sharp and sudden. Remus glanced at you, startled, before his lips curved into the faintest smile.
The silence cracked.
Soon, you were tossing in little comments, teasing Lily about her “cat diplomacy,” and Remus added his own dry observations, quieter but clever. Lily laughed at both of you, delighted, and the sound echoed down the stone halls.
By the time you reached the east stairwell, the three of you were talking easily, voices overlapping, jokes bouncing back and forth. Lily teased Remus about his prefect scowl, and you nudged him with your shoulder, grinning.
“She’s right,” you said. “You look like you’re about to deduct points just for breathing.”
Remus gave you a mock stern look, lips twitching, and Lily burst out laughing again.
The patrol didn’t feel like a chore anymore. It felt lighter, easier, almost fun. For the first time in weeks, you weren’t counting steps or measuring silences. You were laughing. You were talking. You were… together.
Fourth year, the Room of Requirement was alive with laughter. Sirius had conjured a scraggly illusion of Mrs. Norris, tail twitching, eyes glowing, while James stomped around in a perfect imitation of Filch’s voice.
“Norris! Where’s my precious cat? She’s the only one who understands me!” James bellowed, robes flapping.
Peter was wheezing so hard he nearly fell off his chair, and you were doubled over, clutching your stomach.
“Merlin, Prongs,” you gasped, tossing a cushion at him, “you sound like you swallowed a rat!”
Remus sat on the arm of the sofa, book in hand, lips twitching despite himself. “You lot are insufferable,” he muttered, though his eyes gleamed with amusement.
The laughter echoed off the walls, reckless and warm, filling the room with the kind of joy that felt endless. Back then, it was simple. Back then, you belonged.
You blinked hard, the memory dissolving like smoke. The laughter of fourth year — cushions flying, Sirius’s ridiculous Mrs. Norris illusion, James’s booming Filch impression — it all vanished, leaving only the quiet corridor and the steady glow of Lily’s lantern.
You hadn’t realized you’d stopped walking.
When you looked up, both Lily and Remus were staring at you, concern etched across their faces. Lily’s brows were drawn, her lips parted like she was about to ask if you were alright. Remus’s expression was softer, searching, his bookish calm unsettled by the way you’d frozen mid-step.
Heat rushed to your cheeks. You forced a breath, shaking your head as if to clear it. “Sorry,” you muttered, voice low. “Just… got lost for a second.”
Lily tilted her head, her eyes kind but sharp. “Lost in what?”
You hesitated, glancing at Remus. His gaze held yours for a heartbeat, steady and quiet, and you felt that same tightening in your chest. He really was a pretty fellow — too pretty, too gentle — and you shoved the thought down before it could take root.
“Nothing important,” you said quickly, forcing your feet to move again. “Let’s keep going.”
Lily didn’t press, though her eyes lingered on you a moment longer. Remus fell into step beside you, silent, but you could feel the weight of his attention, the way he noticed more than he let on.
The three of you walked on, the silence broken again by Lily’s chatter, but the echo of old laughter still clung to you, bittersweet and heavy.
The patrol ended with Lily and Remus walking you back to the Ravenclaw common room. Lily gave you a quick hug before disappearing down the corridor, and Remus offered a quiet “Goodnight” before turning away, his expression unreadable. You slipped inside, the warmth of the fire greeting you, but your mind lingered on the strange ease of the evening.
Marauders pov
The next morning, the Great Hall buzzed with its usual chaos. You slid into your seat at the Ravenclaw table, reaching for toast, when a familiar figure appeared beside you. Lily. She sat down without hesitation, her smile bright, her presence warm.
Conversation sparked instantly between you two, laughter spilling easily as you shared stories from patrol.
Across the hall, the Marauders froze mid-bite. James’s jaw dropped, Sirius nearly choked on his pumpkin juice, and Peter gawked like he’d seen a ghost. Their eyes tracked Lily, disbelief written all over their faces.
But Remus didn’t look shocked. He just watched from the Gryffindor table, a small, knowing smile tugging at his lips. He’d seen it coming — the way Lily had reached for you, the way the three of you had laughed together in the corridors.
James’s jaw dropped, his spoon clattering against his plate. “She—she’s sitting with her?” His voice cracked, disbelief thick in every word.
Sirius leaned forward, eyes wide. “Bloody hell. Did Evans just defect?”
Peter blinked, crumbs falling from his mouth. “But… but she’s supposed to sit here. She always sits here.”
James’s gaze was locked on Lily, his chest tight, his face pale. He watched her laugh at something you said, watched her lean in close, her smile soft and easy. It was the kind of smile she hadn’t given him in weeks.
Sirius muttered under his breath, “What in Merlin’s name is going on?”
But Remus didn’t look surprised. He just sat back, calm, his lips curving into a small, knowing smile. He’d seen it coming — the way Lily had reached for you during patrol, the way the three of you had laughed together in the corridors.
“Let her be,” Remus said quietly, eyes flicking to James. “She’s happier there.”
Summary - After a prank in earlier years goes horribly wrong, leaving someone humiliated, Y/N begins to distance themselves from the Marauders. The boys you once loved and trusted—the ones who used to make you laugh, who felt like home—now feel like strangers. Over the next two years, your friendship quietly dissolves, leaving teachers and classmates puzzled at the sudden coldness and avoidance.
Warning - angsty , friends to strangers, prank gone wrong, forced proximity, awkwardness, longing, yearning , eventual jealousy, replacement and deep ANGST
A/n - hello my loveliess this was based on the song 𝓟𝓮𝓸𝓹𝓵𝓮 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓴𝓷𝓸𝔀 𝓫𝔂 𝓢𝓮𝓵𝓮𝓷𝓪 𝓖𝓸𝓶𝓮𝔃 so i was listening to it and I had this random idea! This is gonna be a 2 parter maybe more?? Idk if I wanna do a happy or bittersweet ending.
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The courtyard rang with laughter. Loud, echoing, sharp enough to sting.
James had Snape dangling in midair, robes over his head, pale legs flashing in the sunlight. Sirius’s bark of laughter carried across the stone, Remus sat with his lips curved into something halfway between amusement and tolerance, Peter was practically choking from how hard he was laughing.
And then Lily laughed.
It was quick, sharp, unexpected — like she’d been caught up in the moment. A flicker of schadenfreude before her expression faltered, before her fury reared up and she turned on James. But you’d seen it. You couldn’t unsee it. The sound of Lily Evans laughing at Severus Snape’s humiliation settled heavy in your chest.
Everyone else was doubled over, gasping, wheezing, clutching at one another’s shoulders like this was the height of comedy. You weren’t laughing. You couldn’t.
Because all you saw was Snape’s face — blotchy, pale, humiliated. His eyes weren’t wide with anger; they were wide with shame. And something in you recoiled.
You had warned them. That morning, when Sirius had gleefully told you about the plan, you’d felt your stomach turn. “Don’t,” you’d said, softer than you meant to. “This isn’t just a joke. It’ll go too far.”
Sirius had winked, brushing it off with that careless grin. James had waved you off, too caught up in his theatrics. Remus had looked at you like he almost agreed, but he didn’t say anything. He never did when it came to the boys.
And now here it was. Exactly what you feared.
“Put him down,” you said, your voice louder than you expected. The laughter quieted just a little, curious glances flicking your way.
James smirked, his wand still aimed at Snape. “What’s the matter, Y/N? He’s loving the attention.”
“Yeah,” Sirius added, “you’ve got to admit, it’s hilarious.”
“Hilarious?” you snapped, your chest tightening. You turned to look at Snape again, trembling in midair, fists clenched uselessly. “Does that look hilarious to you? He’s humiliated.”
“He’s Snivellus,” James corrected, as though that explained everything.
“He’s a person,” you shot back, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. “A person you decided doesn’t deserve dignity. And you’re all laughing like this is fun. It’s not. It’s cruel.”
Silence spread. Sirius’s smirk faltered. Remus’s face tightened, eyes darting away. Peter looked between them like a child watching parents argue.
And James — James looked at you like you’d just betrayed him.
“Oh, come on, Y/N,” he said, voice softer now, coaxing. “Don’t tell me you’re siding with him.”
You shook your head, breath catching. “I’m not siding with him, I’m siding with what’s right. You — all of you — used to be better than this. Or maybe I was too blind to see you weren’t.”
That landed. You saw it in James’s eyes, in the way Sirius’s jaw clenched.
Lily spoke up then, her voice sharp as glass. “Enough, Potter. Put him down.” She sounded furious, but you couldn’t shake the memory of her laugh, the sound that had joined the others for one terrible moment.
And you realized you were done.
When James finally dropped Snape, leaving him to scramble away with his pride in tatters, you didn’t stay by the Marauders’ side. You crossed the courtyard and offered Snape your hand. He stared at you like he didn’t know what to do with it, suspicion and pride warring on his face. But he took it. Slowly.
Behind you, you could feel the weight of four gazes, burning holes into your back.
“You’re making a mistake,” Sirius called after you, his voice laced with something almost desperate.
You didn’t turn. “No,” you said, steady despite the lump in your throat. “I think I’m finally seeing clearly.”
And you walked with Snape. And later, with others — the ones who had been on the receiving end of the Marauders’ laughter, who had always seemed like background noise. You found yourself sitting with them, listening to them. Realizing you weren’t alone.
But the Marauders looked at you differently after that. As though you were a stranger.
And you felt it too.
Because people go from people you know to people you don’t.
It didn’t happen all at once. It never does.
At first, you thought the prank was just a fracture. A crack in something you thought was unbreakable. A fight, harsh words, then maybe apologies later. That’s how it always used to be.
But this time… there was no apology.
James threw himself back into chasing Lily, determined to win her over after the humiliation of her shouting at him in front of half the school. And slowly — painfully — she stopped glaring so much. She started laughing with them again, sitting a little closer, lingering a little longer.
It was your seat she filled. Your place at the table. Your spot on the couch in the common room, where you’d curl against Sirius’s side or steal Remus’s book just to annoy him. You’d pass by and see her there — smiling, vibrant, magnetic — and the boys drinking her in like sunlight.
And you… you were a shadow.
Ravenclaw Tower became your refuge. Books stacked high around you, parchment stained with ink, but you couldn’t drown out the silence. The silence where their laughter used to be. The silence of not being dragged into trouble, or pulled under an Invisibility Cloak, or teased until you were smiling despite yourself.
You started treating them like strangers because it hurt too much to treat them like home. Polite nods in corridors, clipped words when you had to share space, no warmth, no softness. It was easier this way — to pull back before they could push you out completely.
But the thing was… they noticed.
Sirius tried first, cornering you in the library one night. He had that reckless grin plastered on like armor, but his eyes were searching. “What’s with the cold shoulder, love? Too good for us now?”
You’d looked up from your essay, heart aching, and said evenly: “I just don’t know who you are anymore.”
The smile slipped. Just a fraction. He left without another word.
Remus was quieter, watching you from across classrooms, trying to catch your eye. When you wouldn’t, he looked down like it was his own fault. Maybe it was.
Peter stopped bothering. His laughter came easier now when you weren’t around to temper it.
And James… James was the worst of all. Because every time you saw him, Lily was there. Filling the spaces you’d left. And he looked at her the way he used to look at you — like the sun rose and set just for him.
And maybe that was the cruelest prank of all — not the one they played on Snape. But the one time played on you.
At first, no one took it seriously. The Marauders and you, distant? It was laughable. Students had seen you bicker before, sulk for a day or two, even storm off dramatically — but it never lasted. You always came back together, as inevitable as gravity. So when you started sitting at the Ravenclaw table instead of squeezing onto the end of the Gryffindor bench, people whispered that it was temporary. A sulk, a spat.
Even the teachers assumed it would pass. McGonagall once called out partners for Transfiguration and said, “Potter, Y/N,” with a faint smile, as though putting you together would fix whatever stubbornness lingered. You’d both worked in silence, parchment scraping against wood, wands raised without a single word shared. She’d watched you both with a crease in her brow, like she couldn’t quite understand it.
The common room was buzzing, the fire crackling. You were curled sideways in a chair, Sirius sprawled across the rug at your feet, flicking Bertie Bott’s beans into your mouth while James kept score. Remus sat on the armrest beside you, pretending to read, but his lips twitched every time you nudged him with your shoulder. Peter was dozing, quill slipping from his fingers. “Merlin,” James had said suddenly, grinning wide, “we’re going to be legends, you know that?” You’d laughed, tossing a bean at his head. “You’re insufferable, Potter.” Sirius had smirked. “Admit it. You love us.” And you had smiled — that soft, aching kind of smile that only comes when you’re exactly where you belong.
Weeks turned into months, and still you kept your distance. You passed them in the corridors without slowing your step, answered questions in class like they were just any other students. Polite, cool, detached. You refused to let yourself look back.
The whispers grew sharper. “They used to be inseparable,” younger students said as you walked by. “Do you think it was serious? A fight?” You heard your name on their lips more often in reference to what you used to be than who you were now.
Third year — snow was falling in thick, wet clumps on the road to Hogsmeade. Sirius and James ran ahead, kicking up clouds of white, Peter trailing after them with his scarf slipping loose. Remus slowed to walk beside you, brushing snow from your hair with careful fingers. “You’ll catch cold,” he teased. You’d rolled your eyes. “And you won’t?” He’d shrugged and tugged his own scarf from his neck, wrapping it snugly around yours. “I’ll be fine. You, I worry about.” From up ahead, Sirius’s voice cut through the air. “Oi! Stop flirting and hurry up!” Remus’s ears went scarlet, and you laughed so hard you nearly slipped on the ice.
By sixth year, the professors stopped pairing you with them altogether. The distance had calcified, thick and unyielding. Even the castle seemed to accept it — the Marauders and Lily Evans on one side, you on the other. A new shape to an old story. Students said it was odd, but no one questioned it anymore.
Late nights used to be yours. Four boys and you huddled under an Invisibility Cloak, hearts pounding as Filch’s lantern swung past. James whispering strategies for a midnight Quidditch match, Sirius snorting too loud until Remus smacked him, Peter giggling helplessly. You’d pressed your hand to your mouth to stifle your laugh, your shoulder brushing Sirius’s, your other hand steady against Remus’s arm. The thrill of being young and invincible had burned in your chest, brighter than any fire.
The announcement came at breakfast.
You were halfway through buttering toast when Flitwick tapped his goblet with a spoon, voice carrying just enough to silence the hum of Ravenclaw table.
“Prefect patrols will be slightly altered this term,” he said, his tone bright but deliberate. “Owing to… scheduling conflicts, a few of you will find yourselves with new partners. Do check the noticeboard before your next duty.”
The ripple of chatter started instantly, students leaning in, whispering. You didn’t think much of it — not until your name came up.
“Ravenclaw: y/l/n. Partnered with… Lupin.”
The knife slipped in your hand, smearing butter across your sleeve.
Across the Hall, at the Gryffindor table, Remus looked up from his book. His gaze flicked to you for the briefest second before snapping away, as though neither of you had heard what was just said. But the way Sirius nudged him, the smirk James half-failed to hide — it was obvious they had.
The whispers around you were worse.
Wait — weren’t they—?”
“Didn’t they used to be…?”
“I thought she swore she’d never—”
You shoved your plate aside and stood before the whispers could weave themselves into knives. You didn’t need reminding.
Once, that name paired with yours had meant something different. Laughter echoing off the stones, ink-stained notes swapped mid-patrol, the quiet safety of someone who saw you without needing words.
Now it was just strategy. Teacher meddling. A calculated, insulting move.
Later, when you confronted Flitwick after Charms, his eyes had twinkled in that maddening way that told you he thought he was being clever.
“Change is good for the soul, Miss y/l/n. Perhaps you and Mr. Lupin will find common ground again.”
Common ground. As though friendship were a misplaced quill you could simply pick up after years of pretending not to see it.
You walked out of the classroom without answering.
The corridors feel too quiet. You keep your eyes on the floor, shoulders stiff, wand in hand, moving deliberately. Every step echoes off the stone, precise, controlled.
Remus walks beside you, close enough to sense, far enough to not touch. He shifts, flexes his fingers, jaw tight. He doesn’t speak, not yet. You don’t look at him, don’t breathe his name.
“…Should we check the east stairwell first?” His voice is low, careful.
“Mm,” you murmur, eyes forward. No warmth, no inflection, nothing more.
A pause. He adjusts his robes, the faint scrape of fabric against stone sounding impossibly loud. “…Or the west corridor, maybe?”
“West works,” you reply flatly, slow, clipped. Each word is deliberate.
He shifts again. Fingers flex, unclench. He exhales softly, mutters something under his breath you don’t hear clearly. You keep your pace steady. Eyes forward. Shoulder stiff. Heart tight.
“…Window there?” he asks after another long pause.
“Check it,” you reply. Short. Neutral. Almost sharp in its brevity.
His jaw flexes. Fists twitch at his sides. He takes a careful step, then stops. Silence stretches. Heavy, suffocating, dragging. He doesn’t speak again. You don’t either.
Step. Step. Step.
“…Corner ahead,” he says finally, quiet, almost inaudible.
“Turn it,” you say, tone neutral, eyes fixed straight ahead.
Step. Step. Step.
He adjusts his robes again. Small, controlled sigh. Fists clench and unclench. His gaze flickers briefly toward you, but he doesn’t meet your eyes. You don’t notice. You don’t look.
Step. Step. Step.
By the end of the patrol, the silence is thick. Words exist only for the function of walking the halls, nothing else. He’s tense, jaw tight, fists trembling slightly. You’re rigid, heart tight, every word clipped, every breath careful.
Step. Step. Step.
Neither of you speaks beyond necessity. The tension doesn’t break. It stretches, heavy and unbearable, until the patrol ends.
The morning sun slants through the tall windows of the classroom, painting stripes of light across the polished desks. For once, you feel lighter than you have in weeks. No patrols today. No dragging steps through empty corridors, no echoing footsteps pressing against your nerves. Just a normal class. A normal morning. Maybe even a little peace.
You stretch, letting your shoulders loosen for the first time in ages. Your quill taps idly against your parchment as you glance around the classroom, faint smile teasing the corners of your lips. Today could be… nice.
“Ah, good morning, everyone!” Slughorn’s voice breaks through, bright and exaggerated, filling the room like a burst of sunlight. You almost relax completely—until he begins calling out the groupings.
“And Y/N,” he says, his eyes sparkling in that way that always makes your stomach twist, “you’ll be working with… Mr. Potter and Mr. Black. Excellent. A very lively combination, yes, yes.”
Your quill freezes mid-tap. Your chest tightens instantly. “Excuse me?” you say, sharper than you intended. Your voice rings out clear and precise across the row. “You’re pairing me with them?”
Slughorn beams like he’s delivered the best news in the world. “Indeed! I thought a dynamic trio would do wonders for your project. Mr. Potter, Mr. Black, do take good care of our Y/N.”
The warmth of the morning drains out of you like water from a leaky cup. The sunlight feels suddenly harsh. The polished wood of your desk feels too smooth, too bright. You press your lips together, forcing yourself not to scowl.
You glance at James. He’s grinning already, hair perfectly messy, eyes sparkling with that confident charm that usually makes people laugh. Sirius leans casually against his desk, smirk teasing the corners of his mouth. Both of them look exactly the same as they always do. Exactly the same. And you feel your mood splinter into sharp little shards.
James nudges his notebook toward you, grinning like nothing has changed. “So, first step—uh, do you want to handle the first bit, or should I?”
You don’t look up. You tap your quill against your parchment. “I’ll do it,” you say flatly, tone short and precise. No warmth. No hesitation.
Sirius leans over, smirking, trying the same old charm he usually wields effortlessly. “Relax, Y/N. It’s just a project. We’ll make it fun, like always.”
You blink at him once, slow, deliberate. “Fun isn’t my priority,” you reply. Cold. Controlled. He stiffens slightly but doesn’t push further.
James laughs nervously, scratching the back of his neck. “Right, okay… well, uh, I guess we just—”
“Step one,” you interrupt, tapping your quill on the page. “Read the instructions. Then we move.”
Sirius glances at James, his smirk faltering. He mutters something under his breath, low enough that you can’t hear, but the tension radiating from him is clear. James notices it too, shoulders stiffening, grin fading.
They try again. Sirius nudges your notes lightly. “See? Nothing’s changed. We’re still the same team. You’re still—”
“Focused,” you cut him off, tone clipped. Eyes forward. Hands busy on the parchment. “Let’s stick to the project.”
Both boys freeze for a fraction of a second. James swallows. Sirius tilts his head, finally noticing the lack of softness in your voice, the deliberate distance in your posture, the way you refuse even the slightest glance.
“…Y/N....you hv changed..,” James says softly, almost.
You shrug lightly, not looking at him. “I’m the same. Just… focused.”
Sirius exhales, long and sharp, fingers flexing. James opens his mouth again but stops, jaw tightening. They exchange a glance.
“Right,” Sirius mutters finally, voice low. “Okay… we get it.”
James nods slowly, frowning, his usual easy confidence gone. “Yeah. We… we’re not going to pretend everything’s like before, are we?”
You keep your eyes on your work, shoulders stiff. “No,” you say quietly. No more.
The room falls into a heavy silence. Not uncomfortable in the usual playful way, but thick, taut, suffocating. The charm and teasing they usually wield are useless. You’ve made it clear: things have changed, and they finally understand.
Step by step, word by word, the energy between you three shifts. They’re cautious now, moving slower, speaking less, testing the waters of your new distance. You stay precise, clipped, unyielding. The tension coils tighter, quiet but undeniable, as the project continues.
I have an idea for a series (could be a one shot too ofc) . Could you do a best firends to lovers? They are very close and that type of best friend who can cuddle and all. But they have to see eacother go on dates and it’s jealousy and heartbrake. It’s a classic type of story really, but I love those and you are an amazing writer ☺️
Always You- Harry Styles x reader (fluff, angst)
A/N:- Thank you for the request anon, hope you like it! Tried my best to include everything you wanted:)
Word count: 2.7K
______________________________________
He always knew when she’d had a long day.
It was in the way she didn’t knock before letting herself into his house, the soft click of the door followed by the quiet shuffle of her shoes. It was in the sigh she let out the moment she spotted him on the couch, shoulders dropping as if she’d finally reached somewhere safe.
Harry barely looked up from his phone before he was opening his arms.
She crossed the room without a word and slid onto his lap like she’d done a hundred times before, curling into him, her face pressing into the warm space between his neck and shoulder.
“Hi,” she mumbled.
“Hi, love.” His voice softened instantly. One arm wrapped around her waist while the other lifted to her hair, fingers threading gently through it. “Long day?”
She nodded against him, already melting. “Everyone was annoying. And my head hurts.”
“Mm.” He pressed a light kiss to the top of her head, barely thinking about it. “You eaten?”
She shook her head again.
He reached for the blanket draped over the back of the couch and tucked it around her shoulders. “We’ll order something. You pick.”
She didn’t move. “You pick.”
He smiled faintly. “That bad, yeah?”
She hummed in agreement, her fingers absently playing with the rings on his hand. It was second nature, she did it all the time, tracing the metal, sliding them slightly, like she needed something to ground her.
Harry kept carding his fingers through her hair, slow and soothing. “Stay here,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”
She relaxed completely into him, her legs tucked on either side of his hips, hoodie sleeves covering her hands. His hoodie, actually. She’d stolen it months ago and it had never quite made it back into his closet.
They stayed like that even after the food arrived, her still perched on his lap, sharing fries, arguing lazily over what movie to put on. She rested her chin on his shoulder while he scrolled, occasionally nudging his cheek with her nose when he took too long.
“Stop taking forever,” she murmured.
“You’re very demanding for someone who just invaded my lap.”
“You love it.”
“I tolerate it.”
She pinched his arm.
He laughed softly, finally selecting a movie. “There. Happy?”
She shifted, curling closer. “Very.”
Halfway through, she grew quiet. Her breathing evened out, body going heavier against his chest. Harry glanced down to find her asleep, cheek pressed against his shoulder, fingers still loosely hooked into his shirt.
He lowered the volume, adjusting the blanket around her. His hand resumed its place in her hair, thumb brushing slowly over her temple.
It felt natural.
It always had.
___________________
When they went out with friends, it was the same.
Harry’s hand automatically found hers the moment crowds formed, fingers lacing together as he guided her through people. He didn’t even think about it anymore, he just reached back and she was always there, following without hesitation.
“Careful,” he’d murmur, glancing over his shoulder. “Step.”
She’d squeeze his hand once in acknowledgment.
At restaurants, she slid into the seat beside him instead of across. His arm rested along the back of her chair, her knee brushing his under the table. They leaned into each other to whisper comments, stifling laughter over inside jokes no one else understood.
“Don’t,” she whispered once, biting her lip.
He grinned. “You started it.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
She nudged him with her shoulder, and he bumped her back harder until she nearly laughed out loud.
They shared drinks without asking. Shared fries. Shared glances across rooms.
If she got cold, he pulled off his jacket and wrapped it around her before she even asked.
If he disappeared to talk to someone, she leaned against the nearest wall, waiting, knowing he’d find her again.
And he always did.
He’d reappear behind her, hand settling at her waist.
“Miss me?”
She rolled her eyes. “You were gone for two minutes.”
“Longest two minutes of my life.”
She snorted softly.
Everyone noticed.
“You two are ridiculous,” one of their friends said once, watching her absentmindedly trace patterns on Harry’s wrist while he talked. “Just date already.”
They both laughed.
“We’re just friends,” she said easily.
Harry nodded. “Best friends.”
But neither of them moved their hands apart.
_________________________
Sometimes the comfort was quieter.
Like the night Harry came home exhausted from a long day. He dropped onto the couch with a groan, rubbing his eyes. She was already there, flipping through something on her phone.
“You look dead,” she said.
“I am dead.”
“Come here.”
He looked at her. “I’m already here.”
She patted her lap.
He stared. “You want me to-”
“Yes.”
He shifted, stretching out across the couch until his head rested in her lap. She immediately started running her fingers through his curls, nails lightly scratching his scalp.
He exhaled slowly.
“That good?” she murmured.
“Don’t stop.”
She smiled softly, continuing. “Long day?”
“Interviews. Meetings. Too many people.”
“You hate people.”
“I only like you.”
She laughed quietly. “That’s concerning.”
“Probably.”
He closed his eyes, relaxing fully as she played with his hair. Her thumb brushed his temple, slow and absent.
They stayed like that for nearly an hour.
_________________________
It shifted slowly.
So slowly neither of them noticed at first.
She mentioned someone’s name casually one evening while they were sprawled across Harry’s couch. Her head rested on his thigh, his fingers idly brushing her hair as a show played in the background.
“I grabbed coffee with Daniel today,” she said.
Harry hummed. “Daniel?”
“Yeah, from work. I told you about him.”
Harry frowned faintly, trying to place the name. “Mm. Right.”
“He’s nice.”
“Yeah?”
She nodded. “Funny.”
Harry’s fingers paused for a second before resuming. “That’s good.”
It should’ve ended there.
But she started mentioning him more.
“Daniel sent me this video-” “Daniel said we should try that place-” “I might grab dinner with Daniel tomorrow.”
Harry smiled each time. Nodded. Said something neutral.
But something tightened in his chest every time the name came up.
_____________________
Around the same time, she started noticing something else.
Harry flirting.
It wasn’t new, he’d always been charming, but now she noticed it more.
They were at a party when a girl approached him, laughing at something he’d said. She touched his arm lightly, leaning closer. Harry smiled politely, responding easily.
She watched from across the room, something uncomfortable settling in her chest.
“You okay?” a friend asked beside her.
“Yeah,” she said quickly.
But her eyes stayed on Harry.
The girl tucked her hair behind her ear, clearly flirting. Harry laughed softly, saying something she couldn’t hear. The girl leaned closer.
Her stomach twisted.
A few minutes later, Harry found her.
“There you are,” he said, stepping beside her.
She shrugged. “You looked busy.”
He frowned. “Just talking.”
“Mhm.”
He studied her. “You alright?”
“Yeah.”
But she didn’t lean into him like usual.
He noticed.
_______________________________
Another time, they were out at dinner when a waitress lingered at their table.
“And can I get you anything else?” she asked Harry, smiling.
“I think we’re good,” he said politely.
She laughed softly. “Well… if you change your mind.”
She left her number on the receipt.
She tried not to react.
Harry didn’t notice until later. He glanced at the paper, then scoffed quietly.
“People are bold,” he muttered.
She forced a smile. “You gonna text her?”
He looked at her. “No.”
“Why not?”
He shrugged. “Not interested.”
Something in her chest loosened unexpectedly.
____________________________________
The first time he saw her with Daniel, it felt like a punch.
They were meeting a group at a bar. Harry walked in late, scanning the room automatically for her.
He found her quickly.
She was laughing, head tipped back slightly, and a man stood close beside her. Too close. His hand rested lightly at her elbow as he leaned in to say something.
Harry’s jaw tightened instantly.
She spotted him then, her face lighting up. “Harry!”
She crossed the room immediately, like she always did. Relief flickered in his chest, until Daniel followed right behind her.
“This is him,” she said, smiling. “Daniel, this is Harry.”
Harry forced a polite expression. “Nice to meet you.”
Daniel stuck out his hand. “Heard a lot about you.”
“Yeah?” Harry said, voice even.
She slid naturally into Harry’s side, her shoulder brushing his arm. His body reacted automatically, arm coming around her back, but he stopped himself halfway.
Instead, he shoved his hands into his pockets.
She didn’t seem to notice.
But he did.
He noticed everything.
The way Daniel leaned closer when she spoke. The way she laughed at his jokes. The way she checked her phone when it buzzed and smiled softly.
Harry grew quieter as the night went on.
“You okay?” she asked at one point, leaning toward him.
“Yeah.”
“You’re quiet.”
“Just tired.”
She studied him, unconvinced. “You wanna leave?”
Before he could answer, Daniel spoke. “We were actually thinking of grabbing dessert after this.”
Harry felt something sharp twist in his chest.
“Oh,” she said, glancing between them. “Yeah, maybe.”
Harry forced a smile. “You should.”
She hesitated. “You sure?”
“Yeah.”
She nodded slowly. “Okay.”
He left early.
______________
After that, things grew complicated.
She noticed Harry talking to other girls more. Laughing easier. Staying longer in conversations. It bothered her more than she wanted to admit.
One night, she walked over to find him leaning close to a brunette, both smiling.
She stopped a few steps away.
Harry noticed her first. “Hey.”
“Hi.”
The girl glanced between them. “I’ll let you two talk.”
She walked off.
She crossed her arms slightly. “Interrupting?”
He frowned. “No.”
“You seemed busy.”
“Just talking.”
She nodded. “You’ve been doing that a lot.”
“What?”
“Talking.”
He tilted his head. “You’re acting weird.”
She forced a smile. “No I’m not.”
But she didn’t step closer.
He noticed that too.
________________
Then he started pulling away.
At first it was small things.
He didn’t reach for her hand in crowds anymore. Walked slightly ahead instead.
He sat across from her instead of beside her.
He stopped kissing her head absentmindedly.
When she leaned into him, he shifted subtly, creating space.
She noticed immediately.
“What’s wrong?” she asked one afternoon when they met for coffee.
“Nothing.”
“You’re being weird.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
He shrugged. “Just busy.”
She frowned but let it go.
But the distance kept growing.
He stopped calling late at night. Stopped texting good morning. Stopped inviting her over.
When she did come over, he stayed on the opposite end of the couch.
It hurt.
She didn’t understand what she’d done.
_________________
The breaking point came two weeks later.
She brought Daniel to a small group hangout.
Harry saw them before they saw him.
Daniel’s hand rested lightly on her waist as she leaned into him, laughing at something he’d said.
Harry’s chest tightened painfully.
He felt angry. Irrationally, overwhelmingly angry.
He turned away before they noticed him.
But she spotted him moments later.
“Harry!” she called, smiling.
He forced himself to walk over.
“You made it,” she said, stepping closer.
He nodded. “Yeah.”
Daniel gave him a polite nod. “Hey.”
Harry nodded back stiffly.
The entire night, he barely spoke.
She kept glancing at him, confused.
“Are you alright?” she asked quietly when Daniel stepped away.
“Fine.”
“You don’t seem fine.”
“I’m just tired.”
She looked hurt. “You’ve been tired a lot lately.”
He didn’t answer.
A few minutes later, Daniel returned and placed his hand lightly at her back.
Harry stood abruptly.
“I’m gonna go.”
She blinked. “Already?”
“Yeah.”
“Did I-”
“No.” His voice came out sharper than he intended. “I just need to leave.”
He walked out before she could stop him.
______________________________________
She showed up at his house the next day.
He opened the door and froze.
“We need to talk,” she said.
He stepped aside silently.
She walked in, turning to face him. “What’s going on with you?”
“Nothing.”
“Harry.” Her voice cracked slightly. “You’ve barely talked to me in weeks.”
He looked away. “I’ve been busy.”
“That’s not true.”
He stayed silent.
“Did I do something?” she asked quietly.
His chest tightened. “No.”
“Then why are you acting like this?”
He didn’t answer.
She stepped closer. “You don’t sit next to me anymore. You don’t call. You barely text. You left last night without even saying goodbye.”
“I told you I was tired.”
“That’s not it.” Her eyes filled. “You’re avoiding me.”
He clenched his jaw.
“Harry, please,” she whispered. “Just tell me what I did wrong.”
“You didn’t do anything.”
“Then why does it feel like I lost my best friend?”
That broke something in him.
He ran a hand through his hair, pacing once before stopping. “You didn’t lose me.”
“It feels like I did.”
He swallowed hard. “You’re happy.”
She frowned. “What?”
“You’re happy,” he repeated quietly. “With him.”
Her brows furrowed. “Daniel?”
He nodded once.
She stared at him. “What does that have to do with you pulling away?”
He let out a shaky breath. “Everything.”
“Harry-”
“I can’t watch it,” he said suddenly.
Silence.
“What?” she whispered.
“I can’t watch you with someone else,” he said, voice rough. “I tried. I really tried.”
Her heart started pounding.
“I thought it’d go away,” he continued. “Thought if I just gave you space, if I stopped… acting the way I always do… maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much.”
She stared at him, barely breathing.
“But it doesn’t,” he whispered. “It just gets worse.”
“Harry…”
He laughed softly, bitterly. “Seeing him touch you… seeing you smile at him… it makes me so angry I don’t even recognize myself.”
Her eyes widened.
“So I pulled away,” he said. “Because you deserve to be happy. And I didn’t want to mess that up.”
Silence filled the room.
“And I didn’t want to ruin us,” he added quietly. “Didn’t want to lose you completely.”
Her voice trembled. “Harry… why would that ruin us?”
He looked at her then, green eyes bright with emotion.
“Because I’m in love with you.”
The words landed heavy between them.
She stopped breathing.
“I have been for years,” he continued, voice unsteady. “I just… never said anything. You seemed happy. And I didn’t want to risk it.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“So when you started seeing him…” He shook his head. “I realized I might’ve waited too long.”
Silence.
He looked away. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
He moved toward the door. “Just forget it. I’ll-”
She grabbed his wrist.
“Don’t.”
He froze.
“You don’t get to drop that and walk away,” she whispered.
He didn’t turn around. “You don’t have to say anything. I know you don’t—”
“I do.”
He turned slowly.
Tears slid down her cheeks. “I do.”
His heart stuttered. “What?”
“I was hurt when you pulled away,” she said softly. “Because I thought I lost you. I thought you didn’t need me anymore.”
He stepped closer unconsciously.
“I kept wondering why it bothered me so much… why seeing you distant felt worse than anything.”
She let out a shaky breath. “And when you left last night… I realized I didn’t care about Daniel at all. I just cared that you walked away.”
Harry’s voice barely worked. “You…?”
“I’m in love with you too.”
Silence.
He stared at her like he didn’t believe it.
“You’re serious?”
She nodded, crying softly. “I think I always have been. I just didn’t realize it until you weren’t there anymore.”
He stepped forward slowly, like approaching something fragile.
“You’re not just saying that?”
She shook her head.
His hands lifted hesitantly, resting at her waist.
“You sure?” he whispered.
She gave a small, tearful laugh. “Harry.”
That was all it took.
He pulled her into him, arms wrapping tightly around her. She buried her face in his shoulder instantly, gripping his shirt.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured into her hair. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”
He pulled back slightly, eyes searching hers. “We’re okay?”
She nodded.
He hesitated, then leaned in slowly.
She met him halfway.
The kiss was soft at first, tentative, like they were both afraid the moment might disappear. Then she reached up, fingers sliding into his curls, and he exhaled against her mouth, deepening it.
It felt familiar.
Like something they’d both been waiting for without realizing.
When they pulled apart, he rested his forehead against hers.
“Should’ve done that years ago,” he murmured.
She smiled faintly. “Took you long enough.”
He laughed softly, pulling her back into his arms.
What are we getting in part 2 to almost but not enough? Do we get a happy ending?
Enough, But Not Yet
Pairing: Harry x Reader
Warnings: Angst (Or is it?) Not proofread.
Word count: 5.3k
A/N: Here it is, y'all. The second part y'all been asking for! Personally, I loved how it turned out. Lmk what you think please! Also, pictures taken from Pinterest, credits to owners!
Masterlist I Join My Taglist
Part 1
𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼
Harry did not sleep that weekend. He couldn't. He lay in his bed on Saturday morning in his work clothes that he didn't bother changing after the rain had soaked him through the night before. He lay there, staring at the ceiling fan as it rotated in lazy circles, as if mocking the way his thoughts refused to settle into anything still or coherent. His mind was replaying the scene on the sidewalk in brutal clarity, how her voice didn’t shake, or how she didn’t look away when she told him she stopped riding with him because she was tired of being hidden, the way she stepped around him like he was an inconvenience. He could see it clearly before him, like she was saying it to him over and over again.
Harry had always assumed, arrogantly and without ever consciously admitting it to himself, that if things ever truly broke between them, it would be loud. But she had dismantled his ego in measured sentences and had walked away with her head held high.
Saturday passed, bringing the memories back. He had opened his laptop trying to get some work done. But he could not think about anything else other than her that he closed it without typing anything. Pulling his phone out from his pocket, he started scrolling through old messages, reading conversations from months ago when they used to stay up past midnight arguing about campaign strategies and then somehow end up laughing about something entirely unrelated. He also found a photo from their farewell party, one he had taken. In the picture, he could see her head tilted back mid-laugh, unaware that he had been looking at her like that, unaware that he had taken a picture. He told himself he hadn’t meant to hurt her. But that didn’t change the fact that he had.
Sunday was worse. To Harry, sunday felt like standing at the lip of a cliff and knowing that Monday would push him off it, because Monday meant the office, and the office meant her, and he had no idea what version of her he would meet. Would she be angry? Cold? Distant? Gone?
He tried to compose speeches in his head — explanations that sounded reasonable, apologies that didn’t feel desperate — but every sentence he constructed collapsed under the weight of what she had said: “I stopped sleeping with you because I realised I was giving you everything while you gave me convenience.”
Convenience. The word lodged in his chest like something sharp. He didn’t like what it suggested about him or how accurate it felt.
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Monday morning arrived with a strange kind of clarity. The sky was pretty, the city was moving as it always did, as if nothing had fractured in the space between two people on a sidewalk two nights ago.
Harry got ready more carefully than usual, which annoyed him because he couldn’t decide whether he was trying to look unaffected or hoping she would notice something different in him.
The office lobby was already buzzing when he stepped inside, the conversations blending with the sound of keyboards. There was the faint scent of coffee drifting from the pantry area, and for a brief moment, he wondered if Y/N would call in sick; if she would avoid this entirely. But she didn’t. She was already there, sitting at her desk with her laptop open. Her hair was pulled back neatly. When he came in, she was reading something on her screen with complete, undisturbed focus. He stopped walking without meaning to. Because there was nothing visibly wrong with her. No swollen eyes. No stiffness, or any sign that anything had happened. She looked like she had simply turned the page. Harry forced himself to move.
“Morning,” he said, aiming for neutral, steady.
She looked up, her face devoid of any emotions. “Good morning,” she replied, offering the same polite half-smile she gave to everyone else in the office, before looking back at her screen. There was no hesitation. That was all she gave him.
He felt like it would've been better if she had just slapped him. He stood there for a second longer than necessary before walking to his desk.
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The first meeting of the day was announced around ten, and when their manager began assigning teams for the new cross-department campaign project, he felt it in his stomach as names were called out.
“And for Strategy and Outreach — Y/N and Harry”
Of course. Fate had a funny way of making them cross their paths over and over again. He glanced at her, but she didn't look at him. In fact, she didn't even react to it. She simply nodded once, jotting something down in her notebook as if this were just another professional arrangement, which to her it was now.
After the meeting ended, people left in groups, and he hesitated before approaching her desk, rehearsed lines evaporating as soon as he stood in front of her.
“So,” he began, keeping his tone light, “looks like we’re back to being the dream team.”
She didn’t look up immediately; she finished typing something, pressed enter, and then turned her chair slightly toward him.
“Yes,” she said. “I’ve already gone through the brief. I think we should split the responsibilities the way we did last time. I’ll handle competitor analysis and consumer profiling, and you can take brand positioning and external communication strategy.”
He blinked at her, caught off guard.
“That’s… yeah. That works.”
“If you send me your draft by Wednesday evening, I’ll consolidate everything and we can review it together before the Friday presentation.”
Together. Harry hated how that word sounded right now. How it meant nothing even though she used it to refer to them both. He hated how the word felt technical and scheduled. How it held no warmth like it did before.
He shifted his weight slightly. “We could maybe grab coffee later at the cafe? And talk through the angles? Like we used to?”
Her gaze didn’t harden, but it didn’t soften either.
“I think we can book the meeting room at four,” she replied. “That way we won’t be disturbed.”
He felt the subtle boundary in that sentence, the way she redirected everything toward work without explicitly rejecting him, which made it harder to push back.
“Right,” he said. “That works.”
She nodded once and turned back to her screen. The conversation was over and he was dismissed, just like that.
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By lunchtime, it was noticeable because they used to sit next to each other in the cafeteria without even discussing it, their trays placed down in near-synchrony, conversations happening naturally between them, teasing remarks being exchanged.
But now, she sat with two colleagues from the research team, talking to them and laughing lightly at a joke someone made that he couldn’t hear from where he stood near the coffee machine. He realized, with an uncomfortable jolt, that he didn’t know when she had started eating with them instead. He didn't bother with lunch. Getting a cup of coffee instead, he walked back to his table, hyper-aware of the empty chair beside him.
Across the room, someone nudged someone else subtly, eyes flicking between him and her. Whispers traveled. The office was small enough that patterns were noticed and the absences and energy shifts were observed and dissected.
In the afternoon, when they met in the conference room to go over the campaign framework, she was precise, and completely engaged in the task. She asked sharp questions, challenging the assumptions and offering alternatives. At one point, when he stumbled slightly over a projected timeline, she corrected it smoothly without any hint of mockery. Harry realised that she wasn’t punishing him. She wasn’t being cruel. She was no longer leaning toward him. And for Harry, that might have been the most disorienting part.
At one point, when there was a lull in the discussion, he cleared his throat.
“About Friday,” he started carefully, watching her expression for any sign of resistance. “What happened the other night—”
Her pen paused mid-note. Then she capped it slowly and looked at him.
“If there’s feedback about the project, I’m open to discussing it,” she said evenly. “If it’s not about work, I don’t think this is the place.”
He stared at her.
“You really don’t want to talk about it?”
Her gaze held his.
“We did talk, didn't we?” she replied. “On the sidewalk.”
There was no anger in her voice, she was calm as ever and Harry had the sudden, sinking understanding that she wasn’t waiting for him to explain himself anymore. That she had already processed it. That she had already decided that it was over. He leaned back in his chair, analysing the silence that brewed between them, thicker than any argument they had ever had. And this time, he could not even look at her, his head lowering with guilt and shame.
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By the end of the day, the shift had become public. It was evident in the way people glanced at them when they passed each other in the hallway, the way someone joked lightly about them not being attached at the hip anymore, and then quickly pretended it was harmless when neither of them laughed. He realised that people had started speculating. He caught fragments of conversation, and instead of feeling annoyed at the gossip, he felt exposed. Because he knew why it had changed. He knew the exact moment it had changed.
At six thirty, when the office began to empty, he lingered near his desk, watching from the corner of his eye as she packed her bag, slid her laptop inside, and stood.
For months, he would have said automatically, “I’ll drop you.”
It had been their routine, their little tradition — riding together. But not anymore.
He opened his mouth out of reflex. But she was already walking toward the elevator with someone else, mid-conversation, smiling politely. She didn’t look back. He stood there for a moment longer than necessary, the memory of rain and streetlights flashing uninvited through his mind, her voice steady and unwavering.
I walked away because I finally started caring about myself.
And for the first time since they met, he didn’t know how to reach her.
He had thought, foolishly, that Monday would be about damage control. About figuring out how to pull her back into orbit. But, Monday showed him something far more terrifying: She wasn’t orbiting him anymore. After all that had happened between them, she was finally moving on a path that didn’t bend toward him.
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The way Harry realised that he was in love with Y/N didn’t happen all at once. There was no single cinematic moment where he woke up and thought, I’m in love with her. That realisation came to him through her absence and the absence of their shared routine, and through all the places she used to exist in his day.
In mornings, he found himself reaching for his phone before getting out of bed, an unconscious habit formed over months, to check if she had sent him something late at night, a meme, a half-asleep complaint about a client, or a blurry photo of her desk when she was drowning in work, anything, and when he saw no notifications from her, a weird feeling settled in his chest before he could even name it.
It wasn’t even about missing sex. For him, that part had been easy to categorize before, because he saw it as physical chemistry, convenience, and a mutual understanding that neither of them had to define. Or at least that is what he had told himself.
But this?This felt different. He missed her commentary, he missed the way she would challenge him mid-sentence in meetings, eyebrows lifting slightly before adding points to his argument with calmness, forcing him to sharpen his thoughts instead of relying on his charm and ability to capture the attention of the audience.
He missed the way she would sit in the opassenger seat of his car and scroll through music, criticizing his playlists while secretly adding songs she knew he would like. He missed that ease he had with her. And that was something he missed a lot, because he hadn't experienced it with most people.
With most people, he portrayed a careful and curated personality, wearing a mask of performance. He was always hyper-aware of how he came across. But with her, somewhere along the six-month internship and the months after, that careful layer had thinned without him noticing. It was the fact that he hadn’t needed to perform around her. He could just be himself around her.
At the office, the distance between them stayed the same way. She was still perfectly professional, still collaborative, still sharp, but there was a boundary now. Though invisible, it was impenetrable, and he found himself testing it in small, almost desperate ways.
He lingered at her desk under the pretense of clarifying minor details; he made subtle references to shared moments, just to see if she would react. But she didn't. And when she did, it was just neutral, with not much emotion behind it.
She reacted as if those memories of them had been archived in an inaccessible part of her mind.
On Friday afternoon, she presented her consumer profiling insights in front of the team, and he found himself watching her more than the slides. He observed the way she stood confidently at the front of the room, voice steady, hands moving just enough to emphasize her points without seeming rehearsed, eyes making deliberate contact with each person she addressed.
He had always known she was brilliant and he had admired it. He had assumed she was aligned with him, orbiting his trajectory. But now, he watched her command the room without looking at him once for reassurance or validation. On one hand, he felt proud because she didn’t need him up there.She was standing entirely on her own. But on the other hand, it felt a bit disorienting that she wasn’t leaning into his presence.
After the meeting ended, several colleagues surrounded her, asking follow-up questions, complimenting her analysis, and he stood a few feet away, waiting for the crowd to thin out.
When she finally turned, her gaze skimmed over him briefly before settling on someone else asking about next week’s deadline. Harry had never felt invisible in a room before. It was humbling.
He stayed late the next day, longer than necessary, staring at a half-finished draft that he could normally complete in an hour, but his focus kept drifting to the empty chair across from him in the meeting room where she had once sat cross-legged, laptop balanced on her knees. Tired, he rubbed his face with his hands and leaned back in his chair.
It wasn’t just that she wasn’t sleeping with or that she wasn’t riding home with him anymore. What affected him more than any of it was the fact that she had withdrawn something far more essential from him — her softness, and the ways in which she cared; the way she used to look at him when he said something vulnerable without realizing it.
He remembered the night of their farewell party after their internship had ended and the way she had looked at him in his car, that moment where everything between them felt honest and unguarded, and the way he had told himself it didn’t have to mean more because they were leaving anyway.
He had always rationalized everything. Be it the internship fling, or the post-hire complications or the HR concerns, or his reputation, or the “timing", like he had told her.
He had framed every decision as strategic and practical. But if it had really just been about convenience, about ease and physical chemistry, then why did his chest tighten every time someone else made her laugh? Why did it bother him when she left the office without telling him? No, convenience didn’t feel like this. It wasn't convenience that kept Harry awake at two in the morning replaying her voice in his head. It wasn't convenience that made him want to undo entire conversations just to see how things might have unfolded differently. It was love. He sat there in the dim office lighting and let the truth sink in: he cared about his own image and ego more than he did her. And in the end, it cost him her.
The team had a small internal celebration after successfully presenting the campaign draft to senior management, and someone ordered food, someone else brought drinks, and the atmosphere became more relaxed.
In the past, this would have been their territory. They would have stood too close, sharing inside jokes, and her shoulder would brush his arm under the guise of reaching for something. But now, she stood across the room talking to one of the visiting consultants who had returned to finalise the collaboration details. He watched as the consultant listened to her intently, nodding, clearly impressed with her. Jealousy wasn’t an emotion he was used to experiencing so bluntly.
It caught him off guard because he suddenly understood that he had no claim on her anymore. There was nothing between them anymore. There were no intimate moments, no shared glances, nothing. She caught his gaze once across the room, but looked away first. It hurt him.
Later, as people began to leave, he found himself walking toward her almost involuntarily.
“Can we talk?” he asked quietly, keeping his voice low enough that no one else would hear.
She adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder and met his eyes calmly.
“About work?”
He hesitated.
“Uh…No.”
She considered him for a second,
“I don’t think there’s anything left to clarify,” she said gently. “We both know what happened.”
He swallowed.
“I didn’t mean—”
“I know,” she interrupted softly, not unkindly. “But it doesn't change the outcome.”
The words that came out of her mouth were measured and matured, composed.
He ran a hand through his hair, frustration mixing with a feeling that came very close to desperation.
“It wasn’t just sex,” he said finally, the admission feeling raw in his throat. “You know that, right?”
Her expression changed quickly enough but he caught it. A flicker of ... Surprise? She masked it quickly.
“Does it matter now?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said immediately, because it did, because the thought of her believing that she had only ever been nothing but convenience to him felt unbearable.
She studied him for a long moment.
“Then you should’ve acted like it mattered,” she replied coolly, the truth burning him like acid.
He opened his mouth to argue, to explain, to tell her that he had been scared of office politics, of gossip, of losing credibility, of jeopardizing everything they had worked for. But even as the excuses lined up in his head, they sounded hollow, because she had been just as brilliant as him, just as ambitious and just as aware of the risks. And she had still chosen him openly when he chose secrecy. That difference between their personalities felt enormous to him now.
She stepped back slightly, creating physical distance where there had once been none.
“I have an early morning tomorrow,” she said. “Goodnight.”
He watched her walk toward the elevator again.
And this time, instead of standing frozen, he felt something else settle inside him. It was clarity.
He didn’t want her back because he missed sleeping with her. That was not the reason he wanted her back at all. He wanted her back because she had become someone that he could be himself around. She had become to him someone who was woven into the unguarded parts of his life he didn’t show to anyone else. And without her there, everything felt slightly off-balance. He remembered the days they would eat cheap takeout on the stairs, talking about anything and everything, the way she made it easy for him to talk.
The only problem was that realization came after she had already chosen herself. And now, he had no idea how to prove that he was finally ready to choose her, too.
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He found out about it on a Wednesday afternoon in the most unceremonious way possible. They had been sitting in the conference room for a cross-team alignment meeting that had stretched well beyond its scheduled time. The projector flashed pictures onto the screen, the slides flickering across the wall, email notifications occasionally flashing in the corner of the senior manager’s shared screen.
It was dragging on for so long that Harry hadn’t been fully paying attention. He had been skimming through the documents, half-listening to someone debate resource allocation, until a voice from the far end of the table said casually,
“So when are you relocating, Y/N?”
The word registered slowly. Y/N, relocating? To where?
He looked at her. She hadn’t looked startled, she just acknowledged the question with a polite smile.
“End of the month,” she replied evenly. “Still finalising the logistics.”
End of the month? This month? That phrase landed heavily in his chest like a bullet. She was relocating?
The senior manager nodded with approval. “They’re excited to have you. It’s a strong step.”
The conversation had moved forward without pause, returning to numbers and deliverables and projected growth, but he hadn’t heard any of it. Relocating.
She had never told him. Once, she would have, but now? She didn't owe him anything. There had been a time when she would have shown up at his desk with barely contained excitement, when she would have texted him screenshots of emails and called him before finishing reading the details.
He remembered her leaning across his desk back when they were still interns, whispering, “Don’t react yet, but…” before sharing something she couldn’t keep to herself. And now she had discussed a relocation like it was nothing. And he had learned about it at the same time as everyone else. The realization wasn’t jealousy. More than that, it was the brutal understanding that she no longer factored him into her future planning. Maybe in another world, she would have considered him while making the decision about a move. He sat through the rest of the meeting in silence. When it ended, he rose slowly. She gathered her notebook and slipped it into her bag without looking in his direction. He walked towards her.
“Can we talk?” he asked, keeping his voice low.
She studied him briefly, as if evaluating whether the conversation would cost her something.
“Sure,” she said.
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They stood at the far end of the hallway near the windows that overlooked the city. They could see fluorescent light casting pale reflections across the glass.
“You’re relocating,” he said, though he already knew the answer.
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“Six months. Maybe longer. It depends.”
Depends. It depended on her performance. On whether they offered her something permanent.
“That’s incredible,” he said quietly.
“Yes. It’s a good opportunity.”
Her tone was calm.
“You didn’t tell me,” he admitted before he could stop himself. A hint of hurt laced his tone, didn't it?
She didn’t flinch.
“I didn’t think it was necessary.”
“No,” he said after a moment. “You’re right, I'm sorry.”
Silence settled between them as she just nodded.
“You’ll do well there,” he added. “They’d be lucky to keep you.”
A faint shift passed over her expression.
“Thank you.”
He wanted to ask why she hadn’t said anything sooner. He wanted to ask whether she had considered staying. He wanted to know if this was her way of moving on entirely. He wanted her to talk to him, he had a lot of questions in his mind he wanted her to answer. But he didn’t because he had already made enough of it about himself.
“I’m proud of you,” he said, meaning every word. Because he was.
She held his gaze for a moment.
“I appreciate that.”
Then she walked away.
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The office adjusted quickly. As the word spread, congratulations followed her from desk to desk. She handled it all with grace as he watched from a distance, noticing how confidently she discussed the transition, how carefully she organized documentation for whoever would take over her responsibilities.
There was something lighter about her now that she had chosen something that expanded her.
Harry continued what he had started weeks earlier — consistency. One day, someone joked about losing “the rising star,” he replied, “She earned it.”
And then the credit for a joint strategy skewed toward him in a recap email, he corrected it without hesitation, copying senior leadership and clarifying her contributions. He did not look to see if she noticed. But she did notice the small actions. He could tell by the subtle softening in her posture when their eyes met across the room. Still, she did not reward him for it. And that felt right because now? Harry had realised that growth was not a transaction.
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Two days before her departure, he found her at her desk long after most of the office had emptied out. He could see files spread neatly before her as she sorted through what needed to be transferred.
“Do you have a minute?” he asked.
She closed the folder in her hands.
“I do.”
They stayed where they were. He did not move closer.
“I wanted to say something before you left.”
She waited. He was fiddling with his fingers, a nervous habit. She had never seen him like this. He was always confident and composed.
“I’m sorry,” he said after a minute. His words were steady as he continued,
“For hiding you. For diminishing you. For acting like what we had was convenient when it wasn’t. For making you feel like you were something I had to manage instead of something I was lucky to have.”
“I was arrogant,” he continued. “I cared more about how I looked than how you felt. And you were right to walk away.”
“You don’t owe me anything,” he added. “Not forgiveness. Not another chance. I just needed to tell you that I now realise how I treated you and how I regret everything.”
She studied him carefully.
“Thank you,” she said finally.
“I meant what I said that night,” she continued. “I didn’t leave because I stopped caring.”
His chest tightened. She was holding his gaze as she talked.
“I left because I had to start caring about myself.”
“I know,” he replied.
“And I won’t undo that for anyone.”
“You shouldn’t.”
He hesitated before asking, “Is there any part of you that thinks we could have been different?”
She looked toward the window, then back at him.
“Maybe,” she said softly. “In another version of you.”
He nodded.
“And maybe,” she added, “in another version of me.”
“And for what it's worth, I hope you become that version,” she said, before adding,
“For yourself.”
“I’m trying,” he answered.
And for the first time after everything, she gave him a real smile and he could feel his eyes watering at the sight. Forcing a smile back, he walked away from her, unable to stand there for a second longer.
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Y/N’s last day at the office arrived. Someone had bought a cake. Someone else taped a crooked “GOOD LUCK!” sign to the glass wall of the conference room. She smiled through it all, accepting congratulations, answering the same questions about housing and timelines and whether she was nervous about moving.
Harry stayed toward the back observing everything. A weird feeling he couldn't name wrapped around him.
The farewell gathering was informal. It was just their immediate team standing in a loose semicircle near the breakout area and talking about it all. The senior manager said a few expected words about growth and opportunity. Then someone nudged him.
“You should say something,” one of the associates murmured. “You two worked the closest.”
The room quieted as he stepped forward. She looked at him as he took a breath.
“I didn’t prepare anything,” he began, and that much was true. “But I probably should have.”
A few light chuckles.
“I’ve worked with her longer than most of you,” he continued. “Since our internship, actually. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that she doesn’t get opportunities because she’s lucky.”
His eyes found hers.
“She is so talented and hardworking and she outworks everyone in the room.”
“She’s the person who fixes problems before they’re visible. She's the one who stays late without announcing it. She's the one who challenges ideas and makes them better.”
He paused.
“And I’ll say something else, since I should have said it sooner.”
There was a subtle stillness now.
“I wouldn’t have half the reputation I have here without her.”
That gained him a few surprised glances.
“She built more of our flagship strategy than anyone knows,” he added calmly. “Including me.”
“So if anyone at Omnia thinks they’re just getting a solid mid-level associate…” he shook his head slightly. “They’re wrong. They’re getting someone who is leadership material.”
Y/N looked stunned as he stepped back and everyone started applauding. He didn’t look at her again while the clapping continued. Later, as the group dispersed, one of the younger team members approached him with a grin.
“So… are you going to survive without your other half?”
Harry would have dodged that question once. He would have smiled vaguely and kept things ambiguous. But not anymore. He gave him a short, almost self-aware exhale.
A pause.
“She was never my other half, I was just lucky she chose to work with me.”
“And I was an idiot about it.”
The associate’s grin faded into a more thoughtful expression.
“Yeah,” he added lightly, “that one’s on me.”
And then he walked away before the conversation could turn into gossip.
By the time her suitcase appeared beside her desk, most of the office had emptied. He approached her slowly.
“Can I walk you down?” he asked.
She studied him for a second and then nodded.
They stood side by side waiting for the elevator.
“That was unnecessary,” she said,
“The speech.”
“In my opinion, it was long overdue,” he replied.
The elevator dinged. They stepped inside. The doors closed.
“You didn’t have to say those things,” she said.
“Yes, I did.”
She looked at him.
“I spent a long time pretending your brilliance was collaborative,” he continued calmly. “Like it belonged to both of us equally. I was wrong. It didn't.”
He waited for a moment before speaking again,
“I won’t do that again. To you. Or to anyone.”
Her throat moved subtly as she swallowed.
“I didn’t need you to fix it,” she said.
“I know.”
“I needed you to understand it.”
“I do now.”
The elevator descended slowly. When it reached the lobby, the doors slid open and they stepped out together.
She turned to face him fully now.
“This changes things,” she said,
“I don’t want to go back to what we were.”
“I don’t either.”
A small flicker of surprise crossed her face.
“I want to be better than that,” he clarified. “Even if it’s not with you.”
He continued, “And if there's a slightest possibility that it could be?” he asked, studying her carefully.
For the first time in weeks, there wasn’t armor in her expression.
“Then it would have to be new, not repaired.”
“Not repaired but built,” he finished for her.
“Yes.”
He nodded once.
“I can do that.”
“Then, maybe…” she replied.
The driver pulled up outside.
She reached for the handle of her suitcase.
“Six months,” she said.
“Six months,” he echoed.
She hesitated.
Then, she stepped forward and hugged him. He hugged her back, tight, as if trying to show all his emotions through that warm embrace.
When she pulled away, her eyes were steady.
“Grow,” she said quietly.
“I am,” he answered, a small smile grazing his lips.
She gave him one last look, and then she turned and walked toward the car.
𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼.𖤣𖥧𖡼
He watched as she left, thinking about the last time he watched her go. This time, he stood there with the understanding that this time, if she ever came back to him, it would be because he had become someone worthy of standing beside her. And if she didn’t? Then he would still make sure to be someone better than he was when she left.
Thank you so much for reading, lovelies! Feedback is very much appreciated. If you have any requests, feel free to send them in! And if you wanna be tagged, please lmk!
