when i was a kid i decided that killing people was bad therefore war was bad therefore the military was evil. and adults would tell me it's more nuanced than that and i would understand when i grew up. well i'm a grown up now and idk i still think that killing people is bad and war is bad and the military is evil
I love being in debt and not being able to work enough to pay it off
Chronic pain update: my dr has told me I can’t work on of my jobs (hospitality, winery) because lifting and being on my feet all day will make my flare ups worse
not sure this really applies for the blueberry muffin prompt but...update on roomate!james and reader? 🥺 (AND CONGRATS ON 7k 🥳🥳)
It does haha! I knew blueberry muffin would be my downfall (but it's okay I signed up for it and ily regardless). Please accept this garbage fire of a drabble <3
cw: modern au, alcohol mention
roommate!James x shy!reader ♡ 683 words
You’re squished between Sirius and James, the two people here least likely to allow you space to breathe. James has got you half in his lap, his arm around your waist and one of your thighs over his, while Sirius’ shoulder pushes into yours, his legs cast over the arm of his couch so he can kick gently at Remus when the urge strikes him.
“Her coworker hates me,” James says.
“He does not.” You roll your eyes. This is a topic you’ve been over before. “Art likes you just fine.”
“Does too!” He pinches your waist. “It’s because he’s in love with you.”
You fight the urge to hide your face in his side. “He is not.”
James laughs. “He is, sweetheart. You just can’t see it.”
“You would hardly know, would you?” Sirius agrees, but he agrees with James on everything. You’re fairly sure that if James said the moon was green, Sirius would swear the same until his dying breath. “You didn’t know our Jamesie liked you until he practically confessed.”
“I still doubt it sometimes,” you mutter, earning you another teasing pinch from your boyfriend.
“Hold on,” says Lily, “she’s the one who works with him.”
Remus nods. While Sirius always agrees with James, Remus always disagrees with the both of them. You suspect this is mostly because he enjoys getting them riled up. “Exactly. I think y/n has had plenty more time to figure out if he has feelings than you have, James.”
“He used to walk her home after every shift,” James argues.
“Because he’s nice,” you sigh.
“Nice to you, you mean.”
“It’s very normal to walk girls home from late shifts.”
Remus hums. “Have you considered, James, that maybe because you’ve never worked in the service industry, there are norms you don’t understand?” His tone is smug. Sirius kicks his foot at him lazily.
James’ eyebrows rise above the frames of his glasses. “Have you considered,” he waves his free hand in your direction, “look at her?”
Your face heats something atrocious. Sirius tsks. “He’s got you there, darling.”
“Hush,” you say to James, though you can’t manage to infuse your voice with any sternness. “You’re the only one that thinks that.”
“Nope,” he replies, popping the p. “Actually, it’s me and Art and every other seeing person on the planet. Sorry, sweetheart.”
You’re not sure if he’s apologizing sardonically or genuinely, for the pain his compliments are causing you. A big hand cups the side of your head, bringing you closer so he can kiss your hair.
It doesn’t pacify you. “You’re awful,” you say, slipping out from between him and Sirius so his friend nearly falls sideways onto James’ lap. “I’m going to get some water, does anyone want anything?”
Lily and Remus say no, Sirius asks for a cider, and James is noticeably silent. You can’t say you’re surprised when he comes into the kitchen behind you.
He gives you a sheepish look. You don’t believe it even a little. “Have I scared you off?”
You go to Sirius and Remus’ fridge, grabbing the cider for Sirius. “No.”
“But I embarrassed you.” James wraps his arms around your middle, smushing his lips to your hairline. “M’sorry, lovely.”
“Don’t,” you say, though you’re far from pulling out of his embrace. “It takes more than that to scare me off.”
“Yeah?” You can hear the teasing slip into his voice, and that scares you more than it should. “Good. Because you’re gonna have to get used to it, you know. I don’t plan on toning down how lovely you are just because you might get shy on me.”
You tilt your head back to see him. “You’re insufferable.”
“So you’re always telling me.” James’ grin is huge. He drops a kiss on the bridge of your nose. “You’re lovely, and I’m insufferable. How’s that fair?”
“Dunno.” You kiss his chin in return. Fill your cup with water and brush past him out the kitchen. “Suppose you’ll have to get use to it.”
It’s impossible not to smile when his laughter sounds behind you.
the first kiss was so cute!!! perfect!! james was so sweet and gentle w her😍😭😭
can’t wait to see there dynamic from now on
Thank you gorgeous! I held onto this so I'd have something to post this last part to, hope you don't mind <3
part 1 | part 2 | part 3 │ part 4 │part 5 │ part 6 │ part 7 │ part 8 │ part 9 │ part 10 │ part 11 │ part 12 │ part 13
roommate!James x fem!reader ♡ 1.5k words
James is buzzing while he makes breakfast the next morning. Golden morning light pours in through the front windows, brightening the kitchen and warming his back where he stands in front of the stove, the buttery smell of pancake batter wafting up from the pan. He’d gone to bed later than usual last night and slept hard but woke jittery, desperate to do something about the commotion in his chest.
A run hadn’t done it, nor had replaying the previous night in his head, and now he’s convinced he won’t be able to rest until he can kiss you again. It’s your fault, really. Your little sighs, your careful touches, the way you’d tugged at the roots of his hair when he asked you to, like all this time you’d only been waiting for permission. You’ve fucked him. James will never be able to get over it. Now, all he can think about is getting more.
He’s made more pancakes than a family of five could eat when he hears the stair creak.
“Good morning,” he says, turning around just as you pad into the kitchen, quiet as a ghost.
Your eyes are bleary, but they still manage to widen slightly as you take him in, along with the precarious tower of pancakes beside him. You’re in that sweatshirt he loves so much, sleeves hanging limply from your hands and hem hitting just above your knees.
“Morning,” you say, softer than soft.
“How’d you sleep, lovely?”
You shrug, not quite looking at him. “Fine. You?”
James grins. “Beautifully. You want some pancakes?”
Your gaze goes again to the stack beside him, and he can practically see the quip brewing in your eyes. Doesn’t seem like I have much of a choice. Are you planning to feed an army?
“Sure,” you say in that same quiet voice. “Thanks.”
James studies you, intrigued. “Great. C’mere, sweetheart.”
He plates up a few pancakes, keeping one eye on you as he does. You seem disinclined to look even in his general direction, finding distractions with the stove, your plate, the weather outside.
“How’s this?” He turns around with the plate. You take it cautiously, by the complete opposite end to avoid any possibility of making contact with his hand. James’ heart warms at the way your fingers just peek out from the sleeve of your sweatshirt to grasp the plate. He wants to kiss you until you don’t know what day it is. “Too many? Not enough?”
“This is good.”
“Yeah?” He doesn’t let go of the plate. He tilts his head, trying to catch your eye, but you evade him. He has a hunch that if he were to touch your face (and god, does he want to) he’d find it burning hot. “Are you alright?”
Your eyes flit up to his for a half a second before fleeing again. You hum, the sound tense and pitchy. “Mhm.”
“You sure?” he asks, matching your soft tone. “Don’t go getting shy on me now.”
You look like you stop breathing.
And ordinarily James might feel bad, but post-kiss James cannot be prevailed upon to treat you as cautiously as he ordinarily might. Unfortunately for you, your secret’s out. You’re lovely, you’d said, voice soft and breathy and mere inches from his own mouth, I like having you around. I do. I really like you. Also unfortunately for you, post-kiss James knows things.
He slips his palm alongside your face, working his hand behind your ear and letting his fingers burrow into the hair behind it. You melt, leaning into the touch. Your eyes meet his.
It’s grueling work to keep from smiling. “What’s wrong, angel?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” you say, still quietly but now with more of yourself in your voice.
“Really? Because you’re acting like we’ve just met.”
“Don’t you—don’t things feel different to you?” You seem almost distressed, eyebrows hooking upwards just slightly, pretty eyes imploring. Your voice softens again, now more with intimacy than reticence. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to talk with you about.”
James lets his smile loose, thumbing at the skin behind your ear before letting you go. “We can talk about anything you want,” he says simply, grabbing his own plate and leading you into the living room.
You’ve got a perfectly good kitchen table but almost never use it, each preferring to eat your meals on the couch. He flops down, careful not to tip his pancakes onto the cushion as he crosses his legs underneath him like you’re at a sleepover.
“So, have any fun dreams last night?”
You smile. It’s as heart-stoppingly lovely as always, and James thinks his own probably doubles in magnitude in response.
“A couple,” you admit.
“Oh? What about?”
Your smile goes sheepish, bottom lip slipping in between your teeth as if to impede its progress. You fork clinks against the plate as you start cutting up your pancake.
James’ brain short-circuits.
“You were in my dream,” he blurts.
Your eyes flit up to his warily. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. It was one of those weird, super vivid dreams where nothing really happens, you know?” You seem to relax a bit. James douses his pancakes in syrup, starting to cut them up as he talks. “We were here, and someone had spilled something on the rug—probably Sirius, to be honest—and it made this huge stain. I’d tried to pour baking soda on it, but the whole box had collapsed and it got everywhere. We were both sitting right there scrubbing with literal toothbrushes, and I think I was worried you’d be upset with me but you were just laughing.” His heart warms at the pseudo-memory, the hazy feeling of contentment that had permeated the dream. The sound of your laugh, exactly as sweet as in real life. “Your hands were totally covered in baking soda, and the rug was ruined, but we were both laughing our heads off.”
You’re smiling again, a small, knowing thing. “Had you said something to make us laugh?”
“No,” he says honestly, “I think it was you.”
James is aware that he’s barely functioning. It’s almost too much to talk and cut his pancakes at the same time while you’re looking at him like that, like he’s the loveliest thing you’ve ever seen. It makes it both a relief and a disappointment when you drop your gaze.
“Do you think the stain might’ve been a premonition?” you ask.
He raises his eyebrows. “How do you mean?”
You laugh, and he’s instantly spellbound, caught somewhere between fantasy and reality. It takes him a second to realize you’re touching the edge of his plate, tipping it up. James looks down. It had been nearly falling off his lap, his pancakes cut up into tiny pieces and syrup pooled near the rim.
You look up at him, seraphim with the morning light brightening your features and the hint of a smile playing on your lips. He thinks of how soft they’d felt on his the night before, the way they’d fallen open like welcoming him home.
“You were almost spilling syrup onto the rug,” you say, that rare and beloved teasing lilt to your voice. “It would’ve taken more than baking soda to get that out.”
“See?” he asks. “You know how to talk to me just fine.”
You look surprised, then self-conscious, though not nearly as bad as when you’d come into the kitchen a few minutes ago. He covers your hand with his to keep you from going anywhere. Sets his plate on the coffee table.
“Can I kiss you?”
Your eyes are wide. “Again?”
“Yes, again,” James laughs. “And again after that, preferably. Only if it’s okay with you.”
You shake your head, looking something akin to bewildered. “Yeah. Yeah, please.”
He starts to lean toward you, and you meet him halfway. Already, it’s a bit different. There’s no tentative stillness, no slow yielding. Your lips are pliant and eager, parting and closing around his like you’re trying to get as much of him as you can. Your fingers wind in his hair without instruction, and James responds by placing his hand in that spot you’d seemed to like it so well last night, the material of your sweatshirt soft beneath his touch. You taste like his pancakes, the syrup sweet on your tongue.
“Keep talking to me,” he murmurs, kissing the corner of your lips worshipfully, “okay?”
Your voice is breathless. “Why?”
“Because I like you.” He tugs at you, wanting you closer. “And I think I’ve put in the work for you to warm up to me, if it’s all the same to you.”
You make a tiny, amused sound. “Fine,” you say. You grow bolder, kissing your way up his cheek, the top of his eyebrow, until your nose is nestled in his hair and your lips are caressing his forehead. “Consider me warmed.”
James grins, unable to help himself. He thinks that becoming your friend didn’t go quite as he planned, but he feels as though he won in the end.
part 1 | part 2 | part 3 │ part 4 │part 5 │ part 6 │ part 7 │ part 8 │ part 9 │ part 10 │ part 11 │ part 12 │ part 13
roommate!James x shy!reader ♡ 1.3k words
Thunder crashes. A branch from the tree outside smacks into your bedroom window, making you jump. You smile a little at your reaction, and a frisson goes up your spine, giddy.
You’re kind of in a euphoric state tonight.
The storm came in early, darkening the sky hours before its time and bringing torrents of rain down upon your home. Immediately, your windows had been opened, your candles lit, and you were curled up on your bed with a book in your hands.
Downstairs, you can hear the familiar buzz of the TV playing one of James’ sports games. The whole apartment smells like the cookies you made earlier, which you have a small plate of next to you and which your roommate had moaned as he’d bitten into upon you offering some to him. Sweetheart, keep spoiling me like this and you’ll never get me to leave.
Suffice to say, you’ve been having a fairly good evening.
Your book is just starting to pick up when the TV quiets. Everything quiets. There’s a thud, followed by a hissed curse.
You laugh a little. Pick up your phone.
Alright down there? You text James.
More thudding sounds. You think about picking your book back up, but decide to wait.
If I were bleeding out on the living room floor, do you think I’d be able to text you back?
A moment later: If you wanted to do a thorough job of seeing I was alright, you should have come and seen for yourself.
Then: And I heard you laughing.
You smile to yourself, a quiet chuckle escaping you. Sorry, can’t, you reply. Too cozy.
You hear his heavy footfalls coming up the stairs, and you have only a few moments to brace yourself before he’s swinging open your door.
Lately, your body has been doing this thing where he looks at you and it’s like the ground softens beneath you. Luckily, you’re already on a bed, so it’s not really possible this time.
James shuts off the flashlight on his phone, looking around your room with the ghost of a smile on his lips.
“Woah. Are you having a seance in here?”
You roll your eyes, ignoring the way the candlelight plays prettily over his features. “You’re just jealous that I was prepared for the power to go out and you weren’t.”
“It looks like you were hoping for it.” James grins. He starts to cross the room, and you’re like a sunflower to your light as you tilt to face him.
He lays down next to you on your bed, on his stomach with his forearms propping him up. It’s a somewhat tight fit, but James doesn’t seem to mind the way his hip and shoulder are touching yours. His shampoo smell wraps around you like a hug.
You pick up your tea as an excuse not to look at him, blowing softly before taking a sip. James watches you consideringly.
“You really are thriving in here, aren’t you?” he teases softly. “Look at you, you’ve got your fuzzy socks on, your tea, your book. You’re in paradise.”
You smile sheepishly as you set your tea down on the floor. “Sorry you couldn’t finish your game.”
“Oh, it’s alright.” He nudges your shoulder with his. “I’d rather hang with you anyway.”
You feel your brows furrow, a confusing mass of emotions knotting in your chest. “Don’t say that,” you tell him softly.
You can feel James’ gaze warming the side of your face. His voice is just as quiet. “Why not?”
You look over, and his eyes don’t flit away like a sane person’s would. They’re steady and warm as the flames around you. Instantly the room feels too small, him a little too close.
James’ smile is almost tentative. “Look, I know you drew the short stick with this roommate agreement, but I plan to soak up as much roomie time as I can get. Sorry.”
“I did not,” you murmur.
“Didn’t what?”
“You drew the short stick.” Your face burns. You know James too well to think he’d be making fun of you, but it’s difficult to imagine an alternative. He can’t really think you don’t like having him as a roommate after all the ways he’s been a friend to you, the times he’s stepped in to help, when you’ve only been a burden and a drag. “Not me.”
His eyebrows twitch closer to each other, and his lips tilt bemusedly, as though they’re unsure of what else to do. The lenses of his glasses reflect the candlelight, brown eyes molten behind them.
“I’m inclined to disagree,” he says. The air between you feels thick and sweet. Your heart seems to know something you don’t, quickening its rhythm in your chest. Then, because it’s James, he flicks up a brow. “Truce?”
You laugh quietly, turning your face down towards your book. There are goosebumps going all down your arms. “Sure,” you say.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Glad that’s settled.”
You don’t respond this time. You’re not sure you can. The words on your page blur by, unnoticed and unimportant.
Lightning cracks outside. You gasp and turn to see it, and James’ lips meet you there.
You should have known he would be soft like this. You’ve kept yourself from thinking about it, but you could have guessed. The first gentle, warm press of his mouth is so lovely you get lost in it, but when it lasts for too long and he starts to draw back, you remember that you can move, too.
He takes in a tiny inhale when you part your lips for him, his hand finding your waist and his body curving over yours. Your arm falls out from under you, and James follows you down. He tastes sweet and familiar, like home.
You bring your hands up to his face, one resting tentatively on his cheek while the other toys with the idea of slipping its fingers into his hair. The sky rumbles outside. Your heart pitters.
“It’s okay,” James mumbles. His voice buzzes against your lips. “It’s okay, sweetheart, please.”
You grasp at the roots of his hair, palm settling more surely on his cheek, and James makes a sound low in his throat. He breaks the kiss to pull off his glasses. You take them from where he sets them on the bed, placing them more carefully on the floor where they’re not so likely to get crushed. His lips curve over yours. You think that if you were to detour to either side, you might find a dimple in his cheek.
“James,” you murmur.
“Oh, it’s James again now, is it?”
“What?”
“Nothing.” He kisses the corner of your mouth. “What is it?”
“Are you sure?”
It’s a nonsensical question, but in fairness you think all the blood that’s supposed to be in your brain has gone to your lips, and James seems to get what you mean anyway.
He chuckles quietly. “I am, yeah.” He makes a sound that’s almost like a sigh, hand climbing up your back until it’s trapped between your shoulders and your bed. “I don’t ever tell you how lovely you are, but I’ve…I’m sure. What about you?”
“I don’t know,” you admit. “I think so.”
“That’s okay.” James kisses your chin, the curve of your jaw.
“You’re lovely, too,” you tell him somewhat desperately. His lashes tickle your cheek. Your fingers are still burrowed in the hair at his nape. “I never tell you. I like when you’re here.”
You feel his smile bloom against your skin. “I like you too, sweetheart,” he says, voice light with teasing.
You frown, wishing he would take you seriously. “I do. I really like you.”
“I think I like you more.”
You scoff. He nips at your jaw, surprising a laugh out of you. “You can’t always win,” you say.
James makes a happy humming sound. “I guess we’ll have to see.”
summary: when James moves into your apartment, you need a bit of an adjustment period
part 1 │ part 2 │ part 3 │ part 4 │part 5 │ part 6 │ part 7 │ part 8 │ part 9 │ part 10 │ part 11 │ part 12 │ part 13
roommate!James x shy!reader ♡ 1k words
You go downstairs the way a meerkat pokes its head out of its burrow. Cautious, watchful. When you spot James standing over a sizzling pan in the kitchen, it’s a bit of effort not to sigh, but you go anyway, hunger temporarily taking priority over solitude. It’s just going to have to be another quick meal.
“Hey.” James looks up from a recipe he’s reading on his phone, grinning at you.
You press your lips together in a smile of response. The girl who’d occupied James’ room before him wouldn’t have bothered to acknowledge you, and frankly, you’d liked her for that. You’d had a mutually ambivalent relationship; you’d both paid your rent, ignored the other’s food in the fridge, and gone about your days as if you each had the apartment to yourself. She had to move out because the maintenance crew tattled on her for having a pet, and though James only moved in a week ago, he’s invited you to hang out with his friends every time they’ve come over. Which is often. (He’s at least considerate enough to always ask first, and you always say yes. Partially because they don’t make huge messes and partially because you don’t know how to reply to a yes/no question any other way.)
You go to the fridge, tearing the aluminum foil off a half-empty can of beans and shaking it into a bowl. You put it in the microwave. James reaches to turn down the stove, and, like a frightened animal, you flinch away from him. He doesn’t seem to notice, only retreating to the opposite counter to give you more room.
“How’s your day going?” he asks, leaning back on his forearms.
“Not bad,” you say. Another thing about James is that in addition to his relentless geniality, he’s ferociously attractive. It takes all of your willpower not to let your eyes dip from his face to where his short sleeves conform to his biceps when he leans that way, but your face heats regardless. “Yours?”
“Pretty good, actually.” He smiles easily. “It’s gorgeous out, have you felt the weather?”
You shake your head. “I haven’t been out yet.”
James nods like he knows this already, humming noncommittally. You think you spy a bit of judgment in his look, but you can’t be sure. “So,” he says, “I have something to ask you.”
You tense. “Okay…”
“I know you value your privacy, and I totally respect that, but I feel like as your roommate it’s my responsibility to at least ask.”
You feel your eyes narrowing as you nod for him to continue.
James schools his face into seriousness, a frown on his lips that looks like it doesn’t belong. “Do you not eat?”
You laugh, relieved and bemused. “Of course I eat.”
The smile he gives you is strained, clearly for your benefit rather than his. “You sure about that? Because this morning I just saw you have one—one—piece of toast for breakfast, and then for lunch you had…what?”
You shy, more because of his notice than anything else. The microwave beeps and you use it as an excuse to turn around. “Some cheese and crackers.”
When you pivot with the steaming bowl, James is looking at you incredulously.
“They’re really filling!”
“That’s a snack, love, not a meal. Both of those are snacks. Did you have anything else?”
You hold up the bowl in your hand. “I’m about to have some beans.”
His laugh is monosyllabic. Appalled. “You’re not serious.”
You roll your eyes at him even as your face heats. “Listen, it’s not my most nutritious day, but I’ve been in a rush, and…” You were going to say more, but decide against it. “Anyway, there’s protein in the beans, so.”
James isn’t having it. “And what?”
“Nothing.”
“Something.” He raises his eyebrows at you. “C’mon, spill, or I’m going to call your mum and tell her about your big day of—“ He draws quotes in the air, full lips curving he does “—beans and crackers.”
“And toast,” you joke. James’ smile is small and short-lived. Does he really have your mum’s phone number? He can’t possibly.
You sigh. “Okay, it’s nothing to do with you, but I…I’m a bit weird about being in the kitchen at the same time.” James’ thick eyebrows meet in the middle, and your shoulders hunch instinctively but you force yourself to finish explaining. “I just want to grab whatever is quickest and go before I make things awkward, or something. But I know it’s stupid.” You shake your head. You could burn the apartment to cinders with the heat from your face. “I don’t own the kitchen. You have every right to be here, and I’ll get used to it eventually. It’s just that you’re new to me right now.”
James' expression clears. “Oh, you’re shy.”
You must look even more embarrassed at that, because he hurries to say, “That’s alright, it’s good to know how you feel about things. And now I don’t have to call your mum.” He grins, and it widens when you make a tiny effort to reciprocate. “I don’t mind stepping out of the kitchen so you can cook every now and then.”
“You really don’t have to.”
“It’s no trouble.” He waves you off. “Honestly, it’s too small for both of us to comfortably use at the same time anyway. Careful by the way, that pan’s hot.”
You glance behind you, and you’ve backed yourself nearly into the stove. You move away, squeaking out a thanks.
James’ smile softens. “I do hope you're right about getting used to me eventually, though.” He gives you a kind look, and you have no idea how he can maintain eye contact with that much sincerity in his big brown eyes. You envy the skill. “I’d like to get to be friends, but we’ve got time for that.”
You’ve no clue how to respond, some deer-in-the-headlights instinct taking ahold of you, but James doesn’t seem to be expecting one. He reaches out to squeeze your shoulder, taking back his place at the stove. You take that as your cue to go.
Oooooh just had a thought for boulevard!! What if reader gets sick and is so dedicated to powering through because this is her job, this is her shot, that she is just so obviously miserable? And one of the boys (rem probably) is like "you need rest in a real bed and to not be working so you don't pass out" and then r is forced into staying in a hotel room and not the tour bus
-🌙
Hi angel! Deviated slightly from your request but I think the bones are still there and I hope you enjoy it, thank you for requesting <33
a/n: Please do not misconstrue my participation in the marauders fandom as support of JKR. If you’re new here and want to participate in the fandom, I encourage you to do so without participating in anything that would provide financial gain to her or her transphobic agendas
part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7 | part 8
rockstar!marauders x journalist!reader ♡ 1.4k words
Waking up a bit achey is becoming routine for you on the Mischief Tour, but adding nausea to that feels overly cruel.
Your mouth tastes stale. There’s a sticky gloop around your eyes, a sure sign that you neglected to take off your makeup before going to sleep. You turn your face into your pillow with a low whine of despair.
Then you process that you have a pillow.
Whatever mascara is left undoubtedly smears as you rub your eyes, prying them open a hair at a time. You’re in a room of all white and ivory, with a thin seam of light splitting through thick curtains and a bed you don’t reach the end of even when you stretch your arm all the way out. It’s not heaven, but it’s close. It’s a hotel room.
Delight comes with dread fast on its heels. How did you get here? You know you didn’t pay for this. Even if you’d been drunk out of your mind, you would never in a million years have been stupid enough to empty your bank account for one night in a room like this. But…you might have been stupid enough to follow someone else into theirs.
You lift the covers. You’re still wearing your top from the night before, but your trousers are missing. You spot them a moment later on the floor next to the bed.
You cover your eyes, swallowing as your nausea swells. This is why you should never be off the clock. One night without your tape recorder and notepad between you and your interviewees, and you’ve corroborated everything the industry has ever thought about female journalists.
All you wanted was a story that would keep you your job.
For years, you wrote articles and sent them off to magazines like tossing rocks into the ocean. Most sunk, never to be seen again, and it was only when you were losing hope, only when you were starting to think that maybe you just weren’t meant to do this, that you got the gig at Spellbound. The pay is awful, but the work is good—better than good, if this first assignment is any indication of what’s in store for you. If they keep you, that is. It may not matter how good your feature on the band is if Spellbound catches wind of this.
What was it all even for? You didn’t get one usable quote out of the whole evening. Even if you were to summarize what it is the Marauders are like on a night out, your memory of it all is too hazy to be trusted. You let yourself get sucked in. Into teasing and laughter, the feeling of someone’s warm hand on your back, a soft voice saying things that made you smile in a dark room. It wasn’t the glitz and glamor you might have expected, but it’s still not your world. You’re a journalist; you’re meant to look in, not step inside. And most importantly, wherever you go, you’re supposed to bring your readers with you. No one reading Spellbound is going to know what happened that night at that stranger’s house party with Britain's most sexed-up rockstars. You hardly know yourself. Which means you weren’t a journalist last night; you were only a fool.
You sit up fast, temples throbbing punishingly, when the door to the room opens. James comes in as you yank the covers up over your bare legs, his smile of greeting fading fast at your obvious panic.
“Oh—god, I’m sorry.” He whirls to face the wall. “I’m so used to just barging into these rooms, I didn’t even think. That was rude.”
You stare at the back of his head, reeling. “It’s fine,” you say slowly. “I mean, is it anything you haven’t…seen before?”
“Are you asking if I’m familiar with a woman’s body?” James sounds startled, and halfway amused. “Because, yeah, obviously, but I like to think each one’s like a snowflake.”
“No, I mean. James.” He glances over his shoulder, finding you haven’t moved. You plead with him to understand. “Is this your room?”
James’ puzzlement appears to worsen, his brow crinkling in the moment before his eyes shoot wide. “Oh!”
The pressure in your head cools to a more tolerable level. James gives a breathy, open-mouthed laugh.
“Oh,” he says again. “Oh, you—we—”
“Thank god,” you groan.
“Excuse me?”
“Can you toss me my trousers?”
James obliges, and turns to face the wall again, overcome by spurts of laughter. Thankfully, by the time someone else knocks on the door, you’ve managed to get all your clothes on.
James opens it once you say it’s okay, and Sirius and Remus come in accompanied by the welcome aroma of coffee.
Sirius looks from his drummer, half bent over and eyes watery from laughter, to you. “What’ve you done to him?”
“I don’t remember how I got here,” you admit. “I didn’t know what to think.”
“Oh. Jamie,” Remus chides, passing you a cup of coffee. His own lips twitch amusedly. “Don’t be mean.”
“No, I don’t—it’s not—” James sputters. His eyes shine as they meet yours. “It’s not that you’re not lovely, you just looked so horrified. Is the idea really so awful?”
You roll your eyes, declining to answer. If it weren’t for your job, yes, you might not have such an adverse reaction to the idea. As much as you’d like to think the world a less vain place, musicians don’t rise to the Marauders’ level of fame without people wanting to sleep with at least a little bit. As Sirius pointed out, sexual appeal is part of their brand. The interest of James—or any of them, really—is something anyone would be lucky to have. You’re no exception.
“It’s not you.” James finally manages to quell his laughter, sending you a halfway apologetic look. “I’m just not looking right now.”
You wave him off. “Right, I forgot about your secret girlfriend.”
A funny expression crosses James’ face—you feel a twinge of remorse, worrying the comment may have come across as more prying than you meant for it to—but then he smiles and draws his finger across his lips, zipping them shut.
“This room is yours,” Remus tells you.
You stare at him. “Mine?”
“Yes.” He starts to perch on the bed, sending you a look as though asking for permission, and at your obvious bewilderment sits the rest of the way.
You watch him sip his coffee while your headache grows worse again. “But Lily said the band couldn’t pay for me to travel with you.”
Remus shrugs. “The band isn’t paying.”
“He is,” James says, almost pridefully.
You feel your eyes grow and grow as the air in your lungs dries up. Remus holds up a placating hand.
“It’s alright,” he says.
“No, it’s not.” You shake your head, a bit manically. Your temples throb in protest. “What?”
“Don’t get yourself all worked up.” Sirius leans against the wall, drinking from his own coffee mug while he eyes you appraisingly. “You look like any more upset might make you sick on the bed.”
You look between him and Remus. “But, why? You can’t. I can’t accept it.”
“Looks like you already have,” Sirius hums. He smirks when you glare. “Get over it, babe. We can’t have you as our own live-in paparazzi and then have it come out how badly your time with the Marauders fucked up your back. It’d be bad press.”
“It’s really nothing,” Remus assures you, far kinder than his bandmate. “Do you feel like you could eat? We were thinking of going to a cafe down the road.”
“Might be a good idea to have something not from the hotel buffet,” James agrees.
You blink at him. Sirius snickers, drawing your stare.
“You’re very talkative when you’re drunk,” he clues you in.
“God.” You tip your head down onto your knees. What’s smudging your mascara a bit more, at this point? “I’m so sorry.”
Remus’ hand lays itself over your head with a strangely reassuring weight. “Don’t be sorry. Let’s go eat.”
“Yeah,” Sirius says helpfully, “just get yourself cleaned up so we can go, yeah? Some real food might make you look a bit less ill.”
“How are you not hungover?” you mutter.
Sirius chuckles, and you don’t have to look up to know he’s winking as he says, “Rockstars are immune, gorgeous. You’ll want to write that down.”
Ok I know we’re in a very angsty sad time of princess au (and this can be angsty sad time too) but I think it’d be really cute for princess reader to have some traditions from home. Like James of course knows of some niche thing they do but he does it a little off and she’s shy but eventually corrects it and it’s cute and sappy or maybe sad bc like traditions but she can’t go home. That vibe if you get it! Not a super request but just like an idea for the au!!
a/n: Please do not misconstrue my participation in the marauders fandom as support of JKR. If you’re new here and want to participate in the fandom, I encourage you to do so without participating in anything that would provide financial gain to her or her transphobic agendas
poly!marauders x princess!reader ♡ 2k words
Bright light filters through your lashes. They’re heavy, the thick blanket of sleep not relinquishing you just yet. It’s not usual for you to sleep in late enough that the sun gets so high. Worry creeps in at the edges of your consciousness.
“There she is.” A hand pets your hair, and the worry dispels without a fuss. You know you’re safe. “Madam Pomphrey? She’s waking up.”
“How can you tell?” another voice asks.
“Her eyes are twitching.”
“Is that good? What if she’s dream—oh.” You finally manage to lift your heavy lids, your bleary vision focussing on Sirius. He drops to a crouch by your bed as his voice drops to a murmur. “Hi.”
“Hi,” you say back to him. Or try to say. Your voice comes out hoarse, barely there.
The hand on your head strokes your hair consolingly. You trace it back to Remus, who tells you, “Your throat might hurt. It’s normal, don’t worry.”
You try to clear your throat. It feels ravaged, torn and raw. “What happened?”
“Madam Pomfrey can tell you more about it,” he assures you.
“Who?”
Remus points behind you with his chin. You turn to find a plump older woman approaching your bedside. She’s wearing scrubs and has a pleasant, sympathetic face.
“Hello, Your Highness,” she says, sitting down beside you on the bed. “I’m sorry we’ve had to meet under these circumstances. Though, in my line of work, I hardly ever meet people another way.”
She flashes a kind smile. You return it on instinct. “It’s nice to meet you,” you say.
The woman—Madam Pomfrey—pats your hand. “Your throat is sore because we had to put a long tube with a camera down your throat, to see what was causing your stomach pain. Are you in pain now?”
You hesitate. “Not really.”
“Not as much as earlier?”
“No.”
“It would have been nice to know you were in any pain, earlier,” Sirius pipes up.
You glance at him, expecting an unimpressed glare, maybe one of his signature arched brows, but Sirius only looks concerned. Remus sends him a scolding look.
“You fainted,” Madam Pomfrey tells you gently, “and Sirius brought you to me. Do you remember waking up?”
You blink at her. “No…”
“That’s alright,” she assures you. “We had to sedate you to look in your stomach, which can sometimes cause short term memory loss. It’s perfectly normal not to remember.”
“Okay.” Your voice smalls. You repress the urge to draw your legs in on yourself like a child. How could so much happen while you were unaware? How could you wake up, and not know it?
“It really wasn’t as invasive as it sounds,” Remus promises, his tone soothing. “It’s just a small tube. You were only sedated so that you would be comfortable.”
You nod, still wary. Sirius is watching you closely, with a troubled expression. “What?” you ask him.
He hesitates. “You really don’t remember being awake?”
You shake your head. “What did I do?” God, if after everything you’ve done to keep your feelings to yourself, you told Sirius something mortifying you can’t even remember…
He must sense the direction of your thoughts. Sirius’ gaze softens. “Nothing, sweetheart. Nothing awful, you just…you were sick, and it was scary. I’m surprised you don’t remember.”
Sirius being so gentle with you alarms you more than anything so far. You stare at him, wide-eyed, and he only presses his lips into a sorry smile. You’re at a loss.
“I was sick?”
“After stomach pain, vomiting can be another indicator of stomach ulcers,” Madam Pomfrey hurries to tell you. “It looks frightening, but it’s nothing that isn’t fixable. And you shouldn’t need to worry about that happening again.”
“Ulcers?” you echo her.
Madam Pomfrey smiles compassionately. “Let me start from the beginning. You’ve been under a fair bit of stress lately, haven’t you?”
Your lips part, but you don’t know what to say. You look at Remus, then Sirius. “I…”
Sirius gives a quiet, forced laugh. “I’d think twice before trying to say you’re fine again,” he advises. “We’re not likely to believe you.”
Embarrassment pricks at your skin as you force your gaze back to Madam Pomfrey. “I suppose so. A little.”
The older woman nods. “Sometimes, severe psychological stress can have adverse effects on the body. In your case, an increase in stomach acid contributed to the development of a stress ulcer, which is what’s been making your stomach hurt and what made you faint.” Madam Pomfrey’s eyes flicker to Sirius, something you can’t read passing between them. “You’re lucky that you were with someone when that happened. It could have been dangerous if the ulcer continued to progress without treatment.”
You look at Sirius. “Thanks,” you say, sheepish.
He laughs again, a real one. “Yeah, babe, anytime.”
“Well, hopefully there isn’t another occurrence,” Remus chimes in, his hand coming back to your head fretfully.
“No,” Madam Pomfrey agrees. “I’m leaving you with some medicine. Take it every day before breakfast until it runs out, and you should be good as new.”
“Thank you,” you tell her sincerely, relieved you don’t have to do anything more serious.
“Oh, hey!” Another voice comes from the doorway, and you look over to see James bringing in a tray. “You’re awake!” He quickens his pace, causing Remus to tsk when he nearly spills whatever he’s carrying. “Why didn’t anyone come and get me?”
“She’s only just woken up,” says Remus.
“Angel, I feel so bad that—” James seems to realize he’s spilling, and he hisses through his teeth, rebalancing the tray. “—we’ve stressed you out so badly your organs shut down—”
“Not what happened,” Remus cuts in.
“Please don’t be sorry,” you tell him. “It hasn’t been that bad, I just—”
“I think I’ll leave you all to talk.” Madam Pomfrey stands. She reaches across you, pinching Remus’ cheek, and you watch in joyous astonishment as he flushes and smiles bashfully. “Look after each other. And you,” she says to you, “your medicine is on the nightstand, and stay away from acids for the time being.”
“Yes ma’am.” James salutes her. “After this last meal, of course.”
Madam Pomfrey huffs a laugh and goes. Sirius elbows James in the side. “You’re a disgrace.”
“Don’t make me spill,” James complains.
“You’ve already done a fair bit of that.” Remus’ chiding isn’t as effective when his cheeks are still tinged pink. The fondness curling up the edges of his tone doesn’t help either. “Why don’t you give it to her before you slosh the whole thing into her lap?”
James makes an indignant sound, but he’s very, very careful as he sets the tray down in front of you. “Right,” he says, “well. You don’t have to eat anything if you’re not hungry, but Poppy—er, Madam Pomphrey—said that maybe this one time acid was okay, so…”
You look down at the meal in front of you. A fair amount of it has sloshed over the sides of the bowl, it’s true, but you’re surprised you didn’t recognize it instantly by smell. It’s a traditional Pelerian soup, tomato-enriched broth with garlic and herbs, complete with tiny stelline pasta stars. You look up at James.
“Where did you learn about this?”
“I had it, once,” he says, “when we were visiting Peleria. I asked Marlene if she thought she could recreate it.”
Your eyes smart. “Thank you,” you whisper.
“Hey,” Sirius chides, still so very gentle with you. You bow your head so they can’t see your chin and its humiliating wobble.
“Oh, lovely.” James sits across from you on your bed, his hand finding one of your ankles through the covers. He rubs it bracingly. “Don’t cry. I wouldn’t have brought it if I thought you’d cry.”
You shake your head and breathe until you’re sure your voice will hold together. “No, it’s nice. I love it.”
“Do you grow basil in Peleria?” Remus wonders, eyeing the basil garnishing your soup.
You laugh weakly. It helps, bolstering you enough to pick up your head and wipe your face. “No. But it’s a nice touch,” you add for James.
He frowns. “I knew something was off. That was all Marlene, so you know.”
You laugh again, and a long-held tightness in your chest rattles looser. You’d almost begun to forget it was there. You pick up the spoon, taking a bite.
“It’s really good,” you tell James sincerely. “You all should have some.”
“No, it’s for you,” James insists.
“I can’t just eat in front of you.”
“Marlene made plenty. We’ll have some later, and if it makes you feel better, we can eat it in front of you then to make it even.”
You smile between bites. “That would help.”
“I really am sorry,” says Sirius. His gray eyes gone solemn. “I know I’ve said it already, but I want you to understand how much I mean it.”
There’s a sentiment you can relate to. “It’s okay,” you tell him.
Sirius shakes his head, growing frustrated. For the first time, you wonder if it’s not directed at you. “It’s not. I wasn’t trying to hurt you, but it’s—that’s just it. I wasn’t thinking about whether I did hurt you, and I’m sorry.”
“I think we’ve all had some role in that,” Remus murmurs.
A violent desperation to fix rises up in you. “That’s not true. You’ve all been really nice to me, and I’ve only made things confusing for you.”
James’ smile is heartbreakingly hollow. “I think things were always going to be confusing, lovely. That’s not your fault.”
“It’s not your fault, either.”
“Things haven’t been easy for you here,” says Remus, patient and even. Reasonable. “You’ve been so stressed that your body took it out on you in a drastic way, and whatever you might say to make us feel better” —He gives you a knowing look when you open your mouth to protest— “we certainly didn’t help.”
You rub your lips together, unable to deny it. After a moment, you look up at Sirius.
“I’m sorry for shouting at you,” you say.
His lips quirk. “You call that shouting?”
You give him your best attempt at an apologetic smile. It must be a fair enough attempt, because Sirius reaches onto the bed for your hand. He squeezes your fingers, his look tender.
“I earned it,” he tells you.
“And I’m sorry I kissed you,” you say to James.
His eyebrows fly up. “Kissed me? I kissed you.”
“Right, but I kissed you…worse.”
James laughs, the sound tinged with bemusement. “I’m sorry?”
You shrink in on yourself a bit. James leans forward as if to counter it.
“Lovely, honestly,” he says, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. The kiss…I mean, you kissed me back, I thought, but everything else was me.”
Your eyes dart to Remus. You feel like it might be a bad idea to talk about this in front of James’ partners, but it has to be said. “I didn’t think so.”
“Does it matter?” Sirius asks.
Your head snaps to him. So do James’ and Remus’. You think that of all the things he could have said, that was the least expected.
Sirius is frowning, but not at you. Once again, he looks like his upset is directed inward. “Whoever kissed who, you both obviously meant it. We all have some unresolved shit to figure out.”
Remus hums. “Whoever kissed whom.”
“Right, whom.” Sirius’ eyes roll. “You’re a twat.”
Remus’ lips curve, but he doesn’t defend himself against the elbow Sirius sticks in his side. His harmless jab has loosened the other boy up the way he meant for it to. “We all do?” he asks, softly.
“Maybe.”
James’ face lights up. “You mean it?”
“You really need triple confirmation? I said I’m still figuring it out, James.”
“Um, sorry,” you say, hesitant to break into what appears to be a special moment between the three boys, “what are we figuring out?”
James’ eyes are practically sparkling behind his glasses. “Right, after the kiss, we were all talking, and—oh.” His smile drops abruptly.
Sirius frowns. “What now?”
“No, it’s just—I’m worried about your ulcer,” James confesses to you. “Things are about to get even more confusing.”
summary: when Sirius and Remus travel back in time for an Order mission, they come face to face with you: their girlfriend who died during the first Wizarding War
ִ ࣪𖤐.ᐟ content warning: angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, grief, smoking, death, gore, blood, graphic descriptions, age gap due to time-turning magic, swearing, dark themes, older sirius black, young sirius black, older remus lupin, young remus lupin, morally grey wolfstar and there is nothing they wouldn't do for you
word count: 9.3k
author's note: unfortunately not proofread. sorry!
ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ navigation or read part two here or part three here
Remus sat with his back to Sirius, running his hand across the windowsill, his gaze flickering over the snowy scene of a December Hogsmeade afternoon. It was only four o’clock, but the sky was already dark, and the street was nearly deserted. A few people headed into the Hog’s Head across the street, their laughs carrying all the way up and becoming muffled in Remus’ ears. He heard Sirius’ heavy sigh for the hundredth time that night.
“Stop,” Remus said sternly, though his voice wavered, his eyes clenching. “You know that you’re lucky they even let you come with me. If we do it, you’ll never see the sky again, Sirius. They’ll keep you locked at Grimmauld Place.”
“They can’t do that to me.”
“They very well can, Sirius! And you know they can! It’s either that or back to Azkaban. Please, feel free to choose,” Remus’ voice dripped with sarcasm, so stabbing it was painful.
“Maybe it’s worth it,” Sirius said, and his voice broke. With it, Remus’ heart. He turned to face the darker-haired man, taking in the way his mouth curled, and his silver eyes shone. Remus had to look away. “Maybe I’d die for one last moment with her, Remus. Just one more time where the three of us are— where we are whole: where she’s with us! Don’t you want that? You can’t say you don’t think about it—about her—all of the time, too!”
“Of course I do!” Remus suddenly exploded, standing from the chair and holding his palms to his temples. “Don’t even—don’t you dare for a minute insinuate that I don’t miss her with every fibre of my fucking being! You have no idea what it was like when you were in Azkaban—when I thought I’d lost both of you! How much I wished you both were here!”
Sirius scowled. “Imagine how I felt from my cell!”
Remus’ hands trembled as he shook his head, turning from Sirius. “Save the story, Sirius. I’ve heard it a hundred times before.”
“You’re such a dick.”
“You want me to break the law, Sirius! You’d like for us to go against the Order’s wishes to see—to go and see her, and fuck, Sirius, Merlin knows how much I’d kill to see her again, but we can’t! Horrible, terrible things happen to wizards who meddle with time! We were given strict orders—to retrieve James’ cloak. We can’t let anyone see us, Sirius!”
Sirius felt like he could rip his hair from his head. Instead, he bit his knuckles. “But horrible things happened to us anyway, Remus! How the fuck could it get any worse than it’s ended up? There’s another war raging on. I went to Azkaban, you spent thirteen years alone, and Y/N is fucking dead! She’s gone, and you can’t even say her fucking name!” He watched Remus’ face go completely white. “Go on, say it, Remus! Because I haven’t heard you say her name since she was—since she was here with us!”
Remus’ fists curled. “Fuck off, will you?”
“I said your names every single day when I was in Azkaban! I refused to forget any of it. Any of what we had! Just say it, Remus!” Sirius’ voice rose to yelling, and he stood from the bed. “Go on. It’s Y/N—in case you fucking forgot. Say Y/N’s na—”
Remus caught Sirius’ wrists when Sirius went to shove him, his large hands gripping him hard. “You’ll be back in Azkaban if we were caught! And I’d be in the cell next to yours! Is that what you want?”
“I don’t care—”
“Of course you don’t, but one of us needs to think rationally. You said you’d be fine doing this when Moody asked! You said—”
Sirius jerked away from Remus, his face stony and his glare cold. “Fuck off, Remus.”
Remus rolled his eyes and quickly shuffled for the pack of cigarettes in his coat pocket. He watched Sirius stalk back over to the bed and chuck himself in it, yanking the duvet up to his shoulders. He felt the strain in his chest and his throat, his eyes growing incredibly hot as he propped open the inn’s window. He lit his cigarette and hung his head out into the cold air, and only then did he let the tears drip down his face.
He glared at the snowy pavement, seething with rage—furious that Sirius had put him in such an awful position, angry at you for no longer being here, and absolutely sickened at the fact that he had the time turner around his neck. He couldn’t use it for the one thing in the world that he wanted.
He glanced over at the vibrant pink and green sweet shop. Honeydukes was always the first place you went to, every Hogsmeade trip, and you always used to get the same thing—toffees and a chocolate frog. Across from Honeydukes was the bench where the three of you had drunkenly admitted your feelings for one another back in your sixth year. He stubbed his cigarette out on the windowsill hard and then lit a second one.
When he finished and shut the window, he turned, and the room was cold and smelled of nicotine. He pulled off his clothes and got into the bed next to Sirius, careful not to touch him—apprehensive that the feeling of their skin touching would only fuel their furies.
Sirius’ voice was thick with clogged tears when he spoke a few minutes later, filling the heavy silence. “We don’t work without her, Remus. You know that.”
He bit the inside of his cheek and didn’t say anything for a long while. He thought Sirius might have fallen asleep, and perhaps that was how he gained the courage to speak.
“I miss Y/N all of the time,” he whispered, barely audible. “I miss her first thing in the morning, and the last thing at night. I think about what the three of us had back then. It was the last time I was actually happy. And we all took it for granted.”
“We were idiots,” Sirius whispered back croakily. “Young, and we all thought that made us fucking invincible or something.”
“It should have woken us up when Marlene died.”
“They—” Sirius’ voice cracked. “Peter was always going to have to kill Y/N if he wanted to frame me and make you go away. There was nothing we could have done.”
Remus’ fists clenched. He scrunched his eyes shut. “She loved Peter.”
Sirius choked. “What he did to her—” He felt physical pain shudder through his system. “The state he left her in—He was fucking brutal, Remus.”
“I know,” Remus whispered, his eyes growing fuzzy, his brain numb.
“She didn’t deserve that. She was still—she was alive when I—”
“I know,” Remus said, harder. “I already know.”
Sirius lifted his shaky hands as if he could still see the blood on them, even in the dark. Remus reached over to encase one of them, and he tugged his hand against his chest. Sirius shook as he cried, wriggling closer to Remus, sobbing into his chest. Remus felt himself begin to crumble, too.
“She was only twenty-one.”
And that was enough for Remus to really sob. They were in their late thirties now. Remus was aware they were never supposed to get this old without you. You had always spoken of your future together, every word as optimistic as the last. You were supposed to be here. He would let you take his place any day. He’d let you and Sirius have this at the drop of a hat—you deserved to see the world beyond the first war.
“Just one more time,” Remus whispered, and he grasped Sirius’ hand tighter in both of his, moving them upward from his chest to the time turner sitting around his neck, engulfing the cool metal.
Sirius’ eyes were wide and wet with shock. “Remus?”
Remus spun the time turner back and back and back—all the way to 1978, before they had become soldiers for the Order.
── .✦
Remus inhaled the familiar smell of the Hogwarts corridors. He’d been here only a few years ago at his temporary position of Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, but somehow, this felt different. Perhaps it was because Sirius was by his side, or maybe it had something to do with the fact that they had gone back to the 1970s. He swallowed as he glanced around at the empty halls, his expression nearly matching Sirius’.
“Merlin,” Sirius muttered. “This is fucking insane.”
Remus nodded in agreement. “This was a bad idea.”
Sirius swatted him hard. “Are you fucking kidding me, Remus? She’s here! She’s in this building right now!”
“And we’re nearly forty years—”
“-I’m thirty-six, actually—”
“We will not blend in with everybody else here! We’re going to be noticed immediately,” Remus worried. “And Dumbledore will quickly realise we’re from the future, and we’ll be hurled off to—”
Sirius grabbed Remus’ wrist and yanked him closer to an alcove despite the lack of anybody around them. “Okay, so we’ll sneak into Slughorn’s classroom. He’s bound to have some sort of de-ageing potion.”
Remus scratched the back of his neck anxiously. “This is so wrong, Sirius.”
“I’m not leaving here without seeing her, Remus,” he told him firmly, and Sirius took off in the direction of the dungeons, as if it hadn’t been twenty years since they were last students here.
It was rather easy for Remus and Sirius to find the correct potion in Slughorn’s storage cupboard. Sirius and James used to have their fair share of fun experimenting and swapping things over to cause chaos for early-morning potion lessons. Remus watched Sirius throw his head back and down the potion as if it were a shot at the bar, his face scrunching at the taste.
Sirius wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, ridding the purple residue, and he blinked at Remus strangely. “Well? Do I look any different?”
Remus shook his head. “No, you—”
Sirius suddenly jerked forward with a violent cough, one of his hands grabbing onto Remus. Remus’ hands gripped him, trying to keep him upright, his dark eyes wide.
“Pads!” Remus panicked. “Shit, are you—”
He watched the silvers that had been starting to appear on the back of Sirius’ head turn black again. His shoulders seemed to broaden ever so slightly, his body rejuvenating after the thirteen years spent malnourished in prison. Remus gawked, helping Sirius back up when he’d stopped trembling.
“Sirius?” He whispered. “Are you alright?”
Sirius groaned and touched his forehead. “Yeah, I think so.”
His voice. Remus felt his heart skip a beat. He grasped Sirius’ head, forcing him to look at him, and Remus felt everything inside him freeze over and then promptly ignite. Gone were the first signs of wrinkles around his eyes and the bits of silver that had started to make an appearance on his head. Sirius’ stubble was gone, replaced with smooth, clear skin—his eyes youthful, his face a little fuller.
“Did it work?”
Remus couldn’t help but laugh. “It fucking worked, Pads. It actually worked.”
“It’s your turn, Remus. It’s your turn. Hurry!”
Sirius spent the next ten minutes looking at himself in the reflection in one of Slughorn’s cauldrons, while the effects of Remus’ took place. The coat he was wearing suddenly felt looser, his back and hip far less stiff. Remus moved Sirius out of the way to look, touching his scarred face in awe at the youthful man looking back at him.
“How long does this last?” He whispered in awe.
Sirius reached over to touch Remus’ face. “A few hours. Merlin, Rem. You look so young, it’s terrifying. We were so young when all of this was happening.”
Remus swallowed and touched Sirius’ hands. They were smooth. “I’m scared,” he suddenly admitted out loud—he didn’t even realise he was going to blurt it, and hadn’t a clue that he was really feeling so anxious. “Part of me isn’t sure I can handle seeing her, Sirius.”
Sirius exhaled and splayed his fingers broader on Remus’ face, as if to cup as much of him as he could in his palm. “You can do it, Remus.”
“What if she asks questions, Sirius?” Remus whispered painfully. “I can’t spend these moments lying to her. I can’t—I don’t know if I can do this knowing it’s the last time I’ll see her. I accepted years ago that I never got to say goodbye. I can’t say goodbye to her tonight, Sirius. I ca—”
He was cut off by a pair of lips pressing against his own. Remus hesitated for a moment before he kissed back, and he was startled by the familiarity of kissing a much younger Sirius. It almost felt wrong, and yet it felt like no time had passed, as if he was back home. He pressed his hands to Sirius’ arms as if to physically force himself off of him.
“Shall we find her?” Sirius pleaded breathlessly.
Remus nodded, his chest tightening.
── .✦
“It’s only eleven at night, so chances are, everybody’s in the common room,” Sirius said as they headed up one of the staircases.
Remus pulled a face. “Yes, including us, Sirius. How are we going to get past that one, hm?”
Sirius chewed on his bottom lip. “Errr—”
“Mr Lupin!” Madame Pomfrey exclaimed, and both men jumped as they turned to face the older woman. “Did I or did I not tell you to stay put exactly where you were? You shouldn’t be moving with your leg the way it is!”
Remus exchanged a panicked glance with Sirius. “Er, I’m sorry, Madame Pomfrey. It’s only, I’ve been feeling better, you see, and Sirius was just walking me back up the dorms. I’d like to sleep in my own bed tonight.”
“Mr Black, you should also be in bed!” Madame Pomfrey scowled. “You’re in no position to be helping Mr Lupin yourself! Where on earth is your splint?”
It dawned on Remus very quickly which full moon had just occurred. He remembered it all too well, with a sick feeling in his stomach still to this day. He had badly hurt Sirius in his Animagus form, and Sirius had ended up with a snapped arm and a broken nose. It was the Christmas break, and you had stayed to not only keep Remus company over the full moon but also because you would rather be with them than back home.
If Remus was remembering correctly, you were one of the only students to stay that year. The war was raging on, and people didn’t feel as safe at Hogwarts anymore. James’ father was starting to get sick, and he wanted to take Lily back to them for their first Christmas as a couple.
“Miss Y/L/N will come and see you boys first thing in the morning, she told you herself,” Madame Pomfrey scolded. Remus flinched, and Sirius nearly swayed in his spot. “So get back down to the infirmary right now. I’m heading back in ten minutes—I expect to see you back in your beds, and you with that splint on, Mr Black!” She turned away from them, marching down the corridor. “For Merlin’s sake, these children…”
“Fuck,” Sirius said, holding his hand against his pounding heart as soon as they were out of sight of the school nurse. “That was so fucking close. How lucky was that?”
“Lucky,” Remus said, though he was hardly as amused as Sirius. “Come on, before I make us turn around.”
They hurried up the stairs even quicker than they had been going before. Remus took three steps at a time easily, though his legs felt like lead, as if they wanted to plant to the ground and stay there. When they reached the portrait of the fat lady, Sirius groaned.
“It’s you,” he said distastefully.
“Not the password!” She sang to him.
“We don’t have time for this. If you’d be so kind as to let us in,” Sirius said with a forced smile, his teeth practically gritted. “You know who we are.”
“You could be anybody!” The Fat Lady argued.
“Do I look like anybody to you?” Sirius huffed. “I am Sirius Black, you know exactly who—”
The portrait swung open, causing the Fat Lady to scream unexpectedly. Her shrieks dimmed in both their ears, and their mouths dropped open. Remus swallowed thickly, his heart nearly coming out of his throat. Sirius was as silent as Remus had ever seen him.
You stood there, wearing one of Remus’ old knitted jumpers—one he still had at his home to this day, and the plaid bed shorts you swore matched it. You looked just as beautiful as they both remembered you, though your face was yanked down with the heavy weight of concern. Remus felt like he had been sliced open.
“I thought I heard you two bickering out here,” you said uncertainly, your furrowed brows scanning them both over. “Oh, Merlin, I am so glad you’re both okay.”
You hopped from the small stair and landed with your arms thrown around both their shoulders. Your touch was all to familiar, like hearing a song you had completely forgotten about, and fuck, you smelled of the oils you ran through the ends of your hair each evening, and the moisturiser you always used to “bribe” him or Sirius to slather on your skin (they were more than happy to do it for you, they just liked when you asked).
Remus thought he might be sick as he wrapped his arms around you, too. Sirius was as stiff as a board, his eyes startled as if somebody had just murdered his entire family in front of him.
“Sirius,” you murmured as you pulled away, and your hand touched his face. He flinched back to life. “Are you okay, darling?”
Sirius choked a laugh and then began to laugh harder.
Remus anxiously grasped the back of Sirius’ neck, squeezing it gently. “I-I think maybe he’s still in shock. From last night.”
You nodded and traced your hand down so that it met with his. You squeezed his fingers. “Come on then. I didn’t know Madame Pomfrey was going to let you both out tonight; otherwise, I might have asked the House Elves to prepare us all a nice dinner. I already ate something, but I could maybe—”
“We’re fine, thank you, Y/N,” Remus murmured and followed you into the common room. It was easier to talk to you when he was covering for Sirius. If he’d had to speak purely for himself, he was sure he might be in the same boat.
Remus had visited your grave for more years than he had known you alive, and yet there you stood, walking around, smiling and doting over them as if nothing was wrong. He couldn’t believe his eyes. He was sure he’d wake up, and it would be a dream.
“Y/N,” Sirius suddenly rasped from where he sat on the sofa. You quickly turned to him. “Y/N.”
He touched your face and then stroked your hair behind your ear. His eyes were darting all over you, as if he was looking for any sign of injury. He looked down at his hands after he had touched you, and he found no blood this time. Last time, his skin had been stained with it. He’d woken up in his cell covered in the crimson that used to keep you alive, and they did not let him scrub it off of himself for weeks.
“Sirius,” you repeated, and cocked your hide to the side with a small smile. “Do you want a cup of tea or something?” You reached up and touched his forehead. “You are quite warm,” you told him.
“He’s fine,” Remus said pointedly. “How are you?”
You thought for a moment and then sighed, your face contorting into a pinched smile. “I’m okay. Better now that you two are here. It was awful without you last night—it’s really scary in the tower alone.”
Remus felt the guilt start to eat him. You’d been alone when it had happened. You had most likely been the most terrified you had ever been in your entire life.
“I missed you both,” you said, and ran a hand through Sirius’ hair.
He closed his eyes and leaned into your touch.
“I missed you, too,” Sirius whispered, and his hand reached up to cup yours over his face.
You furrowed your brows at him. “Why are you being so solemn, hm? You’re concerning me a little bit, love. And you’re being awfully standoffish over there, too, Rem.”
Sirius shook his head quickly. “No, no. I think—I think the full moon just reminded us that it’s scary when we’re all apart. And that—and that anything could happen. We’re just glad nothing happened to you.”
“Because I wasn’t stupid enough to chase after Rem when he clearly wanted to be alone,” you chuckled at Sirius and leaned forward to kiss him. “Always have to insert yourself into places you don’t belong, don’t you?”
Sirius frowned. Remus nearly chuckled at the irony. She was right, and Sirius never grew out of it.
“It’s not a bad thing, sweetheart,” you told him affectionately. “Just don’t like seeing you get hurt because of it. It’s bad enough when Remus has torn himself apart every month. Don’t need both of you in there.”
Both of them were in awe at your kindness. They had forgotten that people like you existed. Someone who was so understanding of them—someone who saw all of their flaws and loved them for them. You were so young, and yet so emotionally intelligent. Neither had met anybody like you before.
“It won’t happen again,” Sirius whispered.
“I’ll believe that when I see it!” You called with a laugh as you headed over to the staircase. “Come on then, we should head to bed. It’s Christmas Eve tomorrow! It’d be nice to take a walk through Hogsmeade if you’re both feeling up to it. We’ll need to check your hip first, Rem.”
Remus felt his heart lurch. He grasped Sirius when he stood to follow you eagerly.
“We might stay down here for a little bit, baby,” Remus said as softly as he could, his brown eyes nearly melting in the warm lights of the Gryffindor common room. “We’re not tired yet, but we’ll follow you up.”
Sirius pulled away as you frowned. “But—but I don’t want to sleep without you again,” you said. “Please, Rem. I don’t mind you’re awake. You can read or—or do whatever you’d like, but I just want to sleep with you next to me.”
“Of course we’ll come up with you, sweetheart,” Sirius said, and turned back to give Remus a wicked grin. “Come on, Remus. Don’t be so ridiculous.”
Remus could have smacked Sirius. The look on your face was enough to make his heart burst in his chest. His logic was battling with his feelings, and he knew the right thing to do for all of you was to leave now, but he couldn’t force himself. He found his long legs carrying him up the familiar staircase that led to their old dormitory. You pushed open the door like it was yours, and quickly rushed to jump into Sirius’ bed, which had been transfigured into a king-size at some point.
You wriggled under the covers. Remus glanced at Sirius and saw him staring at the bed at the end of the room. James’ bed. His Quidditch kit was chucked over his chair, a pair of red Converse by the end of the bed as if he had been there only the other day—because he had been. He bit down on his bottom lip and gently pulled Sirius over to you, who hadn’t noticed the strange behaviour from the boys.
Sirius felt his face melt, and he was quick to head over, kneeling onto the bed and climbing into your side.
“You need to put your pyjamas on!” You told him. “Both of you, hurry.”
He laughed as your hands half-heartedly pushed him away. He opened the drawer at his bedside and then the one beneath. He couldn’t quite remember where he put them until—
“Idiot,” you muttered and threw a pair of plaid trousers at his head. “Under your pillow, remember?”
“Right,” Sirius said, and ripped his shirt from his body, then his trousers.
He pulled on the pyjamas and glanced over at Remus, who was doing the same. They were both moving like teenagers again, slightly more effortlessly than men in their late thirties. His gaze flickered to his own chest and his arms. He had the start of a couple of tattoos, but nowhere near as many as he got as soon as he had left Hogwarts. He felt naked.
“James sent an owl asking how you both were, by the way,” you said, and it was so casual to you, and yet so horrific for them to hear as they got dressed. “He said he feels bad for leaving while you were asleep, but I reminded him it’s not his fault. Oh, and Lily asked about you both, too.”
“We’ll owl them,” Remus said, his chest hollow, his smile fragile as he turned back to you and climbed into the bed.
You were in the middle tonight, it seemed, and neither of them was complaining. It was where you often ended up, if Sirius wasn’t in a mood and desperately after the most attention.
“Pete asked too,” you said, and all the blood left both their faces immediately. “He’s such a sweetheart, honestly, you two—he sent in a box of chocolates for you both. It’s got some of your favourites in it, Rem, but from the looks of it, he chose which ones went in himself. It’s got a note and everything, bless him.”
“Bless him?” Sirius retorted, his fists clenching the bedsheets.
He suddenly felt as sick as he did that day. He could see you lying on the kitchen floor of the house, which the three of you shared. Remus and Sirius weren’t talking to each other—they were arguing for the hundredth time that week, and you were being a fucking saint putting up with them. It had ended particularly awful that morning, with both of them accusing the other of being the traitor that the Order was searching for. Remus was off doing werewolf-related tasks for the Order, and Sirius went out for a ride on his motorbike. It was better than having to listen to you and your excuses for Remus.
He walked slowly up the path, dreading your kindness, but the sight of your front door knocked open enough to make him feel nauseous. He was lightheaded all the way through to the kitchen, where your record player had stopped singing and instead rested on a static pause. The sink was full of cold, soapy water, dishes half done, and you had baked something—he remembered the air was so sickly sweet that night. Cinnamon. He couldn’t stand that smell anymore.
It had mixed with the scent of iron. He had nearly slipped on all of the blood. It was thick. It pooled over the tiles you used to dance on, it caked the hair he used to run his fingers through. Your dress was ripped, a slice down your arm that was obvious to him in seconds. Your chest was home to a massacre, and the kitchen knife you always used, because it was the sharpest, lay discarded feet away, painted crimson with your blood. Your wand had rolled beneath the table, your fingers still open like you were reaching for it.
You musn’t have gone down without a fight. The kitchen was a mess.
He lay there for an hour next to you. He kept thinking about how this would be the last time he’d ever get to do it. Eventually, his howls dimmed, and he lay staring at the kitchen ceiling as lifelessly as you. Sirius dragged himself up from the floor. He needed to find James—see if James knew where Remus was. He needed Remus. Remus needed to know about you. Remus had no idea.
Sirius had continued to sob when he leaned over and gently grasped your wrists. He settled for leaving them on top of your stomach, and his fingers shakily reached to close your eyelids. He hovered over you for a few more minutes, and gripping the skirt of your dress, bunching the material as silent sobs racked through his body.
It took him another hour to get up. His legs felt like lead as he left you there. He wasn’t sure he was fully alive as he Apparated to the back of the Potter’s cottage, where they often snuck in and out to avoid being noticed. Sirius startled when he found the air had shifted, a dark green cloud smoking over James’ home, a snake coming from a skull.
He knew it was Peter immediately. The Secret-Keeper. Of course it was. He had been the traitor the entire time. Whilst Remus and Sirius had been pointing fingers at each other, Peter had been sitting there, often next to you, and he had probably been plotting all of your deaths. Sirius thought of James. Lily. Harry. You. He thought of you, and he knew what he had to do.
The rest of the night was such a blur to Sirius now. He remembered hunting down Peter in his Animagus form, using his sense of smell to realise he wasn’t too far. He found him down a Muggle street in London, trembling and shaking down an alleyway. He remembered having Peter pinned, he remembered seeing blood down Peter’s arms, and a splatter across his face.
Peter himself was missing a couple of his fingers. You must have gotten him. Sirius remembered how furious he had been: that Peter had gotten away, and you were gone.
He was so furious that he wasn’t thinking straight. He could only imagine your confusion, your hurt, and the agony you must have been in. He hurt Peter the Muggle way. He wanted him to hurt as much as he hurt you. Only, Peter seemed to be thinking more rationally— he drew his wand, and he created an explosion.
It was so large that Sirius had dropped him, and by the time he’d looked back, Peter was in his rat form—gone.
The Aurors arrested him near enough on the spot. He screamed and protested. He yanked at his chains and gritted his teeth as they told him he was going to be imprisoned for all of his crimes. He begged for Remus over and over again. His screams turned to laughter when he realised how easily he had been tricked by Peter Pettigrew. Everybody had underestimated him. Sirius himself had seen Peter as meek and underpowered. Sirius had lost absolutely everything in a matter of hours, and he had woken up that morning thinking the day would be no different from every other.
He went manic. He screamed and screamed all night. He rattled the bars of his cage until somebody Crucio’d him. He wondered if he was in as much pain as you had been when Peter had stabbed you over and over and over again. He told himself he deserved it for not being there for you. He deserved to rot behind bars just for that.
“Did Pete do something?” You asked, and Sirius nearly leaned over the side of the bed to be sick.
His eyes flickered over to Remus, who was watching you with such a haunted look that Sirius couldn’t take it. Sirius thought to himself that if he were to ignore hindsight and the future, then he would be sending you off to your death. You’d die again. It really would be his fault. He could have saved you. He should have saved you. He should have—
“I just don’t really like him very much anymore,” Sirius murmured. “I’ve… I’ve seen something in these tea leaves, okay? I saw something, and I didn’t like it.”
You snorted and tapped Sirius’ chest. “You’re rubbish at Divination! Last month, you thought you were going to end up riding a Hippogriff back to London!”
Sirius and Remus cast a look at each other, Sirius’ mouth slightly agape. “Actually, I think I have a knack for it. Maybe my timing’s just a bit off.”
“Sirius,” Remus warned.
“He won’t freak me out, don’t worry,” you reassured Remus, and patted his leg over the duvet. “Why, Siri? What did you see that Peter did?”
Sirius swallowed and shut his eyes. “I have to go to the bathroom,” he panicked once he reopened them, and he was quick to dart away.
You worriedly watched him go and looked back at Remus. “What’s wrong with him, Rem? Seriously. I’m worried about him. He’s not acting like normal.”
Remus sighed heavily. “Let me go and check on him.”
He climbed carefully from the bed, walking over to the bathroom. Just as he touched the handle of the door, he glanced back at you. You were watching him, your head tilted curiously.
“What?” You asked.
He shook his head. “Just stay right there, okay? I’ll only be a few minutes.”
“I don’t plan on going anywhere any time soon, don’t you worry,” you told him innocently enough.
Remus shook his head and pulled open the door. He shut it behind him immediately when light poured through, and he found Sirius bent over the toilet, trembling.
“I can’t do it, I can’t do it,” he kept muttering.
Remus felt the rage ignite inside his chest, hot and raw. “Sirius, this was your idea.”
“I thought I could handle a peaceful evening with her,” Sirius heaved. “But I can’t, Remus. How can we leave her here, knowing what’s going to happen to her? We’re essentially sentencing her to her death!”
Remus’ face curled, but his eyes were hot with tears. “It’s difficult. It’s how…” his voice broke. “It’s how it’s supposed to go.”
“You don’t even believe that!” Sirius shot back. “I can tell in your voice! You want to save her, too! Didn’t we always promise her that we’d keep her safe, Remus? Didn’t we? Look at her! She’s eighteen years old, and she only has three years left! That’s not fucking fair, Remus! Why did we get to live for so long, and she didn’t?”
They’d had this conversation a hundred times since Azkaban. Sirius held a particular amount of survivor’s guilt and PTSD. Remus was slightly better at burying his grief and self-loathing, just about content enough to survive until he saw Voldemort and Peter dead. He always thought he’d see how he felt after that.
“Sirius, I know,” Remus hushed him, smoothing his face with his hands. “I know. I know.”
“We could save James and Lily, too,” Sirius said desperately. “And Marlene. Harry’d never have to go to the Dursleys. The second war would never have broken out. We just have to kill that fucking rat! Right now, Remus! I can gut him as he did to her!”
Remus closed his eyes, grounding himself by gripping Sirius’ shoulders. “Calm down, okay?”
“Calm down—?”
“If Harry and Lily didn’t defeat Voldemort, who would have, Sirius? We were losing the war back then. If it had never happened, the Dark Lord most likely would have become even more powerful. Eventually, he would have taken over. You’d have been used as an example of blood treason. James, too. Lily and the other Muggleborns would have probably been rounded up to be slaughtered. I’d be carted off to the werewolf packs. Y/N…” His face went green. “Fuck, Sirius, Y/N would have probably been married off for her blood status—used to repopulate the Purebloods.”
“You don’t know that!” Sirius seethed, but his face was crestfallen, his breathing rapid.
“You don’t know that wouldn’t happen either, though, Sirius! Everything has a knock-on effect.”
“Then…” He hesitated, a strangled expression over his face. “Then perhaps we can just try to save Y/N.”
He mentally apologised to James over and over and over again. He’d make it up to him through Harry.
Remus covered his face with his hand. “You’re not listening.”
“I don’t care!” Sirius cried. “Is that what you’d like me to say, Remus? In all honesty, I will take whatever risk it is to give Y/N the chance of living! So we don’t kill Peter then. Fine. But maybe we can make sure that Y/N is not in the house that night. That nothing bad happens to her that night. I won’t—I won’t go to Azkaban, she won’t die, you won’t have to spend years alone, and Harry can have a family! The three of us can raise him, Remus. We’ll stop the second war from breaking out. We’ll let Peter go to Azkaban for what he’s done! That’s worse than death!”
Remus blinked, and for a few moments, it looked as though he was truly considering what Sirius was saying. Sirius could feel the hope blossoming and blooming in his chest. He grasped onto Remus and shook him impatiently, as if that would make him hurry up with his decision.
“Well? You look like you like my idea.”
“Of course I do,” Remus melted. “Of course I want all of that to happen.” He tugged his lip between his teeth. “I have always said I would do anything to have her back.”
Sirius could have burst into tears. “Remus, don’t say all of this to take it back. Please.”
“Sirius, if we get caught, we’ll be arrested at the very minimum.”
“I’d go back to Azkaban for a hundred years for her, Remus,” Sirius said so determinedly that the air knocked from Remus’ lungs, and it was as if Sirius’ words had burst Remus’ morality bubble for the first time that evening.
His body sagged, his eyes sinking. “Yeah, me too, Pads.”
“Then let’s risk it. Or give me the time turner, Rem. I’ll do it myself. We can send you back, and I’ll come and get her. I’ll make it right. You’ll never know the difference,” Sirius pleaded.
Remus’ trembling hand took Sirius’, and he shook his head. “You won’t have to do this alone, Sirius. We’ll do it together.”
There was a knock at the bathroom door, gentle and quiet. They both glanced at each other with softened eyes, and for the first time, their chests deflated. There was a feeling of ease knowing they were going to rewrite their story, that they would get to spend the rest of their lives together after all.
Remus moved forward and opened the door, letting it swing open. Your eyes squinted blearily at the bright light of the bathroom.
“Sirius, are you okay?” You asked softly. “I’m sorry if I made you feel silly about your… vision of Peter. It’s just… it’s Pete. He’s our best friend.”
“Y/N, I think we should all sit down and have a talk,” Remus suggested as calmly as he could muster, placing a hand on her arm, gently guiding her back into the room—back to Sirius’ bed. “It’s probably best we come clean to you.”
You peer at them even more anxiously. “Did something happen? Oh Merlin, Sirius, is your arm actually okay?”
“My arm is perfectly fine, baby,” Sirius couldn’t help but laugh, and he wanted to lean in and peck your hairline, but he was scared you’d want him nowhere near you in the next few minutes, so he refrained. “It’s something else entirely.”
“And you’re clever,” Remus said. “So we’re going to try not to sugar coat things. It’s going to be… hard to listen to. But we’re here for you the whole time, alright, sweetheart? Okay?”
You hesitated, staring them both over for a few more moments. Then you nodded, and Remus took a deep breath.
“Good girl. Do you know what this is?” He reached under his shirt and pulled out a golden chain with a circular pendant.
You shook your head. “I don’t think so, Rem.”
“This is a time turner,” Remus explained. “Do you want to see how it works?”
“Yeah,” you agreed, and Remus was positive you didn’t fully understand the meaning behind his words from how nonchalantly you were reacting to the information he was giving you.
“Give me your hands, sweet,” he instructed, and when you did so, he cupped your hand beneath his and gave the time turner one small spin.
Suddenly, the two of you were standing up in the exact place you had been moments ago, right before you sat on the bed. The past versions of you disappeared, and Sirius’ gaze flickered between you both, his lips quirking up.
Your eyes were nearly bulging out of your sockets. “What just happened?”
“We went back in time,” Remus explained. “Only by a few seconds. It’s not always good to go back too far.”
“When did you two get that?” You gaped and pinched your brows together at Sirius. “Did you steal it? Potter heirloom?”
“No,” Sirius laughed. “No stealing, not an heirloom. The Order gave it to us.”
You cocked a brow. “The Order of the Phoenix?”
“Yes.”
You nearly howled with laughter. “Well, that’s absurd! Why would the Order of the Phoenix trust you two with a time turner? You’re only eighteen years old, for goodness sake! We’re still at school!”
The silence that followed quickly made your amused smile evaporate. It started to settle in that this was not a joking matter, and that they were being very serious. Your gaze flickered between them, and your eyes widened as you seemed to put two and two together.
“You're not from this time, are you?” You whispered to them both.
“No,” Sirius admitted quietly.
“But how is that possible?” You demanded, standing from your seat and pacing, running a hand through your hair. “Are you from the future? By what? A couple of years? You both look exactly the same as you did when I saw you a few hours ago.”
“Y/N,” Remus swallowed. “Sit down.”
You did as you were told, but you felt incredibly lightheaded, the dizziness starting to make you sway a little. Sirius supported you with a large hand.
“We’re from the future, yes,” Sirius said. “We’re from, well, 1996.”
You paused. Your stomach flipped and your hands grew clammy. You stared at them both, unsurely.
“This is a prank?” You asked, but you had a feeling even these two weren’t such good actors. There was no way they would do this to you so close after a full moon. Even if Sirius had come up with the sick idea, you don’t believe he’d ever be able to do it to you, and Remus would never agree to it anyway.
“Not a prank,” Remus assured her.
You were silent for a few moments. “Well, that would make you each thirty-six years old. That’s not possible, is it? You look so young. Do your appearances change with the time you go to?”
“We took a de-ageing potion,” Remus admitted shamefully. “To blend in.”
You stare for longer. “Rem, I don’t like this. It’s not funny.”
“It’s not a joke, I swear on your life, sweetheart,” Remus said. “Look, I can prove it.”
He moved over to the coat he’d thrown over the chair and went into the pocket, pulling out a box of cigarettes and a few crumpled bits of paper. “Er, receipts with the year on them.” He dug in the other one and found his wallet, taking his seat next to her again. “That’s you. In the future.”
Sure enough, Remus opened his wallet and in the plastic covering was a small Polaroid of you. Your breath hitched and you took it from him. You looked hardly any different to the way you looked now, except your hair was cut differently, in a way you had never had it before, and this was your first time seeing the image.
“That’s me?”
“That’s you,” Sirius said thickly. “In 1980.”
You shook your head. “Wow. Well, this is only a couple of years away, then.” You handed it back to Remus. “Why… Why are you showing me this? Why are you two here? Are my Remus and Sirius okay?”
“They’re fine, darling,” Remus said. “They’re still in the hospital wing healing, and if I remember correctly, they’re anxious to come and see you—but they’re fine.”
You smile waveringly. “Is this to do with Peter, then? Like you said before? You don’t like him?”
There was a long silence.
“What did the Order send you here to do?”
“The Order didn’t exactly send us here,” Sirius said. “This was more of my idea, really. I just…”
Your breath hitched at the look on his face. Suddenly, their strange behaviour made so much more sense. Sirius getting emotional, Remus becoming shut off.
“That’s the last photo you have of me, isn’t it?” Your voice came out deadpan, dread icing your insides as you watch their faces for confirmation. “That’s why you don’t have a newer one, hm?”
Their expressions crumbled. Remus looked positively ashamed, avoiding your eyes. Disgust crept over Sirius’ features.
You tried hard not to let the panic swallow you. “Can you…what happens to me?”
Remus hesitated. “You die during the war.”
You don’t say anything for a moment, but hot tears flood your eyes. “When I’m twenty-one? In 1980?”
Sirius nodded, and you dumped your face into your hands. “Oh, Merlin. Oh no.” Your mutterings broke their hearts, and then they heard you begin to cry, your frame shaking with each sob. “I don’t get any older?”
Sirius felt sick. Remus couldn’t open his mouth as he watched you cry, but Sirius had been itching to comfort you since the second he saw you on the kitchen floor eighteen years ago. All he’d wanted was for you to wake up and cry, so he could reassure you, wrap his arms around you, and reassure you that you were going to be fine.
“Oh, baby, I’m so sorry,” Sirius cried. “We weren’t… We weren’t there the day it happened. I’m so fucking sorry.”
“What happened?” You whimpered. “What happened to me?” It dawns on you. “Pete?”
When neither said anything, you became more frantic. “No! Did I die saving him? It must have been—it must have been some freak accident, surely!”
Sirius shook his head, fists clenched. “It was not an accident, Y/N,”
You rubbed your eyes. “But—but—Peter is—”
“Not at all what any of us thought,” Remus finished for her sternly.
“Oh Gods. Is it painless at least?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Remus cut in before Sirius could. “Because it’s not going to happen again.”
“Wha—what do you mean?”
Remus lifted the time turner. “We’re not going back to a world you’re not in, Y/N. Not ever.”
Your breath hitched. “What?”
“I know this is overwhelming,” Sirius said. “I’m sorry. We just—we want to be sure that you want to be saved, Y/N. That you want to live. We don’t want to force you to do anything you don’t want to do.”
You thought for a few seconds. “Of course I want to live,” you croaked. “I want to grow old with you both. But I don’t want to change the future for the worse. What if bad things happen?”
“Bad things happen anyway,” Sirius mumbled.
“Sirius is blamed for your death,” Remus said, and purposefully left out the news of James and Lily. “He goes to Azkaban for thirteen years, until he breaks out.”
You look over at him, agony nearly shredding you apart. “Sirius,” you breathed, and your sniffling nose and flushed eyes were enough to make him coo and bring you into his warm chest. “Merlin, Sirius, I am so, so sorry.”
“It’s not your fault,” he murmured into your hair. “Never your fault, honey.”
You stayed like that for minutes. Your eyes began to feel tired from the emotion and weight of the day. Sirius couldn’t take his eyes off of you, curled up in his arms, finally safe.
“Let us save you,” Remus pleaded with her quietly, brushing her hair from her face. “Please.”
“But what if it makes everything worse in the long run? I don’t want you two to get into more trouble.”
“We’d Obliviate you after this, sweetheart,” Remus said, and Sirius was nearly surprised that he’d come up with a plan so soon, but also not really because it was Remus. “You won’t remember this, and you’ll go on like normal. Sirius and I will jump to the day you pass. We’ll make sure Pete doesn’t get to hurt you.”
“Why can’t we stop Peter now?”
“We can’t change too much of the timeline, baby,” Sirius swallowed thickly. “No matter how much we want to. Some things have to stay the same.”
There was a long silence. Minutes ticked by agonisingly slowly.
“What do you think?” Remus asked quietly.
“Let me sleep on it, Rem,” you said, furrowing your brows, but not opening your eyes as you rested against Sirius’ chest. “I can’t—I can’t think straight right now. Too much.”
“Okay,” Remus whispered, though his fingers twitched and his lips pursed. “Yeah, darling. Go to sleep. We’ll still be here in the morning.”
It took you a very long time to finally lose consciousness. You lay there, dwelling and agonising for hours, until the steady beat of Sirius’ heart lulled you to sleep.
── .✦
The next morning, you were the first to wake. You studied the men on either side of you, unsure if you were freaked out by their aged faces or calmed by them. A part of you was relieved that they got to see this age, and they survived a war you hadn’t managed to. The other part of you couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that there was no other version of you that got to wake up to this.
They both mostly looked the same. Both had a few silvers running through their hair, and the slightest of wrinkles around their eyes. It was obvious they were older in a handsome way, tattoos adorning every inch of Sirius’ skin in a way that had you almost breathless.
You traced them until he stirred slightly, and then you froze, a nervousness washing over you that you usually didn’t get with the boys. You supposed that was because these weren’t boys, but men. You didn’t know this version of Sirius and Remus; these were around eighteen years older than you and had lived lives you’d never know about.
You hesitated for a few moments, your thoughts drifting to the version of Sirius and Remus who were downstairs in the medical wing. You suddenly yearned for them more than ever, even if their elder selves were with you. Very carefully, you chose the one who used to always sleep like a log and prayed that was still true. Climbing over Sirius’ sleeping figure was a sport you had become extremely skilled at, especially because he liked to lie flat on his stomach.
Pulling on Remus’ jumper, you hesitated, watching them both sleep peacefully in the bed. Remus’ nose twitched, just like it always did. His hand splayed out across the mattress, as if looking for you or Sirius. You decided to leave before they woke up.
You stalked down all of the staircases, not a soul in sight, until you made it to the infirmary. You pushed the door open and headed straight for the two occupied beds at the end of the hall. Remus was already awake, a book in his hands and his eyes bleary from, knowing him, lack of sleep.
“Hi,” you breathed, and dropped into the chair next to him.
He looked pleased to see you, his face melting into a smile. “Y/N. It’s so early. Why are you here?”
“I just needed to come and see you both,” you whispered, but your voice cracked at his gentle face, and your eyes welled with hot tears, much to your horror.
Remus quickly placed the book down, concerned, and he pulled his blankets off his legs.
“No, no, no,” you attempted to usher him back in. “Rest, Rem. Stop. Don’t worry about me, I just… I had a nightmare last night. I’m being silly.”
He looked dramatically less concerned, his face easing into a look of sympathy as he made a soft sound in the back of his throat. “Oh, sweetheart. You had a nightmare, did you? What was it about?”
You hesitated and gulped down the lump in your throat. It felt like all of the air was stuck there, and something was squeezing your chest unrelentingly.
“I died,” you blurted. “A couple of years into the war. I got murdered. You and Sirius—you both were really sad afterwards.”
Remus’ brows tugged together, and he opened his arms out to you. You climbed into them, careful of all of his wounds, resting your head on his chest. You felt better nearly instantly, but dread sank in your stomach like an anchor—a constant, aching reminder that you would only have this for the next couple of years. You looked over at a sleeping Sirius. In a couple of years, he would be in Azkaban. Remus would be alone, a shell of the person he was before.
“That won’t happen,” Remus whispered, stroking your hair. You almost believed him from the softness and sincerity in his tone. “You’re safe with us, baby. I’ve got you.”
The tears streamed even more easily down your face.
“Y/N?” Sirius’ groggy voice came from the bed over. “Is she okay, Rem?”
“Poor thing’s had a nightmare,” Remus said, and it wasn’t long before you heard the duvet shuffle and the padding of feet over to you.
“Darling,” Sirius whined dotingly, and stole you from Remus’ arms, dotting kisses throughout your hair. “You’re alright. Was it that bad?”
“I just—it felt really, really real,” you sniffled. “And I’m—I’m— I was thinking what would happen to the two of you if something really did happen to me.”
Remus’ face contorted. “Don’t ask questions like that, love.”
“Yeah, it won’t ever happen,” Sirius said forcefully. “Never, Y/N.”
You grasped his jumper tighter.
“Gods, your hands are shaking, sweetheart,” Sirius muttered.
“Sorry,” you murmured, and dragged yourself away from him.
They both watched you with such soft, kind eyes. Your heart ached, pulsating and dying all at once. You itched to grab them again.
You wanted this forever. You wanted to know the two boys in the tower above you, too—you wanted to watch this Sirius and Remus grow into the men upstairs. Hopefully, happier, less traumatised versions.
You’d felt a weird sense of nausea when you’d woken up earlier, looking at the familiar faces of your boyfriends and realising you didn’t know them, and would never know them.
You needed to know them.
“I’m going to get ready for the day,” you breathed out. “I’ll shower and put some clean clothes on, and then I’m going to come down here with some games or something for us to play. It’s Christmas Eve, you know.”
Remus frowned. “Let us come with you.”
“No, no. I’m going to get the house elves to make us something really nice, okay?” You said, and your encouraging smile lifted their spirits slightly. “You’re right. Both of you. It was just a dream.”
You had your answer for the Sirius and Remus upstairs.
You find yourself in The Marauders' orbit by way of a job you're not sure you deserve. They can't seem to get rid of you.
fem!reader, almost famous au (kind of), 1970s muggle au, enemies-to-lovers-ish
a/n: Please do not misconstrue my participation in the marauders fandom as support of JKR. If you’re new here and want to participate in the fandom, I encourage you to do so without participating in anything that would provide financial gain to her or her transphobic agendas
part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7
rockstar!marauders x journalist!reader ♡ 3.7k words
The metal door rattles as you knock your fist against it. You flinch, then do it again, three echoing bangs before the bouncer inside answers.
“Yes?”
He looks harried. It cows you, your voice less certain than you mean for it to be as you say, “Spellbound Magazine?”
“No. This is The Yard.” The bouncer is impassive, but you’d almost say he looks pleased to be able to shut the door in your face.
“Wait, wait!” You wedge your foot in. Hold up your press pass in a shaky hand. “Sorry, I meant I’m with Spellbound Magazine. I have an interview scheduled with one of your bands tonight.”
Begrudgingly, he checks his clipboard. Glances at your press pass. “Hold on.”
The door shuts again.
Your short, surprised breath clouds in the air in front of you. Hold on? What are you holding for? Your editor hadn’t given you hardly any instruction at all for what you were meant to do once you got here, but it seems like this douche could keep you locked out here all night if he wanted to.
It has the feel of a test. Like if you were a real journalist, an experienced one, you’d know what to say to get in the door. You’d hand the bouncer a cigarette and waltz in asking, The band’s in the dressing room? Cool, thanks. I know the way.
As it stands, you’re cigarette-less and more liable to bite your tongue off from nerves than to use it for anything helpful. You’re about to raise your fist and knock again anyway when the door swings open.
“Hi!” Inside is a girl about your age, with a feathery coat and a halo of dark curls. Her bright smile feels like a punch of relief. “Spellbound?”
“Yeah.” You step closer, shaking the hand she sticks out.
“I’m Mary. I handle the boys’ PR.” She steps back, and after a brief glance at the bouncer, you follow her inside. Mary sets off.
“Awesome.” You hurry to keep pace with her, sidestepping rushing backstage crew and trip-hazard wires. “Um, and when you say ‘the boys,’ do you mean…”
“Oh! The Marauders.” Mary laughs. “I forget they’re not just the boys to everyone anymore.”
“Have you worked with them for long?”
The glance she shoots over her shoulder at you is humorous, cryptic. You get the itch to turn on your tape recorder. “A while, yeah.”
Before you can ask her to elaborate on that—and if she’d mind possibly being quoted in your article—Mary turns a corner, and you’re looking at the stage.
The venue isn’t large, but it bowls you over how huge the crowd is. They’re wall-to-wall, teeming, and buzzing with a loud, anticipatory fervor.
“The boys are just doing final checks,” says Mary, “but they’ll be out in a minute, and afterward I’ll have someone show you to their dressing room for the interview. Sound good?”
“I get to watch the show?” you ask dumbly.
She looks surprised. “Of course. Can’t write about musicians without hearing the music, right?”
“Right,” you echo.
Mary grins. “Great. Don’t leave without seeing me, okay? I’ll want to know when to expect the issue.”
You don’t know those sorts of details. You hardly know who to ask to learn those sorts of details. But you nod at her, and she blazes off, and then you’re alone. Backstage at The Yard.
You brush your fingers over the curtain tied back from the stage, imagining years of history trickling through your fingers like dust. The Who might have played here. Bowie. Marc Bolan. You’d pass out if you weren’t so keen on staying conscious for your interview
Your first interview. You’re still floored to have been offered it, honestly. Green as you are, a rising titan like The Marauders is no small gig. Either your editor wants a reason to fire you in your first month at Spellbound, or he has a lot more faith in you than you do.
You nearly jump out of your skin when the speakers buzz to life as one.
“Hello? Is this thing on?”
Screams erupt from the crowd as they recognize the voice instantly. They surge towards the stage, hungry.
“Stupid fucking thing.” There’s a dull beat, like someone tapping the microphone. “Do you think they can hear us?”
The crowd cheers impossibly louder. Across the dark stage, you spot the movement of a few dark shapes, and despite your weak attempts at professionalism a thrill races through you.
“Oh. Guess so.” The voice grows a bit cheeky, the facade of ignorance slipping. “Well, suppose we better get on with it then.”
Sirius Black steps onto the stage, and everyone loses their minds.
For one fleeting moment, you almost wish you were a photographer instead of a writer, because you’ll never be able to come up with the words to capture this. The way Sirius saunters into the spotlight as though he’s made of it, dark hair gleaming and guitar strap slung carelessly over his shoulder. The way fans at the front claw at the stage like they’d die to get a scrap of his leather boots under their fingernails. The way your own heart rockets into your throat, despite being on the same level as him while the fans aren’t, despite having prepared yourself for this night all week.
Bandmates James Potter and Remus Lupin follow him out to no less lively reception. Sirius and Remus plug their instruments into amps while James gets cozy behind the drumset. While Sirius continues working the crowd, Remus glances to the left for hardly a moment—just long enough to catch sight of you. You’re hardly the only person standing off to the side of the stage, but you must look somehow distinct from the crew, because his eyes lock on you like you’re something out of place.
His head tilts slightly, as though to say, And you are?
You hardly have an answer for him. Your hand comes up of its own mind, a sort of shrug that might be a wave. You try not to grimace at yourself.
And then they start.
There’s no countdown. You’re not prepared for it—you don’t know how they’re prepared for it. There was no signal that you could see. It was like fucking teleapathy. And far from the last magic show The Marauders have in store for fans tonight.
The crowd throws itself into motion as the band plays the opening bars of their first hit, The Phoenix. The lights change from blue, to orange, to red. You scramble for your notepad, wanting to take down the set list before you forget it.
Sirius is a born frontman. When the light hits him, he’s larger than life, and he’s good enough to take the crowd with him, too. Remus absorbs the adoration in a different way. He keeps his attention on his bass as he plays, seeming entirely focussed on the music, except for once in a blue moon when he’ll glance at someone in the audience. They go absolutely rabid for it. James is, clearly, just thrilled to be here. He’s got as much energy as the fans. His drumsticks move nearly faster than you can keep up with, until one goes sailing offstage halfway through the third song. A crew member has a replacement in his hand almost instantaneously.
It’s difficult to imagine these boys playing in pubs and small parties, as they’re alleged to have done for almost two years before making it big. The story goes that James was talking to Rita Skeeter, one of the biggest names in musical journalism with a self-proclaimed nose for talent, without any clue who she was; he charmed his way onto the scene on dumb luck. Looking at him now, you can believe it.
Short of your jotted-down set list, you’ve no clue if there’s anything you’re supposed to be doing. You end up simply enjoying the show. The Marauders’ discography is short enough that they’re able to play every song in a single show, their audience growing more enraptured seemingly with each one. By the end, Sirius’ hair is a wild mess, James has lost three drumsticks to the crowd, and Remus only looks a tad sweatier than he did when they came out. The crowd roars their devotion as James thanks them all for a great night.
You stand still as the stage goes dark. You’re humming with adrenaline and most definitely in the way, crew pushing past you to get to the stage and begin undoing everything that had gone into making the show as vibrant as it was. You step back, meaning to get out of their path, and find yourself on someone else’s toes.
“Ouch.”
“Shit, sorry!” You turn, finding yourself at terrifying proximity to a sweaty shirtfront. You step away cautiously, looking behind you this time to avoid any more collisions.
“It’s okay. I step on them too, just not usually so hard,” says James. His voice registers only half a second before his face, shiny with sweat and as smiley as he’d been on stage for the last hour. James Potter. “Are you the journalist?”
“Um” —Fuck, are you?— “yeah.”
“Perfect. Mary’d fry me if I lost you.” James grins. “We’re ready if you are.”
You nod dazedly, letting him turn and lead you away. When Mary said that someone would come and collect you, you didn’t imagine she meant someone from the band. You watch James wave hello to various crew members, too dumbstruck to remember the pen in your hand.
“Did you like the show?” he asks you.
“I…yeah. It was amazing.” You take in a breath. “It’s obvious why your tour sold out so fast.”
“You think so?” James sounds genuinely pleased. It’s endearing. Is that the sort of thing you can put in your article, that he’s endearing? “Thanks.”
Your voice peters off into shyness. “Of course.”
James leads you down a hallway that leads to another hallway, and then you find yourself stepping into a room where Sirius Black is groaning, “Ah, fuck. James, you weren’t actually supposed to bring her here. You were supposed to shove her out the side door, you twat.”
You stop at the threshold.
The room is blurry with cigarette smoke, but almost better for it. It feels frozen in time. The vanities with marquee lights around the mirrors, the discolored velvet settee, the hanging aroma of cigarettes—it’s all just as you’d imagined a dressing room would be. You feel the need to reach back to your past self and squeeze her hand. It’s a dingy, dilapidated dream.
“Settle something for us.” Sirius’ smooth voice pulls you back into the present. “Remus wants us to change the setlist to close with Red Rose, but we’ve always closed with Sweet and Easy.”
“It doesn’t have the same effect,” Remus mutters, seemingly vexed by an argument already lost.
“Right, and this effect has nothing to do with Red Rose’s bassline.”
The hint of teasing is barely detectable in Sirius’ tone, but the way Remus rolls his eyes suggests he’s either heard it or has saintlike patience for his diva guitarist’s moods. You watch as James tosses himself over the back of the settee, tousling Remus’ hair in a conciliatory fashion. It’s surreal, seeing them all in motion like this. As though magazine photos have come to life.
“Red Rose ends fairly definitively,” you say, slowly. “With Sweet and Easy, the riff at the end gives you a chance to prolong it if you want to. Like you did tonight.”
“So you were paying some attention, then.” Sirius looks pleased.
You frown. “It wasn’t my first time hearing your music.”
“No?”
“No.”
He appraises you. You get the sense that it’s more for show than anything, the glitter on his eyelids flashing in the light. “You can come in, then,” he decides.
“Oh god, sorry.” James turns around on the settee. “You didn’t really have to stay out there.”
“It’s okay,” you say. “Door open or closed?”
Sirius hums. “Closed.” He drops one eyelid in a wink. “Don’t want to spill all our secrets to you and then have Colin the sound technician blab them before you can.”
You smile at him, though you doubt that. The Marauders are the emerging heartthrobs of England. They have a way of making fans feel as though they know each member of the band intimately, but when you’ve actually read their interviews you haven’t felt like they’ve revealed much at all. It’s all fluff—Sirius admitting he prefers dogs to cats, humorous tales of James orchestrating pranks in school, Remus divulging that Moonage Daydream is his favorite non-Marauders song. You think these three silly boys are better at giving press the runaround than they let on.
You take a seat in a chair perpendicular to their settee and turn your tape recorder on, setting it on the ottoman between you.
Remus extends a pack of cigarettes to you in silent offer.
“Thanks.” You take one. Look at James, sitting unaffectedly while Sirius and Remus smoke next to him. “You don’t smoke?”
It’s a small test. James has answered this question before; you’re only wondering if he’ll give you the same response.
“No,” he says.
“Have you ever tried?”
He shakes his head, shrugging. “Haven’t ever really wanted to.”
You consider him a moment. “Fair enough.” You set your cigarette down on a side table, unlit. “I’ll do it with you, then. Remus, how old were you when you started smoking?”
Remus’ eyebrows lift, but Sirius laughs. It’s a blasé, false sound. “We went to boarding school, gorgeous,” he says, as though that’s answer enough. “Are we going to talk about cigarettes this whole time?”
“I was just curious.” You lean back in your chair, trying to pretend like your heartbeat isn’t bumping in your fingertips. “Don’t want to scare you with all the big questions straightaway, right?”
Sirius props his chin on his hand, eyes locking onto yours. They’re a watercolor gray-blue no photo you’ve seen could approximate. “We can take it,” he promises.
It feels like a challenge to hold his gaze, so you do. “Okay. Which of your songs means the most to you, and why?” Sirius opens his mouth to respond, but you turn away. “Remus?”
Remus looks surprised to be asked. With how quickly Sirius and James both seize the mic, the public hardly knows anything about him. “Good question,” he hums. You do your best not to let the compliment go straight to your head. “I suppose The Phoenix.”
“And why’s that?” you prompt.
“It’s the first song we all really collaborated on.” Remus is looking at you, but you don’t miss the fond smile James sends his way. “I can’t play it without thinking about the fun we had writing it.”
You nod, beaming internally. Why don’t people corral Remus into taking questions more often? He’s fucking phenomenal at it.
“And you?” you ask Sirius.
Sirius affects a look of shock, pointing at himself. “Oh. Is it my turn?”
You bite down on a smile. “Yes.”
“Lovely. Just checking.” He leans back, crossing his ankles on the coffee table. “My favorite would have to be Fever Dog. Means a lot to me.”
Your lips part, though really you should have expected this from him. Fever Dog is widely considered The Marauders’ most scandalous song. Whenever they play it live, Sirius will pick a woman in the audience and put on a grand show of lusting after her. Some have argued he should have to make a formal apology to one venue for what he did to their microphone stand.
You stare at Sirius, and he stares back at you. He’s going to make you ask.
“Why?” you ask, cheeks burning.
He grins. “Oh, you know.”
You wait for him to go on, but he doesn’t. He’s waiting for you to pry it out of him. If he thinks you’re going to use your time on that, he’s got another thing coming. You turn to James.
“And what about you? Which song means the most to you?”
“Actually,” says James, his smile a shade away from sheepish, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to be fairly tight-lipped about that one. My pick is a song we’ve only just written.”
An ember of promise flares to life in your middle. “It’s unreleased?”
“Unfortunately, yeah.”
“When can we expect to hear it?”
Sirius tuts. “Now, doll, you heard him. He can’t say.”
“Come on.” You lean forward and look at James, nearly pleading. A brief conversation about smoking and bland answers to what was meant to be your most revealing question; so far, all you’ve managed to get is the same fluff as everyone else. “There has to be something you can tell me. What’s it about?”
“Our lips are sealed,” Sirius answers for him.
“Does it follow the trajectory of Lookaround, or are you returning to your old sound?”
“Yes.”
“What’s it called?”
“Sorry, we’ve really got nothing for you there,” James laughs. “As of now it’s still only called Track 8.”
The other boys go still. James doesn’t seem to realize why until you piece enough of yourself back together from the wreckage of your own shock to open your mouth.
“You’re releasing an album?”
Sirius’ unruffled facade is back in place in a millisecond, but James’ eyes widen, and that tells you all you need to know.
“We label all our unreleased songs as numbers until we come up with a decent title.” Sirius gives a careless wave of his hand.
You shake your head. “You’re releasing an album,” you say certainly.
Remus sighs, covering his eyes with a hand. “Oh, Jamie.”
This is huge. Gigantic. The Marauders have risen to fame on singles, which is impressive enough—word of an impending album will blow up their fanbase. And to have the news break during their first tour—
“Now, what would give you that impression?” Sirius asks. But you see through him, now. His insouciance is all for show; he’s scrambling.
A laugh stumbles out of you, giddy. Before you can launch into more questions, the door to the dressing room opens.
“Unless we want to get caught in traffic, we really should—” The round-faced redhead stops mid-sentence when she spots you. “Oh. Sorry. Are you all almost done, because…”
“Lily.” James’ tight voice is an obvious cry for help.
The woman’s eyes find him instantly, her posture straightening. “What?”
He smiles, abashed. Still hopelessly endearing. “I might have messed up.”
“She knows about the album,” says Remus from behind his hand.
Lily looks between the three boys for a handful of seconds—James’ contrite expression, Remus’ defeated posture, Sirius eyeing your tape recorder like he might grab for it. Her shoulders slump. “Oh, fuck. Seriously?”
“I had nothing to do with it,” Sirius insists.
“Right. Sure.” Lily rolls her eyes. She crosses the room, picking up your tape recorder from the ottoman—you nearly lunge for it, panicking, but she only hands it to you—before taking a seat in its place. “Hi,” she says, seeming to collect herself enough to give you a halfway friendly smile. “I’m Lily. I’m the boys’ manager.”
You smile back, mostly at the way she calls them ‘the boys,’ just like Mary did. You wonder if it hints at a familiarity not usually so common between bands and their teams. You shake Lily’s hand.
“We’re not ready for people to know about the album,” she says calmly.
You steel yourself. “It’s my job to write about these things.”
“I understand that.” She presses her lips together. “What can we offer you?”
You feel your eyebrows go up. “I’m sorry?”
“What if we promise you an exclusive on breaking the news about the album, but you wait until we give you the go-ahead to publish?”
You’re shaking your head before she’s done. You don’t want to make any enemies—certainly not before you’ve even established yourself in the industry—but you have a job to do. There’s no good reason you shouldn’t publish this tomorrow.
“Should I get Mary?” James asks worriedly.
Lily holds up a hand. “We’re fine. What if—”
“What if you let me write about the process?” you blurt, then shy at interrupting. “Sorry.”
But Lily’s eyebrows have drawn together. “What do you mean?”
“I, um.” You clear your throat. Try not to think about the other three sets of eyes on you, focussing only on Lily. “I could document the process of The Marauders creating their first album. It could be a feature in Spellbound.” You start talking faster as the idea solidifies, growing excited. “I’d have to ask my editor, but I’m sure he’d approve it. You let me stay with you for a while on the tour, do a few more interviews, sit in on some things, and I hold the news about the album until you’re ready to release it. With the full inside scoop.”
For a while, Lily only looks at you. You scan her face, trying to gauge any reaction, but she’s unreadable while she seems to be doing the same to you. “That could work,” she says finally.
“No!” Sirius is aghast.
Lily grimaces. “Sirius—”
“No, we cannot take the fucking enemy—” He sends you a look. “—nothing personal, gorgeous—on tour with us.”
“We may not have much choice,” says Remus. His expression is weary, though thankfully not particularly hostile when he looks at you. The cigarette between his fingers has burned nearly to the filter.
“We can’t finance you travelling with us,” Lily tells you.
“I’ll pay for myself,” you reply thoughtlessly. How you’re going to do that is a problem for another time. “Do you have a tour bus I can ride along on?”
She looks begrudging. “Yes.”
“I can sleep there.” James cringes as if in sympathy at the idea, but you don’t second-guess yourself. “You won’t have to pay for anything.”
Lily takes in a breath. She glances at the boys briefly, but sticks out her hand. “Alright. You come on the bus with us, we give you two formal interviews, and you hold the news about the album until I say.”
🚨BREAKING: OpenAI published a paper proving that ChatGPT will always make things up.
Not sometimes. Not until the next update. Always. They proved it with math.
Even with perfect training data and unlimited computing power, AI models will still confidently tell you things that are completely false. This isn't a bug they're working on. It's baked into how these systems work at a fundamental level.
And their own numbers are brutal. OpenAI's o1 reasoning model hallucinates 16% of the time. Their newer o3 model? 33%. Their newest o4-mini? 48%. Nearly half of what their most recent model tells you could be fabricated. The "smarter" models are actually getting worse at telling the truth.
Here's why it can't be fixed. Language models work by predicting the next word based on probability. When they hit something uncertain, they don't pause. They don't flag it. They guess. And they guess with complete confidence, because that's exactly what they were trained to do.
The researchers looked at the 10 biggest AI benchmarks used to measure how good these models are. 9 out of 10 give the same score for saying "I don't know" as for giving a completely wrong answer: zero points. The entire testing system literally punishes honesty and rewards guessing.
So the AI learned the optimal strategy: always guess. Never admit uncertainty. Sound confident even when you're making it up.
OpenAI's proposed fix? Have ChatGPT say "I don't know" when it's unsure. Their own math shows this would mean roughly 30% of your questions get no answer. Imagine asking ChatGPT something three times out of ten and getting "I'm not confident enough to respond." Users would leave overnight. So the fix exists, but it would kill the product.
This isn't just OpenAI's problem. DeepMind and Tsinghua University independently reached the same conclusion. Three of the world's top AI labs, working separately, all agree: this is permanent.
Every time ChatGPT gives you an answer, ask yourself: is this real, or is it just a confident guess?
