heart — “he told me i didn’t understand,” you say quietly. “that i was naive. that loving him was—what did he say? martyrdom. like i was sacrificing myself instead of just—” you stop, throat tight. “instead of just loving him.”
warnings — mention of alcohol, smoking, mentions of war trauma, anxiety, emotional infidelity, unresolved breakups, self-deprecating thoughts, descriptions of emotional distress.
word count — 11k
marauders era masterlist
───────
the tracking charm flickers against your wrist at half past ten on a thursday, and you know without looking that remus is at the black dog again. you’re in your flat, halfway through a cup of tea that’s gone cold, wearing one of his old jumpers because you haven’t done laundry in a week and you’re too tired to care. the silver thread pulses insistent under your skin—once, twice, three times like a heartbeat that isn’t yours.
you told yourself you wouldn’t look tonight. six weeks of breathing clean air, six weeks of trying to remember what it felt like before loving him became the only thing you knew how to do properly.
but your fingers find the charm before your brain catches up, and the map blooms in the air above your wrist—all golden lines and pulsing dots, his location marked in silver that hurts to look at.
the black dog. of course.
you let the map dissolve and press your thumb against the charm until it burns. the pain helps, sort of. makes the ache in your chest feel less like drowning and more like something manageable. something human.
the flat is too quiet. you can hear the couple upstairs arguing about whose turn it is to do dishes, the distant wail of a car alarm, the radiator ticking as it tries and fails to heat the place adequately. london sounds. the kind that used to feel like home when remus was here to make them matter.
you should go to bed. you should take off the charm. you should do a lot of things that aren’t sitting here in the dark, wearing his jumper, tracking him like some pathetic ghost who can’t figure out how to stop haunting.
instead, you grab your coat.
-----
the rain starts the moment you step outside, because of course it does. london weather has always had impeccable timing when it comes to making everything worse. you don’t bother with an umbrella—just pull your coat tighter and move through the narrow streets with the practiced ease of someone who’s walked this route too many times to count.
the black dog sits in the weird liminal space between diagon alley and muggle london, where the magical world bleeds into the ordinary one and nobody asks too many questions. it’s the kind of place where werewolves can drink without curious stares, where the lighting is always dim enough to hide whatever needs hiding, where the music is loud enough to drown out the war that still lives in everyone’s heads.
you used to come here together.
before.
the window is fogged with condensation and smoke, but you can still see inside well enough. remus sits at the bar, and there’s a girl beside him.
she’s young. not too young, but younger than you. younger than the war, maybe, which is its own kind of youth. all bright eyes and easy laughter, the kind of person who touches people when she talks, unconscious and natural. her hand is on his arm right now, fingers curved against the worn fabric of his jacket like she has every right to touch him.
maybe she does.
maybe you lost that right the night he walked out of your kitchen and didn’t look back.
you watch from the rain-dark street, your hair already soaked through, as the bartender changes the music. the opening chords of “moonage daydream” drift through the glass, and remus goes completely still.
your heart stops.
this song. this song.
it played the night you first kissed him, tinny and warm from his ancient radio while you danced barefoot across his flat, both of you drunk on cheap wine and the particular relief of having survived another full moon. it played the morning you told him you loved him, soft in the background while he made tea with shaking hands and pretended he didn’t hear you until he couldn’t pretend anymore. it played a dozen nights after, soundtrack to whispered conversations about futures that felt possible in the dark.
you called it our song, like teenagers do, possessive and silly and utterly sincere.
remus straightens in his seat, something flickering across his face that you recognize even from here. recognition. memory. the particular weight of something that used to mean everything.
the girl tilts her head, curious, and says something you can’t hear through the glass.
his lips move. just something old.
the lie lands in your chest like a physical blow.
she’s too young to know this song. too young to understand the way it threads through the fabric of your dreaming, how it once meant everything and now means nothing except the particular ache of remembering.
she laughs at something he says, and he smiles back, and you stand there in the rain watching him pretend you never existed— and you know you should leave.
you should leave.
but your feet won’t move, and the rain keeps falling, and inside the black dog, remus lupin is forgetting you in real time.
you learned this the hard way, in the weeks after he stopped returning your letters. habits like checking his schedule, like buying two cups of tea instead of one, like turning toward footsteps that might be his. like standing outside bars in the rain, watching him pretend you never happened.
there’s a fellowship among the heartbroken—you recognize them everywhere now. in coffee shops and bookstores, on street corners and tube platforms. the way they hold themselves carefully, like they’re made of something fragile. the way they flinch at certain songs.
you’re one of them now.
your longings stay unspoken because what is there to say? that you still dream about the cottage in wales you’ll never buy together? that you still flinch when someone mentions his name? that six weeks of breathing clean air just taught you how much you miss the smoke?
the door to the black dog opens, and sirius black stumbles out, cigarette already between his lips.
he sees you immediately.
“oh, fuck,” he says, which is fair.
you don’t move. just stand there in the rain like an idiot, like someone who doesn’t know when to stop hoping for things that are already dead.
sirius takes a long drag, eyes narrowed against the smoke. he looks tired. everyone looks tired these days—it’s the uniform of the post-war world. but there’s something else in his face now, something like pity, and you hate it.
“how long have you been standing out here?” he asks.
“not long.”
“that’s a lie.”
“yeah.”
he sighs, smoke curling up into the rain. “you should go home.”
“i know.”
“then why aren’t you?”
you don’t have a good answer for that. or maybe you do, but it’s not one you want to say out loud. because saying it makes it real, makes you the kind of person who stands outside bars in the rain, unable to let go of something that’s already gone.
“is he happy?” you ask instead.
sirius looks at you for a long moment. “does it matter?”
“yes.”
“why?”
“because if he’s happy, then maybe this was the right choice. maybe i was the problem, and now he’s better, and i can—” you stop, throat tight. “i don’t know. make sense of it, somehow.”
“that’s bullshit,” sirius says bluntly. “you weren’t the problem. he’s just—” he stops, dragging a hand through his wet hair. “he’s remus. he thinks he’s doing everyone a favor by making himself miserable.”
“is he miserable?”
sirius doesn’t answer, which is answer enough.
the door opens again, and james potter appears, squinting into the rain. he sees you and his whole face does this complicated thing—surprise, concern, frustration, affection. james has never been good at hiding what he feels.
“oh, bloody hell,” he says. “how long has she been out here?”
“we’ve established that she’s been out here too long,” sirius says. “i’m working on getting her to leave.”
“not working very hard,” you point out.
“well, you’re stubborn as fuck, so.”
james comes down the steps, heedless of the rain. he’s one of those aggressively cheerful people who somehow survived a war without losing the ability to believe in happy endings. you used to find it comforting. now it just makes you tired.
“you can’t keep doing this,” he says gently.
“doing what?”
“this. standing outside in the rain, watching him through windows. it’s not—it’s not good for you.”
“i’m fine.”
“you’re wearing his jumper.”
you look down. you are, in fact, wearing remus’s jumper—the blue one with the hole in the left sleeve, the one that still smells like him if you press your face against the collar.
“it’s laundry day,” you say.
“it’s not laundry day,” james says. “and even if it was, you have other clothes.”
you don’t have a good response to that either.
the rain is coming down harder now, and you’re all soaked through, and this is stupid. all of this is so stupid. you’re a grown woman standing outside a bar in the rain because you can’t figure out how to stop loving someone who doesn’t love you back.
except that’s not quite true, is it?
because remus did love you. you know he did. you felt it in the way he held you after nightmares, the way he looked at you like you were the only good thing in his life, the way he whispered your name like a prayer.
he loved you, and then he decided that wasn’t enough.
or maybe he decided he wasn’t enough.
you need a brave man, he told you once, in the early days when honesty felt safer than lies. you were curled against his chest in the aftermath of nightmares, both of you learning how to hold something precious without breaking it.
someone who can handle all of this. his hand had swept vaguely, encompassing his scars, his monthly disappearances, the way he sometimes woke up screaming names of friends who didn’t make it through the war.
i need you, you’d whispered back, fierce as a vow.
and. he’d believed you. or maybe he’d just wanted to believe you badly enough to try.
for a while, he played the part of the brave man beautifully. steady hands when you fell apart, strong arms when the world felt too heavy, patient ears for all your fears about futures and failures.
until he didn’t.
until he decided you needed protecting from himself, decided your love was naive optimism instead of clear-eyed choice, decided to break your heart to save it.
you don’t understand what you’re signing up for, he’d said the night he ended it, standing in your kitchen like he was already gone.
i understand perfectly, you’d replied, but he was already shaking his head.
you think you do. but this isn’t love. it’s martyrdom.
the words had landed like curses, designed to make you flinch, to make you question everything you thought you knew about your own heart.
they worked.
“i’m going in,” you say suddenly.
sirius and james both freeze.
“that’s a terrible idea,” sirius says.
“probably.”
“he’s on a date,” james adds carefully. “a proper one. she’s nice, apparently. works at flourish and blotts, likes books, doesn’t know about—about the furry problem.”
the furry problem. that’s what they call it, like it’s something small and manageable instead of the thing that defines remus’s entire existence.
“i don’t care,” you say.
“you clearly do care,” james says. “which is why this is a bad idea.”
“i’m not going to make a scene. i just—” you stop, trying to find words for something you don’t fully understand yourself. “i need to see him. properly. not through windows.”
“why?”
“because maybe if i see him up close, see him with her, see that he’s actually moved on, i can finally—” you stop again. “i don’t know. let go.”
it’s a lie. you know it’s a lie even as you say it. but it’s the kind of lie that feels true enough to be dangerous.
sirius and james exchange a look, one of those silent conversations that people who’ve been friends forever can have without words.
“you absolutely need backup,” sirius says. “because you’re about to walk into a bar and confront your ex-boyfriend while he’s on a date, which is objectively insane, and someone needs to be there to stop you from doing something you’ll regret.”
“i won’t regret it.”
“you will definitely regret it.”
he’s probably right. but you’re already moving toward the door, and they’re following, and the rain is still falling, and somewhere inside, remus lupin is pretending to be someone he’s not.
the black dog smells like spilled beer and cigarette smoke and the particular musk of too many people in too small a space. the music is loud—some muggle band you don’t recognize—and the lighting is dim enough that it takes your eyes a moment to adjust.
remus is still at the bar.
he sees you immediately.
you watch his whole body go rigid, watch the color drain from his face, watch him look at you like you’re a ghost he thought he’d exorcised.
the girl beside him—flourish and blotts, likes books, doesn’t know about the furry problem—follows his gaze and sees you standing there, dripping wet, wearing his jumper, probably looking completely unhinged.
“hi,” you say, because what else is there to say?
remus doesn’t respond. just stares at you with those honey-brown eyes that you used to think you could read like a book. now they’re blank, carefully neutral, giving nothing away.
“i’ll get us drinks,” sirius announces loudly, already moving toward the other end of the bar. james follows, leaving you standing there alone.
traitors.
“i didn’t know you’d be here,” remus says finally. his voice is carefully flat.
“i know.”
“you should go.”
“probably.”
the girl shifts uncomfortably, looking between you and remus like she’s trying to solve a puzzle with missing pieces. she’s pretty up close. heart-shaped face, dark curls, the kind of effortless beauty that doesn’t need magic to enhance it.
she looks nice. you hate her.
“i’m sorry,” you say, directing it at her because she’s the only person here who doesn’t deserve whatever fresh hell you’re about to create. “i’m not—this isn’t—” you stop, trying to find words. “i just need to talk to remus for a minute.”
“i don’t think that’s a good idea,” remus says.
“i don’t care.”
“clearly.”
there’s an edge to his voice now, something sharp and defensive. you recognize it. it’s the voice he uses when he’s scared, when he’s trying to push people away before they can get close enough to see the messy parts.
you used to be exempt from that voice.
“it’s okay,” the girl says quietly. she’s looking at remus now, not you, and there’s something knowing in her expression. “i’ll just—i’ll give you two a minute.”
she slides off the barstool with the kind of grace that makes you feel clumsy and wrong-shaped. remus reaches for her hand, stops her.
“you don’t have to go,” he says.
“i know.” she squeezes his fingers and lets go. “but i’m going to anyway.”
she walks past you toward the bathroom, and you’re left standing there with remus and the weight of everything you’ve been trying not to feel for six weeks.
“you forgot to turn it off,” you say finally.
he blinks. “what?”
you hold up your wrist, let him see the silver charm pulsing against your skin. “the tracking charm. you forgot to turn it off.”
something flickers across his face—guilt, maybe, or regret. “i thought you would have removed it by now.”
“i thought you would have disabled it.”
“i did. weeks ago.”
“no, you didn’t.” you tap the charm, and the map blooms again, his location marked in silver. “see? still works.”
he stares at the map, throat working. “that’s—that’s not possible. i definitely disabled it.”
“apparently not.”
the silence stretches between you, awkward and painful. you can feel people looking, feel the weight of attention that comes with being two people having an obviously charged conversation in a public space.
“why are you here?” remus asks quietly.
“i don’t know.”
“yes, you do.”
you do. of course you do. but saying it out loud feels like admitting something dangerous, like opening a door you’ve been trying so hard to keep closed.
“i heard the song,” you say instead.
his jaw tightens. “what song?”
“you know what song.”
“it’s just a song.”
“no, it’s not.”
“it is now.”
the words land like a slap. you knew it was coming—knew from the moment you saw him through the window, saw him lie to her about what the song meant—but hearing him say it to your face is different. worse.
“she’s too young to know it,” you say. your voice sounds strange, too flat, like you’re commenting on the weather instead of bleeding out in the middle of a bar.
“she’s twenty-four.”
“i meant too young to know the song. bowie. moonage daydream. it was—” you stop, throat tight. “it was ours.”
“there is no ‘ours’ anymore.”
“i know that. i’m not—i’m not trying to—” you stop again, frustrated. “i just don’t understand how you don’t miss it. miss us. how you can hear that song and not—”
“not what?” he cuts in, and there’s anger in his voice now. real anger. “not fall apart? not spend my nights standing outside bars in the rain like some tragic figure in a shite romance novel?”
“i’m not—”
“you’re wearing my jumper.”
you look down at the blue wool, the hole in the sleeve. “it’s laundry day.”
“don’t lie to me.”
“i’m not lying.”
“yes, you are. you’re standing here, in my jumper, with my tracking charm still on your wrist, telling me you ‘just wanted to talk,’ and we both know that’s not true. you wanted—” he stops, runs a hand through his hair. “i don’t know what you wanted. closure? to make me feel guilty? to—”
“i wanted to see if you felt anything,” you interrupt. “anything at all. because from where i’m standing, it looks like you just—you just moved on. like the last three years didn’t matter, like everything we—”
“of course it mattered,” he says, and his voice breaks on the words. “it mattered. but that doesn’t mean it was right.”
“it was right for me.”
“well, it wasn’t right for me.”
the words hit like a physical blow, sharp and precise and designed to hurt. you actually rock back on your heels, and remus sees it, sees the way you flinch, and something in his expression crumbles.
“i didn’t mean—” he starts.
“yes, you did.”
“i—”
“it’s fine,” you cut in. your voice sounds far away, like it’s coming from someone else’s mouth. “you’re right. i should go.”
you turn to leave, and his hand catches your wrist. not the one with the charm—the other one. his fingers are warm against your rain-cold skin, familiar in a way that makes your chest ache.
“wait,” he says.
“why?”
“because—” he stops, and when you look back, his face is doing something complicated. “because that’s not—i didn’t mean it like that.”
“how did you mean it?”
he doesn’t answer. just stands there with his hand on your wrist, looking at you like he’s trying to memorize something he knows he’s going to lose.
the girl—flourish and blotts, likes books, doesn’t know—appears at the edge of your vision. she’s stopped a few feet away, watching with an expression that’s part concern, part resignation.
remus sees her and lets go of your wrist like it burned him.
“you should get back to your date,” you say.
“yeah.” he shoves his hands in his pockets. “yeah, i should.”
you walk past him toward the door, past sirius and james at the other end of the bar, past all the people who definitely witnessed whatever that was. the rain is still falling when you step outside, heavier now, and you tilt your face up to it like it might wash away the last ten minutes.
it doesn’t.
you make it three blocks before you have to stop, pressing your palm against the rough brick of some building, trying to remember how to breathe.
your chest feels too tight. everything feels too tight. the jumper, the coat, your own skin. you want to claw your way out of your body, want to shed this version of yourself that stands outside bars in the rain and confronts ex-boyfriends on dates and can’t figure out how to let go of something that’s already gone.
“that went well,” a voice says behind you.
you don’t turn around. “go away, sirius.”
“can’t. i’m morally obligated to make sure you don’t do anything stupid.”
“bit late for that.”
“fair.”
he leans against the wall beside you, close enough that you can smell the cigarette smoke on his jacket. for a minute, neither of you says anything. just stand there in the rain, two tired people pretending they’re not falling apart.
“he’s not happy,” sirius says finally. “if that helps.”
“it doesn’t.”
“didn’t think so.” he lights another cigarette, offers you one. you take it even though you don’t smoke anymore, haven’t since the war. the nicotine burns your throat in a way that feels almost good.
“i fucked up,” you say.
“yeah.”
“i shouldn’t have gone in there.”
“probably not.”
“i’m pathetic.”
“you’re heartbroken,” sirius corrects. “there’s a difference.”
“doesn’t feel like it.”
he takes a long drag, exhaling smoke into the rain. “you want to know what i think?”
“not particularly.”
“i think you’re both idiots,” he says anyway. “him for walking away, you for letting him. and before you say you didn’t have a choice—you did. you could have fought harder. you could have told him he was being a self-sacrificing martyr and that you loved him anyway. but you didn’t. you just—you let him make the decision for both of you.”
the words hit harder than they should. maybe because they’re true. maybe because you’ve been thinking the same thing for six weeks and hearing someone else say it out loud makes it real.
“he told me i didn’t understand,” you say quietly. “that i was naive. that loving him was—what did he say? martyrdom. like i was sacrificing myself instead of just—” you stop, throat tight. “instead of just loving him.”
“he’s an idiot,” sirius repeats.
“he’s scared.”
“that too.”
you finish the cigarette and flick it into a puddle, watch it extinguish with a small hiss. “i should go home.”
“you should.”
“but if i go home, i have to take off the charm.”
sirius looks at you for a long moment. “yeah,” he says finally. “you do.”
you don’t take off the charm.
you go home, and you shower, and you hang remus’s jumper on the back of a chair because you can’t bring yourself to put it in the wash, and you lie in bed staring at the ceiling with the silver thread pulsing against your wrist.
he’s still at the black dog. you can see it on the map—his location steady, unmoving. with her.
you wonder what they’re talking about. if he’s smiling the way he used to smile with you, all soft edges and careful warmth. if he’s telling her stories about hogwarts, about the marauders, about the war. if he’s editing out the parts where you existed.
you wonder if he’s kissing her.
the thought makes you feel physically ill.
you roll over, press your face into the pillow, and try to remember how to breathe. six weeks of clean air, and it hasn’t gotten easier. if anything, it’s gotten worse. because now you know what it’s like to see him with someone else, to hear him say it wasn’t right for me, to watch him pretend your song doesn’t mean anything.
you learned this the hard way. habits like checking the charm, like wearing his clothes, like loving him even when he doesn’t love you back. they don’t fade. they don’t quiet. they just—they live inside you, permanent as scars, screaming every time you try to move on.
the charm flickers.
you check it before you can stop yourself, and your heart does something complicated in your chest.
he’s moving.
leaving the black dog, heading—you trace the path, breath caught—heading toward your flat.
no.
no.
he can’t come here. you can’t—you’re not ready, you’re still wearing his t-shirt and your eyes are probably red and you can’t see him, not now, not like this.
you watch the silver dot move through the streets of london, getting closer with each pulse. ten minutes away. seven. five.
you should pretend you’re not home. turn off the lights, don’t answer the door, let him think you’re out or asleep or anywhere but here.
but you’re already getting out of bed, already pulling on jeans and trying to fix your hair in the mirror. your face looks awful—pale and drawn and wrong. you splash cold water on it, which doesn’t help.
the knock comes at two in the morning, three soft taps like he’s not sure he should be here.
he shouldn’t be here.
you open the door anyway.
remus stands in the hallway, still damp from the rain, looking as terrible as you feel. his eyes are red-rimmed, his hair a mess, his hands shoved deep in his pockets like he’s trying to physically restrain himself.
“hi,” he says.
“hi.”
“i know i shouldn’t be here.”
“no, you shouldn’t.”
“i tried not to come.”
“you should have tried harder.”
he lets out a sound that might be a laugh or might be something else. “yeah. probably.”
you lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, trying to look like you’re not completely falling apart. “what do you want, remus?”
“i don’t know.”
“that’s not good enough.”
“i know.”
the silence stretches between you, painful and familiar. you can hear the couple upstairs again, their argument evolved into makeup sex that’s going to keep you awake for the next hour. london sounds. the kind that used to feel like home when he was here.
“you said it wasn’t right for you,” you say finally. “at the bar. you said—”
“i know what i said.”
“did you mean it?”
he doesn’t answer immediately. just stands there looking at you with an expression you can’t quite read. finally: “no.”
the word lands like a stone in still water, ripples spreading outward.
“then why did you say it?”
“because i’m—” he stops, runs a hand through his hair. “because i’m fucking terrified, okay? of you, of this, of—of everything. and it’s easier to push you away than to—than to—”
“than to what?”
“than to watch you realize you made a mistake,” he finishes quietly.
the words hit you sideways. you’re suddenly aware of how close he is, how familiar he smells—tea and old books and something uniquely him. how easy it would be to close the distance between you, to fall back into the pattern of loving him.
“i didn’t make a mistake,” you say.
“you don’t know that.”
“yes, i do.”
“you say that now, but—”
“but nothing,” you interrupt. “i knew exactly what i was getting into. your scars, your nightmares, your self-loathing, your monthly transformations, all of it. i knew, and i loved you anyway. not in spite of those things—not as martyrdom—just—” you stop, trying to find the right words. “just because. because you’re you. because loving you felt right in a way nothing else ever has.”
he’s staring at you like you’re speaking a language he can’t quite translate.
“i wanted the cottage in wales,” you continue. your voice is shaking now, but you can’t stop. “i wanted the life we talked about. i wanted to fight for werewolf rights and adopt cats and have horrible arguments about whose turn it is to do dishes. i wanted all of it. and you just—you decided i didn’t. you decided what i could handle, what i wanted, what was best for me, and you didn’t even ask.”
“i was trying to protect you,” he says.
“from what?”
“from me.”
“i didn’t need protecting from you. i needed you to believe me when i said i loved you.”
the words hang in the air between you, sharp and true.
remus takes a step forward, and then another, until he’s close enough that you have to tilt your head back to look at him. his hand comes up, hesitates, finally settles against your cheek. his thumb brushes away a tear you didn’t realize had fallen.
“i’m sorry,” he whispers. “i’m so fucking sorry.”
“for which part?”
“all of it. for pushing you away, for—for her, for making you stand in the rain outside a bar like some tragic—” he stops. “you were right. about the charm. i didn’t forget to turn it off. i couldn’t. because turning it off felt like—like admitting you were really gone.”
your breath catches.
“i’m not happy,” he continues. “with her, without you, with any of it. i thought—i thought if i tried hard enough, i could make myself want something easier. someone who doesn’t know about the furry problem, who doesn’t carry wolfsbane in her bag, who won’t have to watch me turn into a monster once a month. but i can’t. i can’t stop—” he stops again, throat working. “i can’t stop missing you. in the shower, in the bar, when that fucking song plays. everywhere. all the time.”
you’re crying properly now, tears hot on your cheeks.
“do you hate me?” he asks quietly.
“no.”
“you should.”
“probably.”
“i wouldn’t blame you if you did. for tonight, for all of it. i know i—i know i hurt you. that i’m still hurting you. and i hate myself for it, but i can’t seem to stop because i’m so fucking scared that if i let you back in, if i let myself believe this could work, something’s going to happen. the war’s going to start again, or i’m going to hurt you during a transformation, or you’re going to wake up one day and realize you tied yourself to a monster and—”
you kiss him.
it’s not planned. you just—you can’t listen to him call himself a monster anymore, can’t watch him tear himself apart trying to protect you from something that isn’t real. so you close the distance and press your lips to his, and he makes a sound like something breaking.
his hands come up to frame your face, fingers tangling in your hair, and he kisses you back like he’s trying to memorize the taste of you. and when you finally break apart, you’re both breathing hard.
“i’m still terrified,” he says against your mouth.
“i know.”
“i’m probably going to fuck this up again.”
“probably.”
“and you’re okay with that?”
you pull back far enough to look at him properly. his eyes are wet, his face open in a way it hasn’t been in months. vulnerable. real.
“i’m okay with trying,” you say. “if you are.”
he doesn’t answer with words. just pulls you back in and kisses you again, slower this time, deliberate. and somewhere in the tangle of his hands in your hair and your fingers curled in his jacket, you feel something shift. not fixed, exactly. not healed. but—possible.
“what about her?” you ask, because someone has to.
“i’ll talk to her tomorrow. properly. she deserves—she deserves better than this.”
“yeah, she does.”
“are you going to invite me in, or are we going to keep having this conversation in the hallway?”
you should make him work harder for it. should make him grovel, or explain, or promise things he might not be able to keep. but you’re tired, and he’s here, and the last six weeks have been the longest of your life.
“come in,” you say, and step aside.
he walks past you into the flat, and you close the door behind him, and somewhere in the distance you can hear the rain still falling. but inside, it’s warm. and he’s here. and for now, that’s enough.
you make tea because that’s what you do. what you’ve always done. when things are too big or too complicated or too raw to address directly, you make tea and let the ritual of it fill the silence.
remus sits at your kitchen table, in the chair that used to be his chair, and watches you move through the familiar motions. kettle on. mugs down. tea bags in. the comfortable choreography of a routine you used to share.
“you kept my jumper,” he says.
you follow his gaze to where it’s still hanging on the back of the chair, the blue wool with the hole in the sleeve.
“it’s comfortable.”
“it’s falling apart.”
“i like it anyway.”
something in his expression softens. “i like it on you.”
you pour the water, steam rising between you. “you left it here. the night you—the night it ended. i found it on the bathroom floor the next morning and i couldn’t—” you stop. “i couldn’t throw it away.”
heart — “but lately i keep thinking about what it would be like to just want one thing,” she finishes quietly. “to know what that feels like. to wake up and not be thinking about what’s next or where else i could be or what i’m missing out on. to just—be here. with you. and for that to be enough.”
warnings — alcohol consumption, smoking, profanity, war themes, discussions of mortality, anxiety, and emotionally intense confrontations.
word count — about 11k
marauders era masterlist
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“you’re going to hate it.”
marlene’s voice cuts through the humid evening air before you’ve even reached the third-floor landing, and she’s already fumbling with her keys, dropping them once because her hands are full of shopping bags that are definitely not presents for herself even though it’s her birthday. the stairwell smells like old cigarettes and someone’s burnt dinner, and there’s graffiti charmed to shift colors on the wall—someone’s amateur spell work that never quite took properly.
“i won’t hate it,” you say, even though you probably will. dorcas has been planning this for weeks with that manic energy she gets when she’s trying not to think about the fact that emmeline’s been on assignment for the order and hasn’t checked in for five days. “it’s your birthday. i’m contractually obligated to enjoy myself.”
“you hate parties.”
“i hate *bad* parties.”
marlene finally gets the door open and the sound hits first—the smiths bleeding out of dorcas’s enchanted record player, someone’s laughter already too loud for nine o’clock, the clink of bottles being levitated across the room because no one can be bothered to actually carry them. the flat is small and cluttered even on a good day, all mismatched furniture and stacks of books dorcas keeps meaning to organize and marlene’s leather jacket thrown over every available surface. tonight it’s worse, or maybe better depending on how you feel about chaos. someone’s strung up charmed lights that flicker in and out like a heartbeat, and there’s already a haze of cigarette smoke catching in the glow.
“oh, fuck,” marlene says, and it sounds less like dismay and more like reluctant affection.
dorcas appears from the kitchen with her hair up in a silk scarf and a wooden spoon in one hand, waving it like a wand. “you’re late to your own party, mckinnon.”
“we stopped for—” marlene holds up the bags. “stuff.”
“you stopped to avoid getting here on time.” dorcas points the spoon at marlene, then swings it in your direction. “you were supposed to get here by eight.”
“i tried.” you shift the bottle of cheap wine you grabbed from the off-license on the corner, the one that sells to wizards and doesn’t ask questions about what exactly you’re celebrating. “marlene wanted to change three times.”
“i looked washed out in the first one,” marlene protests, already moving into the flat, and people are turning—james potter is sprawled on the couch that’s seen better days, his glasses slightly askew and his grin immediate. sirius is next to him, one arm slung over the back of the sofa, wearing a leather jacket that probably cost more than their rent. remus is in the corner with a book he’s definitely not reading, and peter’s by the window with a cigarette hanging from his mouth, waving.
“there she is!” james is up immediately, pulling marlene into a hug that lifts her off her feet. “birthday girl! twenty-one, yeah? you’re ancient.”
“fuck off, potter.” but marlene’s laughing, and her bags are somewhere on the floor now, and she’s being passed from james to sirius to remus in a series of increasingly elaborate hugs.
you watch from the doorway, still holding the wine, and sirius catches your eye over marlene’s shoulder and winks. “you look like you’d rather be anywhere else, love.”
“i’m thrilled to be here,” you say flatly, and he laughs.
“liar.”
you are lying, sort of. parties make you feel like you’re watching everything from behind glass, all that noise and energy bouncing off you without quite landing. but marlene loves them, loves the chaos and the people and the noise, and so here you are. again. like always.
james appears at your elbow, stealing the wine from your hands. “this is shit wine.”
“it’s what they had.”
“we brought real stuff. dorcas has been hoarding firewhisky like we’re going into another bloody war.” he pauses. “well. another obvious one.”
the comment lands heavy for a second, the way everything does lately. you can’t talk about the future without tripping over the war, can’t make plans without wondering if you’ll be around to keep them. but then james is already moving past it, uncorking the wine with his wand because he’s too lazy to do it by hand, and the moment passes.
marlene’s in the kitchen now, and you can hear her laugh—that bright, sharp sound that cuts through everything else. dorcas is saying something about the cake she made, or tried to make, and marlene’s giving her shit about it in that way she does where the insult is the affection.
“you going to actually come in?” remus asks, appearing beside you with two glasses of something amber and probably too strong. he hands you one without asking. “or just stand in the doorway all night?”
“i’m pacing myself.”
“you’re hiding.”
“i’m observing.”
“right.” remus takes a sip of his drink, and there’s something knowing in his expression, that quiet way he has of seeing too much and saying too little. “and how’s that going?”
you don’t answer because marlene’s coming back through, weaving between people with practiced ease, and her lipstick is already smudged at one corner—dark red, nearly purple in this light. she’s wearing that black top with the low back that you told her made her look like she was trying too hard, which of course made her wear it immediately.
“you,” marlene says, pointing at you. “stop lurking. come do shots with us.”
“it’s nine-fifteen.”
“it’s my birthday.”
“that’s not an excuse for—”
but she’s already grabbing your wrist, pulling you further into the flat, and her hand is warm and her rings are cold and you let yourself be pulled because that’s what you do. that’s what you’ve always done.
the kitchen is somehow smaller with six people crammed into it, and dorcas has lined up shot glasses on the counter—mismatched, some of them definitely not meant for shots, one that might be an egg cup. there’s a bottle of something clear and probably illegal in the center, and mary macdonald is laughing at something lily evans just said, her head thrown back and her braids swinging.
“finally,” mary says when she sees you. “we were placing bets on whether you’d actually show up or find an excuse.”
“i always show up.”
“you always *think* about not showing up,” lily corrects, and she’s smiling, soft around the edges in that way she gets after one drink. james is hovering near her shoulder like he’s afraid she’ll disappear if he stops touching her, and honestly, these days, maybe she will. maybe any of them will.
dorcas starts pouring, heavy-handed and generous, and the liquid splashes over the rim of one glass. “fuck. okay. everyone grab one.”
“what are we toasting?” peter asks from the doorway, and his face is already flushed, pale skin going pink.
marlene picks up her glass—the egg cup—and holds it up. “to being twenty-one and still alive, i guess.”
“christ, marlene,” sirius mutters, but he’s grinning.
“to being alive!” dorcas echoes, louder, more defiant, and everyone raises their glasses.
you look at marlene across the counter and her eyes are bright, slightly unfocused already even though you know she hasn’t had that much yet. she just gets like this at parties, lit up from the inside, burning through her own energy like it’s infinite. she catches you looking and her grin goes crooked, private, the one that’s just for you.
“to being alive,” you say, quieter, and then you’re all drinking and it burns going down, sharp and clean and probably strong enough to strip paint.
mary coughs. “what the fuck is that?”
“polish vodka,” dorcas says proudly. “bloke at the shop said it was the good stuff.”
“the bloke lied,” remus says, but he’s already reaching for the bottle to pour another round.
and then it’s chaos again, the way it always is with this group—someone changing the record to something louder, sirius and james getting into an argument about quidditch that’s definitely a cover for the argument they’re actually having about something else, lily trying to organize people into teams for some drinking game no one knows the rules to. marlene’s pulled into a conversation with mary about whether or not they should try to charm the lights to dance, and you end up on the couch next to peter, who’s telling you about his mum’s new boyfriend in that rambling way he gets when he’s nervous and trying not to be.
you half-listen, watching marlene over the rim of your glass. she’s animated, hands moving as she talks, and she’s touched three different people in the last minute—mary’s shoulder, dorcas’s wrist, james’s arm when he passes by. she’s always been like that, tactile and present, needing to feel everyone around her.
“—and then he tried to fix the telly with magic, can you believe that? a *muggle* telly—”
“peter,” you interrupt gently. “i love you, but i need a cigarette.”
he blinks, then laughs. “yeah, alright. i’m boring myself, honestly.”
you pat his knee and stand, and the room tilts slightly. maybe remus was right about the vodka. you make your way to the balcony door, sliding it open to a rush of warm, thick air that doesn’t do much to help. london in late summer is like breathing through a wet cloth, everything heavy and close.
the balcony is small, barely big enough for two people if they don’t mind touching, metal railing rusted in spots and an ashtray that’s already overflowing even though the party’s barely started. there are charmed lights strung along the edge, pale yellow and flickering, and you can see the thames in the distance, dark water reflecting scattered light.
you light your cigarette with the tip of your wand—lazy magic, the kind that’s second nature—and lean against the railing. inside, someone’s put on a different record, something with a heavier beat, and you can feel it through the wall, through the floor.
the door slides open behind you.
“knew you’d be out here,” marlene says, and there’s something smug in her voice, like she’s won a bet with herself.
“needed air.”
“liar.” she comes to stand next to you, close enough that your elbows touch. she’s got a glass in each hand, both full of something dark. “you needed an escape route.”
“i’m at your party, aren’t i?”
“you’re *at* my party. you’re not *in* my party.” she hands you one of the glasses. “drink this. dorcas made it. it’s supposed to be a cocktail but i think it’s just rum and spite.”
you take it and sip. it’s terrible. “christ.”
“i know.” marlene takes a drink of her own and doesn’t flinch. “so why’d you actually come out here?”
“told you. needed air.”
“bullshit.” but she’s smiling, and she turns to lean her back against the railing, facing the flat instead of the view. her hair’s coming loose from whatever she tried to do with it earlier, dark strands curling against her neck. “you hate parties.”
“i don’t hate parties.”
“you hate parties,” she repeats. “you hate crowds. you hate small talk. you hate that thing people do where they laugh too loud at jokes that aren’t funny.” she counts off on her fingers, and her rings catch the light. “you hate when people stand too close, and you really hate when someone you don’t know well tries to hug you—”
“okay, fine. i hate parties.”
“so why come?”
you look at her, and she’s still smiling but there’s something else underneath it, something almost vulnerable. like the answer matters more than she wants it to.
“because you love them,” you say simply, and take another sip of the terrible drink.
marlene’s smile shifts, goes soft at the edges. “yeah?”
“yeah.”
“that’s a shit reason.”
“it’s the only reason i’ve got.”
inside, someone shouts something and there’s a crash, then laughter. marlene doesn’t turn to look. she’s watching you with that expression you can’t quite read, the one that makes your chest feel too tight.
“you’re good at that,” she says finally.
“at what?”
“saying things that make me feel like an asshole for asking.”
“i wasn’t trying to—”
“i know.” she pushes off the railing and moves closer, into your space in that way she has, all casual intimacy and presumed welcome. she takes the cigarette from your fingers and takes a drag, and you watch her lips around it, the way she exhales smoke toward the sky. “you never are.”
the music changes inside, something slower, and you can hear james singing along badly, lily telling him to shut up, sirius encouraging him to get louder. normal chaos. safe chaos.
marlene hands the cigarette back. “do you ever want to just—i don’t know. disappear? like, not die or anything, just… fuck off somewhere no one can find us?”
“us?”
“yeah.” she says it like it’s obvious. “you and me. just—go. leave all this shit behind and see what happens.”
you think about it, which is dangerous. you think about marlene in the morning, sleep-soft and quiet. you think about waking up somewhere that isn’t london, somewhere the war feels further away. you think about a life that’s smaller and safer and doesn’t include checking the paper every morning to see who died.
“where would we go?” you ask instead of saying any of that.
“i don’t know. paris? rome? some tiny village in scotland where no one speaks english and they’ve never heard of voldemort?”
“you’d be bored in a week.”
“maybe.” she’s smiling again, but it’s wistful now. “or maybe i wouldn’t. maybe i’d just—i don’t know, learn to bake bread or some shit. get really into gardening.”
“you kill every plant you touch.”
“that’s not true. i kept that succulent alive for almost three months.”
“it was plastic, marlene.”
“it was not—” she stops, thinks about it. “oh. well. fuck.”
you laugh, and it surprises you, how easy it is. how easy it always is with her, even when nothing else is.
marlene sets her glass down on the railing and turns to face you fully, and her expression’s gone serious in that way that means she’s actually thinking instead of just talking. “but really. if we could just—leave. would you?”
“leave where?”
“all of it. the order. the war. this whole fucked up situation where we’re barely twenty and we’re already writing wills.”
your cigarette’s burnt down to the filter. you stub it out in the overflowing ashtray and immediately want another one. “i don’t know.”
“yes you do.”
“marlene—”
“you always know. you’re the most decided person i’ve ever met. you just don’t like saying what you want out loud because then someone might hold you to it.”
it’s too accurate and you hate it. “that’s not—”
“isn’t it?” she’s not being mean, exactly. just honest in that brutal way she has when she’s had just enough to drink that her filter’s gone but not so much that she’s incoherent. “you’re terrified of being the kind of person who wants things.”
“i want things.”
“yeah? like what?”
the trap closes and you walked right into it. because the answer is standing in front of you with smudged lipstick and challenging eyes, and you can’t say that. you’ve never been able to say that.
“i want—” you start, then stop. inside, someone’s turned the music up, and you can feel the bass through the wall. “i want the war to be over.”
“that’s everyone’s answer. doesn’t count.” marlene steps closer and you can smell her perfume, something woody and expensive that sirius probably gave her. “what do *you* want? if you could have anything. if the world wasn’t ending and we weren’t all probably going to die before we’re thirty. what would you want?”
you look at her and think about the first time you kissed, sixth year, summer holidays, behind that pub in hogsmeade where you’d both snuck off from different friend groups. how you’d both been slightly drunk and definitely stupid, and how you’d laughed after, foreheads pressed together, like it was a joke you were both in on. except it hadn’t felt like a joke. it had felt like opening a door you’d been standing in front of for years.
“i don’t know,” you say again, and this time it’s closer to the truth. because you do know, but knowing and saying are different things, and saying makes it real, and real means it can be taken away.
marlene’s watching you like she’s waiting for something, and the air between you feels charged, precarious. then she smiles, small and a little sad, and shakes her head.
“you’re so full of shit,” she says, but it’s affectionate.
“i know.”
“come on.” she picks up both glasses and nods toward the door. “we should go back in before dorcas sends a search party.”
“yeah.”
but neither of you move for a long moment, standing there in the humid dark with the party noise bleeding through the wall and the city spread out below you, and you think: this. this is what you want. these suspended moments where nothing’s happened yet and everything still could.
then marlene’s moving past you, sliding the door open, and the spell breaks. you follow because you always do, back into the noise and the heat and the smoke-hazy flat where everyone you love is gathered like this isn’t the most dangerous thing you could all be doing—being together, being visible, being happy in a world that wants to take all of that away.
james spots you immediately and whistles. “there you are! we’re playing paranoia, get over here.”
“we are not playing paranoia,” lily says firmly. “we’re adults.”
you end up on the floor between james and mary, marlene across from you with her legs folded under her, and dorcas is explaining rules that sound made up on the spot. someone’s filled your glass again—you’re not sure when that happened—and the record’s skipping slightly, the same three notes over and over until someone gets up to fix it.
the game devolves quickly into exactly the kind of mess you’d expect from this group, questions getting too personal and people refusing to drink and therefore refusing to answer, which is apparently against the rules, which leads to arguments about what the rules actually are. james asks someone who they’d want to be stuck in a lift with, and they whisper their answer to marlene, and she has to guess who they said. she gets it wrong, refuses to drink, and james tries to physically pour wine into her mouth while she shrieks with laughter.
“you’re all insane,” remus observes from his spot on the couch, and peter nods in agreement, but they’re both smiling.
“your turn,” mary says, nudging you with her elbow. she’s warm and solid and slightly sweaty, and her glass is leaving rings on the floor that no one cares about. “ask someone.”
you look around the circle and your eyes land on marlene without meaning to. they always do. “okay. marlene.”
“oh, here we go,” sirius mutters, and james elbows him.
“if you could have one thing,” you say slowly, “anything in the world. what would it be?”
marlene’s eyes narrow slightly, and there’s something knowing in her smile, like she knows exactly what you’re doing. “that’s not how the game works.”
“close enough.”
“that’s not—” dorcas starts, but marlene waves her off.
“fine. okay.” she sits back, thinking, and everyone’s watching her now, waiting. marlene loves this, loves being the center of attention, loves the moment before she says something that will either make everyone laugh or make everyone uncomfortable. “i’d want everything.”
“that’s cheating,” peter says.
“it’s not cheating, it’s honest.” marlene’s still looking at you, and there’s a challenge in it. “i’d want to travel everywhere. i’d want to be famous for something, doesn’t matter what. i’d want a flat in paris and a house in the country and enough money that i never have to think about it. i’d want to go to every party and meet every interesting person and try every drug and kiss every pretty girl—”
“we get it,” lily interrupts, laughing. “you’re ambitious.”
“i’m greedy,” marlene corrects. “there’s a difference.” she takes a sip of her drink, and her eyes never leave yours. “but honestly? if i’m really being honest? i think i’d want—”
she stops, and the room’s gone quiet in that way that means everyone’s actually listening now, actually curious about what she’ll say.
“i think i’d want to know what it feels like to want just one thing,” she finishes, and her voice has gone soft. “you know? like, to not always be thinking about what’s next. to just… be satisfied.”
it lands heavy, heavier than anything else said tonight, and there’s a moment where no one knows quite what to do with it. then james clears his throat and says, “well that got depressing fast,” and everyone laughs, and the moment passes.
but you’re still looking at marlene and she’s still looking at you, and you think: i could teach you that. i could show you what it’s like to want just one thing. i already do.
the game moves on, gets louder, gets messier. someone spills their drink and cleans it up with a spell that only halfway works, leaving a sticky patch on the floor. lily and james disappear for a while—ostensibly to get more ice, but they’re gone long enough that everyone makes jokes when they come back. sirius challenges peter to some kind of drinking contest that remus immediately vetoes. mary and dorcas end up in a corner having an intense conversation that looks like it might be an argument but could just as easily be them planning someone’s murder.
you lose track of time, the way you always do at parties. could be eleven, could be one in the morning. the music keeps playing, the same record over and over because no one can be bothered to change it, and at some point you realize you’re actually having fun, or at least you’re not hating being here, which is close enough.
marlene’s on the couch now, tucked under sirius’s arm, and they’re singing along to the record—badly, off-key, but with feeling. james joins in from across the room and then remus does too, quiet but sincere, and suddenly everyone’s singing, even you, even though you don’t really know the words.
and it hits you, sharp and sudden and unwelcome: this might be it. this might be the last time you’re all together like this, drunk and stupid and young. tomorrow one of you could get called for a mission and not come back. next week the ministry could fall. next month voldemort could win and all of this—the flat, the party, the people—could be gone.
marlene catches your eye across the room and her smile falters, just for a second, like she can see what you’re thinking. then she’s up, extracting herself from sirius with practiced ease, and she’s making her way over to you.
“come outside again,” she says, and it’s not a question.
you don’t argue. you just follow.
the balcony’s cooler now, or maybe you’ve just gotten used to the heat. there’s a breeze coming off the river, carrying the smell of rain even though the sky’s still clear. marlene leans against the railing and lights a cigarette, and you watch her hands, the way they shake slightly.
“you okay?” you ask.
“yeah. no. i don’t know.” she takes a drag and exhales slowly. “do you ever feel like we’re all just pretending?”
“pretending what?”
“that this is normal. that having a party and getting drunk and playing stupid games is something people our age should be doing, instead of—” she waves her hand vaguely. “whatever the fuck we’re actually supposed to be doing.”
“what are we supposed to be doing?”
“i don’t know. preparing to die, maybe? writing letters to people we’ll never get to say goodbye to? figuring out what we’re going to do when half of us don’t make it to next year?”
you don’t say anything because there’s nothing to say. she’s right. you’re all pretending, all trying to hold onto some version of normal that doesn’t really exist anymore.
“sorry,” marlene says after a moment. “that was—fuck, i don’t know why i said that. it’s my birthday. i should be happy.”
“you’re allowed to not be happy on your birthday.”
“what kind of bullshit logic is that?”
“the kind that’s true.” you take the cigarette from her fingers and take a drag. “you don’t have to perform for everyone all the time, marlene.”
“i’m not performing.”
“you are. you’ve been performing since we got here. being the life of the party, making sure everyone’s having a good time, acting like you don’t care that emmeline’s not here or that moody’s in st. mungo’s or that we’re all terrified every fucking day.”
marlene turns to look at you, and her expression’s gone careful. “you think i don’t care?”
“i think you care so much it scares you, so you pretend you don’t.”
“and you?” her voice is sharp now, defensive. “what do you do? hide on balconies and judge everyone for trying to have a good time?”
it stings because it’s partly true. “i’m not judging—”
“you are. you always do. you stand on the outside and you watch and you think you’re better than all of us because you don’t need this like we do.”
“that’s not—” you stop, take a breath. fighting with marlene is easy, too easy, because you both know exactly where to press. “i don’t think i’m better than anyone.”
“no?”
“no. i just—” you hand back the cigarette and she takes it, and your fingers brush. “i don’t know how to do what you do. i don’t know how to be in the middle of everything and not feel like i’m drowning.”
marlene’s quiet for a moment, smoking, watching you. then she says, softer, “you think i don’t feel like i’m drowning?”
“i think you’re better at hiding it.”
“i’m not hiding it. i’m just drowning louder.” she smiles, but it’s sad. “that’s the difference between us. you go quiet when you’re scared. i get loud.”
inside, someone’s changed the record finally, and this one’s slower, something with piano and a woman’s voice singing about loss. you can hear lily laughing, james saying something that makes everyone groan.
“i’m sorry,” you say. “for—”
“don’t.” marlene cuts you off. “don’t apologize. you’re probably right. i probably am performing. i just—” she takes one last drag and stubs the cigarette out. “i don’t know how else to be.”
“you could try being honest.”
“what, like you?”
“i’m honest.”
“you’re the least honest person i know.” but she’s smiling now, and it’s real. “you hide everything behind that sarcastic bullshit and those looks you give people like you’re too smart for whatever’s happening.”
“i don’t—”
“you do. and it’s hot, don’t get me wrong. but it’s also a defense mechanism and we both know it.”
the word ‘hot’ hangs in the air between you, and you don’t know what to do with it. marlene calls everyone hot—it’s her default mode of communication—but sometimes, with you, it feels different. weighted.
“so we’re both liars,” you say finally. “great foundation for a friendship.”
“is that what we are?” marlene asks, and her voice has gone quiet. “friends?”
your heart does something complicated. “what else would we be?”
“i don’t know.” she’s looking at you with that expression again, the one you can’t read, the one that makes you feel like you’re standing on the edge of something. “you tell me.”
you could say it now. you could be honest, like you told her to be. you could say: we’re more than friends and you know it and i know it and everyone in that flat knows it. you could say: i think about you constantly and it’s terrifying. you could say: i want to leave london with you and go somewhere safe and quiet and spend the rest of whatever time we have just—being.
instead you say, “we’re friends who make out sometimes when we’re drunk.”
it comes out flatter than you meant it to, more dismissive, and you watch something flicker across marlene’s face—hurt, maybe, or disappointment—before she covers it with that bright, sharp smile.
“right,” she says. “yeah. that’s—yeah.”
“marlene—”
“no, you’re right. that’s all it is. friends who—whatever. it’s fine.” she picks up the glasses you both abandoned earlier, and one of them’s empty, just ice and condensation. “we should go back in. they’re probably wondering where we are.”
“i didn’t mean—”
but she’s already sliding the door open, and the noise crashes over you like a wave, and then she’s swallowed up by the party again, by james pulling her into some kind of elaborate dance move and mary laughing and dorcas trying to get everyone to do shots again.
you stand on the balcony alone and think about all the things you didn’t say, all the things you never say, and wonder if there’s going to come a point where running out of time to say them actually forces you to say them, or if you’ll just run out of time.
when you finally go back inside, the party’s reached that point where everyone’s either very drunk or very tired or both. someone’s sprawled on the couch with their eyes closed. someone else is crying in the corner—happy crying, you think, based on the way lily’s hugging them. the record’s skipping again and no one’s bothering to fix it.
you find marlene in the kitchen with dorcas, and they’re laughing about something, heads bent close together. dorcas sees you first and says something you can’t hear, and marlene turns, and her smile goes complicated when she sees you.
“there you are,” dorcas says. “we were just talking about you.”
“should i be worried?”
“always,” marlene says, and she hands you a glass of water without being asked. “drink this. you look like shit.”
“thanks.”
“i mean you look like hot shit. but still shit.”
you drink the water and it helps, sort of. the room’s still spinning slightly, and you’re not sure if it’s the alcohol or the lack of sleep or the conversation on the balcony. probably all three.
“i’m going to head out,” you say, even though you weren’t planning on leaving yet. even though the thought of going back to your flat alone makes your chest hurt.
“what?” marlene’s expression shifts. “it’s barely—what time is it?”
“late enough.” you set the glass down. “you should stay. enjoy your party.”
“it’s not—” marlene starts, then stops. looks at dorcas, who’s suddenly very interested in wiping down the already-clean counter. “just—wait. five minutes. let me—”
“marlene, you don’t have to—”
“five minutes,” she repeats, and then she’s gone, disappearing into the crowd.
you lean against the counter and dorcas gives you a look. “you two are exhausting.”
“we’re not anything.”
“right. that’s why you both spend every party finding excuses to be alone together and then coming back looking like someone died.”
“we’re friends.”
“sure.” dorcas rinses out a glass and sets it on the drying rack with more force than necessary. “and i’m the minister of magic.”
before you can respond, marlene’s back, slightly breathless, and she’s got her jacket in one hand and her bag in the other. “okay. let’s go.”
“you live here!” dorcas shouts back, but marlene’s already pulling you into the hallway, and then you’re both stumbling down the stairs, and the cooler air of the stairwell is a shock after the heat of the flat.
“you really didn’t have to—”
“shut up,” marlene says, but she’s smiling. “i was looking for an excuse to leave anyway.”
“it’s your birthday party.”
“exactly. i get to do what i want.” she takes your hand to steady herself on the stairs—at least that’s what you tell yourself it is—and doesn’t let go when you reach the bottom.
outside, the street’s quiet, just the distant sound of traffic and someone’s enchanted window display flickering in the shop across the road. the air smells like rain and hot pavement and that particular london smell of too many people living too close together.
“where are we going?” marlene asks.
“i’m going home.”
“cool. i’m coming with you.”
“marlene—”
“what? you think i want to go back up there and listen to sirius and james argue about quidditch until four in the morning? no thanks.” she starts walking, still holding your hand, and you let yourself be pulled along again. “besides, we never got to finish our conversation.”
“i thought we did finish it.”
“no, we got interrupted. there’s a difference.”
you walk in silence for a while, and london unfolds around you in shades of orange streetlight and shadow. there are people out even at this hour—a group of teenagers smoking outside a closed shop, a couple arguing on a corner, someone’s owl flying overhead with a letter tied to its leg. the war hasn’t stopped the city. it just made everything feel precarious, like the whole place could come apart at any moment.
“do you remember the first time we kissed?” marlene asks suddenly.
you weren’t expecting that. “yeah.”
“what do you remember about it?”
“all of it.”
“that’s a cop-out answer.”
you think about it, really think about it. “i remember you tasted like firewhisky and mint. i remember we were both laughing so hard we could barely breathe. i remember thinking it was the stupidest thing i’d ever done and also that i wanted to do it again immediately.”
marlene’s quiet for a moment. “i remember thinking it didn’t feel like a first kiss.”
“no?”
“no. it felt like—i don’t know. like something we’d been doing forever. like we’d just forgotten for a while and then remembered.” she swings your joined hands slightly, and her rings catch the streetlight. “does that make sense?”
“yeah.”
“we never really talked about it after.”
“no.”
“why not?”
because talking about it would have made it real, and real meant having to figure out what it meant, and you were seventeen and scared and the war was starting and it seemed easier to just let it be what it was—something that happened sometimes, when you were both drunk or lonely or brave enough to pretend it didn’t mean anything.
“i don’t know,” you say instead. “we just didn’t.”
“we’re not very good at talking about things.”
“no.”
“or maybe we’re too good at pretending we don’t need to talk about things.”
you turn onto your street, and your flat’s at the end—fourth floor, questionable heating, a neighbor who plays the violin at odd hours. it’s not much but it’s yours, paid for with money from the order and what little you make working part-time at flourish and blotts.
“do you want to come up?” you ask, even though she’s clearly planning on it.
“obviously.” marlene follows you up the stairs—four flights, no lift, your legs burning by the time you reach your door. she’s been here enough times that she doesn’t wait for an invitation, just walks in and heads straight for your kitchen, opening the fridge like she lives here. “you have no food.”
“i have food.”
“you have beer and takeaway containers and something that might have been yogurt at some point.” she closes the fridge and opens a cupboard. “do you have tea at least?”
“second cupboard from the left.”
she finds it and starts making tea without asking if you want any, filling your kettle with a flick of her wand and setting it to boil. you watch her move around your kitchen like she belongs there, and maybe she does. maybe she’s belonged here longer than you’ve been willing to admit.
“so,” she says, getting down two mugs. “are we going to actually talk about it or are we going to keep pretending?”
“pretending what?”
“don’t.” she turns to face you, and her expression’s gone serious. “don’t do that thing where you play dumb. you’re too smart for it and it pisses me off.”
“i’m not—”
“we’ve been doing this for four years,” marlene interrupts. “four years of—whatever this is. kissing at parties, spending every night together, everyone assuming we’re together because we basically are, except we never actually say it out loud. and i’m—” she stops, takes a breath. “i’m tired of pretending i don’t know what this is.”
your heart’s doing that thing again, that complicated painful thing. “marlene—”
“no, let me—just let me say this, okay? because i’m still drunk enough to be brave and if i don’t say it now i probably never will.” she’s gripping the edge of the counter, and her knuckles are white. “i love you. and i don’t mean like a friend, even though you are my friend, my best friend probably, but i mean—fuck, you know what i mean. don’t make me spell it out.”
the kettle starts whistling and neither of you move.
“and the worst part,” marlene continues, “the really shit part, is that i think you love me too. i think you have for a while. but you’re so fucking scared of wanting things that you won’t even admit it to yourself, let alone to me.”
“that’s not—”
“isn’t it?” she’s not angry, exactly. just tired. “you said it yourself earlier. i want everything. i always have. i want to travel and be famous and have adventures and do everything and be everywhere. and i do want all of that, i really do. but—”
she stops, and the kettle’s still whistling, too loud in the small kitchen.
“but lately i keep thinking about what it would be like to just want one thing,” she finishes quietly. “to know what that feels like. to wake up and not be thinking about what’s next or where else i could be or what i’m missing out on. to just—be here. with you. and for that to be enough.”
you can’t breathe. the kitchen’s too small and too hot and marlene’s looking at you like she’s waiting for you to say something, anything, and you don’t know what to say because she’s right. she’s completely right. you are scared. you’re terrified.
“the tea,” you say stupidly, and she laughs, but it sounds like it hurts.
“yeah.” she turns and takes the kettle off, and her hands are shaking. “the tea.”
you should say something. you should tell her that you love her too, that you have since sixth year, maybe even before that. you should tell her that when she talks about wanting everything, you want to be the thing she wants most. you should tell her that the thought of losing her is the only thing that scares you more than the war.
but the words stick in your throat, the way they always do, and instead you just stand there like an idiot while she makes tea with jerky, angry movements.
“forget it,” marlene says finally, not looking at you. “forget i said anything. we can just go back to pretending—”
“i can’t lose you.”
it comes out raw, and marlene stops, goes still.
“if i say it,” you continue, and your voice sounds strange, distant, “if i admit that this is—that we’re—then it becomes real. and if it’s real then i can lose it. and i can’t—” you stop, swallow hard. “everyone’s dying, marlene. everyone. and the thought of you being one of them, of something happening to you and me having to—i can’t. i can’t do it.”
marlene sets down the tea bag she was holding and turns to face you. “so your solution is to what? never admit you care about me? never let this be what it actually is? just keep pretending forever?”
“at least then i can—”
“can what? can keep me at arm’s length? can protect yourself from getting hurt?” she steps closer. “newsflash, you’re already in too deep. pretending this is just friendship doesn’t change the fact that if something happens to me, it’ll destroy you. and if something happens to you—”
her voice cracks, and she stops.
“if something happens to you,” she starts again, quieter, “i don’t know what i’ll do. so we’re both already fucked. the only difference is whether we actually let ourselves be happy in the meantime.”
“what if there is no meantime?” you ask. “what if this is it? what if we’re running out of time and i’ve wasted all of it being too scared to—”
“then stop being scared.” marlene closes the distance between you, and now she’s right there, close enough that you can see the smudged eyeliner at the corner of her eyes, the way her lipstick’s worn off everywhere except the very center of her bottom lip. “just for tonight. stop being scared and tell me what you want.”
you look at her, really look at her, and think about all the nights you’ve spent like this, dancing around what you both know. think about all the almosts and not-quites. think about that conversation on the balcony, about wanting everything versus wanting one thing.
“you,” you say finally, and it feels like jumping off something very high. “i want you.”
marlene’s eyes go soft, and she reaches up to cup your face with both hands, and her palms are warm. “yeah?”
“yeah.”
“say it again.”
“i want you.” it’s easier the second time. “i want you and it terrifies me but i want you anyway.”
“good,” marlene says, and then she’s kissing you.
it’s different from all the other times. those were always quick, stolen, slightly drunk and laughing. this is slow and deliberate and she’s holding your face like you’re something precious, something worth keeping. you kiss her back and your hands find her waist, pull her closer, and she makes a small sound against your mouth.
when you finally break apart, you’re both breathing hard, and marlene’s forehead is pressed to yours.
“i want to marry you,” she says, and it’s not a question, not really.
you laugh, slightly breathless. “you’re drunk.”
“i’m not that drunk.” her thumbs brush your cheekbones. “i mean it. i want to marry you. i want—fuck, i want everything with you. i want to wake up next to you every day and fight about whose turn it is to make tea and hear you complain about my mess. i want to know what you look like when you’re fifty. i want—”
“marlene—”
“—to have kids with you, maybe. or not kids, if you don’t want them, but like, a life. a real life, not just whatever we’ve been doing. i want to tell people you’re mine and actually mean it. i want—”
you kiss her again to shut her up, and she laughs against your mouth.
“you’re insane,” you say when you pull back.
“probably.” she’s smiling now, that real smile, the one that’s just for you. “but i’m right.”
“we can’t get married. it’s not even legal.”
“so what? we’ll do it anyway. get dorcas to officiate. make james cry. force sirius to wear dress robes.”
“you’re being ridiculous.”
“i’m being honest.” she kisses your jaw, your neck, and you shiver. “i spent all night watching you watch me and thinking about how much time we’ve wasted. and i don’t want to waste any more.”
“we’re in the middle of a war.”
“exactly.” she pulls back to look at you. “which means we could die tomorrow. so shouldn’t we do what makes us happy while we still can?”
you want to argue with her logic but you can’t, because she’s right. she’s always right, even when she’s wrong. especially when she’s wrong.
“i love you,” you say, and it’s the first time you’ve said it out loud, the first time you’ve let yourself admit it. “i love you and i’m scared and i don’t know how to do this.”
“me either.” marlene’s eyes are bright, and she’s still holding your face. “but we’ll figure it out. we always do.”
the tea’s forgotten on the counter, probably already gone cold. outside, you can hear the city—sirens in the distance, someone laughing, the endless ambient sound of london at night. inside, it’s just the two of you in your tiny kitchen, and marlene’s hands are in your hair now, and you’re both still slightly drunk and definitely making decisions you’ll have to deal with in the morning.
but right now, in this moment, you let yourself have this. you let yourself want her without the guilt or the fear or the constant background noise of anxiety. you let yourself imagine a future where you both survive, where you get to wake up next to her every day, where loving her out loud is something you’re allowed to do.
“so,” marlene says, grinning. “is that a yes to the marriage thing?”
“you didn’t actually ask me.”
“i’m asking now.”
“while we’re standing in my kitchen at two in the morning, both drunk, after you just gave me a speech about wanting everything?”
“yes.”
you pretend to think about it. “okay.”
“okay?” marlene’s grin gets wider. “that’s it? just okay?”
“what did you want, a speech?”
“would’ve been nice.”
“i love you,” you say again, testing the words, liking the way they feel. “and yes. someday. when we’re not in the middle of a war and you’re sober enough to remember asking.”
“i’ll remember.” she kisses you again, soft and quick. “i remember everything about you.”
“that’s creepy.”
“it’s romantic.”
“it’s both.”
she laughs and pulls you toward the living room, and you end up on your couch that’s too small for two people, marlene half in your lap, her head on your shoulder. she’s warm and solid and real, and you can feel her breathing, feel her heartbeat against your ribs.
“tell me something,” she says after a while.
“like what?”
“i don’t know. something i don’t know about you.”
you think about it. “sometimes when you’re talking, i don’t hear what you’re saying because i’m too busy watching your mouth move.”
“that’s not new information. i’ve caught you doing that like a hundred times.”
“okay. um.” you try to think of something real, something true. “i’ve been in love with you since sixth year. maybe before that. and every time you kissed someone else at a party, i had to leave the room because i couldn’t watch.”
marlene goes very still. “really?”
“yeah.”
“i only ever kissed other people because i thought you weren’t interested.”
“i was interested. i was terrified, but i was interested.”
“we’re really stupid,” marlene says.
“yeah.”
“like, genuinely idiotic.”
“i know.”
she shifts so she can look at you, and there’s something vulnerable in her expression. “do you think we would’ve been different? if there wasn’t a war? if we were just—normal people living normal lives?”
“i don’t know. maybe.” you brush a strand of hair from her face. “probably would’ve taken us less time to figure our shit out.”
heyyy i was just wondering, are you still writing? i love your works sm!!
hii! sorry i‘ve been gone for so long, i haven‘t been able to keep up with uni stuff, personal stuff & writing all at once. but i‘ll do my best to get back into writing. i‘ve planned a few things, and already have finished a few oneshots that i‘ll be posting immediately! hope you all like them, they were all written in a „rush“, but i do hope it isn‘t so obvious. love you all, and thank you so, so, so much for all the love and support so far!
heart — „ not on one knee, but two. both knees pressed to the cold tile, looking up at you with those hazel eyes that had always seen straight through to your soul. his hands had reached for you, circled your waist, pulled you close until his face pressed against your stomach. "
your glass is half empty, but your heart is full. music pulses through the magically expanded tent, fairy lights strung across the ceiling like captured stars. you watch james across the room, his hair just as wild as the day you met him, his smile just as bright. he's talking to sirius, laughing at something his best friend said, and then—as if pulled by some unseen force—his eyes find yours through the crowd.
his gaze softens. seven years together and he still looks at you like you're his favorite constellation in the night sky.
"you're staring again," lily says, nudging you with her elbow. her emerald eyes sparkle with amusement.
"it's my wedding. i'm allowed," you reply, taking another sip of champagne. "besides, have you seen my husband?"
the word still feels strange on your tongue. husband. james potter is your husband.
"only every day for the past decade," lily rolls her eyes. "though i will admit he cleans up nice. even if he couldn't be bothered to tame that bird's nest he calls hair."
"i'd have married someone else if he had," you say, and it's true. james wouldn't be james without the perpetual bedhead, without the crooked glasses and lopsided grin.
marlene mckinnon slides into the seat on your other side, her cheeks flushed from dancing or drinking or both. "there's the blushing bride," she says, slinging an arm around your shoulders. "how does it feel to finally make an honest man of james potter?"
"like i've made a terrible mistake," you deadpan, making lily snort into her drink.
"too late now," marlene grins, passing you a shot of something amber and potent-smelling. "might as well enjoy the ride."
you take the shot, wincing at the burn. "where's dorcas?"
"last i saw, teaching frank longbottom how to dance properly. poor alice was looking relieved."
across the room, james excuses himself from sirius and makes his way toward you, navigating through dancing couples and tipsy well-wishers. he moves with that same casual confidence that used to make you want to hex him and kiss him in equal measure.
"there you are," he says when he reaches you, as if you've been lost rather than standing in plain sight. his hand finds yours, fingers interlacing. "miss me?"
"terribly," you deadpan. "these whole five minutes have been excruciating."
"don't mind me," lily says. "i'll just go find remus and leave you two to be disgustingly in love."
"i'll come with," marlene adds, giving you a wink. "save her from the third-wheeling."
james watches them go before turning back to you, tugging you closer until you're pressed against him. "having fun, mrs. potter?"
"that's not my name," you remind him. you'd kept your own.
"worth a shot," he grins, not at all put out. "having fun, then, light of my life? star of my existence? keeper of my—"
you press your finger to his lips. "if you say 'heart' i'm filing for divorce."
"i was going to say 'keeper of my chocolate frog card collection,' actually, which is much more sacred than my heart. you can have a dozen hearts. there's only one mint condition dumbledore from 1968."
this makes you laugh, the sound lost in the music. "yes, i'm having fun. are you?"
"best day of my life," he says, suddenly serious. his hazel eyes, warm behind his glasses, hold yours. "well, second best. best was when you said yes in our kitchen while wearing my quidditch jersey and nothing else."
"james!" you hiss, glancing around, but no one is paying attention to you.
"what? it's true," he shrugs, unrepentant. "you looked like a dream, with your hair all messy and that hangover potion in your hand. knew right then i'd made the right choice."
"you'd already bought the ring," you point out. "four months before, according to sirius."
"seven," james corrects. "bought it seven months before. sirius can't keep a secret for shit."
you blink at him. "seven months? we'd only been living together for—"
"three years, yes. but i knew long before that." james pulls you toward the edge of the dance floor, away from the crush of bodies. "want to get some air?"
you nod, letting him lead you outside the tent. the summer night embraces you, warm and fragrant with flowers from the garden. music drifts through the canvas, muted now. fairy lights dot the garden path, illuminating the way to a small bench beneath an oak tree.
james sits, pulling you down beside him. his thumb traces circles on the back of your hand.
"what did you mean, you knew long before?" you ask.
he smiles, the kind of smile that starts in his eyes. "do you remember centennial park?"
"of course." it was your favorite spot in london, a place you'd often go to read and escape the chaos of the city. "what about it?"
"i saw you there once. before we properly spoke. you were sitting on the grass, reading, and i thought you were the most beautiful thing i'd ever seen."
you stare at him. "what? when was this?"
"summer before sixth year. i was with sirius, visiting his cousin andromeda. we were walking through the park and there you were."
"why didn't you say anything?"
james laughs softly. "because i was sixteen and stupid. i was so afraid of messing it up. after five years of watching you from afar at hogwarts, almost working up the courage a hundred times only to chicken out... sirius would have never let me live it down if i'd frozen again."
you try to remember that summer, try to picture james potter—all gangly limbs and untamable hair—watching you from across a park. "i don't believe you."
"true story. you were wearing a blue sundress. had your hair up in this messy bun thing." his fingers brush against your neck, mimicking the style. "there was a coffee cup next to you—"
"from that little shop on the corner," you finish. "the one with the blueberry scones."
james nods. "i almost went over to talk to you. sirius dared me to. but then someone called your name and you packed up your things and left."
"and then what? you continued pining for me until we finally got together in sixth year?" you tease, remembering how it all changed between you.
"hey," james protests with a soft smile. "it wasn't just pining. i was strategizing."
"strategizing?" you laugh. "is that what you call staring at me across the great hall for five years?"
"it was sophisticated wooing," james insists. "carefully planned and executed."
"you accidentally turned my potions book into a singing toad."
"that was phase one," he says with absolute seriousness. "get your attention."
"by ruining my homework?"
"i never claimed it was a perfect plan." his thumb brushes over your wedding band. "but it worked eventually, didn't it? sixth year, hogsmeade weekend, you finally said yes."
"only because you promised to help me with transfiguration," you remind him.
"details," he waves dismissively. "the point is, you fell for my charm in the end."
something warm unfurls in your chest. "i fell for a lot more than that."
"i'm drunk on love," he says, so earnestly that you can't even tease him for it.
"do you remember that awful yogurt shop?" you ask, changing the subject before you start crying and ruin your makeup. "the one i worked at during summers?"
james groans. "merlin, that place. what was it called? something ridiculous."
"frosty's fantastical frozen yogurt fantasies," you recite. "sixteen flavors and thirty toppings."
"and one very fit employee who wouldn't give me the time of day," james adds.
you roll your eyes. "because you came in every day for two weeks straight and ordered the most complicated combinations possible."
"i was supporting your place of employment!"
"you were being a pest," you correct. "and leaving outrageous tips."
james doesn't deny it. "got your attention though, didn't i?"
"you did," you admit. "but not in the way you hoped. i thought you were this privileged pureblood who'd never worked a day in his life, slumming it in a muggle shop for kicks."
"ouch," james winces. "that bad?"
"worse," you assure him. "i had a whole speech prepared about wealth inequality and the exploitation of service workers."
"what changed your mind?"
you think back to that summer, to james potter in a teal t-shirt leaning against the counter and asking for kiwi-strawberry yogurt with every topping they had. "you came in one day when it was pouring rain. i was the only one working, and this group of kids came in—soaking wet, no money. you bought them all yogurt, but you made it seem like the shop was running a special. so they wouldn't feel like charity cases."
james looks surprised. "you saw that?"
"hard to miss," you say softly. "especially when you left without even ordering anything for yourself. just paid for them and left."
he shrugs, embarrassed. "wasn't a big deal."
"it was to me." you lean in, kiss him softly. "that's when i started to think maybe james potter wasn't so bad after all."
"high praise," he murmurs against your lips.
"don't let it go to your head," you whisper back, but it's too late—it already has. sixteen years old and his ego had been big enough to rival the giant squid.
a burst of laughter erupts from the tent, followed by the unmistakable sound of sirius black's barking laugh.
"we should get back," you say, though you're reluctant to break this moment. "before sirius sends out a search party."
"let him search," james says, pulling you closer. "i'm not done with you yet."
his kisses are familiar now, mapped over years of wanting and having and loving. but they still make your heart race, still make your magic hum beneath your skin.
"i love you," you murmur against his mouth. "even if you are an insufferable prat sometimes."
"i love you too," he says, serious now. "even when you steal the covers and leave your tea bags in the sink."
before you can respond, a voice calls from the tent.
"prongs! get your tongue out of her mouth and get back in here! it's time for speeches!"
james pulls away, resting his forehead against yours. "duty calls."
"who thought it was a good idea to let sirius give a speech?" you groan.
"probably the same person who thought it was a good idea to let him be best man," james replies. "oh wait, that was me."
you stand, smoothing down your dress. james rises beside you, offers his arm with an exaggerated bow.
"shall we, my love?"
"we shall," you say, taking his arm. "but if sirius mentions the time he got caught us the restricted section, i'm hexing both of you."
james laughs, the sound bright in the summer darkness. "deal."
when you re-enter the tent, you find that someone—almost certainly sirius—has transfigured the center of the dance floor into a small stage. there's a microphone stand that looks suspiciously like it was stolen from a muggle karaoke bar, and fairy lights have been arranged to create a spotlight effect.
sirius himself is standing center stage, his long hair pulled back into a messy bun, glass of firewhiskey in hand. he's shed his formal jacket sometime in the past hour, shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal the tattoos that wind around his forearms. he looks like a rock star who wandered into a wedding by mistake.
"ah, there they are!" he announces as you and james approach. "our guests of honor, finally decided to join their own party. ladies, gentlemen, and everyone in between, please welcome mr. and... well, not mrs., because our bride is a modern witch who kept her name, but you get the idea!"
there's applause and cheering as james leads you to your seats at the head table. you notice remus rolling his eyes fondly at sirius's antics, though there's an unmistakable flush to his cheeks as he watches sirius command the room.
"now," sirius continues once you're settled, "as best man, it is my solemn duty to embarrass the groom as thoroughly as possible while still being invited to future family gatherings. so let me tell you all about james fleamont potter, the boy who spent seven years chasing after the same girl..."
you glance at james, who has the grace to look slightly embarrassed but mostly proud.
"for those who weren't there," sirius says, "let me paint you a picture. hogwarts, 1971. a skinny kid with glasses too big for his face and hair that defied multiple gravitational laws sees this girl—" he gestures to you "—getting sorted into ravenclaw. and do you know what this idiot whispers to me?"
the crowd murmurs curiously.
"he says, and i quote, 'i'm going to marry her someday.' first day, mind you. hadn't even spoken to her yet."
there are awws and chuckles throughout the tent. you turn to james with raised eyebrows.
"did you really say that?" you whisper.
james shrugs, looking sheepish. "more or less."
"more or less nothing," sirius interjects, his hearing apparently supernaturally good when it comes to potential embarrassment. "those were your exact words, prongs. followed by 'don't tell her i said that,' which, well... sorry mate, but the statute of limitations on that promise has expired."
more laughter. sirius takes a dramatic sip of his drink.
"for the next five years," he continues, "we all had to endure james's endless pining. and when i say endless, i mean endless. 'do you think she noticed me in class today?' 'should i try to sit near her at dinner?' 'does she hate me or just strongly dislike me?'"
remus stands up then, joining sirius on the small stage. "to be fair," he says into the microphone, "some of his concerns were valid. she did hate him for a while."
you can't help but laugh, because it's true. you'd thought james potter was an arrogant toerag for most of your early hogwarts years.
"i didn't hate him," you call out. "i just thought he was incredibly annoying."
"same difference to a fifteen-year-old boy," remus points out, earning another round of laughter.
sirius slings an arm around remus's shoulders. "moony here was actually the one who finally knocked some sense into james. told him that maybe, just maybe, hexing snape and showing off on the quidditch pitch wasn't the way to a girl's heart."
"shocking concept," remus deadpans.
"revolutionary," sirius agrees. "and yet, somehow, when james finally stopped being a complete prat and started being just a partial prat, something magical happened."
"she agreed to go to hogsmeade with him," remus finishes.
"one date," sirius holds up a finger. "that's all it took. one date, and james came back to the dormitory looking like he'd been confunded. flopped on his bed and just stared at the ceiling for three hours straight. when peter asked how it went, all he could say was 'i'm so fucked.'"
peter, sitting at a nearby table, raises his glass in confirmation. "true story," he calls.
james buries his face in his hands, but you can see him smiling through his fingers.
"and then," sirius continues, eyes gleaming with mischief, "our dear james here decided the best way to impress our lovely bride was to transfigure the great hall ceiling to spell out her name in stars. unfortunately, his spelling was atrocious, and the entire school was treated to—"
"alright, that's enough," james interrupts, standing up. there's laughter rippling through the tent, faces bright with amusement and alcohol. "i think we've all heard quite enough about my teenage idiocy."
"but i haven't gotten to the part about the restricted section yet," sirius protests, winking at you.
you groan, burying your face in your hands as james reaches for his wand with mock threat.
"moving on," sirius says quickly, raising his glass. "in all seriousness—yes, i can be serious occasionally, thank you very much—i've never seen two people more perfectly suited. james, mate, you're my brother in everything but blood, and watching you find someone who loves all of you—even the annoying bits—has been the greatest gift."
james settles back down beside you, his hand finding yours under the table.
"and you," sirius continues, turning to you. "you've not only put up with this idiot, but you've made him better. happier. you've become family to all of us. so here's to both of you, to love that makes sense even when nothing else does, and to whatever invisible thread of fate brought you together. cheers!"
"cheers!" echoes through the tent as everyone raises their glasses.
you turn to james, finding him already looking at you with that soft expression that makes your stomach flip. "did you write that for him?" you whisper.
"didn't have to," james murmurs back. "he means every word."
sirius hands the microphone to remus, who steps forward as sirius steps back, though not before giving remus's hand a squeeze that doesn't escape your notice.
"i'm not quite as good at speechmaking as sirius," remus begins, his voice soft but carrying. "but i've had the unique privilege of watching this relationship unfold from the beginning."
you smile encouragingly at him. quiet, steady remus has always been the one you confided in when james was driving you mad.
"james has been my friend since our first night at hogwarts, when he noticed i was too nervous to sleep and stayed up all night playing exploding snap with me instead." remus's voice holds a note of fond remembrance. "he's loyal to a fault, stubborn as a hippogriff, and has never once made me feel like less because of my... health issues."
there's a subtle shift in the room. only those closest to remus know about his lycanthropy, but everyone respects the discretion.
"what many people don't know," remus continues, "is that our brightest bride here figured out my secret in second year. and instead of running away or telling everyone, she started leaving chocolate on my bed after particularly rough... illnesses."
you feel james's surprised gaze on you. "you never told me that," he whispers.
"wasn't my secret to tell," you whisper back.
"so when james finally wore her down in sixth year," remus says with a small smile, "i wasn't surprised at all. because she's just as kind, just as loyal, and just as stubbornly good as he is. they're a matched set. never seen anyone fall so hard, so fast," he says, smiling. "and never been more glad to be proven wrong when i told him he didn't stand a chance."
he raises his glass. "to james and his wife, who make me believe that even in the darkest times, there's light to be found if you know where to look."
the toast is met with a quieter, more reverent raising of glasses. james squeezes your hand under the table.
lily steps up next, her red hair catching the fairy lights like fire.
"i've known the bride since we were sat in the train to hogwarts together," she begins. "terrified eleven-year-olds pretending we weren't. we became friends bonding over how annoying we found a certain messy-haired boy."
james makes an indignant noise that makes everyone laugh.
lily's speech makes you cry, recounting your friendship from hogwarts days through the war, through heartbreak and triumph. "you told me once you'd never fall for james potter," she reminds you. "said he was too arrogant, too sure of himself."
"he was!" you protest, laughing through tears.
"he still is," lily agrees. "but you love him anyway, and that's what matters."
she talks about late nights in either of your girls' dormitory, about secrets shared and dreams confessed. about the day you came to her dorm from your first date with james, torn between annoyance and attraction. "you said, and i'll never forget this, 'the worst thing about james potter is that he's somehow exactly who i thought he was and nothing like i expected all at once.'"
you'd forgotten that, but hearing lily say it brings the memory rushing back—sitting cross-legged on her bed, confused by how much you'd enjoyed yourself with someone you'd spent years dismissing.
"i asked if you were going to see him again," lily continues, "and you said 'merlin help me, but i think i am.' and here we are, all these years later, and i couldn't be happier to be proven right."
she raises her glass. "to my best friend and the boy who turned out to be worthy of her after all. may your lives together be as full of surprise and wonder as that first date."
peter stands next, visibly nervous but determined. his speech starts haltingly, but gains confidence as he goes.
"i'm not good with words like the others," he admits. "but james has been my friend when a lot of people wouldn't have bothered. he stood up for me, included me, made me feel like i belonged."
he turns to you. "and you never made me feel like i was just tagging along with them. you helped me with my charms homework and never made me feel stupid for asking questions."
his voice grows stronger. "i remember when james came back from asking you to marry him. he looked shell-shocked, like he couldn't believe you'd said yes. sat down on the sofa and just stared at nothing for ten minutes straight. then he looked at us and said 'she's going to be my wife,' like he'd just won the quidditch world cup."
there's a ripple of laughter, and peter smiles, more confident now.
"what i'm trying to say is, you two make sense together. you're both kind to people who don't always deserve it. you both see the best in others. and you both fight for what's right, even when it's hard." his voice wavers slightly. "in dark times, that means everything."
peter's speech is brief, nervous, but sincere. he talks about james's loyalty, about how you've brought out the best in him. "to the happiest couple i know," he finishes, raising his glass.
after the speeches, sirius claps his hands together. "right, enough of the emotional stuff! time for some games!"
you glance at james. "games?" you mouth.
he shrugs, looking equally surprised.
"first up," sirius announces, "the newlywed game! let's see how well these two actually know each other, shall we?"
before you can protest, sirius has conjured two chairs back-to-back in the center of the stage and is beckoning you and james forward.
"come on, lovebirds. don't be shy."
james stands, offering you his hand with a laugh. "shall we show them how it's done?"
with a resigned sigh that can't quite hide your amusement, you follow him to the stage. sirius separates you, sitting you in one chair with your back to james in the other.
"now," sirius says, handing each of you a small chalkboard and chalk, "i'll ask a question, and you both write down your answers. no peeking!"
marlene whoops from the crowd. "make them good questions, black!"
"when and where was your first kiss?" sirius asks.
you smile, writing quickly on your chalkboard. when sirius calls time, you hold up your answer: "astronomy tower, sixth year, after gryffindor beat slytherin."
james's board reads exactly the same, with the addition of "she kissed me first."
"that is not true!" you protest, turning to glare at him. "you kissed me!"
"i was going to," james defends, "but you got impatient and grabbed my tie."
the crowd roars with laughter as you feel your cheeks flush. "that's... that's not how i remember it."
"really?" sirius interjects. "because that's exactly how james described it to us afterward. said it was the best moment of his life."
you turn back to james, who's grinning sheepishly. "i may have embellished slightly when telling the lads. but you did grab my tie."
"moving on," sirius says gleefully. "who said 'i love you' first?"
this time, both your boards read "james," no hesitation.
"after the full moon in march," james's board elaborates. "when you brought hot chocolate to the shack for all of us."
you remember that night—the worry as you waited for the boys to emerge from the forbidden forest, the relief when they appeared, battered but intact. james had pulled you aside, eyes intense, and whispered those three words against your hair.
"correct!" sirius declares. "though disgustingly sappy. next question: what is your partner's most annoying habit?"
you write quickly, trying not to laugh. when sirius calls time, your board reads: "leaves his quidditch gear everywhere, even after i've asked him 500 times to put it away."
james's board reads: "talks during quidditch matches on the wireless."
"i do not!" you protest.
"you absolutely do," james counters. "especially during puddlemere games. 'why would he try that play?' 'the keeper should have seen that coming!' 'merlin's beard, that ref needs glasses!'"
you open your mouth to argue, then close it. he's not wrong.
"i stand by all my commentary," you say instead. "that ref did need glasses."
the game continues, questions ranging from "favorite dessert" (treacle tart for james, chocolate gateau for you, both answered correctly) to "most embarrassing moment".
by the end, you're both laughing so hard you can barely write, and the crowd is thoroughly entertained.
"final question," sirius announces. "when did you know you were in love?"
the tent grows quieter. you bite your lip, thinking, then write your answer carefully. when time is called, sirius has you read yours first.
"when he stood up to his own aunts and uncles about blood purity at christmas dinner, seventh year," you read. "he didn't know i could hear from the hallway. he said he'd rather be disowned than pretend to agree with such backwards thinking. that's when i knew it wasn't just attraction or affection. it was love."
there's a soft murmur through the crowd. james's parents, fleamont and euphemia, exchange proud looks from their table near the front.
"james?" sirius prompts, his voice gentler now.
james clears his throat. "first day of first year," he reads. "when she helped mary macdonald find her way to potions after a slytherin prefect deliberately gave her wrong directions. she was late to her own class to make sure mary got where she needed to go."
you stare at him, speechless. "that's... that's not possible. you didn't even know me then."
"i noticed you," james says simply. "i always noticed you."
there's an "aww" from the crowd that would normally make you roll your eyes, but you're too busy trying not to cry.
"and on that disgustingly sweet note," sirius declares, "i think the newlyweds win their own game! let's give them a round of applause!"
as the applause dies down, sirius changes tack. "now, who's ready for some real fun? it's time for magical musical chairs!"
what follows is possibly the most competitive game of musical chairs ever played, with enchanted chairs that occasionally skitter away from players trying to sit in them. frank longbottom ends up sprawled on the floor when his chair darts left at the last second. alice retaliates by casting a sticking charm on the next chair she approaches, leading to protests of cheating that sirius, as self-appointed referee, promptly ignores.
"there are no rules in love and magical musical chairs!" he declares, twirling his wand to restart the music.
to everyone's surprise, it's remus who emerges victorious, having quietly but effectively outmaneuvered everyone else. when the final chair tries to dart away, he simply casts a gentle freezing charm—not on the chair, but on the floor beneath it, causing the chair to slip and slide right back to him.
"that's my moony," sirius says proudly, slinging an arm around remus's shoulders as he awards him a conjured trophy that sings "we are the champions" when touched.
next comes a game of "pass the potion," where party guests form a circle and pass a mysterious (but harmless) potion around while music plays. when the music stops, whoever is holding the potion must take a sip—resulting in temporary effects ranging from speaking in rhymes (peter, much to his dismay) to sprouting flowers from their ears (minerva mcgonagall, who bears this indignity with remarkable grace).
james gets caught with the potion and ends up with blue hair for thirty minutes, which you assure him brings out his eyes. lily turns briefly invisible except for her floating head, causing widespread alarm until sirius assures everyone the effect is temporary. "probably," he adds under his breath, earning a smack from remus.
the night wears on, the party growing more raucous as inhibitions lower and the music gets louder. you find yourself passed from dance partner to dance partner—twirling with frank, doing an awkward shuffle with peter, being dramatically dipped by sirius while remus shakes his head fondly.
finally, marlene announces it's time for the bouquet toss. "gather round, all you single witches and wizards! let's see who's next down the aisle!"
you stand with your back to the crowd, bouquet of enchanted lilies and forget-me-nots in hand. with a count of three, you toss it over your shoulder.
there's a commotion, and when you turn, you see sirius standing there, bouquet in hand, looking both triumphant and mortified.
"i didn't even mean to catch it!" he protests. "it flew right at me!"
remus is doubled over laughing beside him. "the flowers have spoken, padfoot," he manages between gasps. "better start planning your outfit."
sirius's face cycles through several emotions in rapid succession before settling on amused resignation. "well," he says, "if i must." and then, to everyone's surprise, he drops to one knee in front of remus, bouquet extended dramatically. "moony, light of my life, terror of my full moons, would you do me the honor of making me the second-happiest man at this wedding?"
the tent goes silent. remus stares down at sirius, mouth agape. for a horrible moment, you think sirius has miscalculated, made a joke that's backfired terribly.
but then remus starts to laugh, a full-body laugh that lights up his entire face. "you absolute idiot," he says fondly. "get up."
sirius stays where he is, bouquet still extended. "is that a yes?"
"no, it's not a yes, because that wasn't a real proposal, and i am not accepting a marriage proposal at someone else's wedding, where you're proposing with someone else's bouquet, while half-drunk on firewhiskey," remus says reasonably.
"so it's a 'not yet'?" sirius clarifies, still kneeling.
remus rolls his eyes, but he's smiling. "it's a 'ask me properly, when we're alone, preferably when you're sober, and then we'll talk'."
sirius beams, bounding to his feet. "he said we'll talk!" he announces to the crowd. "that's practically a yes from moony!"
the tension breaks, the room erupting in laughter and cheers. sirius sweeps remus into a dramatic kiss that has remus pushing him away, face flushed but smiling.
"sorry about that," remus murmurs as he passes you later. "didn't mean to steal your thunder."
"are you kidding?" you reply. "that was the highlight of the night."
when the party starts to wind down, well after midnight, james finds you chatting with lily and marlene. his hair is even messier than usual, his tie long since abandoned, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. he looks pleasantly disheveled and entirely too handsome for his own good.
"may i steal my wife for a dance?" he asks, extending his hand to you.
"you may," lily says before you can answer. "we were just leaving to get more drinks anyway."
marlene winks at you as they depart. "don't do anything i wouldn't do."
"that leaves a lot of room for interpretation," you call after her.
james laughs, pulling you to your feet and into his arms. the music has slowed, most guests either departed or engaged in quiet conversations around the edges of the tent. sirius and remus are dancing nearby, foreheads pressed together, talking too softly for anyone else to hear.
"having fun?" james asks, his hand warm on your waist.
"more than i expected," you admit. "though i'm still not sure why we let sirius plan the games portion of the evening."
"because we love him, and he threatened to bring a real-life nundu as his plus-one if we didn't."
you laugh, resting your head on james's shoulder. "he and remus, huh? finally?"
"finally," james agrees. "only took them, what, ten years of pining? amateurs. i had my shit together much faster."
"yes, seven years is very efficient,"
james's hand traces up and down your spine. "thank you," he says after a moment.
"for what?"
"for saying yes. in our kitchen. for giving me a chance all those years ago. for loving me even when i make it difficult."
"you do make it very difficult sometimes," you tease, but your voice catches.
"i know." he pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. "but i promise to spend the rest of my life making it worth it."
"it already is," you tell him. "worth it."
you dance in silence for a while, lost in the music and the moment. james's heartbeat steady under your cheek.
"do you believe in fate?" he asks suddenly.
you consider the question. "i don't know. maybe."
"i never used to," he says. "thought it was all rubbish, divination and destiny and all that. but then..."
"then?"
"then i met you. properly talked to you, that day in sixth year when you hexed macnair for bullying that second year. and you looked at me like maybe, just maybe, i wasn't the last person you wanted to see."
you smile at the memory. "you actually stood up for me when slughorn came around the corner."
"of course i did," james says, like there was never any other option. "you were right to hex him. besides, i'd been waiting years for you to look at me with anything other than annoyance."
"but there you were," james continues. "and somehow, out of all the students at hogwarts, we ended up in the same house, partners in transfiguration in sixth year, falling in love despite your best efforts to resist me." he grins. "what are the odds?"
"your persistence wore me down," you quip, but there's no bite to it.
"my irresistible charm you mean," he corrects.
"against all odds," you agree, ignoring his smug look.
"exactly." his fingers trace patterns on your back. "so maybe there is something to it. fate. destiny. some invisible string tying certain souls together across time."
"james potter, secret romantic," you murmur. "who would have thought?"
"only for you," he says. "only ever for you."
the music shifts to another song, slower, more intimate. james draws you impossibly closer.
"happy?" he asks, his breath warm against your hair.
you think about the journey that brought you here. from first year when james potter first noticed you, to a park bench years later, to that pivotal moment in sixth year when everything changed. through a war, through loss and triumph, through everyday moments that built a life.
to a kitchen proposal on new year's day.
the memory washes over you, so vivid you can almost taste the lingering champagne from the night before.
it had been a simple morning. both of you nursing mild hangovers, you in his quidditch jersey that hung to your thighs, him in pajama bottoms with snitches zooming across the fabric. sunlight streaming through the kitchen windows as you made hangover potions.
you'd been reaching for mugs when you turned and found him on the floor.
not on one knee, but two. both knees pressed to the cold tile, looking up at you with those hazel eyes that had always seen straight through to your soul. his hands had reached for you, circled your waist, pulled you close until his face pressed against your stomach.
"james?" your voice had been barely a whisper.
he'd tilted his head back, chin resting against your belly, eyes locked on yours. his hands trembled slightly against your waist.
"i'm not asking," he'd said, voice raw and honest in a way that made your heart stutter. "i'm begging. please be mine forever. please marry me. i've loved you since i was eleven years old. i've wanted this—wanted you—for so long i can't remember what it was like not to love you."
his arms had tightened around you, his face pressing into your stomach again before looking back up. "please," he whispered. "i'll get you a bigger ring if you want, plan a better proposal, anything—just please say yes."
the ring box had been balanced on his thigh, forgotten in his desperation. you'd reached down, touched his face, felt the slight stubble under your palm.
he'd buried his face against you then, shoulders shaking with emotion, before standing and crushing you to him, kissing you like he was drowning and you were air.
that had been the best day of your life.
until today.
"beyond happy," you answer truthfully. "you?"
james potter smiles down at you, that special smile that belongs only to you, the one that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes your heart stop.
"complete," he says simply.
and under the stars, invisible threads of fate winding around you both, you dance until the party ends and the rest of your life begins.
heart — „ i was playing for you. every goal, every play—it was all for you "
warnings - alcohol consumption, sexual content (explicit but not graphic), implied war themes, mild bondage (consensual), public displays of affection, academic stress (NEWTs), quidditch injuries (mentioned), strong language
word count - 5,000+
marauders masterlist
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morning came too quickly, sunlight streaming through the tower windows and across your face where you'd fallen asleep at your desk. your neck ached from the awkward position, and drool had unfortunately made contact with your transfiguration notes. "attractive," you muttered, wiping your mouth and checking the time.
you'd slept later than intended. the quidditch match started in an hour, and you'd planned to quiz yourself on protective enchantments over breakfast. so much for that.
rushing through your morning routine, you pulled james' jersey over your head again, pairing it with jeans instead of your uniform since it was saturday. you'd barely finished brushing your teeth when pandora poked her head into the bathroom.
"your boyfriend's having a crisis," she announced, looking amused. "he's outside the common room entrance practically begging the knocker to ask him a riddle he can solve."
"what? why?" you spat toothpaste into the sink.
"something about needing to see you before the match. said it's tradition."
it wasn't tradition at all. you'd never once seen him before a match—intentionally keeping distance to let him focus with his team.
curious and slightly concerned, you followed pandora down the spiral staircase and through the common room. sure enough, when the eagle knocker swung open, there stood james potter in his full quidditch uniform, hair even more chaotic than usual, glasses slightly foggy.
"there you are," he breathed, looking genuinely relieved. "i was about to start guessing random words to this bloody bird."
"the knocker asks riddles, not password guesses," you reminded him. "what's wrong? shouldn't you be with your team?"
he pulled you into the corridor, glancing around before speaking. "nothing's wrong. i just—i needed to see you."
"james, the match—"
"i know, i know. sirius is handling pre-game strategy. i just—" he ran his hand through his hair, making it stand up even more ridiculously. "i couldn't focus. kept thinking about you."
something in his expression made your chest tighten. "hey," you said softly, straightening his captain's badge. "what's really going on?"
he looked suddenly vulnerable, younger somehow. "it's my last match ever at hogwarts."
"i know."
"after today, everything changes. we graduate in a few weeks, and then—"
"—and then we figure it out together," you finished for him. "isn't that what we decided?"
he nodded, but his eyes remained troubled. "the world out there... it's getting darker every day. the prophet this morning—three more disappearances."
ah. so that was it. the wizarding world beyond hogwarts was increasingly dangerous, with whispers of dark wizards and prejudice growing louder. james, with his fierce loyalty and unflinching moral compass, had been growing more serious about it all year.
"hey," you placed your hands on either side of his face, forcing him to look at you. "today is not about that. today is about you playing the sport you love, with the team you've led for three years. today is about making memories we'll tell our kids about someday."
the tension in his shoulders eased slightly. "our kids, huh?"
"obviously. little menaces with your quidditch skills and my common sense."
he smiled then, bright and genuine. "at least three, right?"
"let's start with getting through NEWTs first," you laughed, rising on tiptoes to kiss him quickly. "now go. your team needs their captain."
he caught your wrist as you pulled away. "wear my jersey."
"i am wearing your jersey."
"no," he shook his head. "the game one. my spare."
without waiting for an answer, he reached into his quidditch bag and pulled out a fresh scarlet and gold jersey with 'potter' emblazoned across the back.
"james, i can't wear gryffindor colors in the ravenclaw stands. i'll be hexed."
"please," he said, eyes suddenly intense. "i need—i need everyone to know."
"know what? that we're together? pretty sure the entire castle figured that out when you enchanted the great hall ceiling to snow only over my seat for my birthday."
he didn't laugh. "that you're mine. that i'm yours. that this—" he gestured between you "—is real and permanent and not just some hogwarts romance that ends with graduation."
your heart squeezed painfully in your chest. "james..."
"please," he whispered again. "for luck."
how could you possibly refuse him anything when he looked at you like that? you took the jersey and pulled it over your head, your own house colors disappearing beneath his.
he stared at you with such open adoration that you felt your cheeks warm. "perfect," he murmured.
"i'll be the traitor in the blue and bronze section," you warned.
"you'll be the only one i'm looking for anyway," he replied, leaning down to kiss you deeply, publicly, right in the middle of the corridor.
when you separated, breathless and slightly dazed, he pressed his forehead against yours. "i love you. so much it scares me sometimes."
"go win your match, potter," you whispered back. "then come find me after."
he grinned, suddenly looking like himself again—confident, mischievous, unstoppable. "count on it."
you really should have been studying.
your NEWTs were literally days away, and your entire future hinged on those scores. you'd mapped out a meticulous study schedule weeks ago, allocating this exact saturday afternoon for reviewing ancient runes and potions theory.
and yet.
here you were, clutching your notes but not reading them, perched in the ravenclaw section of the quidditch stands with james' scarlet and gold jersey standing out like a beacon among the sea of blue and bronze. a few of your housemates had given you strange looks, but nobody said anything. your position as head girl granted you certain allowances, and everyone knew about you and james anyway.
"betraying your house on the big day?" came a teasing voice as marlene mckinnon slid into the seat beside you, followed by lily evans and dorcas meadowes.
"moral support," you replied with a small smile, surprised to see them. "aren't you three supposed to be in the gryffindor section?"
lily shrugged. "james said we should keep you company. something about 'protecting what's his' from angry ravenclaws if gryffindor wins."
you rolled your eyes, but couldn't stop the warmth spreading in your chest. "he's ridiculous."
"he's in love," dorcas corrected, unwrapping a chocolate frog. "there's a difference."
"barely," marlene snorted.
a memory flashed through your mind—james at fifteen, soaked from the rain, confessing his feelings for the first time outside the library. "i've tried not to," he'd said, water dripping from his eyelashes. "i've tried to stop thinking about you every single day since first year, but i can't. i just can't."
you'd kissed him for the first time two weeks later, after gryffindor won the quidditch cup. publicly, impulsively, running down from the stands and throwing yourself into his arms before you could overthink it. the look on his face afterward—pure shock melting into incandescent joy—was something you'd never forget.
"he's planning something," lily said suddenly, breaking into your thoughts.
"what?"
"james. he's up to something. he's been whispering with sirius all week."
"i thought that was normal?“
before you could ask what she meant, the stadium erupted as the teams flew onto the pitch. your eyes found james immediately—impossible to miss with his captain's band and the way he flew, bold and precise, leading his team in a formation loop around the pitch.
as they passed the ravenclaw stands, he broke formation briefly, flying close enough for you to see his face. he didn't wave or gesture, just locked eyes with you for the briefest moment before rejoining his team. that single look contained everything—love, determination, promise.
"merlin, you two are disgusting," marlene laughed, but her tone was affectionate.
the match began with fierce intensity. slytherin had a powerful team this year, and the rivalry between them and gryffindor had reached new heights after a controversial call in their last match. you tried to focus on your notes during quieter moments, but it was impossible not to watch james.
he was magnificent. there was no other word for it. he handled the quaffle with effortless skill, his body moving in perfect synchronization with his broom as he orchestrated his team's attacks. twice he scored spectacular goals that had even the ravenclaw section grudgingly applauding.
an hour in, the score was tied. james called a timeout, gathering his team in a tight huddle. you could see him speaking intensely, gesturing with his hands the way he did when he was passionate about something. whatever he said worked—when play resumed, gryffindor scored three quick goals.
"i've never seen him play this well," lily murmured, watching her friend with undisguised admiration.
"he's playing for more than just the cup," dorcas replied, glancing at you meaningfully.
you pretended not to hear, but your heart raced as you watched james soar across the pitch, quaffle tucked securely under his arm. he was playing like a man possessed, like each goal was a declaration.
the match stretched into its second hour, both teams refusing to yield. the slytherin keeper was having an exceptional game, blocking most of gryffindor's attempts with frustrating consistency. james kept changing tactics, using increasingly complex maneuvers that showed exactly why he'd been scouted by three professional teams despite the dangerous times.
"the slytherin beaters are targeting him," you said suddenly, anxiety creeping into your voice as you watched a bludger narrowly miss james' shoulder.
"they always do," lily reassured you. "he's too quick for them."
almost as if to prove her point, james executed a perfect sloth grip roll to avoid another bludger, never losing control of the quaffle. seconds later, he scored again, putting gryffindor ahead by thirty points.
the crowd roared, and you found yourself on your feet, cheering with abandon despite your ravenclaw surroundings. your notes fell to the ground, forgotten.
"so much for studying," marlene teased, collecting your scattered parchment.
"some things are more important," you replied, not taking your eyes off james.
the match reached its climax when the seekers suddenly dove, having spotted the snitch near the ground by the slytherin goal posts. the crowd held its collective breath as the two streaked downward, neck and neck.
james, meanwhile, had possession of the quaffle again. in a move that could only be described as brilliant madness, he flew directly at the distracted slytherin keeper, feinted left, then right, and scored through the unguarded center hoop just as the gryffindor seeker's fingers closed around the snitch.
the stadium exploded. gryffindor had won the cup. players and fans alike were screaming, hugging, some even crying with joy. you watched as james was mobbed by his teammates, lifted onto their shoulders as they began a victory lap around the pitch.
you should have been happy for him. you were happy for him. but something about the moment—the finality of it, his last match at hogwarts, the real world waiting just beyond graduation—made your throat tighten with unexpected emotion.
"go," lily said softly, nudging you. "he's looking for you."
and he was. even as his teammates carried him in triumph, his eyes scanned the stands, searching. when he found you, still standing in your spot with his jersey billowing slightly in the breeze, his entire face transformed.
without thinking, you pushed past cheering students and raced down the stairs toward the pitch. by the time you reached the ground, james had extricated himself from his teammates and was running toward you, still clutching his broom.
you collided in the middle of the field, his arms wrapping around you so tightly your feet left the ground. he smelled like sweat and leather and pure exhilaration as he spun you in a circle, his laughter vibrating against your chest.
"you did it," you whispered against his neck when he finally set you down. "you were amazing."
"i won it for you," he replied, his voice raw with emotion. "every goal, every play—it was all for you."
"james—"
before you could finish, he surprised you by dropping to both of his knees in front of you, still holding your hands, his quidditch robes pooling around him on the grass. the noise of the celebrating crowd seemed to fade as he looked up at you with such naked adoration that it stole your breath.
"i'm marrying you someday," he said, voice barely audible but fierce with conviction. "i know we're young, and there's a war coming, and we haven't even graduated yet, but i know—i've always known—it's you. it's always been you."
tears pricked at your eyes as you knelt down to join him, uncaring of the mud staining your jeans. "james potter, are you proposing to me on a quidditch pitch minutes after winning the cup?"
he laughed, pressing his forehead against yours. "no. when i propose, you'll know it. this is just... a promise. a declaration of intent."
"well then," you whispered, cradling his face in your hands, "i accept your declaration."
his kiss tasted like victory and certainty and home.
the gryffindor common room had transformed into a riotous celebration, every inch of space filled with red and gold streamers, butterbeer, and ecstatic students. james potter stood at the center of it all, quidditch cup in one hand, firewhiskey in the other, looking every inch the victorious captain.
you'd slipped in through the portrait hole an hour ago, nobody questioning your ravenclaw status when you were wearing james' jersey and his victory was still fresh. he'd spotted you immediately, his face lighting up in that way that still made your stomach flip, and had barely left your side since.
"to james potter!" sirius shouted over the noise, raising his glass. "the greatest captain gryffindor has ever seen!"
the room erupted in cheers, and james gave a theatrical bow that made you roll your eyes fondly. three—or was it four?—butterbeers mixed with the shot of firewhiskey sirius had pressed into your hand had left you pleasantly warm and fuzzy, inhibitions softening around the edges.
"i need to talk to you," you whispered in james' ear as he straightened, your lips brushing against his skin. "privately."
he turned to face you, his hazel eyes darkening slightly at your tone. "now?"
you nodded, allowing your gaze to drift deliberately down his body and back up again. "now."
"excuse us," james announced to no one in particular, taking your hand and beginning to pull you toward the portrait hole. "captain duties."
"captain duties my arse!" sirius called after you, cackling. "don't do anything i wouldn't do, prongs!"
"that leaves everything on the table," remus muttered, causing those nearby to burst into laughter.
james flipped them off good-naturedly as you slipped out of the portrait hole, the noise from the party immediately diminishing as the fat lady swung shut behind you.
"where are we going?" james asked, his voice dropping to that low register that never failed to send a shiver down your spine.
"prefects' bathroom," you replied, already pulling him along the corridor. "i've been thinking about it all day."
he laughed, the sound warm and slightly tipsy. "who are you and what have you done with my girlfriend? what about your studying?"
"i'm taking the night off," you said, pausing to press him against the wall, rising on tiptoes to whisper in his ear. "i'd rather study you."
"merlin," he breathed, his hands finding your waist. "you can't just say things like that in public."
"i just did," you teased, pressing your body against his. "what are you going to do about it?"
the challenge in your voice made his eyes darken further. without warning, he hoisted you up, your legs automatically wrapping around his waist as he carried you down the corridor.
"james!" you laughed, clinging to his shoulders. "put me down!"
"not a chance," he replied, his voice husky as he navigated the moving staircases with practiced ease. "not when you're finally choosing me over your books."
you buried your face in his neck, inhaling his scent—grass and wind and firewhiskey and something distinctly james. "i always choose you," you murmured against his skin. "even when i pretend i don't."
he paused at that, tightening his hold on you. "i know," he said softly. "that's why i love you."
the walk to the prefects' bathroom was quick, both of you checking regularly for patrolling prefects or professors. when you reached the statue of boris the bewildered, james set you down gently.
"pine fresh," he whispered, and the door appeared, swinging open to reveal the cavernous bathroom beyond.
inside, the room was exactly as you remembered—massive sunken tub in the center, stained glass windows depicting merpeople, countless taps lining the edge of the bath. the room was empty, as you'd hoped it would be, most students still celebrating or studying.
"you do realize," james said, closing the door behind you, "that if we get caught, you'll lose your head girl badge."
"worth it," you replied, already pulling his jersey over your head, leaving you in just your bra and jeans. "besides, you're quidditch captain. we're allowed to use this bathroom."
his eyes darkened as they roved over your exposed skin. "pretty sure this isn't what they had in mind."
"probably not," you agreed, moving toward the taps. "but i don't particularly care right now."
you turned on several taps, filling the room with the scent of vanilla and something vaguely oceanic. steam began to rise from the water as the tub filled with remarkable speed, bubbles forming on the surface.
when you turned back to james, he was watching you with unguarded adoration, his glasses slightly askew and his hair even more chaotic than usual. something in his expression made your breath catch.
"you looked incredible today," he said, his voice low and reverent. "sitting in the stands in my jersey."
"you weren't so bad yourself," you replied, moving toward him. "best player on the pitch, by far."
he shook his head, hands coming up to cup your face. "i was playing for you. showing off for you, if we're being honest."
"i know," you whispered, pressing a kiss to his palm. "i could tell."
the moment stretched between you, charged with something beyond simple desire. then james leaned down, capturing your lips in a kiss that started slow but quickly deepened, his tongue seeking entrance as his hands moved to your waist.
you pressed yourself against him, fingers tangling in his hair as the kiss grew more urgent. his hands slid down to your thighs, lifting you once more, and you wrapped your legs around his waist.
"the bath," you reminded him between kisses, feeling his arousal pressing against you.
he walked you backward toward the now-filled tub, never breaking the kiss. when your back hit the marble edge, he set you down, pulling away slightly to look at you.
"you are so beautiful," he murmured, fingers tracing the curve of your jaw. "sometimes i can't believe you're real."
you smiled, reaching for the buttons of his shirt. "let me show you how real i am."
his shirt fell open under your fingers, revealing the lean muscles of his chest and abdomen. you traced the scar that ran across his ribs—a souvenir from a particularly brutal match against slytherin last year—before pushing the fabric off his shoulders.
"your turn," he said, reaching behind you to unhook your bra.
you let it fall to the floor, enjoying the way his pupils dilated at the sight of you. the firewhiskey had left you feeling bold, uninhibited, and you didn't look away as his eyes traveled over your body.
"i've been thinking about this all day," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. "about you, about us."
"about what exactly?" he asked, his hands moving to the button of your jeans.
you leaned forward, lips brushing his ear. "about all the ways i want to celebrate your victory."
he groaned, his fingers fumbling slightly as he unzipped your jeans. "merlin, you're going to kill me."
"not yet," you teased, pushing your jeans and underwear down in one motion, stepping out of them completely naked. "i have plans for you first."
his eyes darkened at the sight of you, bare and unashamed before him. "fuck," he breathed, the word half reverence, half plea.
"that's the idea," you replied, stepping toward the edge of the tub. "are you coming?"
he didn't need to be asked twice. in record time, he'd stripped off the rest of his clothes, leaving them in a heap beside yours. you couldn't help but stare at him—the way the muscles in his thighs flexed as he moved, the scattered scars that told stories of quidditch and full moon adventures, the obvious evidence of his desire for you.
you slipped into the water first, the heat enveloping you like a cocoon. james followed, his skin flushed pink from the steam or anticipation or both.
for a moment, you simply floated there, facing each other in the bubbling water, the colored light from the stained glass windows playing across your skin. then james reached for you, pulling you against him.
"i've been thinking about this too," he confessed, his hands running down your back. "about touching you, tasting you. it's all i could think about during the match."
"liar," you laughed, arms draping around his neck. "you were focused on winning."
"multitasking," he corrected, his lips finding your neck. "i'm very talented that way."
you gasped as he found the sensitive spot below your ear, his teeth grazing the skin there. "yes, you are," you agreed, your voice breathy. "very talented indeed."
his hands moved lower, gripping your thighs and lifting you slightly in the water. instinctively, you wrapped your legs around his waist, feeling him hard against your center.
"wait," you said suddenly, pulling back slightly. "i want to try something different."
he raised an eyebrow, curiosity mingling with desire in his expression. "i'm listening."
you unwrapped your legs from around him, pushing him gently backward until he was sitting on one of the underwater benches that lined the tub. water lapped at his chest as he watched you, his expression open and trusting.
"do you trust me?" you asked, moving to straddle him without quite making contact.
"with my life," he replied without hesitation.
you reached for your wand, abandoned on the edge of the tub, and cast a quick spell. a length of soft, maroon ribbon band appeared in your hand.
james' eyes widened slightly, but you noted with satisfaction that his pupils dilated further. "that's new," he said, his voice rough.
"is it okay?" you asked, suddenly uncertain. "we don't have to—"
"yes," he interrupted, his voice firm. "very okay."
relief and excitement flooded through you. you leaned forward, pressing a kiss to his lips as you took his hands, guiding them behind his back. "keep them there," you instructed.
he complied, watching with dark eyes as you wrapped the ribbon around his wrists, binding them together behind his back. the knot was secure but not tight—you could easily undo it if needed.
"comfortable?" you asked, checking the tension.
he nodded, testing the bonds slightly. "where did you learn to tie knots like that?"
"care of magical creatures," you replied with a small smile. "who knew it would come in handy?"
he laughed, the sound trailing off into a groan as you shifted position, pressing yourself against his erection. "and here i thought you were just good at academics."
"i'm good at lots of things," you whispered, rolling your hips slightly. "let me show you."
with his hands bound behind him, james was completely at your mercy. you took your time, exploring his body with your hands and mouth, learning him anew from this position of control. his breathing grew ragged as you teased him, bringing him close to the edge before pulling back.
"please," he finally gasped, his head falling back against the edge of the tub. "i need you."
you rose up on your knees, positioning yourself above him. "tell me what you need," you demanded softly.
his eyes locked with yours, vulnerability and hunger mingling in his gaze. "you," he said simply. "always you."
the naked honesty in his voice made your chest tighten. slowly, achingly slowly, you lowered yourself onto him, taking him inch by inch until he was fully seated within you.
"oh god," you breathed, the sensation of fullness overwhelming. "james."
his arms strained against the maroon, instinctively trying to reach for you. the muscles in his chest and arms flexed with the effort, water droplets sliding down his skin.
"move," he pleaded, his voice strained. "please, love, move."
you complied, establishing a rhythm that had water sloshing around you. with his hands bound, you had complete control, and you used it to your advantage, changing the angle slightly to hit that spot inside you that made stars explode behind your eyes.
"you feel amazing," james gasped, his eyes never leaving yours. "so fucking perfect."
you leaned forward, changing the angle again as you captured his mouth in a desperate kiss. he responded with equal fervor, his tongue tangling with yours as you continued to move above him.
"wish i could touch you," he murmured against your lips. "want to feel you come apart in my hands."
"next time," you promised, your voice breathless. "right now, i'm in charge."
his eyes darkened further at your words. "yes, ma'am," he replied, a hint of his usual mischief breaking through the desire.
you smiled, speeding up your movements slightly. "good boy."
the praise seemed to affect him more than you'd anticipated. he groaned, his hips bucking up to meet yours, his eyes falling closed.
"look at me," you commanded, one hand coming up to tangle in his hair. "i want to see you."
he obeyed, his eyes opening to meet yours. there was something raw and vulnerable in his gaze, something that transcended physical pleasure. you recognized it immediately—it was the same look he'd given you on the quidditch pitch earlier, when he'd knelt before you and promised forever.
"i love you," you whispered, never breaking eye contact as you continued to move above him.
"i love you," he echoed, his voice hoarse. "so much. so fucking much."
you could feel your release building, heat coiling tightly in your belly. james seemed to sense it, his hips moving in perfect counterpoint to yours despite his restrained position.
"let go," he urged, his voice dropping to that low register that always sent shivers down your spine. "let me see you come apart."
his words, combined with the delicious friction of your bodies moving together, sent you over the edge. you cried out his name as pleasure washed over you in waves, your body clenching around him.
the sight of your release seemed to trigger his own. with a strangled groan, james followed you over the edge, his body tensing beneath you as he found his own release.
for a long moment, you stayed locked together, breathing heavily, the water cooling around you. then, with trembling fingers, you reached behind him to untie the ribbon, freeing his hands.
immediately, his arms wrapped around you, pulling you close against his chest. you could feel his heart racing, matching the rapid beat of your own.
"that was," he began, his voice still rough, "unexpected. and fucking incredible."
you laughed softly, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. "i'm full of surprises."
"you certainly are," he agreed, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your back. "remind me to win more quidditch matches if this is how we celebrate."
you pulled back slightly to look at him, suddenly serious. "i meant what i said earlier. about loving you."
his expression softened, his hands coming up to cup your face. "i know," he said softly. "i've never doubted it."
you leaned into his touch, your eyes drifting closed. "i've been thinking about your question," you admitted. "about moving in together after graduation."
his body stilled beneath you, his hands pausing in their exploration. "and?"
"yes," you said simply, opening your eyes to meet his gaze. "yes to that, and yes to everything else. yes to all of it, james."
the smile that broke across his face was like sunrise, brilliant and full of promise. "yeah?"
"yeah," you confirmed, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. "i want mornings and evenings and everything in between. i want to wake up next to you, fight with you, make up with you... i want all of it."
he pulled you closer, his forehead resting against yours. "i was thinking about that today, on the pitch," he confessed. "about how this is just the beginning for us. about how lucky i am to have found you so young, to have so many years ahead of us."
"we're going to have so many years," you agreed, your voice soft but certain. "decades. a lifetime."
"a lifetime," he echoed, his voice thick with emotion. "merlin, that sounds perfect."
eventually, the water began to cool, and you reluctantly disentangled yourselves. james helped you out of the tub, wrapping you in one of the plush towels that always seemed to be available.
"we should probably get back," you said, though you made no move toward your clothes. "people will wonder where we've gone."
"let them wonder," james replied, pulling you against him once more. "i'm not ready to share you yet."
you laughed, pressing a kiss to his still-damp chest. "come back to my room," you suggested. "head girl's privilege—private quarters."
his eyes lit up at the suggestion. "are you sure? what happened to studying?"
"i'm taking the entire night off," you repeated, reaching for your clothes. "some things are more important than NEWTs."
he caught your hand, suddenly serious. "you know i'd never want to come between you and your studies, right? i know how important they are to you."
the concern in his voice made your heart swell. "i know," you assured him. "but i also know that balance is important. that you are important. and tonight, i choose you."
he smiled, that crooked smile that had first caught your attention all those years ago. "i'll always choose you," he promised. "every time."
you dressed quickly, performing drying charms on your hair and clothes. as you gathered your things, james pulled you into one last embrace, his arms wrapping securely around you.
"every time i look at you," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion, "i feel like we're going to be eighteen forever. like this feeling can't possibly be contained in one lifetime."
you curled closer to him, your head on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart. "then it's a good thing we have forever, isn't it?"
his arms tightened around you, and in that moment, despite the war brewing outside the castle walls, despite the uncertain future waiting after graduation, you felt perfectly, completely safe.
"forever," he agreed, the word a promise whispered into your hair. "and then some."
sneaking back to your private room was easier than expected—most students were still out celebrating or studying, and those who weren't were too absorbed in their own affairs to notice the head girl and quidditch captain slipping through the corridors hand in hand.
once inside your room, you locked the door behind you, casting a silencing charm for good measure. james was already sprawled across your bed, his long limbs taking up most of the space, looking completely at home among your books and ravenclaw decorations.
"comfortable?" you asked, raising an eyebrow.
he grinned, patting the space beside him. "would be more comfortable with you here."
you rolled your eyes, but couldn't stop the smile that spread across your face as you joined him on the bed. he immediately pulled you close, your head finding its familiar place on his chest.
"so," he said after a moment, his fingers playing with a strand of your hair. "that was quite the celebration."
you laughed, the sound muffled against his shirt. "indeed it was."
"where did you learn that ribbon trick?" he asked, curiosity evident in his voice. "because i'm pretty sure they don't teach that in care of magical creatures."
"i may have done some extra reading," you admitted, feeling your cheeks warm. "in the restricted section."
he laughed, the sound vibrating through his chest. "of course you did. trust you to research even that."
"are you complaining?" you asked, lifting your head to look at him.
"merlin, no," he replied quickly. "definitely not complaining. just... impressed. and curious what other surprises you might have up your sleeve."
you smiled, pressing a kiss to his jaw. "guess you'll have to stick around to find out."
"that's the plan," he murmured, his arms tightening around you. "the very long-term plan."
as the night deepened around you, you lay together talking in low voices about everything and nothing—your plans after graduation, his quidditch offers, the friends you'd keep in touch with, the flat you might share. outside, the war was brewing, but in this moment, in this room, there was only peace and possibility.
eventually, james fell asleep mid-sentence, his breathing evening out as his body relaxed into slumber. you watched him for a long moment, memorizing the way his eyelashes cast shadows on his cheeks, the slight part of his lips, the complete vulnerability of his sleeping face.
"i love you," you whispered, knowing he couldn't hear you but needing to say it anyway. "more than i thought it was possible to love someone."
as if in response, his arms tightened around you, pulling you closer even in sleep. you smiled, allowing your own eyes to close, your body relaxing into his embrace.
tomorrow, you would go back to studying. tomorrow, you would face the reality of NEWTs and graduation and the increasingly dangerous world waiting beyond hogwarts' walls. but tonight—tonight was just for the two of you, a perfect moment suspended in time, a promise of all the moments yet to come.
"forever," you murmured, echoing his earlier promise as sleep began to claim you.
heart — "it should have been us. everything about today—the flowers, the music, the vows—it's what i promised you."
warnings - alcohol abuse, angst, past relationship, unresolved issues, lycantrophy references, war themes, sexual references, emotional infidelity, toxic communication
word count - 10,000+
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"and i know—because i’ve lived without it—that what you two have is the closest thing to magic that exists. i know what it’s like to lose something like this. so hold onto it. please.“
the words hang in the air like abandoned ghosts, cold and unwelcome against your skin. remus stands at the microphone, amber eyes glazed with something that exists in the shadowy space between rage and despair. his fingers curl around the stand as though it's the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.
"when james told me he was in love with lily in our second year, i laughed at him. i told him he was mad." his voice cracks slightly, the sound of something fragile splintering. "but standing here today, watching the way he looks at her... i know he wasn't mad. he was just ahead of the rest of us in understanding what matters."
he isn't looking at james or lily. he's looking at you. straight through you, actually, like you're made of glass and he can see all the broken pieces scattered on the other side. every jagged edge, every shard that still bears his name.
"love isn't always easy. sometimes it's messy and painful and it asks more of us than we think we can give." his knuckles are white against the microphone stand, bones pressing against skin. "but when it's real—when it's the kind of love these two share—it's worth fighting for. it's worth protecting. worth sacrificing for."
you wish you could look away. you wish your eyes weren't locked on his, that your heart wasn't beating so loudly you're certain the entire room can hear its desperate rhythm. the champagne in your glass has gone warm, bubbles long dead. marlene leans over, whispering something about how drunk remus is, but you can't respond. you're too busy drowning in amber eyes that used to look at you like you hung the stars.
"james and lily never gave up on each other. through everything—every obstacle, every doubt, every dark day—they chose each other. over and over again." his voice breaks completely now. "some of us weren't so brave."
his gaze intensifies, boring into you across the sea of white linen and floral arrangements. "some of us let fear win. some of us convinced ourselves that walking away was the only answer, when really, it was just the easiest one. some of us still wake up reaching for someone who isn't there."
you feel the blood drain from your face, leaving you light-headed. around you, guests shift uncomfortably in their seats, the weight of words clearly not meant for the bride and groom settling over the reception like an uninvited shadow.
sirius is suddenly beside him, hand on his shoulder. a gentle reminder that this speech is supposed to be about the newlyweds, not the wreckage of what you and remus once were. remus blinks, seeming to remember where he is, though his eyes never leave yours.
"to james and lily potter," he says finally, raising a glass that's significantly emptier than it was when he started speaking. "may your love be as eternal as it is true. may you never take the easy way out when things get difficult. may you remember that some scars are worth earning."
the room erupts in polite, if somewhat strained, applause. you clap mechanically, your palms barely touching. remus stumbles off the small stage, and sirius guides him back to their table. he's saying something in remus's ear, something that makes remus shake his head vigorously, a flash of anger crossing his features.
"you okay?" mary asks, nudging you gently.
"fine," you lie. "just tired. it's been a long day."
"bullshit," marlene whispers from your other side. "he might as well have used your name. everyone with ears knows who he was talking about."
you take a long sip of champagne instead of responding. it tastes like nothing against your numb tongue.
the reception continues around you—a blur of white tulle and fairy lights and the kind of happiness that feels like a knife when you're so empty. the ballroom of the potter estate has been transformed into something out of a dream—enchanted flowers bloom and close in time with the music, releasing soft bursts of golden light. ivy climbs the walls, occasionally reshaping itself into the initials "j & l." tiny fireflies drift through the air, blinking in patterns that match the rhythm of whatever song is playing.
it's exactly like what remus described to you that night in seventh year, down to the last detail. so exactly that you wonder if james had somehow overheard, or if remus had shared the vision with his friend after... after you left.
"dance with me," marlene says, already pulling you up from your chair. "sitting here staring at him like you're plotting his murder isn't going to help."
"i'm not staring." another lie.
the dance floor is crowded, bodies moving in time to a song you can't concentrate on hearing. marlene spins you, laughs at something you don't register. over her shoulder, you see remus watching. he lifts his glass in a mock toast when your eyes meet, a bitter smile playing on lips you once knew better than your own.
you turn away, but it's too late. the memory crashes into you like a wave, pulling you under.
"i'm going to marry you one day." his words are hot against your neck, sending shivers down your spine despite the warmth of his body pressed against yours.
"is that a promise, lupin?" you whisper, fingers tracing the scars on his back, memorizing each ridge and valley as if you might be tested on them later.
"it's more than that." he shifts, looking down at you. the moonlight filtering through the dormitory window turns his eyes to liquid gold. "it's a certainty."
your heart stutters. "tell me about it."
he smiles, that soft, secret smile that only you get to see. "it'll be in spring. outside. under a canopy of flowers that change colors with the music. colors that follow the notes, blooming and fading with each chord."
"sounds expensive."
"worth every galleon." his fingers tangle in your hair. "sirius will be my best man, of course. and he'll make some horribly inappropriate speech that makes my mother faint and your father threaten to hex him."
you laugh softly, pressing your lips to his collarbone. "and after?"
"after, we'll dance until our feet hurt. and then we'll apparate somewhere no one can find us for at least a week. maybe that little cottage in cornwall we saw in the prophet."
"only a week?"
"the first of many." his voice grows serious. "i'll love you forever, you know. even when we're old and i'm even more scarred and you're—"
"still putting up with your dramatic declarations?" you tease, but your voice catches. the air between you feels heavy with promise.
"even then." he kisses you, soft and slow, like he's trying to press the words into your skin so they'll stay there forever. "especially then."
"you alright?" marlene asks, pulling you back to the present. "you look like you've seen a ghost."
"just need some air," you manage, already making your way off the dance floor.
the reception hall is stifling suddenly. too many bodies, too many memories, too many echoes of promises that died before they could be kept. you slip out onto the balcony, grateful for the bite of cold air against your flushed skin.
"hiding?"
you turn to find lily standing in the doorway, radiant in white. her dress is simple, elegant—layers of silk and chiffon that seem to float around her like she's walking on clouds. her red hair is pinned up with tiny pearl flowers, a few strategic strands left loose to frame her face.
"just needed a moment," you say. "congratulations, by the way. everything is beautiful. you're beautiful."
"thank you." she steps closer, the train of her dress whispering against the stone floor. "though i'm starting to think inviting both of you was a mistake."
you don't pretend not to understand. "i'm fine, lily. really."
"and remus?" she raises an eyebrow. "he's on his way to being completely plastered. sirius is trying to get some coffee into him, but..." she trails off.
"that's not my problem anymore." the words sound hollow even to your own ears.
lily's expression softens. "maybe not. but you're still watching him like it is. and he's still looking at you like you're the moon he can't stop orbiting."
before you can respond, james appears, wrapping an arm around his bride's waist. "there you are. sirius is about to start the games, and i need someone sober to make sure he doesn't set anything on fire. again."
lily laughs, leaning into him. "duty calls. coming, love?"
you nod, following them back inside. the air feels heavier now, charged with something you can't name but recognize all too well.
the games are as ridiculous as expected. sirius has conjured a series of magical challenges for the newlyweds—everything from finishing each other's sentences while under a partial silencing charm to a modified version of pin the tail on the hippogriff that has james blindfolded and trying to find lily in a crowd of guests all wearing veils.
you laugh at the appropriate moments, clap when everyone else does. but your attention keeps drifting, like a compass that only points in one direction.
remus is slouched at his table, tie loose around his neck, top buttons of his shirt undone. his eyes are half-closed, but you can tell he's not actually tired. he's withdrawing, pulling into himself the way he always did when things got too loud, too bright, too much. peter is saying something to him, but he doesn't seem to be listening. there's a fresh drink in front of him, amber liquid catching the light like tiny fires.
"next up," sirius announces, his voice magically amplified, "we have the newlywed game! let's see how well these lovebirds really know each other."
he conjures two high-backed chairs, facing away from each other. lily and james take their seats, both laughing.
"first question," sirius begins, a mischievous glint in his eye. "who said 'i love you' first?"
james and lily both immediately raise placards with "james" written on them. the crowd cheers.
"point for the happy couple! next question: where was your first proper date?"
they both hold up cards reading "three broomsticks," though lily has added "it was supposed to be madam puddifoot's but james got us banned for life."
laughter ripples through the crowd. james turns in his chair to wink at lily, who blows him a kiss.
"what's the most annoying habit your partner has?" sirius continues.
james writes "leaves wet towels on the floor" while lily's card reads "collects quidditch figurines and talks to them when he thinks i'm not around."
more laughter, more teasing. you force a smile, but your eyes drift back to remus. he's watching now too, a strange expression on his face—something between longing and regret, as if he's seeing a future that once belonged to him.
"if your partner could change one thing about you, what would it be?" sirius asks.
lily hesitates, then writes "my stubbornness." james, without pausing, writes "nothing. she's perfect."
a collective "aww" runs through the crowd. lily turns, her expression softening as she looks at her husband.
"i wouldn't change a thing either," she says, loud enough for everyone to hear.
james reaches for her hand across the space between them, and the simple gesture—fingers intertwining, thumbs brushing over knuckles—contains such easy intimacy that it makes your chest ache with something that feels dangerously close to envy.
remus stands abruptly, nearly knocking over his drink. he steadies it with reflexes that seem too quick for someone so intoxicated, then weaves his way through the tables toward the exit. no one but you seems to notice his departure.
the music changes, slowing to something sweet and melancholy. james leads lily to the center of the floor for their first dance as husband and wife. they move together like they were made for it, like two parts of the same spell. james whispers something that makes lily throw her head back in laughter, her eyes shining with the kind of love poets spend lifetimes trying to capture in words.
the enchanted canopy above them shifts with the music—soft blues melting into purples, then pinks, then golds. exactly like remus described that night. exactly what should have been yours.
you finish your champagne in one swallow, needing something to burn away the lump forming in your throat.
across the room, remus watches them with an expression so raw it makes your chest ache. he catches your eye again, and this time, he doesn't look away. his gaze holds yours across the sea of guests, across the years between you, across all the words neither of you ever said when it mattered.
you're the first to break it, turning to mary and asking about her job at the ministry, anything to keep from drowning in those amber eyes that still know too much about you.
"...and then the whole department had to work overtime because someone accidentally released a batch of enchanted rubber ducks that kept multiplying every time they quacked," mary is saying, but you've only caught the last half of her story.
"sounds chaotic," you manage, taking another sip of champagne you don't remember getting.
the dance floor fills as other couples join james and lily. sirius leads mcgonagall in an elaborate waltz that has her fighting to maintain her stern expression. peter awkwardly sways with a cousin of lily's who looks like she'd rather be anywhere else. dorcas and marlene move together so naturally it makes you wonder if there's something more than friendship between them.
"may i have this dance?"
you turn to find frank longbottom extending his hand. alice, his new wife of just three months, is busy chatting with lily's mother by the dessert table.
"of course," you say, grateful for the distraction.
frank is a comfortable dancer—not too close, not too distant. he makes easy small talk about their new house, about alice's promotion at the ministry, about the unusually warm weather. normal things. safe things. things that don't carry the weight of three years of silence.
"how are you holding up?" he asks suddenly, voice lowered.
you blink in surprise. "what do you mean?"
frank's expression is kind. "we all saw the speech," he says gently. "and the way you both keep looking at each other when you think no one's watching."
heat rises to your cheeks. "is it that obvious?"
"only to those of us who were there for the original show." he smiles, but it's sympathetic rather than teasing. "i remember seventh year. you two were..."
"everything," you finish for him, the word barely audible over the music.
he nods. "exactly."
the song ends, and frank squeezes your hand before returning to alice. you stand alone on the dance floor for a moment, suddenly unsure where to go. your table feels too exposed, the bar too close to where remus was last sitting.
before you can decide, the music shifts again—to a song that makes your heart stop.
it's the song that was playing the first time remus kissed you. some old muggle tune that sirius had been obsessed with that summer before seventh year. you'd been dancing together in james's parents' living room, everyone else already gone to bed. remus had pulled you close, his hands trembling slightly, and whispered "i can't pretend anymore" before his lips found yours.
your eyes immediately search the room, finding sirius at the band's table. he meets your gaze, and the apologetic shrug tells you everything—he requested it for remus. a peace offering. or maybe a final push.
and remus—remus is staring right at you from the entrance to the ballroom, devastation written across his features. he drains his glass in one long swallow, then pushes away from the doorframe, heading for the exit.
before you can think better of it, you follow.
you find him in the corridor, leaning against the wall, head tilted back, eyes closed. he looks exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with the late hour.
"running away?" you ask, the words sharper than you intended.
his eyes snap open. "look who's talking."
the barb lands exactly where he aimed it, and you flinch slightly. "that's not fair."
"isn't it?" he pushes off the wall, swaying slightly. "running away is what we do best, isn't it? you run, i chase. i run, you chase. we're so good at it by now."
"i didn't come out here to fight with you."
he laughs, a hollow sound that bounces off the stone walls. "why did you come out here, then? to make sure i wasn't making another scene? ruining lily and james's perfect day with my pathetic pining?"
"is that what you think you're doing? pining?"
"what would you call it?" he steps closer, and you can smell the firewhiskey on his breath, mingling with that familiar scent of parchment and cedar and something uniquely him that still haunts your dreams. "watching the only person i've ever loved across a crowded room, remembering everything we had, everything we lost—"
"don't," you whisper, the word barely audible.
"don't what? tell the truth? isn't that what you always wanted from me?" his voice is bitter, almost mocking. "the whole truth, even when it hurts?"
"not like this." you take a step back. "not when you're drunk and angry and—"
"and what? heartbroken?" he laughs again. "i've been heartbroken for three years, love. this is just a particularly bad night in a long series of bad nights."
you want to walk away. you should walk away. but your feet are rooted to the spot, your heart hammering against your ribs like it's trying to break free, to cross the space between you.
"it should have been us," he says suddenly, voice dropping to nearly a whisper. "everything about today—the flowers, the music, the vows—it's what i promised you. and watching them..." he swallows hard. "watching them get everything we should have had..."
"you had your chance to talk about all this," you say finally, your voice unnaturally steady. "you had months of chances."
"and you had yours to stay." his eyes hold yours, unflinching despite the alcohol. "but here we are."
"yes, here we are. at james and lily's wedding. which you're ruining, by the way."
he flinches like you've slapped him. "that's not—"
"it is. and you know it." your voice rises slightly. "you're ruining their wedding day because it's not us up there, remus. because you can't stand to watch them have what we lost."
"and you can?" he challenges, stepping closer again. "you've been wearing that fake smile all night, like you're fine, like seeing all this doesn't kill you as much as it kills me. at least i'm honest about my misery."
"honest?" you laugh incredulously. "when have you ever been honest? you spent months pushing me away, telling me you were fine when you weren't, insisting nothing was wrong when everything was falling apart."
"i was trying to protect you!" his voice echoes down the empty corridor. "i was twenty years old and turning into a monster every month, and i was terrified of what that meant for us!"
"i never asked to be protected." your voice cracks. "i asked to be included. to be trusted. to be treated like a partner, not a child you had to shelter from the big bad world."
he runs a hand through his hair, a gesture so familiar it makes your chest ache. "i know. i know that now."
"well, it's too late." the words taste like ash in your mouth.
"is it?" he asks quietly. "is it really too late for us?"
you swallow hard. "what do you want from me, remus?"
"i want..." he starts, then stops, seeming to gather his thoughts. "i want one dance. just one. in that room, under those flowers that should have been ours."
the request is so unexpected it leaves you speechless.
"at least let us attend one wedding together," he says, a sad smile playing at his lips, "if it can't be ours."
your throat tightens. "that's not fair."
"nothing about us has ever been fair." he holds out his hand. "one dance. and then i'll leave you alone forever, if that's what you want."
you should say no. you know you should walk away, go back to the reception, find mary or marlene and pretend this conversation never happened. but there's something in his eyes—a vulnerability that the alcohol has exposed—that makes you reach for his hand.
"one dance," you agree. "and then we're done."
his fingers close around yours, warm and familiar. "lead the way."
you walk back to the ballroom in silence, your hand still in his. at the entrance, you hesitate. the music has changed again, something slow and sweet. couples sway together, lost in their own worlds.
"if i ask you something," remus says suddenly, "will you answer honestly?"
you look up at him. "depends on the question."
"do you ever think about it? what would have happened if we hadn't fallen apart?"
your heart pounds against your ribs. "all the time," you admit, the words escaping before you can stop them.
he looks down at you, eyes wide with surprise. "really?"
"every day," you say softly. "every time i see something that reminds me of you. every time i hear someone laugh the way you do. every time it rains."
he swallows hard. "me too."
you step into the ballroom, pulling him with you. the dance floor is crowded enough that no one notices as you find a space near the edge. remus's hand settles on your waist, hesitant, like he's afraid you might shatter under his touch.
you place your hand on his shoulder, remembering how it used to fit there perfectly. his other hand still holds yours, and you try not to think about how right it feels. how the calluses on his palm match up with the ones on your fingers, like pieces of a puzzle.
"thank you," he says quietly as you begin to move to the music. "for this."
you nod, not trusting yourself to speak. his body is warm against yours, familiar in a way that makes your chest ache. you try to keep some distance between you, but the crowded floor pushes you closer together until you can feel his heartbeat against your own.
"i'm sorry," he says after a moment. "for the speech. for tonight. for everything."
you look up at him, finding his gaze already on you. "are you really? or are you just saying that because you're drunk and nostalgic?"
"i'm saying it because it's true." his thumb traces circles on your waist, probably unconsciously. "i've been sorry since the day you walked out. i just didn't know how to tell you."
"you could have tried words," you say, but there's no bite to it. "or, i don't know, showing up at my door."
"i did," he admits. "three times. i stood outside your flat for hours, trying to find the courage to knock. the first time, it was raining so hard i was soaked through. the second time, it was your birthday. the third..." he trails off.
"the third?" you prompt.
"the third was the day frank and alice got married. i saw the invitation on your table through the window. realized you'd be there, that i'd see you for the first time in nearly two years. i panicked and left."
you remember that day—how you'd felt eyes on you during the ceremony, how you'd kept turning to look behind you, finding nothing but shadows.
"we're a mess, aren't we?" you say softly.
he laughs, a genuine sound that vibrates through his chest into yours. "the biggest."
the music shifts again, but neither of you stop dancing. your hand has somehow moved from his shoulder to the back of his neck, fingers brushing against the soft hair there. his arm has tightened around your waist, pulling you closer until there's barely any space between you.
"what happened to us?" you ask, the question that's haunted you for three years finally finding voice.
remus sighs, his breath warm against your temple. "fear. pride. stubbornness. take your pick."
"all of the above," you murmur.
"i was so afraid of hurting you," he says quietly. "not just physically, but... i was getting worse. the transformations were getting harder. i was coming back with new scars every month, scars i couldn't hide. i was in pain all the time, and i was taking it out on you."
"you were pushing me away."
"i thought it would be easier if you were the one to leave. if i made you hate me enough to walk away on your own."
you pull back slightly to look at him. "i never hated you. not even when i wanted to."
something flickers in his eyes—hope, maybe, or regret. "and now?"
before you can answer, there's a commotion near the head table. james is standing on a chair, lily beside him, glasses raised. "if i could have everyone's attention for a moment!"
the music fades, conversations quieting. you and remus turn toward the voice, but neither of you step away from the other.
"my wife and i," james begins, grinning at the word 'wife,' "want to thank you all for being here today. for supporting us, for loving us, for putting up with us—especially those of you who had to endure my six-year campaign to win lily's heart."
laughter ripples through the crowd.
"but we also want to take a moment to acknowledge something else." james's expression grows serious. "we're living in dark times. there's no point pretending otherwise. every day brings news of another disappearance, another attack, another loss."
the mood in the room shifts, grows heavier.
"which is why days like today are so important," lily continues. "days when we remember that love is still possible. that joy is still possible. that even in the darkest times, we can find light in each other."
murmurs of agreement flow through the crowd. remus's arm tightens around your waist, a reflexive gesture you're not sure he's even aware of.
"so," james raises his glass higher, "we want to propose a toast. not just to us, but to all of you. to the love that brings us together. to the friendships that sustain us. to the family we choose."
"to love in dark times," lily adds, her glass joining his.
the room echoes with the toast, glasses raised, voices joining together. you look up at remus, finding his eyes already on you, swimming with emotion.
"to love in dark times," he whispers, just for you.
something shifts between you, a trembling possibility taking shape. remus's gaze drops to your lips, a question in his eyes. for a breathless moment, you think he might kiss you, right here in front of everyone.
but then sirius is there, clapping remus on the shoulder. "there you are, moony! been looking all over. mcgonagall wants a dance with the best man."
remus startles, turning to his friend. "minerva wants to dance with me?"
"well, she asked for 'the sober one,' which rules out padfoot here," james says, appearing beside sirius. "but since you're the only best man we've got..."
you step back, the moment broken. remus looks at you, an apology in his eyes, but you shake your head. "go. fulfill your best man duties."
he hesitates. "this conversation isn't over."
"isn't it?" you ask softly.
before he can answer, james is pulling him away, toward where mcgonagall stands waiting, a rare smile on her face. you watch them go, feeling strangely hollow.
marlene appears at your side, a fresh glass of champagne in her hand. "was that what it looked like?"
you take the glass, grateful for something to do with your hands. "depends on what you think it looked like."
"like you and lupin were about three seconds away from giving everyone at this wedding something to really gossip about," she says, eyebrows raised.
you sip your champagne. "we were just dancing."
"uh-huh." she looks unconvinced. "and i'm just minerva's star pupil. seriously, are you okay? you've been avoiding him all night, and then suddenly you're slow dancing with him looking like... that."
"like what?"
"like he's air and you've been drowning," she says simply.
you don't have an answer for that.
across the room, remus is dancing with mcgonagall, his movements more graceful than they should be for someone who's had as much to drink as he has. he's smiling at something she's saying, but his eyes keep finding you over her shoulder.
"he still loves you," marlene says, following your gaze. "anyone with eyes can see it."
"it's not that simple."
"isn't it?" she shrugs. "love rarely is. doesn't mean it's not worth figuring out."
the song ends, and mcgonagall says something to remus that makes him laugh. he bows slightly, pressing a kiss to her hand, and she actually blushes.
"think about it," marlene says, squeezing your arm before disappearing back into the crowd.
you finish your champagne, set the empty glass on a passing tray, and make your way to the balcony again. the night air is cool against your flushed skin, the stars bright overhead. you lean against the railing, trying to sort through the tangle of emotions in your chest.
the door opens behind you, and you don't need to turn to know who it is. you'd know his footsteps anywhere, even after all this time.
"found you," remus says softly, coming to stand beside you.
"wasn't hiding," you reply.
"weren't you?" he leans against the railing, careful to keep some space between you. "you've been avoiding me all night."
"can you blame me? after that speech?"
he winces. "that was... poorly handled on my part."
you laugh despite yourself. "you think?"
"in my defense, i've been drinking since breakfast." he runs a hand through his hair. "dutch courage, sirius called it."
"dutch courage for what? publicly humiliating us both?"
"for talking to you," he says simply. "for telling you the truth. for finally saying what i should have said three years ago."
you turn to look at him. "and what's that?"
he meets your gaze, steady despite the alcohol. "that i love you. that i never stopped loving you. that letting you walk away was the biggest mistake of my life."
the words hang between you, heavy with all the things unsaid for too long.
"you're drunk," you say finally.
"yes," he agrees. "but that doesn't make it any less true."
"what do you want from me, remus?" you ask again, suddenly tired. "an absolution? forgiveness? or do you just want to reopen old wounds because you're feeling nostalgic at a wedding?"
"i want a second chance," he says quietly. "i want to try again, to do better this time. i want to be brave enough to let you in, to stop pushing you away when things get hard."
you shake your head. "we can't just pick up where we left off. too much has happened. too much time has passed."
"i'm not asking to pick up where we left off. i'm asking to start somewhere new. somewhere better."
you look away, back at the stars. "i don't know if i can trust you again."
"i know." he moves closer, his arm brushing against yours. "i know i hurt you. i know i broke promises. but i also know that there hasn't been a single day in the last three years when i haven't thought about you, missed you, regretted everything that happened between us."
the sincerity in his voice makes your chest ache. "remus—"
"come back to the party with me," he interrupts. "just for a little while. dance with me again. let me buy you a drink. let me prove to you that i've changed, that i'm not the same scared boy who let you go."
you hesitate. "i don't think that's a good idea."
"probably not," he admits. "but when have we ever done the smart thing when it comes to each other?"
you can't help but smile at that. "fair point."
he holds out his hand, a tentative gesture. "at least let us attend one wedding together, if it can't be ours," he says softly. "let me have this one night with you before we go back to pretending we're strangers."
the words hit you like a physical blow, knocking the air from your lungs. "that's not fair."
"i know," he says, hand still extended. "but i'm asking anyway."
you look at his hand, then up at his face. there's something in his eyes—a vulnerability, a hope, a fear—that breaks through the last of your defenses. you place your hand in his, feeling the familiar calluses, the warmth that's always been so at odds with his condition.
"one night," you say. "no promises beyond that."
his fingers close around yours, gentle but firm. "no promises," he agrees. "just tonight."
you let him lead you back inside, to where the party is still in full swing. the band is playing something fast now, and the dance floor is packed with people laughing, spinning, living in the moment.
remus pauses at the edge of the crowd, looking down at you. "still want to dance?"
you shake your head. "maybe later. i think i need that drink first."
he nods, keeping hold of your hand as he guides you through the crowd to the bar. "what'll it be?"
"something strong," you say. "strong enough to make me stop overthinking this."
he smiles, a flash of the old remus, the one who used to know exactly what you needed before you did. "two firewhiskeys," he tells the bartender. "neat."
when the drinks arrive, he hands one to you, his fingers brushing against yours in a way that seems deliberate. "to tonight," he says, raising his glass. "and whatever comes after."
you clink your glass against his, the sound sharp and clear in the moment of hesitation between songs. the whiskey burns your throat, liquid courage spreading warmth through your chest.
"so," you say, setting your glass down. "where do we go from here?"
remus takes a long sip of his own drink, amber liquid matching his eyes. "honestly? i have no idea. i didn't think i'd get this far."
a laugh escapes you, small but genuine. "always the planner, lupin."
"planning hasn't exactly worked out well for us, has it?" he leans against the bar, eyes never leaving your face. "maybe we should try improvising for once."
there's a new quality to his voice—something reckless, something dangerous—that sends a shiver down your spine that has nothing to do with the whiskey. his gaze drops briefly to your lips, then back to your eyes.
"dangerous territory," you murmur.
"since when have we been afraid of danger?" his voice drops lower. "we were gryffindors, after all."
"some kinds of bravery are easier than others." you finish your drink in one swallow. "physical danger was never what scared us."
the music changes again, slowing to something soft and melancholy that makes your chest ache with recognition. it's another song from that summer, the one that played the night before everything fell apart.
remus hears it too; you can tell by the way his body tenses, the way his knuckles whiten around his glass. "sirius is really pushing his luck tonight," he mutters.
"at least it's not—"
but you don't finish the sentence because the current song fades out and the opening notes of the song—your song—start playing. the one that was playing during your first kiss, the one remus used to hum against your skin on lazy sunday mornings, the one you haven't been able to listen to since everything ended.
remus's eyes widen, then narrow as he scans the room, finding sirius by the band stand. "i'm going to kill him."
sirius spots you both, raises his glass in a toast, and winks dramatically. subtlety never was his strong suit.
"dance with me," remus says suddenly, setting down his glass. "again. properly this time."
you hesitate. "i don't think—"
"don't think," he interrupts, taking your hand. "feel. just for this song. just for tonight."
before you can protest, he's guiding you to the dance floor, finding a spot near the edge, partially hidden by a column draped in enchanted ivy. his hand settles on your waist, more confidently this time, pulling you closer than before. your arms go around his neck almost automatically, muscle memory from hundreds of dances before.
"we shouldn't be doing this," you whisper, even as you let him pull you closer.
"probably not," he agrees, his breath warm against your ear. "but it seems like we're doing it anyway."
you fall into the familiar rhythm, bodies remembering what minds have tried to forget. his hand splays across your lower back, warm and solid, guiding you with the gentle confidence that always surprised people who only knew shy, bookish remus lupin. but you know this version of him—the one who leads without hesitation, the one whose quiet exterior hides something wild and sure.
"i've missed this," he murmurs, so softly you almost don't hear it over the music. "missed you."
you don't reply, but you rest your head against his shoulder, allowing yourself this one moment of weakness. he smells the same—cedar and parchment and something uniquely him that you've never been able to find anywhere else, not for lack of trying.
the song continues, lyrics wrapping around you both like a familiar blanket, words about first love and lasting memories and the kind of connection that never really fades, even when you want it to.
"do you remember?" remus asks quietly. "the first time we danced to this?"
"sirius's birthday," you answer without thinking. "the bonfire at the potter's. you'd had too much firewhiskey and kept stepping on my toes."
he laughs softly. "and you didn't care. you just kept dancing with me anyway."
"i would have danced with you all night, broken toes and all." the admission slips out before you can stop it.
his arms tighten around you almost imperceptibly. "i know."
a memory surfaces—remus pulling you away from the bonfire, leading you down to the small pond at the edge of the potter property. dancing with you under the stars, no music except what was in your heads, his hands trembling slightly when they cupped your face. the taste of firewhiskey and chocolate on his lips when he finally, finally kissed you.
"we were so young," you murmur.
"we're still young," he reminds you. "only twenty-three. ancient by wizarding standards, i know, but..."
you smile despite yourself. "speak for yourself, old man."
he chuckles, the sound vibrating through his chest into yours. "fair enough. these gray hairs do add a few years."
"i like them," you say without thinking. "they make you look distinguished."
his steps falter for just a moment before he recovers. "distinguished? is that what we're calling it now?"
"better than 'prematurely aged by lycanthropy,'" you reply, the old joke slipping out automatically.
his laugh is startled but genuine. "always direct, aren't you?"
"you used to appreciate that about me."
"i still do," he says, suddenly serious. "it's one of the thousand things i've missed about you."
the song is nearing its end, the familiar bridge building toward the final chorus. you should pull away. you know you should put distance between your bodies, between your hearts. but instead, you find yourself holding tighter, memorizing the feel of him for the lonely nights ahead.
"remember what you said to me?" remus asks softly. "that night by the pond?"
you swallow hard. "which part?"
"you said, 'i don't care what happens tomorrow or next week or next year. i just want tonight with you, under these stars.' you said, 'sometimes a moment is enough to last forever.'"
the words, your words, spoken in his voice, hit you like a bludger to the chest. "i remember."
"was it? enough?" his voice is barely audible, even with his lips so close to your ear. "did it last?"
you pull back slightly to look at him, finding his eyes dark with emotion. "remus..."
the song ends, the final notes hanging in the air between you like a question. in the moment of silence before the next song begins, remus leans down, his forehead resting against yours. "just tonight," he whispers. "one more memory to last forever. and then i'll let you go, if that's what you want."
your breath catches. this close, you can see the flecks of gold in his amber eyes, the tiny scar that cuts through his left eyebrow, the shadow of stubble on his jaw. details you've tried so hard to forget, suddenly in perfect, painful focus.
someone bumps into you from behind, breaking the moment. you step back, suddenly aware of where you are, of the crowd around you. the band has started another song, something faster, louder.
"i need some air," you say, already turning away.
remus catches your hand. "i'll come with you."
"remus—"
"please," he says, and there's something in his voice—a vulnerability, a need—that you can't refuse.
you nod once, and he keeps hold of your hand as you weave through the crowd toward the balcony doors. the night air is even cooler now, raising goosebumps on your bare arms. without a word, remus shrugs out of his suit jacket and drapes it over your shoulders. it's warm from his body, and that familiar scent envelops you.
"thank you," you murmur.
he nods, keeping a careful distance between you now. "old habits."
you pull the jacket tighter around yourself, trying not to think about how right it feels. "very gallant."
"nothing gallant about it," he says, leaning against the railing. "entirely selfish, actually. you were always unbearably beautiful in my clothes."
heat rises to your cheeks. "remus..."
"sorry," he says, not sounding sorry at all. "tonight only, remember? no reason to hold back anymore."
there's a new quality to his voice—a recklessness, an abandon—that you've rarely heard from him. it reminds you of the nights after full moons sometimes, when the relief of surviving another transformation would make him bold, uninhibited.
"how much have you had to drink?" you ask.
he laughs. "enough to be honest, not enough to lie."
"that's dangerously close to a riddle, lupin."
"you always did like solving me." his smile is soft, tinged with melancholy. "figuring out all my secrets, all my scars."
you look away, out at the garden below. fairy lights float among the rose bushes, twinkling like earthbound stars. "not all of them, apparently."
the words hang between you, heavy with implication. remus sighs, running a hand through his hair. "that's fair."
silence stretches between you, not entirely uncomfortable. inside, the party continues—laughter and music spilling out into the night, reminders of the celebration you're both hiding from.
"can i ask you something?" remus says finally. "something i've wondered for three years?"
you don't look at him. "you can ask. i might not answer."
"why didn't you fight for us?" his voice is soft, devoid of accusation. "when i was pushing you away, when i was being an idiot—why did you let me succeed?"
the question catches you off guard. you've spent three years wondering the same thing about him, never considering that he might be asking it about you.
"i thought you wanted me to go," you say finally. "i thought... i thought you'd stopped loving me."
remus makes a sound like you've physically wounded him. "merlin, is that what you believed? that i stopped loving you?"
you turn to him now. "what was i supposed to think? you were distant for months. you wouldn't let me in—literally, physically wouldn't let me into your flat after transformations. you stopped telling me what you were thinking, what you were feeling. and then, that last fight..."
the memory of it still burns, even after all this time. remus, pale and exhausted after a particularly brutal moon, shouting that he couldn't do this anymore, that it wasn't fair to you, that you deserved better than 'half a man.' you, screaming back that you weren't a child, that you could make your own decisions about what you deserved. the terrible, ringing silence after he said, 'then maybe you should start making better ones.'
"i was trying to set you free," remus says quietly. "the war was getting worse. my transformations were getting worse. i was terrified of what would happen to you if—when—i didn't come back one day."
"so you decided for both of us that it was better to end things?" anger flares, old but still potent. "you didn't even give me a choice."
"i know." he looks down at his hands. "i thought i was protecting you."
"i never asked to be protected." your voice cracks. "i asked to be loved. to be trusted. to be treated like an equal."
"i did love you," he says, looking up. "merlin, i loved you so much it terrified me. and that's not an excuse, i know. just a fact."
you shake your head. "love shouldn't be terrifying."
"shouldn't it?" he takes a step closer. "the best kinds are, i think. the ones that matter, anyway. the ones that change you forever."
your heart hammers against your ribs. "remus, don't—"
"i still love you," he says simply. "i never stopped. not for a single day, not for a single hour. even when i thought i was doing the right thing by letting you go."
the words hang in the air between you, too large, too heavy to ignore. part of you wants to run, to escape back into the safety of denial and distance. but another part—the part that still wakes up reaching for him in the darkness—holds you there, frozen in this moment of terrible possibility.
"say something," he whispers. "anything. tell me you hate me, tell me to go to hell, just... don't shut me out."
"i don't hate you," you say finally. "i've tried. merlin knows i've tried. it would be so much easier if i could."
hope flickers across his face. "then what do you feel?"
you laugh, a brittle sound. "everything. nothing. i don't know anymore." you wrap his jacket tighter around yourself. "i spent so long trying not to feel anything at all when it comes to you."
he nods, understanding in his eyes. "i know the feeling."
a burst of laughter from inside draws your attention. through the glass doors, you can see sirius dancing with marlene now, both of them laughing as he attempts to dip her. james and lily are still on the dance floor, lost in each other, the rest of the room fading away around them.
"they look happy," remus says, following your gaze. "like nothing else exists."
"that's how we used to look," you say softly.
"i remember." he moves to stand beside you, close but not touching. "sometimes i think sirius has photos of us from back then just to torture me. he'll pull them out when he's particularly annoyed with me. 'remember when you weren't a miserable git?' he'll say."
you smile despite yourself. "sounds like sirius."
"he misses you too, you know." remus glances at you. "they all do. you didn't just lose me when you walked away."
the words sting because they're true. after the breakup, you'd pulled away from the entire group, unable to bear the reminders, the shared history, the inevitable awkwardness of trying to remain friends with remus's friends. it had been easier to make a clean break, to start fresh.
"i know," you say. "i miss them too."
silence falls between you again, more comfortable this time. in the garden below, a couple walks hand in hand among the rose bushes, stealing a moment of privacy.
"do you ever wonder," remus begins, then stops, seeming to reconsider.
"what?"
he sighs. "do you ever wonder what would have happened if we'd met at a different time? if there was no war, no... condition. just us, meeting at a bookshop or a café somewhere, two normal people."
you consider the question. "sometimes. but then, would we even be us without all those things? they're part of what shaped us, what brought us together."
"that's very philosophical of you," he says with a small smile.
"i've had a lot of time to think." you turn to look at him directly. "three years, in fact."
his smile fades. "i am sorry, you know. for how i handled everything. for the things i said that last night."
"i know." you reach out, almost unconsciously, and straighten his bowtie, which has come slightly undone. "i said things i regret too."
his breath catches at your touch. "we were always good at hurting each other when we were hurting ourselves."
"quite the pair," you agree, letting your hand drop.
he catches it before it can fall back to your side, his fingers warm around yours. "we were good at other things too," he says quietly. "better things."
your pulse jumps. "remus..."
"i know, i know." he doesn't let go of your hand. "tonight only. no expectations."
the door to the balcony opens, and peter steps out, clearly looking for someone. he spots you both, his eyes widening slightly at your joined hands. "oh! there you are, moony. sirius sent me to find you. they're about to do the farewell thing. sparklers and all that."
remus nods. "we'll be right there, wormtail. thanks."
peter hesitates, looking between you uncertainly. "right. good. er, good to see you," he adds, addressing you with an awkward smile before disappearing back inside.
"farewell thing?" you ask.
"james and lily are leaving soon," remus explains. "sirius has arranged some elaborate send-off with enchanted sparklers. probably best if we're all there to make sure nothing catches fire."
you laugh softly. "some things never change."
"no," he agrees, looking at you intently. "some things don't."
inside, sirius is calling for everyone to gather, his voice magically amplified. "ladies and gentlemen, witches and wizards, it's almost time to bid farewell to the happy couple!"
remus still hasn't let go of your hand. "shall we?"
you hesitate, then nod. "lead the way."
the guests have formed a pathway from the dance floor to the main doors, creating a corridor for james and lily to walk through. sirius is distributing what look like tiny golden wands—the enchanted sparklers, presumably.
"here," remus says, handing you one after someone passes them to him. "they're charmed to create specific shapes when lit. lilies and snitches, naturally."
you take the sparkler, fingers brushing against his. "naturally."
you find yourselves near the end of the pathway, close to the doors. remus stands beside you, close enough that your shoulders touch. the contact is small but charged with everything unsaid between you.
"almost time," sirius announces, taking his place at the head of the line. "on my signal, everyone light your sparklers with your wands and hold them high!"
james and lily appear, having changed out of their wedding clothes into elegant traveling robes. lily's hair is loose now, falling in waves around her shoulders. james has his arm around her waist, holding her close against his side.
everyone touches their wands to their sparklers, which burst into brilliant golden light. tiny lilies and snitches made of sparks dance above the crowd, casting a warm glow over everything. the effect is beautiful, magical in every sense of the word.
james and lily begin their walk, smiling and thanking people as they pass. lily is crying a little, happy tears that make her green eyes shine even brighter in the golden light.
beside you, remus shifts closer, his arm pressing against yours. "beautiful, isn't it?" he murmurs.
"it is," you agree, watching as lily hugs mary, as james clasps frank's hand.
they're getting closer now, making their way down the line. lily spots you and breaks away from james momentarily, pulling you into a tight hug. "i'm so glad you came," she whispers in your ear. "and whatever's happening with you two," she adds, glancing at remus, "i'm glad about that too."
before you can respond, she's moving on, embracing remus while james hugs you, lifting you slightly off your feet in his enthusiasm.
"take care of yourself," james says as he sets you down. "and maybe don't be such a stranger, yeah? lily misses you."
"i miss her too," you admit. "i miss all of you."
james grins. "then do something about it." he claps remus on the shoulder, says something you can't hear, and then rejoins his wife, continuing their progress toward the door.
as they reach the end of the pathway, passing under an arch of particularly bright sparklers, sirius calls out, "to mr. and mrs. potter!"
the crowd echoes the toast, glasses raised, sparklers held high. james and lily turn at the doorway, waving one last time before disappearing into the night.
the sparklers begin to fade, their magic exhausted. around you, guests start to disperse, some heading for the floo network, others making their way back to the bar for one last drink.
remus hasn't moved from your side. "they look happy," he says, watching the door where james and lily vanished.
"they are happy," you reply. "they deserve to be."
"so do you," he says quietly. "be happy, i mean."
you look up at him, finding his eyes already on you. "so do you, remus."
something shifts in his expression, a softening, a yielding. "walk with me?"
you should say no. you should thank him for the dances, for the conversation, and walk away while you still can. but instead, you hear yourself say, "okay."
he leads you away from the dispersing crowd, through a side door that opens onto a small garden path. the night is cool but not cold, stars bright overhead. neither of you speak as you walk, following the winding path deeper into the garden, away from the noise and light of the reception.
you come to a small stone bench beside a reflecting pool. the surface of the water is perfectly still, mirroring the sky above. remus gestures for you to sit, and you do, leaving space for him beside you.
"i used to come here sometimes," he says, settling next to you. "when we'd stay with the potters during summers. when things got too loud inside, or when the moon was close and i needed... space."
"it's peaceful," you say, looking at the stars reflected in the water. "i can see why."
silence falls between you, comfortable in a way that surprises you. after a moment, remus speaks again, his voice soft. "lily asked me something the other day. about regrets."
you turn to look at him. "what did you tell her?"
"the truth." he meets your gaze. "that i regret a lot of things, but loving you isn't one of them. that if i could go back and do it all again, i wouldn't change falling in love with you. just how i handled everything after."
your breath catches. "remus—"
"i know," he interrupts gently. "tonight only. i'm not asking for anything. i just... needed you to know that. before we go back to our separate lives."
you look down at your hands, twisting in your lap. "what if..."
"what if what?" he prompts when you don't continue.
you take a deep breath. "what if i don't want to go back to separate lives?"
the words hang in the air between you, impossible to take back. remus goes very still beside you, like he's afraid any movement might shatter the moment.
"what are you saying?" he asks finally, voice barely above a whisper.
"i don't know," you admit. "i just know that seeing you tonight, talking to you... it's made me realize that walking away from you was the hardest thing i've ever done. and staying away hasn't gotten any easier, not even after three years."
he reaches for your hand, hesitant, giving you every opportunity to pull away. when you don't, his fingers interlace with yours, warm and steady. "what does that mean for us?"
"i don't know that either," you say honestly. "i'm not saying we can just pick up where we left off. too much has happened, we've both changed too much."
"but?" he says, hearing the unspoken word.
"but maybe... maybe we could try something new. start over, somehow." you look up at him. "if you want to."
the hope in his eyes is almost painful to see. "if i want to," he repeats, disbelieving. "merlin, do you even need to ask?"
you smile, small but genuine. "i think i do. after everything... i need to hear you say it."
he shifts on the bench, turning to face you fully. "i want to," he says, his voice steady despite the emotion swimming in his eyes. "i want another chance with you. i want to do better this time, to be braver, to be worthy of you."
"you were always worthy," you say softly. "that was never the problem."
"what was the problem, then?"
you consider the question. "fear. pride. war. bad timing. take your pick."
he nods. "all of the above."
"all fixable things," you say, surprising yourself with the certainty in your voice.
"are they?" he asks, equally surprised.
"maybe not the war," you admit. "but the rest... if we're both willing to try."
remus lifts your joined hands, presses a kiss to your knuckles. the gesture is so familiar, so achingly tender, that it steals your breath. "i'm willing to try anything," he says against your skin. "everything."
you reach up with your free hand, trace the line of that small scar through his eyebrow. "slowly," you caution. "one step at a time."
"as slow as you need," he agrees. "we have time."
do you, though? with the war getting worse every day, with friends disappearing, with the dark mark appearing over more homes—time feels like the one thing none of you can count on.
as if reading your thoughts, remus says, "i know what you're thinking. that we might not have time, that tomorrow isn't guaranteed. and you're right. but that's exactly why we should try. because if not now, when?"
the logic is sound, the sentiment achingly true. and looking at him now, in the starlight, you find yourself unable to remember any of the reasons you convinced yourself staying away was the right choice.
"i'm still afraid," you admit. "of getting hurt again. of hurting you."
"i know." he leans forward, rests his forehead against yours. "i'm terrified. but i'm more afraid of never knowing what could have been if we'd been brave enough to try again."
you close your eyes, breathing him in. "one step at a time," you repeat.
"what's the first step?" he asks, so close now that you can feel his breath against your lips.
"this," you whisper, and close the distance between you.
the kiss is soft, tentative, a question rather than a declaration. remus's hand comes up to cup your cheek, gentle as though you might break or vanish under his touch. your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, holding him close, anchoring yourself to this moment that feels both completely new and achingly familiar.
when you part, he keeps his eyes closed for a moment longer, as if memorizing the feeling. when he opens them, there's a clarity there that wasn't present before, the haze of alcohol replaced by something steadier, more certain.
"that," he says softly, "was a very good first step."
you laugh, the sound surprisingly light. "i thought so too."
heart — „ fuck you and your stupid jokes and your martyr complex "
warnings — explicit sexual content, heavy nsfw content, mentions of lycantrophy, switch!reader & switch!remus, angry sex, mention of blood
word count - 14,000+
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the common room was nearly empty when you stormed in, your robes billowing behind you like storm clouds. only a few first years remained, huddled in the corner with their textbooks, too afraid to look up as you passed. they'd learned by now to stay out of your way when that particular expression crossed your face. you didn't care. your mind was elsewhere—specifically on the tall, scarred boy who should have been waiting for you outside the potions classroom after your detention with slughorn. the detention you only got because you'd defended remus when mulciber had made that awful comment about his scars.
and where had he been? nowhere. not even the courtesy of an owl.
the stairs to the boys' dormitory seemed to sense your mood, not even attempting their usual trick of turning into a slide as you ascended. smart stairs. the door to the seventh-year boys' room was slightly ajar, and you pushed it open without knocking.
remus sat on his bed, a book open in his lap, his amber eyes lifting to meet yours with perfect calmness. as if he hadn't just left you waiting in the dungeons for thirty minutes.
"you absolute prick," you hissed, slamming the door behind you.
his lips quirked into that infuriating half-smile you'd fallen for two years ago. "lovely to see you too, nightshade."
the nickname only fueled your anger. he'd started calling you that after your first explosive argument, when you'd thrown a vial of deadly nightshade essence at his head in the greenhouse. *filled with poison, but blessed with beauty and rage*, he'd said afterward, his fingers tracing the curve of your jaw with reverence even as blood trickled from where the shattered glass had cut his cheek.
"don't you 'nightshade' me," you snapped, stalking toward him. "i had detention for you. slughorn made me scrub cauldrons for an hour. without magic."
remus carefully marked his place in the book before setting it aside. "i'm sorry about that."
"no, you're not."
"no," he agreed, eyes suddenly darkening. "i'm not sorry you defend me. i'm never sorry about that."
you stood at the foot of his bed, your hands curled into fists at your sides. "where were the others?"
"hogsmeade. planning something for james and lily's anniversary."
"and you?"
"waiting for you," he said simply. "here. where we could be alone."
the significance of his words wasn't lost on you. the dormitory was empty. potter, black, and pettigrew were gone. no roommates, no interruptions. your anger didn't disappear, but it transformed, melting into something hotter, more urgent.
"you could have told me," you said, your voice lower now.
"and ruin the surprise?" he raised an eyebrow. "besides, i rather enjoy it when you're cross with me."
you took a step closer, eyes narrowing. "you're playing with fire, lupin."
"i've always been fascinated by dangerous things," he replied, and there was that look—the one that made your stomach flip, the one that reminded you that beneath his careful, scholarly exterior was something wild and barely contained.
you climbed onto the bed, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his legs. "i'm still angry with you."
his hands found your waist, gentle yet firm. "i know."
"i'm not going to be nice," you warned.
his thumb traced circles on your hip. "when are you ever?"
you grabbed his wrists and pinned them above his head against the headboard, leaning in until your faces were inches apart. "don't forget who's in charge here."
something like amusement flickered in his eyes. "wouldn't dream of it."
your grip tightened on his wrists, tight enough to leave marks. "you think this is funny? leaving me down there to deal with slughorn's punishment while you just wait up here, comfortable with your fucking books?"
"not funny," he murmured, his eyes darkening as they held yours. "necessary."
"necessary?" you repeated incredulously.
"mm," he hummed, making no attempt to break your hold despite the fact that you both knew he could. his next full moon was approaching—you could always tell by the way his muscles seemed to coil with barely restrained energy beneath his skin. "necessary because i needed to remind myself why i keep coming back to this. to you."
you released one of his wrists to tangle your fingers in his light brown hair, tugging his head back to expose his throat. "and why is that, lupin? glutton for punishment?"
his free hand moved to your thigh, fingers digging into the flesh just enough to make you inhale sharply. "something like that."
you brought your face close to his, your lips barely brushing against his as you spoke. "tell me why."
"because no one else makes me feel alive the way you do," he said, his voice low and rough. "because you're not afraid of the wolf, or the man."
you nipped at his bottom lip, drawing a soft hiss from him. "and because you're mine." it wasn't a question.
"yours," he agreed, his eyes flashing amber in the dimming evening light.
you released his other wrist then, both your hands moving to the buttons of his shirt, working them open one by one, deliberately slow. "and don't you forget it," you murmured, leaning down to press a biting kiss to the newly exposed skin of his collarbone.
his hands found your waist again, slipping beneath your uniform shirt to touch bare skin. "i carry the reminders everywhere," he said, and you knew he was referring to the marks you'd left on him during your last encounter—the crescent-shaped imprints of your nails on his shoulders, the faint bruises on his hips, the reddish marks along his inner thighs.
you pushed his shirt open, running your hands over the familiar landscape of his chest—the scars that crisscrossed his torso, some old and silvery, others newer and still pink. your fingers traced each one with reverence, a stark contrast to the anger still simmering in your veins.
"take this off," you commanded, tugging at his shirt.
he complied, shrugging out of the garment and tossing it aside. you sat back slightly, taking in the sight of him. despite the scars, or perhaps because of them, he was beautiful—lean but strong, the definition in his muscles more pronounced as the full moon approached.
"now yours," he said, fingers already working at the buttons of your uniform blouse.
you let him undo a few before batting his hands away. "i didn't say you could touch."
his eyes darkened further, but he leaned back against the headboard, hands falling to his sides in mock surrender. "as you wish."
you finished unbuttoning your blouse, letting it slide from your shoulders with deliberate slowness. his gaze tracked every movement, his breathing becoming slightly more ragged as you revealed more skin. you reached behind to unclasp your bra, letting it join your blouse on the floor.
"fuck, nightshade," he breathed, his hands twitching at his sides with the effort of not reaching for you.
you smirked, knowing exactly what this was doing to him. "what's wrong, remus? see something you want?"
"you know i do," he growled, the sound sending a shiver down your spine.
you leaned forward, your bare chest pressing against his, and whispered in his ear, "then beg for it."
his hands moved then, coming up to grip your hips hard enough to bruise. "you know i don't beg," he said, his voice low. "not even for you."
you laughed, the sound both mocking and affectionate. "we'll see about that."
you shifted, grinding your hips down against his, feeling his arousal through the layers of clothing still between you. his breath hitched, his fingers digging deeper into your hips.
"careful," he warned, eyes flashing.
you did it again, slower this time, watching the way his jaw clenched. "or what?"
in answer, he surged forward, one hand moving to the back of your neck to pull you into a bruising kiss. his tongue swept into your mouth, demanding and possessive. you bit down on his bottom lip in retaliation, hard enough to draw a faint coppery taste.
he pulled back slightly, licking his lip where you'd bitten it. "playing rough tonight, are we?"
"you left me in the dungeons for half an hour," you reminded him, your hands moving to his belt. "i'm not feeling particularly gentle."
"good," he murmured, watching as you unbuckled his belt and pulled it free from the loops with a satisfying hiss of leather against fabric. "neither am i."
you folded the belt in half, the leather making a soft snapping sound that made his eyes darken further. "is that so?"
he nodded, something primal and hungry in his gaze. "the moon's close. i can feel it under my skin."
you knew what he meant. the approach of the full moon always made him more sensitive, more heightened in every way—his senses sharper, his desires more intense. it was why these encounters in the days leading up to his transformation were always the most explosive, the most consuming.
you set the belt aside, your hands moving to the fastenings of his trousers instead. "show me, then."
with unexpected swiftness, he flipped your positions, pressing you back against the mattress, his body covering yours. "careful what you wish for, nightshade," he murmured, his lips tracing a burning path down your neck.
you arched beneath him, your hands tangling in his hair to pull him closer. "i've never been careful a day in my life."
he chuckled against your skin, the sound vibrating through you. "it's one of the things i love most about you."
his lips continued their journey downward, pausing to lavish attention on your breasts. his tongue traced circles around one nipple before taking it into his mouth, teeth grazing the sensitive peak just enough to make you gasp. his hand moved to your other breast, kneading and teasing until you were writhing beneath him.
"remus," you breathed, half plea, half demand.
he looked up at you, his eyes now more amber than green. "yes?"
"stop teasing."
he smiled, predatory and knowing. "but you love it when i tease you."
he shifted lower, his mouth trailing down your stomach, pausing to dip his tongue into your navel in a way that made your breath catch. his fingers worked at the fastenings of your skirt, drawing it down your legs with tantalizing slowness.
"bastard," you hissed as he deliberately brushed his fingers against the inside of your thigh, so close to where you wanted him but not quite there.
"definitely," he agreed, settling between your legs. "but you knew that when you got involved with me."
you propped yourself up on your elbows to look down at him. "if you're going to talk, at least put that mouth to better use."
his eyes locked with yours as he leaned down, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your thigh, so close to your center that you could feel his breath against you. "like this?"
you glared at him. "you know exactly what i mean."
he smirked, moving to press another kiss to your other thigh. "do i?"
you reached down to grab a fistful of his hair, guiding his mouth where you wanted it. "there. now stop fucking around."
he obliged then, his tongue finding your center with unerring precision. you fell back against the pillows, a moan escaping your lips as he set to his task with the same focus and attention to detail that he applied to everything else in his life.
your fingers remained tangled in his hair, alternately pushing him closer and pulling him back when the sensation became too intense. he knew your body as well as he knew his own by now, knew exactly how to bring you to the edge and then back away, building the tension until you were trembling beneath him.
"remus," you gasped, your back arching as he slid two fingers inside you, curling them in a way that made stars explode behind your eyelids. "fuck—"
he hummed against you, the vibration sending another wave of pleasure through your body. his free hand moved to pin your hips to the bed when they bucked involuntarily.
"stay still," he murmured, the command in his voice sending a shiver down your spine.
you tugged harder on his hair in response. "make me."
his eyes flashed up to meet yours, and there was something wild there, something that made your breath catch. without warning, he withdrew his fingers, ignoring your sound of protest as he moved back up your body.
"turn over," he said, his voice low and rough.
you raised an eyebrow, challenging. "what if i don't want to?"
he leaned in, his lips brushing your ear as he whispered, "then i'll stop. is that what you want?"
you glared at him for a moment before complying, rolling onto your stomach. you felt the mattress dip as he moved behind you, his hands sliding up your sides to your shoulders, then back down again.
"beautiful," he murmured, pressing a kiss to the base of your spine that was surprisingly tender given the tension crackling between you.
you turned your head to look back at him over your shoulder. "are you going to admire me all night, or are you going to fuck me?"
his hands gripped your hips, lifting them slightly. "patience, nightshade."
"patience is overrated," you retorted, pushing back against him.
you heard him exhale sharply, felt his hands tighten on your hips. "you're impossible."
"and yet here you are," you pointed out, a slight smirk curving your lips.
"here i am," he agreed, one hand sliding between your legs again, teasing at your entrance. "where else would i be?"
before you could respond, he pushed two fingers inside you again, curling them in that way that made your toes curl. you pressed your face into the pillow to muffle your moan.
"no," he said, his free hand moving to tangle in your hair, pulling your head back gently but firmly. "i want to hear you."
you bit your lip, still resisting even as his fingers continued their relentless rhythm. "make me."
it was a challenge, and you both knew it. he withdrew his fingers, and you heard the rustle of fabric as he finally removed the rest of his clothing. then he was positioning himself behind you, one hand guiding himself to your entrance while the other remained tangled in your hair.
he paused there, the tip of him just barely pressing against you. "beg for it," he murmured, echoing your earlier demand.
you glared back at him over your shoulder. "fuck you."
he smiled, slow and dangerous. "that's the idea, love. but not until you ask nicely."
"i'm not begging," you insisted, even as your body betrayed you, pushing back against him.
he held firm, denying you what you both wanted. "then we'll stay like this all night."
you knew he would do it, too. for all your fire and fury, remus had a patience that could outlast mountains. it was maddening and thrilling all at once.
"fine," you hissed, your pride warring with your desire. "please."
"please what?" he prompted, his voice rough with his own restraint.
you closed your eyes, swallowing hard. "please fuck me, remus."
he leaned down, pressing a surprisingly gentle kiss to your shoulder blade. "since you asked so nicely."
with one smooth thrust, he buried himself inside you, both of you groaning at the sensation. he gave you a moment to adjust before beginning to move, setting a pace that was just shy of what you needed.
"harder," you demanded, pushing back against him.
he complied, his thrusts becoming more forceful, the sound of skin against skin filling the room. his hand tightened in your hair, pulling your head back further so he could press open-mouthed kisses to your neck and shoulders.
"is this what you wanted?" he growled against your skin. "to be fucked like this, with the others gone and no one to hear you scream my name?"
"yes," you gasped, your hands fisting in the sheets. "god, yes."
his free hand slid around to your front, fingers finding your center again, circling in time with his thrusts. "you're mine," he said, his voice rough. "say it."
"yours," you agreed, beyond pride now, lost in the sensation of him moving inside you, around you, consuming you.
"and i'm yours," he added, his rhythm faltering slightly as his own control began to slip. "completely, utterly yours."
you could feel your release building, a tightening coil in your lower abdomen. "remus," you warned, your voice breaking on his name.
"not yet," he said, his movements slowing deliberately. "not until i say."
you made a sound of frustration as he pulled out completely, leaving you empty and aching. before you could protest, he was turning you over again, positioning himself between your legs.
"i want to see you," he explained, his eyes now more amber than green, the wolf close to the surface. "when you come apart for me."
he entered you again, slower this time, his gaze never leaving yours. one of his hands moved to pin your wrists above your head, the other supporting his weight as he began to move.
"remus," you breathed, wrapping your legs around his waist to pull him deeper.
"i know," he murmured, leaning down to kiss you, gentler than before. "i know, love."
the contrast was dizzying—the restraint of your wrists, the hard thrust of his hips, combined with the tenderness in his eyes, the softness of his lips against yours. it had always been this way between you—violence and gentleness, anger and adoration, fire and water.
his movements became more erratic as he approached his own release. "now," he growled against your lips. "come for me now, nightshade."
as if your body was attuned to his command, you felt yourself shatter, waves of pleasure washing over you as you cried out his name. he followed moments later, his body tensing above yours, your name falling from his lips like a prayer.
for several long moments, neither of you moved, content to remain tangled together, breath mingling, hearts gradually slowing to a more normal rhythm. eventually, he rolled to the side, pulling you with him so that you were sprawled across his chest.
"are you still angry with me?" he asked, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your back.
you considered the question. "yes," you decided. "but less so."
he laughed, the sound rumbling beneath your ear. "progress, then."
you propped yourself up on one elbow to look at him, taking in the familiar features of his face—the scars that crossed his cheeks, the amber eyes that were slowly returning to their usual green-gold, the mouth that could speak such gentle words even when you were at your most volatile.
"why did you really leave me waiting?" you asked, suddenly serious.
his expression softened. "i told you. i wanted us to be alone."
"but you could have sent an owl, or—"
he silenced you with a kiss, soft and lingering. "and miss seeing you storm in here, all fury and fire?" he smiled against your lips. "never."
you narrowed your eyes, but couldn't stop the smile tugging at your own lips. "you're a sadist, lupin."
"only for you," he agreed, his hands sliding down to grip your hips. "speaking of which..."
you raised an eyebrow as you felt him hardening again beneath you. "already?"
he shrugged, that wolfish grin you loved so much spreading across his face. "full moon's in three days. i have... certain advantages."
you sat up, straddling him properly, your hands splayed across his chest. "well, in that case..."
you leaned down to kiss him, softer this time, your anger giving way to something warmer, deeper. his hands moved up your sides, touch reverent despite the heat building between you again.
"i love you," he murmured against your lips. "even when you're throwing deadly nightshade at my head."
you smiled, nipping at his bottom lip. "especially then."
"especially then," he agreed, his hands tangling in your hair as he pulled you down for another kiss.
outside, night had fallen completely, the moon not yet risen, hours stretching ahead of you both. your relationship had always been this way—fire and tenderness, rage and devotion, violence and absolute love. poison and antidote, in equal measure.
and as his hands began to move over your body again, rekindling the flame that had momentarily banked, you knew you wouldn't have it any other way.
but you weren't done with him yet. not by a long shot. you slid down his body, pressing open-mouthed kisses to his chest, his stomach, lower still. his breath hitched as you reached your destination, his hands moving to tangle in your hair.
"nightshade," he breathed, the nickname falling from his lips like a reverence.
you looked up at him through your lashes, enjoying the way his pupils dilated at the sight of you. "yes, remus?"
"you don't have to—"
you silenced him by taking him into your mouth, drawing a strangled groan from his throat. his hands tightened in your hair, not guiding, just holding on as if for dear life.
"fuck," he hissed, his head falling back against the pillows.
you hummed in satisfaction, the vibration making him twitch beneath your ministrations. you took your time, alternating between torturously slow movements and quicker ones that had his thighs tensing with the effort of staying still.
"look at me," you demanded, pulling back for a moment.
his head lifted, eyes meeting yours, the amber in them now more pronounced than the green. the sight sent a thrill through you—knowing you were the only one who got to see him like this, control slipping, the wolf so close to the surface.
"beautiful," you murmured, before returning to your task with renewed enthusiasm.
his breathing became more ragged, his grip in your hair tightening to the point of pain. you welcomed it, the sharp sting only adding to the heat pooling in your own body.
"nightshade," he warned, voice strained. "i'm going to—"
you pulled back just in time, replacing your mouth with your hand, working him through his release as he groaned your name. when the tremors subsided, you moved back up his body, pressing kisses to his sweat-slicked skin as you went.
"you'll be the death of me," he murmured, pulling you close once you were level with him again.
you smiled against his chest. "what a way to go, though."
he laughed, the sound rumbling beneath your ear. "worth it."
he was quiet for a moment, his fingers still tracing lazy patterns on your skin. then, with that mischievous glint in his eyes that usually meant trouble, he murmured, "you know, maybe i should stand you up more often if this is how you punish me."
you stiffened against him, pulling back to look at his face. "what did you just say?"
his smile faltered slightly as he registered the shift in your mood. "i was just joking—"
"you think this is funny?" you pushed yourself up, eyes narrowing dangerously. "you think i enjoyed scrubbing cauldrons in the dungeons with slughorn breathing down my neck while you were up here, comfortable, just waiting to get laid?"
"that's not what i meant," he backpedaled, reaching for you, but you were already moving away, kneeling beside him on the bed.
"fuck you, lupin," you spat, the anger that had momentarily subsided now roaring back to life. "you don't get to joke about that."
you could see the moment he realized he'd genuinely upset you, his expression shifting from playful to contrite. "nightshade, i'm sorry, i didn't think—"
"that's your problem, isn't it?" you cut him off. "you don't think."
his eyes darkened at that, a flash of his own temper surfacing. "that's not fair."
"isn't it?" you challenged, blood rushing in your ears. "you were perfectly content to let me serve detention for your sake, and then you have the audacity to joke about it?"
he sat up, running a hand through his tousled hair. "i wasn't 'content' about anything. i hated that you had to do that. but i can't stop you from defending me, can i? you do it whether i want you to or not."
"because i love you, you absolute prick!" you shouted, not caring if anyone in the common room below might hear. "because i won't stand by and let people talk shit about you!"
something in his expression softened, even as the amber in his eyes grew more pronounced. "i know," he said, more gently now. "and i love you for it. i just hate seeing you suffer consequences for my sake."
"then don't fucking joke about it," you snapped, still seething.
you could feel the tension crackling between you again, but it was different this time—charged with something more complex than just anger or desire. without warning, you moved to straddle him, pushing him back against the headboard.
"nightshade," he began, hands automatically moving to your hips.
"shut up," you growled, positioning yourself above him. "just shut up and take it."
his eyes widened slightly, but he didn't resist as you sank down onto him in one fluid motion, both of you gasping at the sudden contact. you didn't give either of you time to adjust before you began to move, setting a punishing pace.
"fuck you," you hissed, bracing your hands on his chest, nails digging into his skin hard enough to leave marks. "fuck you and your stupid jokes and your martyr complex."
his hands tightened on your hips, but he didn't try to control your movements, just held on as you rode him relentlessly. "i'm sorry," he murmured, voice strained. "i'm sorry, love."
"don't call me that right now," you snapped, leaning forward to bite at his shoulder, hard enough that you knew it would bruise. "i'm still fucking angry with you."
instead of responding with equal force as he sometimes did, remus surprised you by gentling his touch, one hand moving to stroke softly up your side. "i know," he said, his voice low and tender despite the ferocity of your movements. "it's okay. take what you need."
the contrast between your fury and his tenderness only fueled your anger further. you dug your nails deeper into his chest, dragging them down to leave angry red lines against his pale skin. "you don't get to be understanding right now."
"sorry," he murmured, but he didn't stop his gentle caresses, his hand moving to stroke up your arm, across your shoulder, down your spine. each touch was feather-light, a stark contrast to the bruising grip of your hands on his body.
you leaned down, capturing his mouth in a biting kiss, more teeth than lips. he responded with unexpected gentleness, his lips soft against yours even as you tried to draw blood.
"stop being nice," you commanded against his mouth, your voice breaking slightly. "fight back."
instead, he pressed a soft kiss to the corner of your lips, then your cheek, trailing down to your jaw. "no," he whispered, his breath hot against your skin. "not this time."
you made a sound of frustration, rolling your hips harder, driving him deeper inside you. his breath hitched, but still his hands remained gentle, tracing patterns on your skin like you were something precious, something to be cherished rather than the storm of fury you felt yourself to be.
"remus," you warned, your voice dangerously low.
"i'm here," he murmured, lips finding your pulse point, pressing a tender kiss there. "i'm right here, love."
you continued to ride him ruthlessly, your movements becoming more frantic, more desperate. your thighs burned with the effort, sweat making your skin slide against his. you clawed at his shoulders, his chest, anywhere you could reach, leaving marks that would take days to fade.
and through it all, he remained tender, his touch so gentle it made your heart ache. his lips never left your skin, pressing soft kisses to your neck, your collarbone, your shoulders. even as his breathing grew more ragged, his body tensing beneath yours, his hands never gripped too tight, never demanded, only offered.
"i hate you," you gasped, not meaning it at all.
"i know," he whispered against your collarbone. "i love you too."
you could feel your release building again, the coil tightening in your lower abdomen. your movements became less coordinated, more erratic. remus seemed to sense it, one hand sliding between your bodies to touch you exactly where you needed.
"let go," he murmured, his voice rough with his own approaching climax. "let go for me, nightshade."
"go fuck yourself," you spat, even as your body betrayed you, trembling on the edge of release.
his lips curved against your skin. "i'd rather you do it for me."
that was all it took to push you over the edge, your body convulsing around him as pleasure washed through you in overwhelming waves. you bit down on his shoulder to muffle your scream, tasting salt and copper as your teeth broke skin.
the pain seemed to trigger his own release, his hips bucking up into yours as he came with your name on his lips, his arms wrapping around you to hold you close through the aftershocks that shuddered through both your bodies.
for long moments afterward, neither of you moved, your forehead pressed against his shoulder, his face buried in your hair. your breathing gradually slowed, syncing with his until it felt like you were sharing the same air, the same heartbeat.
"i really am sorry," he said eventually, his voice soft in the quiet room. "about the joke. it was thoughtless."
you sighed, your anger finally draining away, leaving you feeling boneless and spent. "i know."
you lifted your head to look at him, taking in the marks you'd left—the bite on his shoulder already darkening to a bruise, the scratches on his chest angry and red against his pale skin. guilt flickered through you.
"did i hurt you?" you asked, suddenly uncertain.
he smiled, that gentle, knowing smile that had made you fall for him in the first place. "nothing i didn't want," he assured you, reaching up to brush a strand of hair from your face. "nothing i didn't deserve."
you frowned. "remus—"
"shh," he interrupted, pulling you down for a soft kiss. "it's okay. i promise."
you shifted slightly, wincing as your sore muscles protested the movement. carefully, you lifted yourself off him, collapsing beside him on the bed. immediately, his arms came around you, pulling you against his chest.
"you're too good to me," you murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to one of the scratches you'd left.
"nonsense," he replied, his fingers combing through your tangled hair. "i'm exactly as good to you as you deserve."
you looked up at him, taking in the familiar features of his face—the scars that crossed his cheeks, the amber eyes that were slowly returning to their usual green-gold, the mouth that had been so tender even in the face of your fury.
"how do you do that?" you asked.
"do what?"
"stay so gentle when i'm trying to tear you apart."
he considered the question for a moment, his fingers still moving soothingly through your hair. "because sometimes that's what you need," he said finally. "sometimes you need to rage, and you need to know that even at your most destructive, i'll still be here. i'll still love you."
the words made something tighten in your chest. "and what about what you need?"
his lips curved into a smile. "i need you. in whatever form you come—furious or tender, violent or gentle. all of it."
you reached up to trace the outline of his lips with your fingertip. "even when i draw blood?"
"especially then," he said, capturing your finger between his teeth for a moment before releasing it. "because it reminds me that i'm alive. that we're both alive, and real, and here."
you settled back against his chest, your hand coming to rest over his heart, feeling its steady rhythm beneath your palm. outside, the moon continued its journey across the sky, not yet full but getting closer with each passing day.
"we should do this more often," you mused, pressing a kiss to his collarbone.
"what, have angry sex because i left you waiting after detention?" he asked, amusement coloring his voice.
you nipped at his skin in retaliation. "no, idiot. have the dormitory to ourselves."
"ah," he said, his hand sliding down to cup your arse. "that can be arranged, you know. james owes me a favor or two."
you looked up at him, eyebrow raised. "does he now?"
"mm," he hummed, pulling you closer. "something about helping him plan his anniversary surprise for lily."
"speaking of which," you said, shifting to straddle him again, feeling him beginning to harden once more beneath you. "we've been together for what, two years now?"
his hands settled on your hips, thumbs tracing circles on your hipbones. "two years, three months, and sixteen days, to be precise."
you blinked, genuinely surprised. "you remember the exact day?"
"of course i do," he said, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. "it was the day after the full moon. you brought me chocolate in the hospital wing and told me you'd hex anyone who gave me shit about my scars."
the memory made something warm unfurl in your chest. "and then you kissed me."
"and then you kissed me," he corrected. "quite forcefully, if i recall."
you smiled, leaning down until your lips were inches from his. "i'm not known for my subtlety."
"thank merlin for that," he murmured, closing the distance between you.
this kiss was different from the others—slower, deeper, filled with all the things that sometimes got lost in the fire and fury of your usual encounters. when you pulled back, his eyes were soft, the amber receding slightly to reveal more green.
"what was that for?" he asked, voice gentle.
you shrugged, suddenly feeling vulnerable. "for remembering."
he reached up to cup your face, thumb brushing over your cheekbone. "i remember everything about you, nightshade. every fight, every reconciliation, every moment in between."
"even the time i hexed you bald because you forgot our hogsmeade date?" you asked, lips twitching.
he grimaced. "especially that. james still brings it up whenever he needs a good laugh."
you laughed, the sound filling the quiet dormitory. "it was a good look on you, actually. very avant-garde."
he growled playfully, flipping your positions so that you were beneath him again. "you're not funny."
"i'm hilarious," you countered, wrapping your legs around his waist. "and you adore me."
"merlin help me, i do," he agreed, leaning down to kiss you again.
this time when he entered you, it was slower, gentler, his eyes never leaving yours. your hands moved to his shoulders, nails digging in slightly as he began to move.
"remus," you breathed, arching beneath him.
"i'm here," he murmured, one hand moving to intertwine with yours beside your head. "i'm always here."
the pace he set was different now—less frantic, more deliberate, each thrust deeper than the last. your other hand moved to his back, tracing the scars there that you knew by heart.
"mine," you whispered, the word catching in your throat.
"yours," he agreed, his forehead pressing against yours. "always yours."
your release built more slowly this time, a gradual tide rather than a crashing wave. when it finally washed over you, it was with his name on your lips, your bodies as close as two people could possibly be.
he followed soon after, his movements becoming erratic before he stilled above you, your name falling from his lips like a prayer.
for a long time afterward, neither of you spoke, content to lie tangled together in the quiet dormitory. outside, the moon continued its journey across the sky, not yet full but getting closer with each passing day.
"stay with me tonight," he murmured against your hair.
you raised an eyebrow. "won't the others be back?"
"eventually," he admitted. "but i don't care."
you smiled, pressing a kiss to his chest, right over his heart. "neither do i."
as night settled more deeply around hogwarts, you found yourself drifting towards sleep in his arms, your anger long forgotten, replaced by something much more profound. your relationship had always been this—violence and tenderness, fury and devotion, fire that burned hot enough to consume and water deep enough to drown in.
poison and antidote, in equal measure. and you wouldn't have it any other way.
heart — „ the right side. as if it was that simple, that black and white. as if there weren't shades of gray, like the color of regulus's eyes when he looked at you in the darkness. “
warnings — major character death, mild sexual content, angst, alcohol use, drug use, dark themes, reference to war and death, smoking
word count — 15,000+
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you found him where you always did—tucked away in the darkest corner of the astronomy tower, cigarette dangling from his lips, the silver light of stars catching on his rings as he flicked ash into the endless black below.
regulus didn't look up when you approached. he never did. it was part of the game you'd been playing for two years now—this push and pull, this twisted dance of pretending not to care when you both cared too fucking much.
"your brother's looking for you," he finally said, his voice low and smooth like expensive whiskey. the kind he'd stolen from his father's cabinet last summer, the kind you'd both gotten drunk on while sprawled across his bed at grimmauld place, his parents just two floors below.
"james can wait," you replied, settling down beside him. your shoulder brushed against his, and you felt him stiffen, then slowly relax. "he's always looking for me."
regulus scoffed, taking a long drag from his cigarette before offering it to you. "yeah, well. if he knew where you were, who you were with..." he trailed off, those gray eyes finally meeting yours, something dangerous flickering in their depths. "he'd kill me."
"probably," you agreed, accepting the cigarette. your fingers brushed against his, and neither of you acknowledged the electricity there. you never did. "that's half the fun, isn't it?"
there was something tragically beautiful about regulus in these moments—away from his slytherin peers, away from his family's expectations. just regulus. just yours. his dark hair falling into his eyes, his school tie loosened, his usual perfect composure starting to fray at the edges.
"fun," he repeated, the word tasting bitter on his tongue. "is that what this is to you?"
and there it was—the match that would light tonight's fire. you'd been here before, countless times. sometimes you wondered if you sought out these arguments, if you both did, just for the inferno that would inevitably follow.
"don't start," you warned, but your voice had already taken on that edge, that sharpness that meant you were ready for whatever battle he wanted to wage.
"don't start what? asking what exactly we're doing here?" regulus snatched the cigarette back, his movements suddenly angry. "two years, y/n. two fucking years of sneaking around, of lying to your brother, my family—"
"oh, i'm sorry," you snapped, shifting to face him fully. "did you want to go public? shall we announce at breakfast tomorrow that james potter's twin sister has been fucking regulus black since fifth year? i'm sure that would go over brilliantly."
his eyes darkened, and you watched his jaw clench. you knew exactly how to get under his skin, just as he knew how to get under yours.
"that's not what i meant and you know it," he said, his voice dropping dangerously low. "don't twist my words."
"then what did you mean?" you challenged, heart beginning to race the way it always did when you argued with him. "because from where i'm sitting, there are exactly two options. we keep this—" you gestured between the two of you, "—whatever this is, a secret. or we end it."
regulus stared at you for a long, tense moment. then, without warning, he tossed the cigarette over the edge of the tower and grabbed your face between his hands.
"liar," he whispered against your lips. "there's a third option."
"what's that?" you breathed, already knowing the answer, already feeling the familiar heat pooling in your stomach.
"this," he said, and crushed his mouth against yours.
it was always like this—fire and gasoline, destruction waiting to happen. his kisses were never gentle, never sweet. they were consuming, desperate things, as if he was trying to devour you whole before you disappeared. and merlin help you, you kissed him back just as desperately, your fingers tangling in his perfectly styled hair, messing it up the way you knew he hated and secretly loved.
you felt your back hit the stone wall, his body pressing against yours with an urgency that made you dizzy. his hands were everywhere—in your hair, on your waist, slipping beneath your uniform sweater to find bare skin.
"i hate when you talk about ending this," he growled against your mouth, teeth catching your lower lip hard enough to sting. "as if you could walk away. as if either of us could."
"prove it," you challenged, already working at his tie, yanking it loose with practiced fingers. "prove we can't walk away."
something dangerous flickered in his eyes—that look that always preceded the moments when regulus completely lost control, when the perfect pureblood mask shattered completely.
"you want proof?" he asked, voice low and rough as he undid the buttons of your shirt with swift, precise movements. "how about the way you shiver when i touch you here?" his fingers traced the curve of your collarbone, dipping lower with deliberate slowness. "or here?" his hand slid to your thigh, pushing your skirt higher.
"anyone could come up," you gasped, even as your body arched into his touch.
regulus laughed darkly against your neck. "let them," he said, and the possessiveness in his voice made you tremble. "let them see who you belong to."
"i don't belong to anyone," you shot back, even as your fingers worked frantically at the buttons of his shirt, needing to feel his skin against yours.
his eyes met yours, intense and unrelenting. "liar," he whispered again, before claiming your mouth in another bruising kiss.
you both knew the truth—had known it since that first forbidden kiss in an empty classroom fifth year. you belonged to each other, completely and utterly, in a way that terrified and thrilled you both in equal measure.
his hands were rough as they explored your body, leaving marks you'd find later—evidence of this moment, this consuming need between you. you responded in kind, nails dragging down his back, teeth grazing his shoulder when he pressed against you in just the right way.
"tell me you're mine," regulus demanded, his voice rough with desire as he lifted you, your legs wrapping around his waist as he pinned you against the wall. "say it."
"make me," you challenged, gasping as his lips found that sensitive spot just below your ear.
his eyes darkened further, pupils blown wide with want. "with pleasure," he promised, and proceeded to do exactly that, using his hands, his mouth, his entire body to draw sounds from you that echoed through the tower, proof of his claim on you written in every shuddering breath, every desperate plea that fell from your lips.
"yours," you finally gasped when neither of you could take the torturous build any longer. "i'm yours, reg. always have been."
"and i'm yours," he replied, his voice stripped of its usual control, raw and honest in a way he only ever was with you. "completely yours."
afterward, he held you against him, both of you sliding to the floor, limbs tangled together, breathing hard. his fingers traced patterns on your bare skin, gentle now where they had been demanding before.
when you finally broke apart, both breathing hard, regulus kept his forehead pressed against yours.
"we could leave," he said suddenly, the words tumbling out as if he hadn't meant to say them. "after graduation. just... go. somewhere no one knows the potters or the blacks."
you pulled back slightly, studying his face. this was new territory. dangerous territory.
"reg..." you started, uncertain.
"don't," he cut you off, something vulnerable flashing across his features before he buried it again. "forget i said anything."
but you couldn't forget. the idea had planted itself in your mind now—a life beyond hogwarts, beyond family loyalties and blood status and the war that was brewing outside these castle walls. a life with regulus.
"your parents would disown you," you said quietly.
his laugh was hollow. "probably. would that be such a loss?"
"and what about your... commitments?" you asked carefully. you both knew what you were referring to—the mark he was expected to take after graduation, the path that had been chosen for him long before he could choose for himself.
just a few hours later, you two found yourselves in a hidden corridor, sitting on the edge of a window. "i brought something," he said, reaching into his robes and pulling out a small vial filled with shimmering purple liquid.
"what is it this time?" you asked, letting him redirect the conversation. there would be time for hard truths later. there always was, in the harsh light of morning.
"dreamless sleep potion," he said, a wicked smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "with a few... modifications."
you raised an eyebrow. "modifications?"
"let's just say it won't make you sleep," regulus said, already uncorking the vial. "quite the opposite."
it wasn't the first time you'd experimented with potions together. sometimes it was firewhiskey, sometimes it was whatever regulus had managed to brew or steal. anything to dull the edges, to make you both forget, for a few blissful hours, who you were and what separated you.
"give it here," you said, reaching for the vial.
regulus held it just out of reach, that infuriating smirk on his face. "eager, are we?"
"fuck off," you said without heat, and he laughed—a real laugh this time, the kind that transformed his entire face into something so beautiful it hurt to look at directly.
"ladies first," he said, handing you the vial with exaggerated gallantry.
you rolled your eyes but took a small sip. the potion tasted like blackberries and something metallic, sliding down your throat like liquid silk. almost immediately, warmth began to spread through your limbs, your senses heightening until you could feel every thread of your uniform against your skin.
"merlin," you breathed, passing the vial back to regulus with slightly trembling fingers.
his eyes never left yours as he drank, and you watched his pupils dilate, black nearly swallowing the gray. you knew your own must look the same.
"still want to talk about leaving?" you asked, your voice already lower, raspier.
regulus set the vial down carefully, then reached for you again, pulling you to your feet and against his chest in one fluid motion.
"no," he murmured, his lips ghosting along your jaw, sending shivers down your spine. "i don't want to talk at all."
his mouth— once again— found that spot just below your ear that always made your knees weak, and you gasped, fingers digging into his shoulders.
"they‘ll catch us this time," you managed to say, even as you tilted your head to give him better access.
"they won't," regulus said with absolute certainty, and you knew he must have cast silencing charms, all—too—familiar spells. he was always careful that way, always thinking three steps ahead.
his hands slid down to your hips, gripping tightly enough to bruise. you loved when he marked you like this—secret evidence of what you shared, hidden beneath your clothes where only you knew they existed.
"bed?" you suggested, already breathless.
regulus shook his head, backing you against the stone wall of the corridor. "here," he said, his voice rough with want. "right here."
and really, who were you to argue? especially when he was looking at you like that—like you were everything he'd ever wanted and everything he could never have, all at once.
"here," you agreed, already reaching for his tie again, loosening it with practiced fingers.
the potion was making everything more intense than before—every touch electric, every breath deeper, every sensation magnified tenfold. regulus's hands were everywhere, stripping away your clothes with an urgency that bordered on desperation. you were just as frantic, fingers fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, needing to feel his skin against yours.
"do you have any idea," he growled against your neck, his teeth scraping against your pulse point, "how fucking maddening it is to see you every day and not be able to touch you? to watch potter and his friends crowd around you, while i have to stand back and pretend i don't care?"
"show me," you challenged, gasping as his hands found bare skin. "show me how much you care."
something dark and possessive flashed in his eyes. "with pleasure," he murmured, before dropping to his knees in front of you.
what followed was nothing short of worship—regulus black, pureblood heir, slytherin prince, on his knees before you, using his mouth and hands to pull you apart piece by piece, the potion heightening every sensation until you were begging, pleading, your hands tangled in his dark hair.
"mine," he kept growling against your skin, as if saying it enough times would make it reality, would erase the family names and house colors and war that kept you apart. "tell me you're mine."
"yours," you gasped, your back arching against the cold stone wall. "only yours, reg."
when he finally stood, his eyes were wild, his composure completely shattered. "against the wall," he commanded, his voice rough with need. "hands above your head."
you complied without hesitation, the potion making you pliant and eager, every nerve ending on fire with anticipation.
regulus pressed against you, one hand pinning your wrists above your head, the other tracing patterns down your body with teasing slowness. "perfect," he murmured, more to himself than to you. "so fucking perfect."
what followed was nothing like the tender lovemaking you sometimes shared in hidden corners of the castle. this was raw, primal—all teeth and nails and bruising grips, regulus marking you as his with every thrust, every bite, every possessive growl against your skin.
"say my name," he demanded, his grip on your wrists tightening as he moved against you with increasing desperation. "need to hear you say it."
"regulus," you gasped, the word a prayer and a curse all at once. "regulus, please—"
he silenced you with a kiss that was all consuming, swallowing your moans as you both tumbled over the edge together, the potion stretching the sensation until you were both trembling, clinging to each other as if you might shatter apart otherwise.
afterward, regulus didn't pull away as he usually did, didn't immediately start putting himself back together. instead, he gathered you close, cradling you against his chest as you both caught your breath.
"i'm obsessed with you," he admitted in the quiet aftermath, his voice barely audible. "completely fucking consumed. you know that, don't you?"
you pressed your face against his neck, inhaling his scent—expensive cologne, cigarettes, and something uniquely regulus. "i know," you whispered back. "me too."
outside, the stars continued their cold, distant vigil. inside, you and regulus burned bright enough to rival them all.
you woke up disoriented, your head pounding and your mouth dry. blinking against the harsh morning light, you realized two things simultaneously: you were on the floor of a random corridor, and regulus was gone.
his school robe was draped over you like a blanket, his scent—expensive cologne and cigarettes—surrounding you. you sat up slowly, wincing at the ache in your muscles, the tender spots on your neck and collarbone where regulus had left his mark.
fragments of the night before came back to you in flashes—regulus's hands, his mouth, his whispered confessions against your skin. the potion had heightened everything, made every touch feel like salvation and damnation all at once.
and then, after, when you'd both collapsed onto the hard stone floor, too exhausted to move, too content to care about the discomfort...
"i love you," he'd whispered, so quietly you almost thought you'd imagined it. "i shouldn't, but merlin help me, i do."
you hadn't responded—couldn't respond—the words stuck in your throat like thorns. because saying it back would make it real, and real things could be broken, destroyed, taken away.
carefully, you stood and gathered your scattered clothes, dressing quickly. classes would be starting soon, and you needed to get back to gryffindor tower before james noticed your absence.
as you fastened your tie, something fell from the pocket of regulus's robe. bending down, you picked up a small, folded piece of parchment.
*astronomy tower. midnight. we need to talk.*
his handwriting was perfect, aristocratic—so very regulus. you tucked the note into your own pocket, alongside the dozens of others you'd kept over the years. little pieces of him, hidden away where no one could find them.
you made your way back to gryffindor tower, sneaking in through the portrait hole just as the common room was beginning to fill with early risers.
"where the hell have you been?"
james's voice stopped you in your tracks. he was sitting in one of the armchairs by the fire, still in yesterday's clothes, his hair even more of a disaster than usual. he looked like he hadn't slept.
"out," you said simply, already moving toward the stairs to the girls' dormitory.
"out," james repeated flatly. "out where, y/n? because i checked the map, and you weren't anywhere in the castle."
shit. the map. you'd forgotten about the fucking map.
"i was in the room of requirement," you lied smoothly. "it doesn't show up on the map, remember?"
james's eyes narrowed. "all night?"
"i fell asleep," you shrugged, keeping your expression neutral. "lost track of time."
"alone?" he pressed, and something in his tone made your stomach drop.
"what are you really asking, james?" you countered, suddenly tired of the charade, of always watching your words, your actions.
your brother ran a hand through his already messy hair, a gesture so familiar it made your heart ache. "lily saw you," he said finally. "with black. the younger one."
ice flooded your veins. "saw us where? doing what?"
"in hogsmeade last weekend," james said, standing now, pacing in front of the fire. "she said you looked... close."
you forced a laugh. "close? james, be serious. he's a slytherin. a black. what exactly are you accusing me of?"
"i don't know!" james exploded, turning to face you fully. "that's why i'm asking! because my best friend's little brother is a death eater in training, and i need to know my sister isn't mixed up with him!"
the common room had gone silent, every gryffindor within earshot now watching the confrontation with undisguised interest.
"i'm not mixed up with anyone," you said coldly, raising your chin in defiance. "and i don't appreciate being interrogated like a criminal because your girlfriend thinks she saw something."
guilt flashed across james's face, but it was quickly replaced by stubborn determination—the same expression he wore before a difficult quidditch match.
"i'm just worried about you," he said, lowering his voice. "there's a war coming, y/n. sides are being chosen. i need to know you're on the right one."
the right side. as if it was that simple, that black and white. as if there weren't shades of gray, like the color of regulus's eyes when he looked at you in the darkness.
"i'm on your side," you said softly. "i always have been. but i'm also my own person, james. i make my own choices."
he looked at you for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "okay," he said, though he didn't sound entirely convinced. "just... be careful, yeah?"
"always am," you replied with a forced smile, then headed up to your dormitory, your brother's concerned gaze burning a hole between your shoulder blades.
once alone in your dormitory, thankfully empty as your roommates had already gone down to breakfast, you pulled out regulus's note again.
*astronomy tower. midnight. we need to talk.*
a chill ran down your spine. those words—"we need to talk"—never preceded anything good. especially not with regulus, who chose his words as carefully as he chose everything else in his life.
had he somehow heard about lily seeing you together? or was this about last night, about those three words whispered in the dark?
or worse—was it about what came after graduation, about the mark he was expected to take, the one you'd both been avoiding discussing?
you collapsed onto your bed, still clutching the note. whatever regulus wanted to talk about, you had a feeling nothing would be the same after tonight. the question was whether that would be a good thing or the end of everything.
either way, midnight couldn't come soon enough.
classes dragged by with excruciating slowness. you caught glimpses of regulus throughout the day—across the great hall at lunch, passing in the corridors between classes—but he never met your eyes, his expression carefully blank, the perfect pureblood heir once more.
it was a mask he wore well, one crafted over years of slytherin politics and black family expectations. only you knew the real regulus—the one who read muggle poetry in secret, who could name every constellation in the night sky, who sometimes woke gasping from nightmares he refused to talk about.
by the time evening fell, your nerves were stretched thin as spider silk. you picked at your dinner, ignoring the concerned glances from james and his friends, the knowing smirk from sirius who always seemed to suspect something even if he couldn't prove it.
"you look like shit," marlene mckinnon informed you cheerfully as you pushed your potatoes around your plate.
"thanks," you replied dryly. "just what every girl wants to hear."
"seriously though," she lowered her voice, leaning in closer. "are you okay? you've been distracted all day."
you managed a smile. "just tired. didn't sleep well."
"must be something going around," marlene said, nodding toward the slytherin table. "baby black looks about as wrecked as you do."
your eyes involuntarily found regulus across the hall. she was right—there were shadows under his eyes, a tightness to his mouth that hadn't been there yesterday. as if feeling your gaze, he glanced up, and for a brief moment, your eyes locked.
something passed between you—something urgent and desperate and terrifying—before he looked away again, his mask sliding back into place.
"earth to y/n," marlene was saying, snapping her fingers in front of your face. "merlin, you're out of it today."
"sorry," you mumbled, forcing your attention back to your friend. "what were you saying?"
marlene studied you for a moment, her keen eyes missing nothing. "nothing important," she said finally. "just... you know you can talk to me, right? about anything?"
you reached over and squeezed her hand briefly. "i know. thanks, marls."
she nodded, seeming satisfied, and turned to join lily's conversation about the upcoming transfiguration exam. you used the opportunity to slip away from the table, murmuring an excuse about needing to study.
instead of heading to the library, however, you found yourself wandering toward the black lake, needing fresh air and solitude to clear your head before your midnight meeting with regulus.
the evening was cool, a light breeze rippling across the water's surface. you found a secluded spot beneath a willow tree and sank down onto the grass, drawing your knees up to your chest.
"penny for your thoughts?"
you startled at the voice, looking up to find sirius black standing a few feet away, hands shoved into the pockets of his ripped muggle jeans, a cigarette—so like his brother's—dangling from his lips.
"they're worth at least a galleon," you replied, not bothering to hide your surprise. you and sirius had always maintained a friendly relationship, but you weren't exactly close confidants.
he laughed, dropping down onto the grass beside you without waiting for an invitation. "fair enough. how about a trade, then? my thoughts for yours."
"i doubt yours are worth much," you said, but there was no real bite to your words.
sirius clutched his chest in mock offense. "you wound me, potter. and here i thought we were friends."
"we are," you said, softer now. "what's on your mind, black?"
he took a long drag of his cigarette, then exhaled slowly, watching the smoke curl upward toward the darkening sky. "my brother," he said finally.
your heart nearly stopped. "what about him?"
sirius turned to look at you, his gray eyes—so like regulus's, yet somehow completely different—searching your face. "he's in trouble, you know. deeper than i think even he realizes."
"why are you telling me this?" you asked carefully, your mouth suddenly dry.
"because," sirius said, flicking ash onto the ground between you, "i think you might be the only person who gives a damn about him besides me. and merlin knows he won't listen to anything i have to say."
you remained silent, neither confirming nor denying his suspicion.
"look," sirius continued, running a hand through his long hair in a gesture that reminded you painfully of james. "i'm not asking for details. honestly, i really, really don't want them. but i've seen the way he looks at you when he thinks no one's watching."
"and how's that?" you couldn't help asking, your voice barely above a whisper.
sirius's expression softened slightly. "like you're the one thing keeping him from drowning."
something twisted in your chest—part pain, part a fierce, protective love you rarely allowed yourself to acknowledge.
"i don't know what you expect me to do with this information," you said finally.
"save him," sirius said simply, as if it were the easiest thing in the world. "before it's too late."
"from what?" you challenged, anger suddenly flaring. "from your parents? from voldemort? from himself? because in case you haven't noticed, regulus is perfectly capable of making his own choices."
"is he?" sirius countered, his voice sharpening. "or is he just following the path of least resistance? doing what's expected of him because it's easier than fighting?"
"that's not fair," you said quietly. "not everyone can be you, sirius. not everyone can just walk away and never look back."
something like regret flashed across his face. "i know," he admitted. "believe me, i know. but there are things happening... things he's going to be asked to do..." he trailed off, looking suddenly older than his eighteen years. "just talk to him, yeah? before it's too late."
he stood, dropping his cigarette and grinding it out beneath his boot. "anyway, james is looking for you. something about practice strategies for the match against ravenclaw."
you nodded, not trusting yourself to speak.
sirius started to walk away, then paused, looking back over his shoulder. "you know, for what it's worth, i think you're good for him. always have been."
before you could respond, he was gone, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the weight of his words pressing down on your chest like stones.
*save him*, sirius had said. as if you hadn't been trying to do exactly that for the past two years, as if you hadn't been fighting a losing battle against regulus's sense of duty, his family's expectations, the darkness that seemed determined to claim him.
you checked your watch—still hours until midnight. with a heavy sigh, you pushed yourself to your feet and headed back toward the castle, your mind racing with possibilities, fears, and the terrifying question of what exactly regulus wanted to talk about.
whatever it was, one thing was certain: after tonight, nothing would ever be the same.
the hours crawled by with agonizing slowness. you spent them in the common room, half-heartedly playing chess with remus while james and peter argued over quidditch tactics and sirius brooded by the fire, shooting you meaningful glances you pretended not to see.
"checkmate," remus said gently, his bishop taking your king. "you're really off your game tonight.“
"just tired," you replied automatically, the same excuse you'd been using all day.
remus hummed noncommittally, his amber eyes too perceptive for comfort. "you know," he said casually as he reset the board, "whatever's bothering you, it might help to talk about it."
you smiled despite yourself. "when did you become the group therapist, lupin?"
"comes with the territory of being the sensible one," he replied with a slight smirk. "offer stands, if you ever need it."
you reached across the board and squeezed his hand briefly. "thanks, rem."
as the clock inched closer to midnight, you feigned a yawn and announced you were heading to bed. james waved distractedly, too engrossed in his conversation with peter to notice the meaningful look sirius gave you.
in your dormitory, you waited until your roommates' breathing had evened out in sleep before slipping back out, james's invisibility cloak—borrowed without permission earlier that day—clutched in your hands.
the castle was silent as you made your way through the corridors, the cloak draped over you, your footsteps muffled by a charm. you'd done this so many times over the past two years that you could navigate the path to the astronomy tower blindfolded.
when you reached the top, your heart was pounding—not from exertion, but from anticipation, from fear of what was to come.
regulus was already there, his back to you as he gazed out at the grounds below. he'd changed out of his uniform into black trousers and a simple gray sweater that made him look younger, more vulnerable somehow.
you slipped off the cloak, letting it pool at your feet. "reg," you said softly.
he turned, and the expression on his face knocked the breath from your lungs—a mixture of relief, desperation, and something that looked terrifyingly like goodbye.
"you came," he said, as if he'd half expected you not to.
"of course i came," you replied, taking a step toward him. "your note said we needed to talk."
regulus nodded, running a hand through his hair—a gesture so unlike his usual controlled movements that alarm bells began ringing in your head.
"what's wrong?" you asked, closing the distance between you. "is this about last night? about what you said?"
he looked confused for a moment, then understanding dawned. "when i said i loved you?" he asked, his voice steady now, certain. "no. that wasn't a mistake or something said in the heat of the moment. i do love you. but that's not what this is about."
relief flooded through you, followed immediately by fresh concern. "then what?"
regulus took a deep breath, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a small object. he held it out to you, and you saw it was a silver ring set with a small emerald—beautiful, elegant, and unmistakably old.
"it was my grandmother's," he explained as you stared at it, uncomprehending. "one of the few family heirlooms that isn't cursed or tainted with dark magic. i had the house elves check, just to be sure."
"regulus," you said slowly, your heart beginning to pound so hard you were sure he must be able to hear it. "what are you doing?"
"what i should have done months ago," he said, his voice low and intense. "i meant what i said last night, about leaving. after graduation. together."
he held the ring out to you, his hand steady even as his eyes betrayed his nervousness. "this isn't a proposal—not yet, anyway. it's a promise. that no matter what happens in the next few weeks, no matter what it looks like i'm doing or whose side i appear to be on, i'm yours. always."
you stared at the ring, then back at regulus's face. "what are you not telling me?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper.
pain flickered across his features. "i can't tell you everything. not yet. it's safer that way."
"safer?" you repeated, dread pooling in your stomach. "reg, you're scaring me."
he stepped closer, taking your hand in his. "i'm going to do something," he said carefully. "something dangerous, but necessary. something that could change everything."
"the mark?" you asked, unable to keep the fear from your voice. "is he making you take it now? before graduation?"
regulus's expression hardened. "the dark lord doesn't control me," he said, and there was something in his voice you'd never heard before—a cold determination that sent shivers down your spine. "not anymore."
"what does that mean?" you pressed, gripping his hand tighter.
"it means i've made my choice," regulus said simply. "and it's you. it's always been you. but to have a future together, there are things i need to take care of first."
"let me help," you said immediately. "whatever it is, we can do it together."
he shook his head, his expression softening. "not this time, love. this is something i have to do alone."
"that's bullshit," you snapped, anger suddenly flaring hot in your chest. "we're either in this together or we're not, regulus. you don't get to make some grand, mysterious sacrifice while keeping me in the dark."
"it's not about keeping you in the dark," he argued, frustration evident in his voice. "it's about keeping you safe. if something happened to you because of me, because of my family's mistakes—"
"so this is about your family?" you interrupted. "about voldemort?"
regulus flinched slightly at the name but nodded. "partly. but also about us, about having a real chance."
you looked down at the ring still nestled in his palm. it was beautiful—exactly the sort of thing you might have chosen for yourself if you'd had the chance. and the thought of what it represented—a future with regulus, free from secrets and divided loyalties—made your heart ache with longing.
"how dangerous?" you asked finally, meeting his eyes again. "whatever you're planning to do, how dangerous is it?"
he hesitated, and you had your answer.
"no," you said firmly, stepping back. "i won't accept this ring, won't accept your promise, if you're planning something that could get you killed."
"y/n—"
"no," you repeated, tears burning behind your eyes now. "that's not how this works. you don't get to give me hope for a future together and then go off on some suicide mission. i won't let you."
regulus's expression hardened. "you don't have a choice."
"the hell i don't," you shot back. "whatever you're planning, either you tell me everything right now, or—"
"or what?" he challenged, taking a step toward you, eyes flashing. "you'll tell your brother? dumbledore? go ahead. it won't change anything. my mind is made up."
you stared at him, feeling as though the ground was crumbling beneath your feet. "why are you doing this?" you whispered. "why now?"
regulus was quiet for a long moment, his expression unreadable. then, "i found something out," he said finally. "something about the dark lord. something that changes everything."
"what?" you pressed.
he shook his head. "i can't tell you. not yet. but if i'm right..." he trailed off, looking out at the darkness beyond the tower. "if i'm right, this could be the key to ending him. to making sure you—all of you—are safe."
your breath caught in your throat. "reg, you can't seriously think you can take on voldemort alone. that's—that's insane. people far more powerful and experienced have tried and failed."
"i don't intend to face him directly," regulus said, a ghost of a smile crossing his face. "i'm a slytherin, remember? we're more subtle than that."
"then let me help," you pleaded. "whatever it is, we can figure it out together. talk to dumbledore, to the order—"
"no," regulus cut you off sharply. "no one else can know. especially not your brother— or mine, or his friends. they'd try to stop me, or worse, try to help and get themselves killed in the process."
you fell silent, torn between fury at his stubbornness and terror at what he might be planning.
"take the ring," regulus said softly, holding it out to you again. "please. if nothing else, take it as a reminder that everything i'm doing, i'm doing for us. for a future where we don't have to hide, where we're not on opposite sides of a war we never asked to fight."
your hand trembled as you reached out, your fingers brushing against his palm. "i'm still angry with you," you warned, even as you took the ring.
his smile was sad. "i know."
"and i still think you're being an idiot."
"probably," he agreed.
"and if you get yourself killed, i'll never forgive you," you added, your voice breaking.
regulus stepped forward, closing the distance between you, and cupped your face in his hands. "i have no intention of dying," he said firmly. "not when i finally have something to live for."
he kissed you then, soft and sweet and achingly tender—so different from your usual desperate, frantic embraces. it felt like a promise, like a beginning rather than an end.
when you broke apart, you slipped the ring onto your finger. it resized itself immediately, fitting perfectly as if it had been made for you all along.
"two weeks," regulus murmured, pressing his forehead against yours. "give me two weeks to take care of this. then we'll talk—really talk—about what comes next. about us."
"two weeks," you repeated, trying to ignore the fear still coiled tight in your chest. "and then no more secrets."
"no more secrets," he agreed. "no more hiding."
you didn't know if you believed him—couldn't know if he was making promises he couldn't keep—but as he pulled you into his arms, holding you tight against his chest, you chose to hope. to trust. to believe that somehow, against all odds, there could be a future for the two of you beyond these stolen moments in the dark.
the stars continued their silent vigil overhead, indifferent to the promises being made beneath them, to the fates being sealed with every beat of your intertwined hearts.
two weeks. you could wait two weeks.
you had to.
*one more night until the two weeks are up*
at times, you weren't sure if you'd survive the wait. every day was agony—watching regulus across the great hall, passing him in corridors, sitting in classes together but apart. to everyone else, nothing had changed, but you knew better. you could see the subtle differences in him—a new determination in his eyes, a quiet resolve in his movements.
he wore exhaustion like a second skin, dark circles beneath his eyes growing more pronounced with each passing day. whatever he was doing, it was taking a toll. once, you'd spotted him in the library, surrounded by ancient texts, his expression so intense it had frightened you.
another time, you'd heard from marlene that he'd missed two days of classes, supposedly due to illness. when he'd returned, he'd looked paler than ever, but there'd been something like triumph hidden beneath his weariness.
the waiting had been almost unbearable—so much so that three days ago, you'd cornered him in an empty classroom after potions, unable to stand another moment of distance.
"five minutes," you'd hissed, pulling him inside and locking the door with a flick of your wand. "i just need five fucking minutes with you."
he'd looked surprised, then relieved, then hungry all in the space of a heartbeat. "y/n," he'd breathed, your name like salvation on his lips.
what followed wasn't gentle or sweet—it was two weeks of tension and fear and longing unleashed in a storm of desperation. he'd lifted you onto the professor's desk, scattering parchment and quills without a care, his mouth hot and demanding against yours.
"missed you," he'd growled between kisses, his hands rough as they pushed up your skirt. "need you."
"show me," you'd challenged, already working frantically at his belt. "show me how much."
he'd paused then, eyes dark with desire but something else too—a vulnerability that made your heart clench. "if anything happens to me—" he started.
you'd silenced him with another kiss. "don't," you'd whispered fiercely. "don't you dare say goodbye to me."
the desperation had taken on a new edge then—regulus claiming you with a possessiveness that bordered on madness, his hands leaving marks on your hips that were still fading, his lips whispering filthy promises against your skin.
"no one else," he'd demanded as he moved inside you, the desk creaking dangerously beneath you. "ever. swear it."
"no one else," you'd gasped, back arching as he hit that perfect spot. "only you, reg. only ever you."
he'd buried his face in your neck then, his rhythm becoming erratic. "mine," he'd growled, one hand tangled in your hair, the other gripping your thigh hard enough to bruise. "fucking mine."
you'd come undone at his words, at the raw possession in his voice, at the knowledge that regulus black—composed, controlled regulus black—was absolutely wrecked for you and you alone.
afterward, he'd held you close, his heartbeat thundering against yours, his body trembling slightly. "i love you," he'd whispered, so quietly you'd barely heard it. "more than anything. remember that, whatever happens."
you'd wanted to demand answers, to make him explain what he was planning, but your time had been up—voices in the corridor signaling the arrival of the next class. you'd parted with one last desperate kiss, the taste of him lingering on your lips for hours afterward.
now, alone in your dormitory, you twisted his ring on your finger—you'd taken to wearing it on a chain around your neck when others might see, but alone, you allowed yourself the comfort of feeling it on your hand, the weight of his promise against your skin.
tomorrow night. he'd promised to meet you in the room of requirement tomorrow night, when the two weeks were up. twenty-four more hours of uncertainty, of fear and hope warring within your chest.
unable to sleep, you reached beneath your pillow and pulled out the latest note he'd slipped you in potions class.
*almost done. one more piece of the puzzle. tomorrow night, 9pm. the room. i love you.*
you traced his handwriting with your fingertip, trying to find reassurance in the steady lines, the confident curve of his script. no matter what happened tomorrow, one thing was certain—nothing would ever be the same again.
with a sigh, you tucked the note away and tried to sleep, regulus's ring clutched tightly in your palm like a talisman against the darkness.
you arrived at the room of requirement early, your nerves too frayed to sit still in the common room any longer. you paced outside the room 8:30, too wired to stay still. your fingers kept finding the ring on its chain, twisting it around and around until the metal warmed against your skin. the corridor was empty, the sound of your footsteps echoing against stone walls that had witnessed two years of secrets.
memories flickered through your mind unbidden—regulus teaching you to smoke in this very spot, his hands steady as he held the lighter. the way he'd laughed when you'd coughed, but there had been something soft in his eyes, something that made your chest ache even now.
"you're doing it wrong," he'd said, voice rough like expensive whiskey. "here, let me—"
you shook your head, dispelling the memory. no time for nostalgia, not when your heart was trying to beat its way out of your chest. not when everything felt balanced on a knife's edge.
at 8:45, you began the ritual—walking past the blank wall three times, thinking of the room you needed. not the usual one, with its plush couches and warm fireplace. no, tonight you needed somewhere smaller, somewhere that felt less like hiding and more like coming home.
the door materialized, dark wood with silver hinges. your hand trembled as you reached for the handle.
inside, the room had outdone itself. moonlight streamed through enchanted windows, casting silver patterns across hardwood floors. a single leather armchair sat beside a low-burning fire. and everywhere, stars—constellations painted across the ceiling in softly glowing light.
your throat tightened. the room had pulled this directly from your memories—the night regulus had spent hours teaching you the stories behind each constellation, his voice growing softer and softer until you'd both fallen asleep tangled together in that very chair.
"fuck," you whispered to the empty room, suddenly overwhelmed. "fuck, reg, what are you doing?"
because that was the question, wasn't it? what could be so important, so dangerous that he'd risk everything? what secret had he discovered about voldemort that was worth two weeks of silence, worth the exhaustion etched into his face, worth the possibility of—
no. you wouldn't think about that. couldn't think about that.
instead, you sank into the armchair, letting your head fall back to stare at the artificial stars above. orion's belt winked down at you, mocking in its familiarity. how many times had regulus pointed it out, bitterness creeping into his voice as he spoke of the constellation he'd been named to follow?
"a legacy written in fucking stars," he'd spat once, drunk on firewhiskey and rage. "as if the blacks could own the sky itself."
your watch showed 8:55. five minutes. five minutes until—
the door creaked.
you spun around, heart in your throat, but it wasn't regulus.
"what the fuck are you doing here?" you demanded, jumping to your feet as sirius black stepped into the room, his expression grim.
"he's gone," sirius said without preamble, and the world tilted sideways.
"what do you mean, gone?" your voice sounded strange to your own ears, distant and hollow.
sirius ran a hand through his hair—so like his brother's gesture, yet completely different. "kreacher came to me," he said, and now there was something like fear in his voice. "the family house elf. he was hysterical, saying reg had ordered him to leave, to go home, but—"
"but what?" you took a step forward, fists clenched at your sides. "sirius, but what?"
"but kreacher had already watched him die."
the words hit like a physical blow. you staggered back, catching yourself on the arm of the chair. "no," you said. "no, he promised. he promised me two weeks. tonight—he was supposed to meet me tonight—"
sirius moved toward you, reaching out, but you jerked away. "don't," you snarled. "don't fucking touch me. tell me what happened. tell me everything."
he hesitated, grief and guilt warring on his face. "kreacher said... he said reg found out something about the dark lord. something about how he made himself immortal. they went to this cave..."
you listened with growing horror as sirius recounted what little he knew—a cave by the sea, a boat, a basin full of poison. regulus, drinking it all, ordering kreacher to leave with some kind of locket, to destroy it.
"and then?" you asked, even though you knew, even though the answer was written in the devastation on sirius's face.
"inferi," he said quietly. "hundreds of them. kreacher said... he said reg didn't even try to fight. just let them drag him under."
something broke inside your chest—something vital and irreparable. you reached for the ring hanging around your neck, clutching it so tightly the edges bit into your palm.
"he knew," you whispered. "he fucking knew. that's why he gave me this, why he—" your voice cracked. "two weeks. he promised me two weeks."
understanding dawned in sirius's eyes as he spotted the ring. "oh," he breathed. "oh, fuck. you and him, you were—"
"shut up," you cut him off. "just... shut up."
you sank back into the chair, staring unseeing at the constellations above. somewhere up there was regulus's star, still burning bright while its namesake lay cold at the bottom of a cave.
"he loved you," sirius said quietly. "i know he did. whatever else he was, whatever choices he made... that part was real."
you laughed, and it sounded like breaking glass. "loved me enough to lie. to make promises he knew he couldn't keep."
"or loved you enough to die making sure you had a future," sirius countered. "whatever that locket was, whatever he found out... he thought it was worth dying for."
worth dying for. worth leaving you for. worth breaking every promise, shattering every dream of a future together.
you closed your eyes, feeling tears slip down your cheeks. "get out," you whispered.
"y/n—"
"get. out."
silence, then footsteps, then the soft click of the door.
alone in the room that held so many memories, you finally let yourself break. sobs tore from your throat, ugly and raw, echoing off walls that had witnessed so many secret kisses, so many whispered promises.
above, the enchanted stars continued their cold vigil, indifferent to the grief below. somewhere in the castle, james was probably looking for you. somewhere in london, kreacher was probably trying to destroy a locket. somewhere in a cave by the sea, regulus black's body was growing cold.
you slipped his ring onto your finger one last time, watching it catch the starlight.
"you promised," you whispered to the empty room. "you fucking promised."
but promises, like stars, could only burn so bright before they died.
warnings - major character death, explicit sexual content, dark themes, mention of war, blood purity
word count - 10,000+
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your knuckles were bruised like violets against the stark white of hospital sheets. regulus sat beside your bed in a rickety wooden chair, his robes rumpled from sleep, or rather the lack of it. his eyes followed the movement of a mediwitch as she flitted about the small room before eventually departing, allowing the heavy silence between you two to settle once more.
"you shouldn't have done that," he finally said, voice low and ragged.
you didn't look at him, keeping your gaze fixed on the ceiling. "what else was i supposed to do?"
"literally anything else, y/n."
the clock on the wall ticked loudly, counting down seconds that felt like hours. forty-eight hours since you both received the mark. and here you were, hands bandaged from punching walls until they cracked and bled, sedated by potions after being found screaming in the bathroom of your place.
"i couldn't breathe," you whispered, still not looking at him. "it was burning and i couldn't—i just needed it to stop."
regulus's fingers curled into fists on his lap. "breaking your hands won't remove the mark."
"i know that," you snapped, finally turning to face him. his eyes were bloodshot, dark circles prominent against his pale skin. he looked as haunted as you felt. "don't you think i fucking know that?"
he reached for your hand, careful to avoid the bandages. it was a familiar gesture—how many times had his fingers entwined with yours beneath dining tables, in dark corridors, behind curtains? but now it felt different. heavier.
"we made a choice, y/n," he said softly.
"did we?" your laugh was hollow. "was it really a choice when the alternative was watching us— each other be slaughtered by our own families?"
regulus didn't answer. he didn't need to. you both knew the truth—you'd been bred for this, raised to serve, and now you were trapped. two purebloods fulfilling their destiny, following the path laid out since birth.
you thought about that morning, kneeling before the dark lord, sleeves pushed up to reveal unmarked forearms that would soon bear his brand. regulus beside you, shoulders squared with determination or resignation—you couldn't tell the difference anymore. his brother was long gone, escaped to a better life with better people. you sometimes wondered if regulus hated sirius for leaving him behind or admired him for having the courage to leave at all.
"do you remember," you began, voice barely audible, "when we were seven, and your mother caught us playing with muggle coins we'd found?"
his thumb traced circles on your wrist. "you took the blame."
"and you kissed me afterward, behind the curtains in the drawing room," you continued. "you said i was brave."
"you were." a ghost of a smile crossed his face. "you still are."
"i don't feel brave. i feel like i'm drowning." you closed your eyes, feeling the weight of exhaustion press down on you. "what are we doing, reg?"
he didn't answer immediately, instead bringing your hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to your fingertips. "surviving," he finally said. "that's all we can do now."
memories swam through your consciousness like fish in murky water—fragmentary, distorted, but unmistakably real.
your bodies tangled in his bed at hogwarts, silencing charms cast so thickly the air felt heavy with them. his lips on your neck, your shoulder, lower. whispered promises neither of you had any business making.
your hand in his at your father's funeral, a subtle pressure of fingers against fingers while walburga black wailed with more theatricality than genuine grief.
studying in the library, knees touching beneath the table, pretending the contact was accidental when you both knew better.
and now, months after receiving the mark, you found yourself in your shared place once more, the one you immediately got together when finishing hogwarts, but everything had changed. the playfulness was gone from your encounters, replaced by a desperate need to feel something—anything—other than the constant dread that had become your companion.
"they're sending us on a raid tomorrow," regulus murmured against your bare shoulder, his arm draped heavily across your waist. "some mudblood family in sussex."
you stared at the ceiling, tracing the constellation patterns he'd charmed there years ago. "together?"
"yes. the dark lord thinks we work well as a pair." his laugh was bitter. "at least we'll have each other while we commit atrocities."
turning to face him, you studied his features in the dim light. he'd lost weight in recent months, his cheekbones more pronounced, giving him an almost gaunt appearance that reminded you too much of the portraits of dead blacks that lined the hallways.
"we don't have to do it," you whispered, though you both knew it was a lie.
he traced the outline of your face with his finger. "and what, die instead? watch you being tortured in front of me?"
"maybe." your voice cracked. "maybe that would be better than becoming this."
regulus pulled you closer, burying his face in the crook of your neck. "i'd die before i let anything happen to you."
"that's what i'm afraid of," you replied, fingers threading through his hair.
silence stretched between you, comfortable despite the weight of everything unsaid. you'd always communicated best in silence—a shared glance across a crowded room, fingers brushing as you passed in hallways, a subtle nod that contained entire conversations.
"do you remember the promise we made?" he asked suddenly. "before all this?"
you did. fifteen years old, hiding in the astronomy tower long after curfew, stars scattered above you like spilled diamonds. regulus had taken your hand, eyes serious in a way that seemed too old for his young face.
"no matter what happens, no matter what they make us do or become, i'll always find my way back to you."
you'd sealed it with a kiss, naively believing that your love would be enough to withstand whatever the world threw at you.
"we were children," you said now, voice hollow. "we didn't know what was coming."
his hand found yours in the darkness, fingers interlacing. "i meant it, though. i still do."
outside, rain began to fall, pattering against the windows like impatient fingers. somewhere in the house, a clock chimed three. in a few hours, you would both don masks and cloaks and become the monsters you were raised to be.
the raid went wrong.
it was supposed to be simple—a show of force, a message to the "impure" that nowhere was safe. but the order had been waiting, as if tipped off. the moment you and the other death eaters apparated onto the quiet suburban street, spells began flying.
in the chaos, you lost sight of regulus. curses illuminated the night in violent bursts of color—red, purple, the sickly green of killing curses cutting through fog like searchlights. screams echoed between houses as muggles fled in terror, not understanding the war that had suddenly erupted on their doorsteps.
you ducked behind a garden wall, blood trickling from a cut above your eye where a severing charm had nearly found its target. your mask felt suffocating, the silver filigree pressing into your skin as you gasped for breath.
"retreat!" someone shouted—bellatrix, you thought, though it was hard to tell with everyone masked. "now!"
death eaters began disappearing with sharp cracks of apparition. you stayed hidden, frantically scanning for regulus among the figures still dueling.
that's when you saw him, locked in combat with a tall wizard you recognized as one of the prewett brothers. regulus was holding his own, but barely. his movements were slowing, and even from a distance, you could see the dark stain spreading across his robes.
without thinking, you broke cover, racing toward him as another death eater fell to a stunning spell nearby. regulus turned at your approach, distracted for just a fraction of a second—but it was enough.
the spell hit him square in the chest, lifting him off his feet and throwing him backward several meters. he crumpled to the ground, motionless.
your scream was muffled by your mask as you reached him, dropping to your knees beside his still form. blood was seeping through his robes, but his chest still rose and fell with shallow breaths.
prewett was advancing, wand raised for a finishing blow. you stood, positioning yourself between him and regulus, wand trembling in your grip.
"step aside," prewett commanded, his voice hard but not cruel.
"no." your voice broke on the single syllable.
something in your stance must have given him pause. he studied you for a moment, then glanced at regulus's prone form.
"he'll bleed out if he doesn't get help," he said finally. "is he worth dying for?"
you didn't hesitate. "yes."
prewett lowered his wand slightly. "take him and go. next time we meet, i won't be merciful."
you didn't need to be told twice. grabbing regulus, you concentrated through your panic and apparated, the crushing darkness a welcome escape from the battlefield.
the safe house was small, hidden deep in unplottable woods that had belonged to the yaxley family for generations. you'd brought regulus here instead of returning to his old home—walburga would have summoned the dark lord immediately, and neither of you could face him in this condition.
for three days, regulus drifted between consciousness and delirium as you worked tirelessly to heal him, applying every healing charm and potion you knew. your hands shook so badly you spilled more than you used, but gradually, his color improved, and his breathing steadied.
on the fourth day, he finally woke properly, eyes focusing on you as you changed the bandages on his chest.
"y/n," he rasped, throat dry from disuse. "where—?"
"safe house," you answered, helping him sip water from a cup. "no one knows we're here."
his eyes widened. "the dark lord—"
"thinks we're dead, or captured. i don't know. i haven't contacted anyone."
regulus struggled to sit up, wincing as the movement pulled at his healing wounds. "are you insane? he'll kill us both when we return."
"then we don't return," you said simply.
he stared at you as if seeing you for the first time. "what are you saying?"
you sat on the edge of the bed, suddenly exhausted. for days, you'd been running on fear and determination, sleep coming only in brief snatches between tending to his wounds and jumping at every sound, convinced that death eaters would burst through the door at any moment.
"i'm saying i watched you nearly die, reg. i stood over your body, ready to die protecting you." your voice cracked. "and i realized something—i don't want to do this anymore. any of it."
"we don't have a choice," he said, but the words lacked conviction.
"there's always a choice." you took his hand, turning it over to expose the dark mark, stark against his pale skin. "this doesn't define us unless we let it."
he was quiet for a long moment, eyes fixed on the mark. "i've been... researching things. about him. about what he's done to ensure he can't die."
you went still. "what do you mean?"
"horcruxes," he whispered, the word itself seeming to darken the room. "he's made horcruxes, y/n. i don't know how many, but at least one."
the term was vaguely familiar from obscure texts in your family's library—the darkest of magic, splitting one's soul through murder to achieve a twisted form of immortality.
"how do you know this?"
"kreacher," he replied. "the dark lord borrowed him for something. when he returned, he was... different. traumatized. it took weeks to get the full story out of him."
regulus's eyes met yours, burning with an intensity you hadn't seen in months. "he's hidden one in a cave, protected by inferi and poison. i think i can get to it, destroy it."
"and then what? he has others, you said so yourself."
"then at least i've done something right." his hand gripped yours tightly. "something to balance the scales, even a little."
you recognized the look on his face—the same determination he'd shown when declaring he would become the person sirius had refused to be, when mastering particularly difficult spells, when promising to always find his way back to you.
"you're planning to die," you realized, voice barely audible.
he didn't deny it. "someone has to start dismantling him, piece by piece. why not us?"
"us?" your heart hammered against your ribs. "no, reg. just you, right? that's what you're planning."
his silence was answer enough.
"you fucking coward," you hissed, tears springing to your eyes. "you were going to leave me behind."
"to protect you!" he argued, reaching for you as you pulled away. "y/n, please—"
"no." you stood, putting distance between you. "every time i think we're in this together, you make decisions without me. you plotted this while lying beside me at night, didn't you? planned your noble sacrifice while watching me sleep?"
regulus struggled to his feet, swaying slightly from weakness. "it's not like that."
"then what is it like? explain it to me, reg. explain how abandoning me is somehow an act of love."
"because i can't watch you die!" he shouted, the outburst clearly costing him as he grimaced in pain. "i can't let you walk into that cave knowing you won't come out."
you stared at each other across the small room, both breathing heavily.
"but you expect me to keep living after you're gone?" you asked finally, voice small. "how is that fair?"
he had no answer for that.
three weeks passed in tense coexistence. regulus grew stronger daily, and with each improvement in his condition, the inevitable confrontation loomed larger between you.
you took turns sleeping in the single bed, the other keeping watch from a worn armchair by the window. you hunted in the woods for food, set protective enchantments, and lived like fugitives—which, in truth, you were.
on the twenty-third day, regulus found you sitting by the small stream that ran near the cabin, skipping stones across the surface with aggressive flicks of your wand.
"i've been thinking," he said, lowering himself carefully beside you.
"dangerous pastime for you," you replied, not looking at him.
he ignored the jab. "what if there's another way? not just destroying one horcrux, but finding information about all of them. something we could pass to someone who could actually defeat him."
you finally turned to him. "like who? dumbledore?"
regulus grimaced. "perhaps. or someone in the order."
"your brother," you guessed.
he nodded reluctantly. "sirius would know who to trust."
the idea of seeking help from the people you'd been raised to despise—blood traitors, muggle-lovers—should have been repulsive. instead, it felt like the first breath of fresh air after being underwater too long.
"so what's your plan now?" you asked.
"we still need to get the horcrux. but instead of... what i planned before, we find a way to substitute a fake, leave a message." his eyes met yours, hesitant but hopeful. "together."
you studied him—the boy you'd grown up with, the young man you'd fallen in love with, the death eater you'd followed into darkness. his features were so familiar you could trace them in your sleep, yet something had shifted in him, something fundamental.
"when did you start planning this rebellion?" you asked softly.
regulus looked away, watching the stream's gentle current. "i think it started the day sirius left. i was so angry with him—for abandoning the family, for choosing potter over us, for leaving me behind." he paused. "but part of me envied him. his certainty. his courage."
you reached for his hand, tracing the lines of his palm. "and now?"
"now i understand why he had to go." he turned his hand to capture yours. "i just wish i hadn't waited so long to follow his example."
the evening air was cool against your skin, the setting sun painting the trees in gold and amber. in that moment, despite everything, a fragile hope bloomed in your chest.
"if we do this," you said slowly, "there's no going back. we'll have to disappear afterward—change our names, leave the country maybe."
regulus nodded. "i know."
"your mother will disown you."
"probably."
"we might die anyway."
his smile was sad but genuine. "at least it would be on our terms."
you leaned forward, pressing your forehead against his. "no more solo heroics, reg. we fight together or not at all. promise me."
"i promise," he whispered, sealing the vow with a kiss that tasted of new beginnings.
memories swam through your consciousness like shards of broken glass—jagged, cutting, but unmistakably real. your bodies tangled desperately in his bed at hogwarts, silencing charms cast so thickly the very air seemed to suffocate around you. his mouth hot against your skin, leaving marks that would linger for days. whispered promises exchanged in the darkness, reckless and dangerous and impossibly sweet. your fingers intertwined with his at his father's funeral, that subtle pressure the only thing keeping you both anchored while walburga black's theatrical grief echoed through the mausoleum. stolen moments in forgotten corners of the library, knees pressed together beneath ancient tables, the pretense of accidental contact abandoned long ago.
and now this—your first real breaking point. bitter winter had seized hogwarts in an unforgiving grip, the castle corridors as frigid and unforgiving as the growing chasm between you and regulus over the past weeks.
you tracked him to an abandoned classroom on the fifth floor after he'd deliberately avoided you for nine agonizing days. you slammed the heavy oak door with such violence that dust rained from the ceiling, the sound reverberating like a thunderclap in the empty room.
"what the actual fuck is wrong with you?" you demanded, voice raw with barely contained rage, each word scraping your throat like sandpaper.
regulus didn't even look up from his book, his shoulders tensing imperceptibly beneath his immaculate robes. "nothing that concerns you anymore. get out."
"bullshit," you snarled, storming toward him, blood roaring in your ears. "you've been avoiding me for over a week. you switched patrol schedules without telling me. you're sitting with rosier and his death eater groupies at every fucking meal. what happened to 'nothing will change between us, y/n'? was that just another convenient lie?"
he stood abruptly, the chair screeching against stone, his movement so violent the book tumbled forgotten to the floor. "maybe i'm finally tired of pretending."
"pretending what, exactly?" your voice dropped dangerously.
"that whatever this is—" he gestured sharply between you, disgust evident in every line of his body, "—isn't a fucking liability. avery saw us in hogsmeade last weekend. he's asking questions. making comments."
"so fucking what?" you challenged, closing the distance between you until you were close enough to see the flecks of silver in his grey eyes. "afraid daddy's little spy will tell the family their precious heir is banging me?"
something dark and dangerous flashed across his face. "you know that's not what this is about."
"do i?" your laugh was caustic enough to burn. "because from where i'm standing, it looks exactly like you're ashamed of me. the second anyone whispers, you bolt like a fucking coward."
"i'm trying to protect you, you idiot!" he shouted, composure finally shattering.
"protect me? fucking protect me?" you screamed back, shoving him hard enough that he stumbled back against the desk. "don't insult my intelligence with that bullshit! you're protecting yourself. your reputation. your precious fucking legacy."
regulus straightened, fury transforming his aristocratic features into something almost unrecognizable. "you think i give a single solitary fuck about any of that?"
"yes! i absolutely fucking do!" you shoved him again, harder this time, both hands connecting with his chest with enough force to make him wince. "ever since sirius walked out, you've been desperate to be the perfect black son. the perfect slytherin prince. the perfect little death eater in training. it's fucking pathetic to watch."
his hand shot out with the speed of a striking snake, fingers curling brutally around your wrist. "don't you dare talk about things you don't understand," he hissed, voice dropping to something lethal and quiet.
"i understand perfectly," you spat, wrenching your arm free with enough force to leave marks. "your mother's got her claws so deep in you that you can't even think for yourself anymore. you're nothing but her puppet."
"and you're living in a fucking fantasy world," he snarled, backing you against the wall, his face inches from yours. "you think we have actual choices? that we can just walk away from our families? from who we are? from what's expected of us? look what happened to sirius—disowned, cut off, living off potter's charity like a stray dog."
"at least he's free!" you screamed, throat burning with the force of it. "at least he's not regurgitating vile pureblood supremacy bullshit to impress his fucking death eater friends!"
regulus's eyes widened momentarily before narrowing to dangerous slits, his pupils blown wide with rage. "is that what you think this is? that i'm playing some kind of game? that i don't believe any of it?"
"the regulus i knew wouldn't," you said, voice dropping to something hollow and cold.
"then you never knew me at all," he replied, each word precise and cutting. "i believe in preserving our world. our traditions. our bloodlines. our magic. from people who would destroy everything that makes us who we are."
you stared at him, genuine revulsion twisting your features. "listen to yourself. you sound exactly like your fucking mother."
"don't talk about my mother," he growled, the muscle in his jaw working furiously as he crowded you further against the wall.
"why the hell not?" you challenged, refusing to back down even as your heart hammered painfully against your ribs. "afraid i'll tell you the truth? that she's a hateful, cruel, manipulative bitch who—"
his fist slammed into the wall beside your head with enough force to crack the ancient stone, making you flinch despite your determination not to show fear. "shut your fucking mouth."
"or what?" you taunted, adrenaline making you reckless. "going to hex me, black? show me what you've been learning from your new friends? what dark curses has bellatrix been teaching you?"
"you have no idea what i'm capable of," he threatened, voice dropping to something barely above a whisper, somehow more terrifying than his shouting.
"i know exactly what you're capable of," you countered, trembling with fury. "cowardice. conformity. following orders like a good little soldier while pretending you have no choice."
something dangerous shifted behind his eyes. "i'm not my fucking brother."
"no," you agreed, delivering the final blow with deliberate cruelty. "you're not half the man he is. and you never will be."
the words hung suspended between you, a line crossed that could never be uncrossed. for a heartbeat, pure hatred flashed across his perfect features—then his mouth crashed against yours with bruising force.
the kiss wasn't passion—it was warfare. all teeth and anger and punishment, his hands roughly tangling in your hair as he backed you brutally against the wall. you bit his lower lip hard enough to draw blood, viciously satisfied when he hissed in pain against your mouth. his response was to grab both your wrists in one hand, pinning them above your head with enough force to leave marks.
"is this what you wanted?" he growled against your mouth, his other hand gripping your jaw with bruising intensity. "to push me until i lost control?"
you laughed against his lips, the sound hollow and mocking. "fuck you, regulus."
"that seems to be the idea," he shot back, his free hand moving to your tie, yanking it loose with such violence that buttons scattered across the stone floor.
you wrenched your hands free from his grip, shoving him back only to grab his expensive robes and drag him closer again. your nails dug into his scalp as you kissed him, pouring every ounce of rage and frustration and heartbreak of the past weeks into it until you tasted blood and weren't sure whose it was.
he lifted you against the wall with a strength that surprised you, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist as his teeth found the sensitive junction of your neck and shoulder, biting hard enough to mark you as his. you retaliated by dragging your nails down his back, feeling the fabric tear under your fingers.
"i fucking hate you," you gasped as his mouth moved lower, not meaning it but needing to say it anyway.
his hand slid roughly under your skirt, fingers digging into the flesh of your thigh hard enough to leave perfect crescent-shaped bruises. "no, you don't," he countered, voice raw with something that wasn't quite anger anymore. "you hate that you still want me anyway."
you pulled back just enough to look him directly in the eyes, your breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps. "you're destroying everything we could have been."
"and you're asking for things i can never give," he countered, eyes dark with desire and fury and something that might have been despair. "things that would get us both killed."
"then give me this," you demanded, pulling him back to you with desperate hands. "make me forget for one fucking minute why i'm so goddamn angry with you."
he didn't need to be told twice. his mouth reclaimed yours with renewed desperation, one hand braced against the wall beside your head while the other explored with possessive intent. you worked frantically at his belt buckle, movements clumsy and urgent with anger-fueled desire.
a silencing charm went up with a sharp flick of his wand—wordless magic that reminded you how powerful he truly was beneath the carefully controlled exterior. your school robes hit the floor moments later, his following quickly after.
there was nothing gentle about what followed—nails leaving scarlet trails across sweat-slicked skin, teeth marking territory neither of you could openly claim, anger transforming into something else entirely without losing its jagged edge. every touch was a challenge, every kiss a battle neither of you was willing to concede, every movement a declaration of ownership that would leave marks for days after.
when it was over, you both slid to the cold stone floor, backs against the wall, breathing ragged and uneven in the sudden silence. your uniform was ruined beyond magical repair, his perfect hair a wild mess from your punishing fingers. purple bruises were already blooming across your collarbone, matched by deep scratches down his pale back.
"this doesn't fix a goddamn thing," you said finally, voice raw and unfamiliar to your own ears.
he glanced sideways at you, something unreadable flickering in the stormy depths of his eyes. "i know."
but you both knew you'd end up here again—fighting, breaking, fucking and coming together in the most destructive way possible. it was easier than facing the truth neither of you could escape: that you were standing on the side of a war that was coming whether you were ready or not, and neither of you knew how to build a bridge across that impossible divide to the side you were meant to be on.
the cave was exactly as kreacher had described—dark, foreboding, reeking of old magic that clung to your skin like oil. the sea crashed violently against jagged rock faces, spray hitting your cheeks like tears as you stood at the entrance, breath caught in your throat.
regulus stood beside you, his face marble-pale in the moonlight. without speaking, he drew a silver knife from his robes and sliced his palm open, barely flinching as blood welled up black in the darkness.
"blood sacrifice," he murmured, pressing his wounded hand against the rock. "he always did have a flair for the theatrical."
the stone dissolved beneath his touch, revealing a passage that led deeper into the cliff. you caught regulus as he swayed slightly, the blood loss and the magnitude of what you were attempting finally hitting him.
"we could still turn back," you whispered, though you knew neither of you would. there was something final about stepping into that darkness, like crossing a threshold you could never return from.
regulus's eyes found yours, that familiar constellation of gray and silver that you'd mapped a thousand times. "no," he said softly. "we finish this."
he reached for your hand, fingers interlacing with yours. his palm was slick with blood that now stained your skin too—a fitting metaphor for everything you'd shared.
the passageway opened to reveal an underground lake so vast the opposite shore was lost in shadow. the water was unnaturally still, a black mirror reflecting nothing. suspended in the center was a small island, a faint greenish glow emanating from its surface.
"don't touch the water," regulus warned, repeating kreacher's instructions as he searched along the edge until he found an invisible chain.
the boat that emerged from the depths was barely large enough for one person, let alone two. you squeezed in together, your body pressed against his in a way that would once have made your heart race for entirely different reasons. now, all you felt was dread, thick and choking.
"i'm scared," you admitted as the boat moved silently toward the island. below the surface, pale shapes drifted like ghosts—faces frozen in silent screams, hands reaching upward.
regulus's arm tightened around you. "i know. me too."
"what if we fail?"
"then at least we tried." his voice was steady, but you felt the rapid flutter of his pulse where your head rested against his neck. "at least we chose something different than what was chosen for us."
the boat bumped gently against the island. at its center stood a basin atop a pedestal, filled with a luminous green potion. within its depths, you could just make out the golden gleam of the locket.
regulus approached first, circling the basin with cautious steps. you followed, drawing from your pocket the duplicate you'd spent weeks creating—an exact replica, indistinguishable from the original except for the soul fragment it didn't contain. inside was the note regulus had written, his final act of defiance.
"i'll drink it," he said, conjuring a crystal cup.
you grabbed his wrist. "no. we agreed—i'll make you drink it, no matter what happens."
his eyes met yours, a silent argument passing between you. "y/n—"
"you know what kreacher said. someone has to force the drinker to continue. if you start, you'll never finish." your fingers tightened around his wrist. "i need to be the one who stays clear-headed."
"and if i try to fight you?" he challenged. "if i hurt you?"
you smiled grimly. "i've been dueling you since we were children, reg. i know all your weaknesses."
he didn't smile back. instead, he pulled you close, his lips finding yours in a kiss that tasted of salt and fear and fierce devotion. "i love you," he whispered against your mouth. "remember that, no matter what i say when the poison takes hold."
your throat constricted painfully. "i know."
the first cup went down easily. regulus grimaced at the taste but nodded for you to continue. by the third cup, his hands were trembling. by the fifth, he was on his knees.
"stop," he gasped, pushing weakly at your hand as you brought the sixth cup to his lips. "please, i can't—"
"you have to," you said, your voice breaking as you forced the liquid down his throat. "i'm sorry, i'm so sorry, but you have to keep drinking."
by the eighth cup, he was screaming, begging you to stop, his body convulsing with pain. tears streamed down your face as you continued, cup after cup of poison pouring between his lips.
"it burns," he sobbed after the tenth cup, curling into himself on the cold stone. "make it stop, please make it stop."
"just a little more," you whispered, your hands shaking so badly you nearly spilled the eleventh cup. "please, reg, just a little more."
the twelfth cup brought hallucinations. regulus stared in horror at something you couldn't see, scrambling backward until he nearly fell off the edge of the island.
"no, not her, please not her," he begged, reaching out toward nothing. "take me instead!"
"who?" you asked, though you weren't sure you wanted to know what horrific visions the poison was conjuring.
his eyes found yours, but you weren't sure he recognized you anymore. "y/n," he whimpered. "they're torturing her. please, stop hurting her!"
your heart shattered as you realized he was watching you being tortured, some vision of what might happen if you were caught. with trembling hands, you forced the thirteenth cup between his lips.
the fourteenth cup brought silence—a terrible, unnatural stillness as regulus collapsed onto his back, eyes open but unseeing, chest barely moving with shallow breaths. for one terrible moment, you thought he was dead.
"reg?" you dropped to your knees beside him, hands hovering over his body, afraid to touch him. "regulus?"
no response.
the last cup glittered mockingly in the basin. with shaking hands, you collected it and turned back to regulus. his lips were blue now, his skin ashen. when you lifted his head onto your lap, it lolled lifelessly.
"last one," you whispered, tilting the cup against his unresponsive mouth. the potion dribbled down his chin, and you frantically wiped it back up, making sure every drop passed his lips. "please stay with me. please."
as the basin emptied, you reached inside and grabbed the locket, quickly replacing it with the fake. the horcrux felt unnaturally heavy, throbbing with malevolent energy against your palm. you shoved it deep into your pocket, your attention immediately returning to regulus.
his breathing had grown so shallow it was almost imperceptible. his pulse, when you pressed trembling fingers to his neck, was erratic and weak.
"water," he rasped suddenly, the word barely audible. "so thirsty."
you remembered kreacher's warning about the lake—how touching the water would wake the inferi. but regulus looked seconds from death, his lips cracked and bleeding.
"aguamenti," you whispered, pointing your wand at the cup. nothing happened. you tried again, more desperately. still nothing. some magic in the cave was preventing the spell from working.
regulus's hand weakly clutched at your robes. "water," he pleaded again, his voice a dry rattle.
panic rose in your throat as you looked from his dying face to the still black lake surrounding you. there was water everywhere, just out of reach, just beyond safety.
"i'm going to get you out of here," you promised, attempting to lift him. his body was deadweight in your arms, and you staggered under it. "just stay with me, reg."
you half-dragged, half-carried him toward the boat, his feet trailing limply behind. each labored breath he took sounded like it might be his last, his chest barely rising.
"stay with me," you begged, lowering him into the boat with trembling arms. "don't you dare leave me here alone."
his eyes fluttered open, unfocused and clouded with pain. "so thirsty," he whispered again.
the boat began its silent journey back across the lake. regulus's breathing grew more labored with each passing second, his skin taking on a bluish tinge. terror clawed at your throat as you realized he wouldn't make it to shore without water.
in desperation, you conjured a small cup from thin air and, with trembling hands, reached over the edge of the boat toward the dark water.
regulus's hand shot out with surprising strength, grabbing your wrist. "no," he rasped. "inferi."
"you'll die," you choked out, tears blurring your vision.
his fingers weakened around your wrist. "better me than both of us."
"no," you growled, pulling your hand back. "we live together or die together, remember? that was the promise."
you pointed your wand at the water, preparing to cast aguamenti once more in hopes that away from the island, the spell might work—
the surface of the lake exploded.
pale, bloated hands erupted from the water, grabbing at the sides of the boat. sightless eyes and gaping mouths emerged as the inferi pulled themselves up, waterlogged bodies hauling toward you with unnatural strength.
you raised your wand, remembering kreacher's terrified whispers. "incendio!" you screamed.
flames burst from your wand, but the inferi kept coming, untroubled by ordinary fire. more and more broke the surface, hands reaching for regulus's limp form, for your ankles, for the edges of the boat that was now taking on water.
panic surged through you, clarifying your thoughts. this wasn't ordinary darkness, so ordinary fire wouldn't suffice.
"fiendfyre!" you shouted, your voice echoing off the cavern walls.
cursed flames exploded from your wand—serpents and chimeras and dragons made of fire, roaring as they engulfed the inferi. the heat was tremendous, scorching your face even as it kept the undead at bay. you'd never cast the spell before, had only read about it in the darkest books in your family's library, and you could feel it fighting your control, hungry to consume everything.
the boat lurched as more inferi attacked from below. water sloshed over the sides, soaking your robes, regulus's unmoving body. his eyes were closed now, his breathing imperceptible.
"no, no, no," you sobbed, trying to maintain the fiendfyre while checking his pulse. nothing. "reg, please!"
with a desperate cry, you directed the cursed fire in a circle around the boat, creating a barrier the inferi couldn't penetrate. the flames reflected off the black water, bathing regulus's deathly pale face in orange light.
you pressed your ear to his chest. silence. nothing.
"don't you dare," you whispered fiercely, starting compressions on his chest. "don't you dare leave me."
between compressions, you breathed into his mouth, tasting the poison still on his lips. around you, the fiendfyre roared, consuming inferi that still tried to reach you. the heat was suffocating, but you didn't stop.
one minute passed. two. regulus remained still beneath your desperate ministrations.
"please," you begged, your voice breaking. "i love you. please come back."
you brought your hands down on his chest one final time, a sob tearing from your throat—
and regulus gasped, water and potion spewing from his mouth as he convulsed beneath you. you turned him onto his side, supporting his head as he retched weakly, his body trembling violently.
"that's it," you encouraged through tears, "breathe. just breathe."
the boat bumped against the shore of the cave. with strength you didn't know you possessed, you hauled regulus out, dragging him toward the entrance while maintaining the fire shield behind you. the inferi followed to the edge of the water but could go no further.
the moment you crossed the threshold of the cave, you let the fiendfyre die, collapsing beside regulus on the rocky shore. the horcrux in your pocket pulsed like a malignant heart.
regulus's breathing was shallow but steady, his pulse weak but present. his eyes fluttered open, finding yours in the moonlight.
"you saved me," he whispered, voice wrecked from screaming and nearly dying.
you pressed your forehead to his, tears falling onto his face. "always."
three days later, regulus could finally stand without assistance. the cave had taken something from him—a vitality that had always been present even in his darkest moments. his face was gaunt, cheekbones sharper than ever, eyes haunted by whatever visions the poison had shown him.
"we should contact sirius," you said as you changed the bandages on his hand where he'd cut it for the blood sacrifice. the wound refused to heal properly, as if tainted by dark magic. "the horcrux needs to be destroyed."
regulus nodded absently, staring out the window of the safe house. "he won't believe it's really me. i'll need to tell him something only i would know."
you finished wrapping his hand and sat beside him on the narrow bed. "what will you tell him?"
a ghost of a smile crossed his face. "about the time i caught him sneaking out to meet that muggle girl from the village. he thought our parents never knew, but i covered for him. told them the sounds they heard were me practicing dueling in my room."
you raised an eyebrow. "you never told me that story."
"some secrets aren't mine to tell." his good hand found yours, fingers interlacing. "even from you."
the statement hung between you, loaded with unspoken meaning. you knew regulus still kept parts of himself locked away—what he'd seen in those poison-induced visions, the full extent of what he'd done as a death eater, the deepest fears that woke him screaming in the night.
"i've been thinking," he said finally. "about what comes next."
your heart stuttered. "and?"
"we can't run." his eyes met yours, steady and sure despite the exhaustion etched into his features. "not yet. there's more to be done."
you'd expected this, had seen the determination building in him as his strength returned. still, fear coiled in your stomach. "we barely survived stealing one horcrux."
"i know." he squeezed your hand. "but we know things now—about him, about how he operates. information the order could use."
"you want to become spies," you said flatly.
regulus didn't flinch from the accusation. "i want to fix what i helped break."
you stood, pulling your hand from his, and paced the small room. "we've already taken a stand. we stole his horcrux. isn't that enough?"
"would it be enough for you?" he challenged. "if our positions were reversed, would you be content with one act of rebellion before disappearing?"
the answer stuck in your throat because you both knew the truth. neither of you were built to run, not really. you'd been raised as warriors—the wrong side, perhaps, but warriors nonetheless.
"we'd have to go back," you said, the realization washing over you like ice water. "pretend nothing's happened. face him."
regulus nodded grimly. "it would be dangerous. if he suspects, even for a moment..."
"he'd kill us. but not quickly." you wrapped your arms around yourself, suddenly cold despite the summer heat. "we'd beg for death long before he granted it."
"i won't ask this of you," regulus said softly. "this is my choice. you can still leave, find somewhere safe—"
"don't," you cut him off. "don't you dare suggest we separate now."
he stood, wincing at the effort, and crossed to where you stood. his hands, one bandaged and one bare, came to rest on your shoulders. "i'm trying to protect you."
"and i'm trying to make you understand that i don't want protection if it means watching you walk into death alone." your voice broke on the last word.
his forehead came to rest against yours, a gesture that had become as natural as breathing between you. "we might both die."
"everyone dies," you whispered. "but not everyone gets to choose what they die for."
regulus's arms wrapped around you, pulling you against his chest where his heart beat steadily, a miracle after how close you'd come to losing him. "we contact sirius first," he said. "get the horcrux somewhere safe. then we return—bereaved cousins who got lost after a raid gone wrong."
you nodded against his chest. "they'll be suspicious."
"let them," he said with a hint of the old black arrogance. "they've always underestimated both of us."
that night, regulus wrote the letter to his brother—carefully worded, with just enough personal details to prove his identity but vague enough that if intercepted, it wouldn't immediately condemn you both. you added your own note, explaining who you were, why sirius should trust what his estranged brother was telling him.
"do you think he'll help?" you asked as regulus sealed the envelope.
"sirius has his faults," he replied, "but he's never lacked courage. and he loves a good rebellion."
you sent the letter with a nondescript owl, then began preparing for what would be the performance of your lives. the horcrux remained hidden in a magically sealed box beneath the floorboards, waiting for sirius's response.
regulus came to bed late that night, sliding under the covers beside you. you turned to face him in the darkness, tracing the sharp lines of his face with gentle fingers.
"scared?" you asked.
"terrified," he admitted, catching your hand and pressing a kiss to your palm. "but certain."
you moved closer, resting your head on his chest where you could hear the steady rhythm of his heart. "we should practice our story. where we've been, what happened during the raid."
"tomorrow," he murmured, fingers threading through your hair. "tonight, just... be here with me."
you understood what he wasn't saying—that these moments of peace might be your last, that tomorrow began a dangerous game with your lives as the stakes. so you pressed closer, memorizing the feel of him, safe and whole beside you.
"i keep thinking about what you said in the cave," regulus whispered after a long silence. "about living together or dying together."
you tensed slightly. "i meant it."
"i know." his arms tightened around you. "that's what scares me the most. not dying, but the thought of taking you with me."
"it's not your choice to make," you reminded him gently.
he was quiet for so long you thought he might have fallen asleep. then: "in the cave, when the poison... there were visions."
you waited, letting him find the words at his own pace.
"i saw him winning," regulus continued, voice barely audible. "the world under his rule. no resistance left. and you—" his voice broke. "you were still alive, but not... not really. he kept you as an example of what happens to traitors. you begged me to kill you."
your breath caught in your throat. "it wasn't real."
"it felt real." his hand found yours in the darkness, clutching like a lifeline. "i couldn't save you. i tried, but i couldn't reach you."
you propped yourself up on one elbow, finding his eyes in the dim light. "it was the poison talking. using your fears against you."
"my greatest fear," he corrected. "losing you. failing you."
"you won't," you said with more confidence than you felt. "we're smarter than him. than all of them."
his smile was sad in the moonlight. "intelligence isn't always enough in war."
"then we'll be lucky too." you leaned down, pressing your lips to his. "now sleep. we have work to do tomorrow."
as regulus's breathing evened out beside you, sleep eluding you. the weight of what you were about to attempt pressed down like a physical thing. spying on the dark lord himself, walking back into the snake pit you'd so narrowly escaped—it was madness.
but the alternative—running, hiding, leaving others to fight while you sought safety—felt like a different kind of death. so you closed your eyes and planned, mentally preparing for the performance of your life, and hoped that somewhere in england, sirius black was reading his brother's letter and believing.
sirius's response came three days later, delivered by a different owl than the one you'd sent—a precaution you appreciated. the note was brief, unsigned, and written in a code you and regulus had created as children:
number twelve, grimmauld place. midnight. come alone. bring proof.
you stared at the address in disbelief. "he's using your childhood home as a safe house? is he insane?"
regulus's lips quirked into a humorless smile. "it's actually brilliant. the last place anyone would look for order members is a black family residence. and the protective enchantments are ancient—stronger than anything they could cast themselves."
regulus burned the note after reading it, watching the ashes float away on the breeze. "he always was dramatic."
"are you sure you should go alone?" you asked, anxiety churning in your stomach. "what if it's a trap?"
he shook his head. "it's not. only sirius would know to use this particular code."
"still," you insisted, "i should come with you."
"someone needs to stay with this," regulus countered, gesturing to the box containing the horcrux. "if something happens to me, you're the only other person who knows what it is, what it means."
you wanted to argue further, but the logic was sound. reluctantly, you nodded. "be careful. your brother might shoot first and ask questions later."
that night, you helped regulus prepare. he still looked too thin, too haunted to convincingly return to the death eaters, but you had time to build his strength back before facing the dark lord. this meeting was just the first step.
"if i'm not back by dawn," regulus said as he prepared to disapparate, "assume the worst. take the horcrux and run. don't try to find me."
you gripped the front of his robes. "don't say that."
"y/n," he said firmly, "promise me. promise you'll run if i don't return."
the request felt like swallowing glass, but you nodded. "i promise."
he kissed you then, deep and desperate, like a drowning man taking a final breath. "i love you," he whispered against your lips. "whatever happens, remember that."
then he was gone, leaving you alone with a piece of the dark lord's soul and hours to wait, each minute stretching like years.
you paced. you practiced dueling stances, defensive spells, anything to keep your mind occupied. you made tea you didn't drink and reorganized supplies you didn't need. and you watched the sky, counting stars to mark the passage of time.
one hour passed. two. three.
just as despair began to set in, a crack of apparition split the night. you spun, wand raised—
regulus staggered through the door, face pale but eyes bright with something you hadn't seen in years. hope.
"sirius?" you asked.
"he believed me." regulus sank onto the sofa, exhaustion evident in every line of his body. "we talked for hours. he's taking the horcrux to dumbledore."
relief flooded you, making your knees weak. you sat beside him, taking his hand. "and then?"
"then we go back," he said simply. "we play our parts. we gather information. and we wait."
"for what?"
regulus looked at you, determination hardening his features despite his exhaustion. "for the moment we can help end him. once and for all."
you leaned against him, head on his shoulder, the weight of what lay ahead settling over you both like a shroud. there would be no running, no peaceful cottage in france. instead, you would walk willingly back into darkness, clinging to each other and the hope that someday, somehow, light would prevail.
three months passed like a fever dream.
you both returned to your respective homes, spinning tales of capture and narrow escape. the dark lord welcomed you back with suspicion that slowly eased as you proved your continued loyalty through raids and meetings. you became his perfect soldiers again—regulus the quiet, thoughtful strategist; you the unflinching executor of commands.
and all the while, you gathered information, passed it through elaborate channels to sirius, who funneled it to the order. small victories accumulated—intercepted attacks, saved lives, thwarted plans. tiny fractures in the dark lord's seemingly impenetrable armor.
you and regulus barely spoke in public, maintaining the appearance of mere acquaintances with shared history. but in shadows, in brief stolen moments, you held each other with the desperation of people who knew every touch might be the last.
"he suspects bellatrix," regulus whispered one night, lips against your ear in a darkened alcove at malfoy manor, where death eaters had gathered to celebrate a victory you had secretly helped minimize. "he's been testing her loyalty."
"good," you breathed back. "the farther his suspicion stays from us, the better."
regulus's hands tightened on your waist. "something big is coming. he's planning something for samhain. i haven't been able to learn what."
"i'll try to get it from rosier," you promised. "he talks when he drinks."
the clock struck midnight, your signal to separate before anyone noticed your absence. regulus pressed a quick, hard kiss to your lips before melting into the shadows, leaving you alone with the phantom pressure of his touch and the ever-present fear that each parting might be final.
two weeks later, your worst fears began to materialize.
it started with small things—sideways glances from other death eaters, conversations that stopped when you entered rooms, being excluded from certain meetings. then came the subtle tests—requests for information you shouldn't have had, invitations to express opinions on topics designed to reveal sympathy for the other side.
"he knows," you told regulus during a rushed meeting in knockturn alley, both of you disguised with complex glamour charms. "or at least, he suspects."
regulus's face, altered though it was, couldn't hide his concern. "we need to run. now, before it's too late."
"we can't," you argued. "the samhain plan—we still don't know what it is. we can't leave until we warn the order."
"y/n," he grasped your shoulders, "listen to me. i've seen what he does to traitors. we've both seen it. if he catches us—"
"two more days," you pleaded. "rosier invited me to his estate tomorrow night. he'll be drinking, celebrating. i can get the information then."
regulus looked torn, fear warring with determination on his face. finally, he nodded. "two days. then we disappear, whether we have the information or not."
you sealed the agreement with a kiss, ignoring the dread pooling in your stomach. "two days," you echoed.
the next night found you at rosier's manor, dressed in formal robes, a practiced smile fixed on your face as you circulated among death eaters who might or might not suspect you of treachery. rosier, as predicted, was deep in his cups by midnight, holding court in a corner of the ballroom.
you approached him carefully, glass of untouched firewhiskey in hand. "quite the celebration," you remarked. "one might think we've already won the war."
rosier laughed, the sound harsh and grating. "closer than you think, yaxley. after samhain, the tide turns permanently."
"oh?" you raised an eyebrow, feigning mild interest while your heart hammered. "another raid?"
"better." he leaned in, breath hot with alcohol. "we're going after the bones."
your blood ran cold. "bones? the family?"
he snickered. "the prophecy bones, you idiot. the ones that tie the ministry's magic together. he's found them—buried beneath the department of mysteries. we destroy those, and their whole network of protective enchantments falls."
horror flooded you. the ministry's defenses, while not impenetrable, were the last major barrier preventing the dark lord from seizing control of wizarding britain entirely. without them, thousands would die.
"brilliant," you managed, forcing admiration into your voice. "when?"
"samhain night," rosier slurred. "the veil between worlds will be thinnest. makes the old magic weaker, easier to—"
a hand clamped onto your shoulder, and you turned to find lucius malfoy, his gray eyes cold and assessing.
"yaxley," he said smoothly. "a word, if you please."
your instincts screamed danger, but refusing would only confirm whatever suspicions he harbored. with a practiced smile, you excused yourself from rosier and followed malfoy into a side room.
he closed the door behind you, and your stomach dropped at the soft click of a locking charm.
"interesting conversation you were having," malfoy remarked, circling you slowly. "curious about our plans, are you?"
you maintained your composure with effort. "just making conversation. rosier enjoys an audience."
"indeed." malfoy stopped directly in front of you. "particularly when he's been instructed to provide misinformation to suspected traitors."
ice formed in your veins. "i don't know what you're—"
the slap came without warning, snapping your head to the side. you tasted blood but didn't reach up to touch your stinging cheek. showing weakness now would be fatal.
"save your lies," malfoy hissed. "the dark lord knows all. he's known for weeks. you and the black boy—passing information, betraying your blood."
"you're mistaken," you said evenly, mind racing for an escape. your wand was in your sleeve, but malfoy's was already in his hand.
his smile was terrifying in its certainty. "am i? then you won't mind waiting here while i fetch regulus black. he arrived a few minutes ago, responding to an urgent summons—from you."
horror washed over you. "what have you done?"
"nothing yet," malfoy replied. "the dark lord wishes to handle you both personally. poetic, don't you think? lovers dying together."
you moved faster than thought, your wand sliding into your palm as you cast a nonverbal bombarda at the floor between you. the explosion threw malfoy backward, giving you precious seconds to blast the door open and run.
the ballroom erupted into chaos as you burst through, death eaters turning in surprise. you didn't stop, racing for the exit, needing to find regulus before—
"looking for someone?"
bellatrix's voice froze you mid-step. you turned slowly to find her standing at the center of the room, wand pressed to regulus's throat. he was on his knees, face bloody, eyes finding yours with a mixture of despair and desperate love.
"i'm sorry," he mouthed silently.
"how touching," bellatrix crooned, noticing the exchange. "my little cousin and his blood-traitor whore, reunited one last time."
death eaters formed a circle around you, wands raised. there was no escape—not for both of you. perhaps not for either of you.
your eyes locked with regulus's, a lifetime of unspoken words passing between you in seconds. you saw the decision form in his eyes a moment before he acted.
"y/n, run!" he shouted, driving his elbow backward into bellatrix's stomach.
she doubled over with a shriek of rage as regulus lunged for her wand. chaos erupted—spells flying, voices shouting. you fought your way toward him, desperate to reach him before—
the green light of the killing curse illuminated the room.
time seemed to slow as you watched regulus fall, his body crumpling to the marble floor like a marionette with cut strings. his eyes, still open, still looking at you, empty of the life and love that had defined them.
someone was screaming. distantly, you realized it was you.
rage unlike anything you'd ever known surged through you, fueling magic that burst from your wand without conscious thought. death eaters fell around you as you fought your way to regulus's body, gathering him in your arms, your tears falling onto his still face.
"i'm sorry," you whispered, pressing your forehead to his. "i'm so sorry."
spells impacted around you, but you barely felt them. nothing mattered now—not the war, not surviving, not anything but the hollow absence where your heart had been.
but as your fingers brushed regulus's wrist, you felt something impossible—a pulse. Faint, barely there, but present.
hope flared, desperate and wild. a plan formed in seconds—you needed to get him out, needed to make them believe you were both dead.
reaching into your pocket, you withdrew the vial you always carried—draught of living death, intended as a last resort if you were ever captured. with shaking hands, you pressed it to regulus's lips, tilting it so the potion slid down his throat.
"stay with me," you whispered. "please stay."
curses flew closer as death eaters regrouped. you had seconds, no more. casting the strongest shield charm you could manage, you prepared to disapparate, regulus's limp body clutched to your chest.
bellatrix's face appeared through the smoke, twisted with hatred. "you can't escape him," she snarled. "he'll find you anywhere you go."
the crushing darkness of apparition enveloped you. the last thing you saw was bellatrix's wand raising, a curse on her lips—
impact. pain beyond imagining tore through your body as you landed hard on cold, wet ground. splinched—badly—but you'd made it. you were outside the wards of the safe house sirius had mentioned.
regulus lay motionless beside you, heartbeat now imperceptible under the effects of the potion. blood—your blood—pooled beneath you both, black in the moonlight.
as consciousness slipped away, you thought you heard footsteps approaching, a voice you vaguely recognized shouting for help. but it might have been a dream—one last mercy before the end.
whether either of you would open your eyes again remained to be seen.
heart — „ the part that internalized every slur, every whispered comment, every disgusted look. i hate that even now, surrounded by people who accept us, i still feel like i'm waiting for someone to tell me i don't deserve to be happy "
warnings - religious trauma / guilt, war violence, ptsd, emotional abuse, major character death, angst, tragedy, mental health struggles, period-typical homophobia, explicit/graphic sexual content, internalised homophobia, fluff & smut intertwined, implied wolfstar
word count — 7,400+
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there's an art to breaking. you've learned that over the years—watching things fall apart, watching your own hands dismantle what you've built. marlene taught you that sometimes the most beautiful things are the ones that shatter right before your eyes.
the air in your flat is stale. has been for days. windows shut tight against the winter chill, curtains drawn to keep prying eyes from searching the darkness for movement. the war makes paranoia feel like common sense.
you haven't left in three days. the pile of prophet newspapers by your door grows taller, unread headlines screaming about death counts and missing persons. you stopped reading them after they listed a family of five found dead in their beds. you knew their daughter from herbology. she had freckles that formed the big dipper across her nose.
the knock startles you out of half-sleep, wand in hand before you're fully conscious. nobody should know you're here. nobody should be able to find this place.
"it's me," comes a voice, muffled through the door, and your heart seizes in recognition before the anger floods in. "please."
marlene.
you don't move, don't breathe. maybe if you're silent enough, she'll believe you've gone.
"i know you're in there," her voice breaks a little. "i can feel you."
that was always the problem, wasn't it? she could feel you across crowded rooms, across castle corridors, across battlefields. like some invisible thread connected your pulse to hers, tugging whenever you strayed too far.
"go away," you finally say, voice hoarse from disuse.
"i just need to talk to you. please."
"there's nothing left to say."
but your feet are already moving toward the door, muscle memory betraying your resolve. you stand with your forehead pressed against the wood, imagining her on the other side, mirroring your position.
"five minutes," she whispers. "that's all i'm asking for."
when you finally open the door, she looks worse than you expected. hair unwashed, dark circles beneath her eyes, wearing the same sweater she had on the last time you saw her. two months ago, when you told her you couldn't do this anymore.
"you look like shit," you say, stepping aside to let her in.
"so do you."
she enters cautiously, like she's stepping into sacred ground, eyes scanning the disarray of your living space. takeout containers stacked on the coffee table, blankets in a nest on the couch, empty bottles of firewhiskey lined up like sentinels on the windowsill.
"what happened to you?" she asks quietly.
you laugh, hollow and sharp. "you're joking, right? there's a war happening. people are dying. what happened to me is the same thing happening to everyone else."
"that's not what i mean."
"what do you want, marlene?"
she stands in the center of your living room, hands shoved deep in the pockets of her coat, looking smaller than you remember. the marlene you knew filled every room she entered, commanded attention without trying. this version seems diminished somehow, like someone's been slowly erasing her edges.
"i miss you," she says finally, the words hanging between you like smoke. "i can't sleep anymore. when i do, i dream about you, and waking up is—" she cuts herself off, teeth catching her bottom lip. "i just need to understand why."
you move past her to the kitchenette, needing something to do with your hands. "we've been over this. i can't have anyone in my life right now. it's too dangerous."
"that's bullshit and you know it."
your fingers tighten around the empty glass you've picked up. "people are dying, marlene. the— the prewetts—"
"and you think pushing everyone away keeps them safe?" she steps closer, too close. "or is it just easier to be alone than to be scared all the time?"
you turn to face her, anger flaring. "you don't get it. you never did. your family might hate what you are, who you love, but at least they're alive to hate you. mine are gone. everyone i've ever loved—" your voice breaks, and you hate yourself for it.
marlene's face softens. "not everyone."
"don't."
"we promised each other," she says, eyes shining with unshed tears. "in the room of requirement, seventh year. you said nothing would tear us apart. not the war, not my family, nothing."
"i was naive."
"you were brave." she moves closer still. "braver than i've ever been."
you shake your head, backing away until you hit the counter behind you. "bravery gets people killed."
"so does fear." marlene reaches out, fingers hovering just shy of touching your face. "i haven't been to mass in months. did you know that? my mother sends howlers every sunday morning. the last one burst into flames so violently it singed my curtains."
despite yourself, your lips twitch toward a smile. "what did she say?"
"the usual. eternal damnation. disappointing generations of mckinnnons. how i'll burn while she watches from heaven." marlene's laugh is bitter. "she said god sees everything i do in the dark."
"and what have you been doing in the dark?" the question comes out softer than intended.
her eyes meet yours, that familiar intensity making your breath catch. "mourning you. like you died instead of just walking away."
the space between you feels charged, electric with all the things unsaid. you remember how it felt, those stolen moments at hogwarts—her fingers in your hair, her lips on your neck, whispered confessions in the darkness of the astronomy tower. marlene mckinnnon, daughter of devout wizarding catholics, pressing you against cold stone walls and begging for absolution only you could give.
"they found another family yesterday," you say quietly. "order members. they had a baby."
marlene nods. "i know."
"this is why i ended things. i can't—i can't watch you die too."
"and you think this is living?" she gestures around the flat. "hiding away, waiting for the end?"
"it's surviving."
"it's existing," she corrects. "barely."
marlene's hand rises again, and this time she doesn't stop short. her palm cups your cheek, thumb brushing away tears you didn't realize were falling. the touch burns like benediction.
"i saw anne hathaway the other day," she says unexpectedly. "that muggle actress you love. on a poster in london."
you blink at the abrupt change of subject. "what?"
"she reminded me of you. the way she was laughing in the picture. i stood there staring at it until a police officer asked if i was alright." her thumb traces your lower lip. "all i could think was how i'd never hear you laugh again. how i'd never see your face when you—"
she stops, color rising in her cheeks.
"when i what?" you whisper, even though you know. you remember.
"when you come apart underneath me," she finishes, eyes never leaving yours. "when you forget about everything but how i'm making you feel."
the air between you grows thick, memory and desire tangling together. you should push her away. tell her to leave. instead, you find yourself leaning into her touch.
"i don't believe in god anymore," marlene confesses, her voice barely audible. "how could i, when everything they taught me about him contradicts everything i feel for you? but i believe in you. in us. you're the only real faith i've ever had."
"marlene—"
"i'm not a religious person," you whisper, the words you'd said to her once before, "at all. but i think god made you for me."
she makes a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. "blasphemy suits you."
"is that why you're here? for absolution?"
"no." her fingers trace down your neck, coming to rest at your collarbone. "i came because i can't breathe without you. because i'm tired of pretending i can."
you should say no. you should remember all the reasons you ended this in the first place. the danger, the fear, the inevitability of loss in a world tearing itself apart. but marlene is looking at you like you're the only solid thing left in her universe, and you're so tired of being alone.
"we could die tomorrow," you say.
"we could die tonight," she counters. "wouldn't you rather spend it with me than like this?"
her lips are inches from yours now, breath warm against your skin. you remember how she tastes—like mint and longing and something indefinably her. how she feels pressed against you, soft curves and gentle hands that turn urgent when you make those sounds she loves drawing from you.
"tell me to go," she whispers, "and i will. but look me in the eyes when you say it."
you can't. you know you can't. whatever resolve you had crumbles like ancient stone, foundations too weak to stand against the tide of her.
when you kiss her, it feels like coming home. like something broken finally mending. her hands tangle in your hair, desperate, pulling you closer as if she could merge your bodies through sheer force of will. you taste salt on her lips—tears, though you're not sure if they're hers or yours.
"i've missed you," she breathes against your mouth. "every second. every heartbeat."
you walk her backward toward your bedroom, fumbling with buttons and zippers, rediscovering skin you've memorized but somehow forgotten. when she falls onto your unmade bed, hair splaying across the pillow, you pause to look at her—really look at her. the girl who once knelt before you in an empty classroom, trembling hands on your knees, begging for things her upbringing never gave her words for.
"what are you thinking?" she asks, vulnerable beneath your gaze.
"that you're the most beautiful thing i've ever seen," you answer honestly. "and that i'm terrified of losing you."
"then don't." she reaches for you, pulling you down beside her. "keep me. fight for me."
her fingers find the hem of your shirt, slipping underneath to trace patterns on your stomach. you shiver, body remembering her touch like a language never forgotten.
"i dreamed about this," marlene confesses, lips brushing the sensitive spot below your ear. "every night. you, underneath me. the sounds you make when i touch you."
she guides your hand to her mouth, taking your fingers between her lips, tongue swirling around the tips in a way that makes heat pool low in your abdomen. there's something reverent in the way she watches your reaction, eyes never leaving yours as she takes them deeper, the wet warmth of her mouth making your breath catch. she releases them with a soft pop, a smile playing at the corners of her lips.
"do you remember," she whispers, guiding your now-slick fingers downward, "what you promised to do to me? that last night in the room of requirement?"
you remember. how could you forget? the way she'd knelt before you, looking up with those blue eyes wide and pleading. baby, would you please? she'd asked, voice trembling with need. how you'd taken your time with her, drawing out every sensation until she was trembling, begging for release.
"show me," you murmur, and something flashes in her eyes—desire, relief, desperation.
she slides down your body, placing open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone, between your breasts, across your stomach. when she reaches your hips, she looks up, that familiar intensity making your heart stutter.
"i missed your taste," she confesses, voice low and rough. "i would wake up with the memory of it on my tongue."
you card your fingers through her hair as she settles between your thighs, her breath warm against your most sensitive skin. the first touch of her tongue makes you arch off the bed, months of longing sharpening every sensation.
"marlene," you breathe, and her name feels like a prayer on your lips.
she takes her time, relearning the contours of your body, the patterns that make you gasp and writhe beneath her. her hands grip your hips, holding you steady as she brings you closer and closer to the edge. when she slips two fingers inside you, curling them just so while her tongue continues its relentless rhythm, stars explode behind your eyelids, and you cry out her name into the stillness of your bedroom.
before you've fully recovered, she's moving back up your body, capturing your mouth in a hungry kiss that lets you taste yourself on her lips. there's a fierce pride in her expression, satisfaction at reducing you to this trembling, breathless state.
"mine," she whispers against your lips, and for the first time in months, you feel like you belong to something—to someone—again.
you flip her onto her back, pinning her wrists above her head. "my turn."
her pupils dilate, the blue of her eyes almost swallowed by black. "please."
you release her wrists to tug her sweater off, followed by her bra, revealing skin you've dreamed about for months. she's thinner than before, the war taking its toll on everyone, but still soft in all the places you remember. when you lower your mouth to her breast, she arches into you, a soft moan escaping her lips.
"i need—" she starts, but breaks off with a gasp as your hand slides between her legs, finding her slick and ready.
"what do you need?" you ask, teasing her with light touches that you know drive her wild. "tell me."
"you," she manages, hips rising to meet your hand. "inside me. please."
it's the desperation in her voice that undoes you. the way she looks at you like you're the only thing anchoring her to this world. you slide down her body until you're kneeling between her legs, hands gripping her thighs.
"like this?" you ask, and the nod she gives is almost frantic.
when you finally give her what she wants, her head tips back, eyes closed in rapture. you work her with your fingers and tongue, watching as she comes apart beneath you, all pretense stripped away until she's just marlene—raw and vulnerable and completely yours.
"don't stop," she pleads, and you don't, not until she's trembling and crying out your name, back arched and fingers twisted in the sheets.
after, when she's boneless and flushed beside you, she traces patterns on your skin with fingertips still slightly shaking. "when we're like this," she whispers, "i forget everything else. the war, my family, all of it just... disappears."
you understand. in these moments, wrapped in each other, the darkness outside seems distant, unable to touch the small universe you've created between your bodies.
"stay with me," you say, and it's both a command and a plea.
she kisses you, soft and sweet and full of promise. "always."
later, when you're both tangled in sheets damp with sweat, marlene's head resting on your chest, you allow yourself to believe this might work. that love could be enough in a world determined to destroy it.
"move in with me," she says suddenly, propping herself up to look at you.
you laugh, thinking she's joking, but her expression remains serious.
"i mean it. my flat is bigger, in a safer area. we could put up stronger wards together."
"marlene—"
"i know what you're going to say. that it's dangerous, that we'd be targets."
"we would be."
she sits up fully now, sheet pooling at her waist, autumn light from the window turning her skin to gold. "we already are. everyone in the order is. at least we wouldn't be alone."
you trace the curve of her spine with your fingertips, considering. "what about your family?"
"what about them?" her tone is defiant, but you know her better than that.
"they'd disown you if they knew."
marlene laughs, but there's no humor in it. "they practically have already. my mother has been praying for my salvation since she found that letter you wrote me in sixth year."
you remember that letter—pages of desperate longing written during summer break, hidden inside a copy of advanced transfiguration that her mother had apparently discovered. the howler that followed had echoed through the great hall for what felt like hours.
"the last time i went home," marlene continues, "my father wouldn't look at me. asked me to eat in the kitchen with the house elf because he couldn't bear to see me at his table. my entire family crosses themselves whenever i enter a room."
"i'm sorry," you whisper, pulling her back down to you.
"don't be. they're the ones who should be sorry." her fingers trace patterns on your chest. "they taught me that love is conditional. that god only accepts certain kinds of devotion. you taught me they were wrong."
you kiss her forehead, her cheeks, the corner of her mouth where a smile is starting to form. "i'm still scared."
"me too. but i'm more scared of living without you than anything voldemort could do to me."
the name hangs in the air between you, a reminder of the world outside these walls. of friends gone missing, of dark marks floating above empty houses, of whispered passwords and secret meetings.
"we'd have to be careful," you say slowly. "set up new wards, emergency portkeys."
marlene's eyes widen. "does that mean yes?"
hope looks beautiful on her, you decide. almost as beautiful as the joy that spreads across her face when you nod.
"yes. but if anything happens—if it gets too dangerous—"
she silences you with a kiss. "nothing will tear us apart again. i won't let it."
you want to believe her. for tonight, wrapped in her arms with her heartbeat steady against yours, you do.
morning finds you tangled together, marlene's leg thrown over yours, her breath warm against your neck. sunlight filters through the curtains you forgot to close, painting stripes across the bed. for the first time in months, you slept through the night without nightmares.
marlene stirs, blue eyes blinking open to meet yours. "you're still here," she murmurs, voice rough with sleep.
"it's my flat," you remind her, smiling despite yourself.
"i meant here," she touches your chest, right over your heart. "present. not lost in your head."
you kiss her, morning breath be damned. "i'm here."
"good." she stretches, catlike, before settling back against you. "because i want to show you something."
she reaches for her discarded coat on the floor, rummaging through the pockets until she finds what she's looking for—a small velvet box.
your heart stutters. "marlene—"
"it's not what you think," she says quickly, though her cheeks flush. "open it."
inside is a delicate silver chain with a pendant—a tiny vial containing what looks like swirling silver-blue memory strands.
"what is it?" you ask, lifting it carefully.
"memories. ours. from hogwarts until now." she takes the necklace, fastening it around your neck. "every moment i could extract that made me feel closest to you. our first kiss in the greenhouses. the night by the lake after exams. that time in the prefect's bathroom."
your fingers touch the vial, warm against your skin. "why?"
"because memories are sacred. more sacred than any religion." her eyes meet yours, solemn and sincere. "if anything happens to me—"
"don't," you cut her off, not wanting to hear it.
"—i want a part of me to stay with you. the truest part."
you press your forehead to hers, eyes closed against the threat of tears. "nothing is going to happen to you. to either of us."
she doesn't argue, but her silence speaks volumes. you both know promises like that can't be kept in times like these.
"i love you," she whispers instead. "more than heaven, more than salvation. if that damns me, so be it."
"then we'll be damned together," you reply, cradling her face in your hands. "and it will have been worth it."
outside, clouds gather on the horizon, the promise of rain hanging heavy in the air. but here, in this bed, with marlene's skin warm against yours and her heartbeat steady beneath your palm, there is light enough to see by.
christmas arrives with bitter winds and a constant threat of snow that never quite materializes. you've been living in marlene's flat for 8 weeks—long enough for your books to intermingle on her shelves, for your clothes to share space in her wardrobe, for the neighbors to stop giving you curious glances when you collect the mail.
the order's christmas party is tonight. you've both been dreading it for different reasons.
"we don't have to go," you offer, watching marlene fuss with her hair in the bathroom mirror. her fingers tremble slightly as she pins back golden strands.
"yes, we do." her voice is firm but thin. "morale is important. dumbledore specifically asked everyone to attend."
you step behind her, wrapping your arms around her waist and resting your chin on her shoulder. "we could be sick. dragon pox is very contagious this time of year."
she laughs, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "we're going. end of discussion."
you know what she's not saying—that this will be the first time you appear together as a couple in front of everyone. sure, most have figured it out by now, the way you always partner together on missions, how your eyes find each other across rooms during meetings— and.. the way you two were during hogwarts. but tonight makes it official in a way neither of you have faced yet.
"your parents might be there," you say quietly, watching her face in the mirror. "lily said some family members were invited."
marlene's hands still. "they wouldn't come. not to something with such unreligious people as our friends."
the bitterness in her voice makes your heart ache. three days ago, she received a christmas card from her mother—inside, a pamphlet about conversion therapy for "confused young witches" and a note saying they'd be praying for her soul at midnight mass.
she'd burned it in the kitchen sink, face impassive as the flames consumed the parchment, but you'd heard her crying in the shower afterward.
"what about yours?" she asks, meeting your eyes in the mirror.
"dead people don't attend parties," you reply automatically, the rehearsed flippancy you've perfected over years.
marlene turns in your arms, pressing her forehead to yours. "i'm sorry. that was insensitive."
"it's fine." you kiss her lightly. "just... be prepared. people talk. especially after drinks."
"i know." she squares her shoulders, a gesture so familiar it makes your chest tight. it's what she does before every battle, every difficult conversation. "i can handle it."
you're not sure either of you can, but you nod anyway.
the party is at the potter's cottage in godric's hollow, expanded by magic to accommodate the crowd. when you arrive, hand-in-hand, the momentary hush that falls confirms your fears. eyes dart to your intertwined fingers, then quickly away. someone coughs. then lily is there, red hair gleaming in the fairy lights, pressing glasses of mulled wine into your hands.
"about bloody time you two showed up," she says, kissing both your cheeks. "james has already started the betting pool on who'll be under the enchanted mistletoe first."
marlene relaxes slightly at lily's easy acceptance, but you feel the way she maintains a careful inch of space between your bodies. how she drops your hand when sirius calls her name from across the room.
you find yourself drifting toward the corner where remus stands, nursing a butterbeer and looking uncomfortable in a too-large sweater. he offers you a small smile as you approach.
"not feeling festive?" you ask.
he shrugs. "full moon in three days. everything hurts already."
you nod, understanding. physical pain is easier to talk about than the other kind—the kind that comes from watching sirius flirt with everyone but him, from knowing what they do in secret will never see daylight.
"how are things with marlene?" he asks quietly.
your eyes find her across the room, laughing at something peter's saying, glass clutched tight in her hand. "complicated."
"aren't they always?" his gaze follows yours, then shifts to sirius, who's now draped himself dramatically across james's lap while lily rolls her eyes. "we're all living double lives these days."
"triple, in her case," you murmur. "order member, girlfriend, eternal disappointment to magical catholicism."
remus snorts into his butterbeer. "at least you don't have to hide what you are from her."
"don't i?" you look at him directly now. "the person i am with her in private and the person i am when others are watching—they might as well be different species."
the conversation shifts as alice longbottom joins you, chattering about ministry gossip, but your attention stays fixed on marlene. on how carefully she's holding herself. on how she laughs too loudly at mundane jokes. on how she keeps glancing at the door as if expecting someone unwelcome to arrive.
an hour later, you're refilling your glass when dorcas meadowes sidles up beside you, already tipsy and flushed.
"so you and mckinnon, huh?" she says, grinning. "called that one back in fifth year."
you force a smile. "is there a point to this conversation, dorcas?"
"just saying it's brave. her family situation and all." she leans closer, whispering conspiratorially. "her mother showed up at headquarters last week, you know. complete with rosary beads and holy water. demanding to speak to whoever's corrupting her daughter."
your blood runs cold. "what?"
"dumbledore sent her away, obviously. but word is she's been asking around about you specifically." dorcas seems oblivious to your distress, continuing cheerfully. "apparently she's convinced you've bewitched marlene. put her under some kind of love-manipulation spell."
across the room, marlene is watching you, expression unreadable. she tilts her head slightly—a silent question. everything okay?
you nod, but she's already making her way toward you, excusing herself from conversation.
"need some air," you mutter to dorcas, pushing your way through the crowd toward the back door. the december night hits your heated skin like a slap, but you welcome it, gulping down breaths that form clouds in the frigid air.
you turn, taking in her flushed cheeks, the concerned crease between her brows. "your mother came looking for me."
her face goes blank, then pale. "who told you that?"
"dorcas. said she showed up at headquarters with holy water and everything."
marlene closes her eyes briefly. "i was going to tell you."
"when?" anger flares suddenly, hot and sharp. "before or after she found us?"
"she won't find us. the flat is under fidelius."
"that's not the point and you know it." you're shivering now, but refuse to acknowledge it. "you should have told me."
"i was trying to protect you."
"from what? the truth? that your family wants to exorcise me from your life?"
the door opens behind marlene, spilling light and laughter and the opening notes of a christmas carol into the darkness. someone calls her name—frank longbottom, looking for help with a stubborn champagne cork—and she hesitates, caught between two worlds.
"go," you say, and it comes out harsher than intended. "your adoring public awaits."
hurt flashes across her face, but she turns and goes back inside, leaving you alone in the cold.
you don't follow immediately. instead, you stare up at the stars, barely visible through thin cloud cover, and wonder how something that felt so right in the privacy of your bed could feel so wrong out here in the real world.
when you finally return to the party, marlene is nowhere to be seen. lily points you toward the upstairs bathroom with a sympathetic look that makes your stomach clench.
you find her sitting on the edge of the tub, an empty glass dangling from her fingers, staring at nothing.
"hey," you say softly, closing the door behind you.
she doesn't look up. "do you ever think about what we're doing?"
you lean against the sink, giving her space. "what do you mean?"
"this. us." she gestures vaguely between you. "what if they're right? what if it is wrong?"
ice forms in your veins. "who's right? your parents?"
"not just them. the bible, the church, centuries of tradition."
suddenly, you're not in the bathroom anymore but back at hogwarts, sixth year, a memory so vivid it takes your breath away—
it was late may, exams finished but results not yet posted. the kind of night where possibility hung in the air like the scent of blooming flowers from the forbidden forest. marlene had smuggled a bottle of firewhiskey from gryffindor's victory party, grabbed your hand, and pulled you through empty corridors beneath james potter's borrowed invisibility cloak.
"we're going to get caught," you whispered, heart racing with excitement rather than fear.
"not if you stop giggling," she replied, but she was laughing too, her breath warm against your ear.
somehow you made it to the black lake undetected. the moon hung full and heavy above you, casting silver light across the water's surface. marlene threw the cloak aside and took a long drink from the bottle before passing it to you.
"to freedom," she said as you tilted it to your lips.
the firewhiskey burned a path down your throat, warming you from the inside out. three shots each and you were both pleasantly buzzed, inhibitions loosening like the ties of your school robes, which marlene was already shrugging off.
"what are you doing?" you asked, though you already knew.
"swimming," she answered simply, kicking off her shoes. "coming?"
you glanced around nervously. "what if someone sees?"
"who? the giant squid?" she was down to her underwear now, skin pale and perfect in the moonlight. "live a little."
she waded into the water without looking back, confident you would follow. you always did.
the water was shockingly cold at first, but the alcohol in your blood made it bearable. you swam after marlene, who had already reached deeper water, floating on her back with her hair spreading around her like golden seaweed.
"isn't it beautiful?" she asked when you reached her. "look up."
above you, stars scattered across the sky like spilled diamonds. no light pollution, no clouds, just endless depth. you floated beside her, fingers intertwining with hers beneath the water.
"sometimes i think about what it would be like," she said quietly, "to just keep swimming. past the merpeople, past the squid. to find out what's at the very bottom."
"probably just mud and weeds," you replied pragmatically.
she laughed, the sound echoing across the water. "you always bring me back to earth."
"someone has to."
she turned to face you then, treading water, droplets clinging to her eyelashes. "that's why i love you, you know. you keep me tethered when i might float away."
it was the first time she'd said those words. they hung between you, more intoxicating than the firewhiskey. your heart hammered against your ribs as you pulled her closer, both of you struggling to stay afloat while your lips met, tasting of alcohol and lake water and possibility.
"say it again," you whispered against her mouth.
"i love you." no hesitation this time. "i love you, i love you, i love you."
she said it like a prayer, like salvation, like she'd been holding the words inside until they'd nearly drowned her. you kissed her again, deeper, neither of you caring anymore if anyone saw from the castle windows.
later, lying on the shore wrapped in the invisibility cloak for warmth, her head on your chest and her hair drying in wild tangles, she made a confession.
"i prayed last night," she said quietly. "first time in months."
you ran your fingers through her damp hair. "what for?"
"forgiveness." she propped herself up on one elbow to look at you. "but halfway through, i realized i didn't want it. not if it meant giving you up."
"what did you do?"
"changed my prayer." her smile in the moonlight was the most beautiful thing you'd ever seen. "asked instead for courage. to love you the way you deserve, without shame or fear."
"and did god answer?" you teased gently.
"no," she said, tracing your lower lip with her thumb. "but i answered for myself."
you made love for the first time that night, beneath stars, with the black lake lapping at your feet. clumsy, tender, and perfect—each touch a revelation, each sigh a promise. afterward, marlene looked at you with wonder, as if seeing something miraculous.
"marlene—" you started, but she pressed a finger to your lips.
"i'm not a religious person. at all," you whispered around her finger. "but i think god made you for me."
she'd kissed you then, fierce and desperate, like she was trying to consume the words and keep them safe inside her forever.
"fuck tradition," you snap, the memory dissolving as quickly as it had appeared. "tradition would have me dead for my blood status. tradition is what voldemort is fighting for."
"it's not the same thing and you know it."
"isn't it? prejudice is prejudice, marlene."
she finally looks at you, eyes glassy with unshed tears and too much wine. "i see the way people looked at us downstairs. like we're something... unnatural."
"those are our friends."
"that almost makes it worse." she sets her glass on the floor with exaggerated care. "if they think it, what must everyone else think?"
you kneel before her, taking her cold hands in yours. "since when do you care what anyone thinks?"
"i've always cared. i've just gotten good at pretending i don't." her voice breaks. "my mother says what we're doing is a perversion of love. that it mocks everything sacred."
"your mother is wrong."
"is she?" marlene pulls her hands away, wrapping her arms around herself. "sometimes when we're together, i still hear her voice in my head. telling me i'm dirty. sinful. that i'll burn for touching you the way i do."
the confession hits you like a physical blow. "you never said—"
"how could i? when it feels so good in the moment, but afterward..." she trails off, unable to meet your eyes. "sometimes i can't breathe from the guilt."
you stand, needing distance suddenly. "all this time, you've been feeling... what? disgusted with yourself? with me?"
"not with you. never with you." she reaches for you, but you step back. "it's just... ingrained. seventeen years of being told something is wrong doesn't disappear overnight."
"it's been years, marlene. years of us being together."
"i know. and i've tried. god, i've tried to silence that voice." tears spill down her cheeks now. "but sometimes, when i look at you, i wonder if i'm damning us both."
the words hang between you, impossible to take back. you feel something crack inside your chest, a hairline fracture that spreads with each breath.
"is that why you didn't want anyone to know about us?" you ask quietly. "not because of the war or your family finding out, but because you're ashamed?"
"no, i—" she starts, then stops. "maybe. i don't know anymore."
you lean against the bathroom door, suddenly exhausted. "do you know what the worst part is? i understand. because sometimes i feel it too."
her head snaps up, surprise evident through her tears.
"not the religious stuff," you clarify. "but the feeling that something's wrong with me. that i'm broken somehow. that normal people don't love the way i do."
"you've never said—"
"because i hate that part of myself," you cut her off. "the part that internalized every slur, every whispered comment, every disgusted look. i hate that even now, surrounded by people who accept us, i still feel like i'm waiting for someone to tell me i don't deserve to be happy."
marlene stands on shaky legs, moving toward you. "i love you. you know that, right? more than anything."
"i know. but sometimes love isn't enough."
she flinches as if struck. "what are you saying?"
"i'm saying maybe we were right to end things before. maybe some damage can't be undone."
"no." she shakes her head violently. "no, we can fix this. i'll try harder. i'll—"
"this isn't something you can fix by trying harder, marlene. these feelings, this guilt—it's bone deep in both of us. and being together keeps reopening the wound."
she's crying openly now, mascara tracing black rivers down her cheeks. "please don't do this. not here, not tonight."
"then when? after another family shows up dead? after your mother finds us? after one of us doesn't come home from a mission?" your own tears blur your vision. "there's never going to be a right time."
"i need you," she whispers, and the naked desperation in her voice nearly breaks your resolve.
"and i need someone who isn't ashamed to love me."
the words hang between you, cruel in their honesty. marlene steps back as if slapped, her back hitting the edge of the sink.
"that's not fair," she says through tears.
"none of this is fair. the war, what happened to us, what was done to us—none of it." you reach for the door handle behind you. "i think... i think i should go."
"where?"
"emmaline said i could stay with her if i needed to."
understanding dawns in her eyes. "you've been planning this."
you shake your head. "not planning. preparing. there's a difference."
the silence stretches between you, heavy with all the things neither of you can fix. finally, marlene straightens, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.
"take this," she says, reaching into her pocket and pulling out the velvet box with the memory necklace. "please."
you want to refuse, to leave behind every reminder of her, but the naked hope in her eyes undoes you. you take the box, slipping it into your own pocket without looking at it.
"goodbye, marlene."
you slip out of the bathroom before she can respond, before you can change your mind. downstairs, the party continues in full swing, oblivious to the world ending upstairs. you find lily, murmur something about not feeling well, and make your excuses.
outside, it's finally starting to snow—soft flakes that melt as soon as they touch your skin. you apparate to emmaline's flat with the crack of displaced air, leaving nothing behind but footprints that are already being erased by fresh snow.
in the bathroom, marlene sinks to the floor, arms wrapped around her knees, and prays for the first time in months. not to the god of her childhood, with his judgment and wrath, but to whatever force might be listening. bring her back to me, she thinks. let me be better for her.
but the only answer is the muffled sound of carols drifting up from downstairs, singing of peace and joy in a world that offers neither.
three weeks later, you receive a letter from sirius. his handwriting, usually elegant, is jagged and rushed across the parchment. he asks you to come to headquarters immediately. something about marlene. something urgent.
you apparate with your heart in your throat.
the headquarters is unnaturally quiet when you arrive. faces turn toward you, expressions a mixture of pity and discomfort. lily steps forward, eyes red-rimmed, and takes your hand.
"what happened?" you ask, though some part of you already knows. has known since you woke this morning with an inexplicable hollow feeling in your chest.
"it's marlene," lily says softly. "she's gone."
"death eaters?" your voice sounds distant to your own ears.
lily shakes her head, tears spilling over. "no."
the world narrows to a pinpoint of light, everything else fading to darkness around the edges. you feel your knees buckle, someone's arms catching you before you hit the floor.
"when?" you manage to ask.
"yesterday morning. dorcas found her." lily's voice cracks. "there was a letter. for you."
she presses an envelope into your hands. your name on the front in familiar handwriting. the sight of it makes breathing impossible.
someone guides you to a chair. voices murmur around you, but you can't process the words. all you can see is the envelope, slightly crumpled where your fingers grip it too tightly.
"we'll give you some privacy," remus says gently, and then they're all leaving, filing out silently until you're alone in the room.
your hands shake so badly it takes three attempts to open the envelope without tearing it. the parchment inside smells faintly of her perfume.
my love,
if you're reading this, i've failed at living without you. i tried, please believe that i tried. but the silence in our flat is deafening. every room echoes with your absence.
my mother visited last week. she brought a priest. they talked about healing me, saving my soul. for hours, i listened to them describe what i felt for you as a sickness. a sin. and i almost believed them. that's what terrified me most—how easily old patterns reassert themselves.
but then i looked at the photographs of us, hidden in my dresser drawer. your smile. the way you looked at me like i was something precious. and i knew they were wrong. what i felt for you—what i still feel—is the purest thing i've ever known.
the problem was never loving you. it was not loving myself enough to believe i deserved you.
i wear your memories around my neck. did you know that? i extracted my own to match the ones i gave you. on bad days, i would pour them into the pensieve and lose myself in moments when we were happy. when we were brave enough to love each other without apology.
my cowardice has cost us everything. had i been stronger, had i fought harder against the voices in my head telling me our love was wrong, perhaps we'd still be together.
i don't blame you for leaving. you deserved better than half a love, better than someone still at war with herself. you deserved someone whole.
the order doesn't know. they think it was death eaters. most of them, at least. let them. it's kinder that way, and gives my death some meaning. but i wanted you to know the truth. you, at least, deserve that much.
i hope someday you find someone who can love you without reservation, without shame. someone brave enough to stand beside you in daylight as well as darkness.
forgive me, if you can.
yours, even in death, marlene
p.s. i don't believe in god anymore, i believe that you're my savior. the only true faith i ever had.
the letter falls from your numb fingers. grief rises like a tidal wave, threatening to pull you under. you think of her alone in that flat, surrounded by memories, fighting demons no one else could see. how in the end, they won.
you touch the vial of memories hanging around your neck, the twin to hers. she died with your memories against her heart, just as you carry hers.
the irony cuts deep—that you both longed for acceptance neither could fully give yourselves. that you both carried the same wounds, inflicted by a world that taught you your love was something to hide, to be ashamed of.
"i would have come back," you whisper to the empty room. "if you'd asked, i would have come back."
but she never asked. pride or fear or the belief she didn't deserve forgiveness had kept her silent. and now silence is all that remains.
outside, snow falls on a world that continues spinning, oblivious to your grief. to the fact that marlene mckinnon, who faced death eaters without flinching, who defied her family and her religion for love, couldn't face a life without you. couldn't silence the voices that told her she was broken beyond repair.
you slip the letter into your pocket, next to the velvet box containing memories you're not yet brave enough to revisit. someday, perhaps, you'll find the strength to immerse yourself in them again. to remember her not as she was at the end—broken and alone—but as she was in your best moments together. laughing. whole. loved.
but not today. today there is only absence, and the bitter knowledge that neither of you ever truly escaped the prisons built for you by others—cages of guilt and shame that followed you even into love, and one of you into death.
there's an art to breaking, you've learned. and sometimes, there is no art to being put back together again.
heart — „ that's not love. that's self-destruction — they look the same. "
warnings - blood mention, poisoning, self-destructive behavior, near death experience, illness, medical content, lycantrophy, codependency
word count — 4,400
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the shack groans under the weight of morning. not the cheerful kind of morning—the gray, reluctant kind that spills through splintered boards like watered-down milk. it smells of copper and sweat and something animal that never quite leaves these walls.
you've been awake for hours. your knees protest against the rough wooden floor, but you don't move. not while he's like this.
remus lies curled on his side, all angles and exposed ribs beneath a blanket too thin to offer real comfort. his breathing has finally steadied, no longer the ragged gasping of transformation but the heavy rhythm of exhaustion. dried blood crusts at the corner of his mouth. you resist the urge to wipe it away—he hates being touched immediately after.
instead, you wait. your fingertips trace patterns on the floorboards, ghosting over splinters and old stains. your heart beats sluggishly in your chest, a clock winding down.
"how long have you been there?" his voice cracks, desert-dry.
"since before dawn," you answer, and the truth feels inadequate. you've been here for years, really. in this same position, watching him emerge from the wolf like someone crawling from wreckage.
remus shifts, winces. his eyes remain closed. "you shouldn't."
"we've had this conversation."
"and we'll have it again," he murmurs. "until you listen."
you smile despite everything. "then we'll be having it forever."
he opens his eyes at that. amber in this light—more human than wolf but carrying echoes of both. they fix on your face with the intensity that always makes you feel translucent, like he can see straight through to the lies you've been telling.
"your hands," he says.
you tuck them under your thighs. "just cold."
"it's may."
"poor circulation."
he struggles to sit up, and you don't offer help because you know he'll refuse it. the blanket slides from his shoulders, revealing fresh scratches across his collarbone. not as bad as they used to be. not as bad as they should be.
"give me your hand," he says, and it's not a request.
you hesitate, then extend your right hand. his fingers wrap around your wrist, pressing against your pulse point. his thumb strokes once across your palm, and the touch sends electricity up your arm.
"your heart," he says, "is beating too slowly."
"must be all the running i do," you attempt a joke, but it falls flat between you.
remus says nothing, but his grip tightens. those eyes—professor eyes, you used to tease—cataloging, analyzing. you see the moment understanding breaks across his face like a fever.
"you've been taking it." not a question. horror coats each word. "the wolfsbane."
you don't deny it. can't, really, not with the evidence written in your slowing pulse and the constant chill in your fingers. three years of goodnight kisses after he's taken his potion. three years of letting the poison build in your system, molecule by molecule.
"just traces," you say, as if that makes it better. "just enough to—"
"to what? kill yourself slowly?" his voice rises, then breaks. "merlin's fucking beard, what were you thinking?"
"that i could help." the words sound small in the vastness of what you've done. "that i could share it. ease it."
"by poisoning yourself?" he releases your hand like it burns him. "this isn't—you can't just—"
"it works," you interrupt. "you've been having better transformations. less pain. the wolf is calmer."
"at what cost?" remus pushes himself further away, back hitting the wall. the distance between you feels oceanic. "do you have any idea what you've done? wolfsbane is toxic. even in small doses, over time—"
"i know what it does."
"and you did it anyway." disbelief colors his words. "why would you—how could you—"
"because i love you," you say simply. "and i was tired of watching you suffer alone."
he flinches like you've struck him. "that's not love. that's self-destruction."
"they look the same."
silence stretches between you, taut as a bowstring. outside, birds have begun their morning songs, oblivious to the storm brewing within these walls. remus runs trembling fingers through his hair—more gray than brown now, though he's still young by wizarding standards.
"how long?" he finally asks.
"since that night at the potter‘s house. when you collapsed even days later."
he remembers. you see it in the way his eyes darken. "three years."
you nod.
"three years of—" he can't finish the thought. "and what happens when it builds to toxic levels? when your heart stops? when your nervous system fails? did you think about that?"
"of course i did."
"and?"
you look down at your pale hands. "i decided you were worth it."
"don't you dare," he whispers, voice dangerous and low. "don't you dare make me the reason for your death."
"it's my choice, remus."
"it's not a choice i will allow!" he shouts, then immediately crumples, energy spent. "i already have enough blood on my hands. i won't add yours."
you crawl toward him, ignoring his attempt to retreat further into the wall. "you think i haven't considered everything? that i jumped into this without research? i've been working with an apothecary in knockturn alley. there's a cleansing potion—"
"an illegal potion, i assume."
"yes," you admit. "but it works. i take it every full moon after... after i've helped you."
he stares at you, incredulous. "so your solution to poisoning yourself is to use more illegal potions? brilliant. truly brilliant."
"it's kept me alive so far."
"and what about next month? or the month after? how long until your body builds resistance to the cleansing potion? did your knockturn alley friend mention that part?"
you hadn't considered that. the silence answers for you.
remus closes his eyes, exhaustion etched into every line of his face. "you need to stop this. now. before it causes permanent damage."
"i can't."
"you must."
"would you?" you challenge. "if our positions were reversed, would you stop?"
a memory flashes between you—his body shielding yours during the a fight with slytherins, taking a curse meant for you. the weeks of recovery afterward. his insistence that he would do it again without hesitation.
"that's different," he says, but the argument sounds hollow even to him.
"it's exactly the same."
the sunlight has strengthened, cutting across his scarred face in golden bands. he looks both ancient and boyish in this light—the marauder, the man and the wolf.
"i never asked for this sacrifice," he whispers.
"you never had to."
three months earlier
"you're doing it again," sirius observed from the doorway of the library at grimmauld place, watching as you pored over ancient potion texts.
you didn't look up. "doing what?"
"that thing where you try to solve moony‘s furry little problem through sheer force of will." he crossed the room, peering over your shoulder at the yellowed pages. "thaddeus thornberry's advanced poison control? light reading, is it?"
"just curious," you said, closing the book casually—too casually.
sirius barked a laugh. "right. and i'm just curious about motorcycle maintenance. not planning to enchant one and fly it over london."
you sighed. "is there something you needed?"
"yeah, actually." he leaned against the table, arms crossed. "need you to stop whatever insane plan you're concocting before moony finds out and has a complete meltdown."
"i'm not—"
"save it." sirius cut you off with a wave of his hand. "i've known you both too long. he's getting better after full moons, but the wolfsbane isn't improving that drastically on its own. and you—" he gestured at your face, "—look worse every month."
your heart stuttered. "maybe i'm just tired."
"your lips were blue last moon." sirius's voice softened. "blue, love. like you were half-frozen from the inside out."
tears pricked behind your eyes. "i don't know what you're talking about."
"yes, you do." he sat beside you, suddenly serious in that way only sirius black could be—the gravity that lived beneath all his jokes and recklessness. "whatever you're doing to help him is killing you."
"it's not."
"it is. and when he figures it out—and he will—it'll destroy him more thoroughly than any transformation ever could."
you stared at the table, tracing wood grain patterns with your finger. "i found a way to share it. just a little. enough to make a difference."
sirius exhaled slowly. "the wolfsbane."
you nodded.
"bloody hell." he ran a hand through his hair. "that stuff is toxic enough that slughorn has to wear dragon-hide gloves to brew it. and you're what—ingesting it?"
"not directly," you mumbled. "just... residual traces. from when we..."
understanding dawned on his face. "after he takes it. when you kiss him."
you nodded again.
"does it hurt?" he asked, voice gentle.
"sometimes. mostly it just makes me cold. slows everything down." you forced a smile. "small price to pay."
sirius was quiet for so long that you finally looked up. his gray eyes were focused on some middle distance, his face a complex map of emotions.
"you remind me of james," he finally said.
that surprised you. "what? how?"
"that particular brand of self-sacrificing stupidity." a ghost of a smile touched his lips. "he'd do the same for any of us. does do the same, really,"
"it's not stupid if it works," you argued.
"it's stupid if it gets you killed." sirius took your cold hand between his warm ones.
"it won't."
"promise me you'll find another way," sirius insisted. "one that doesn't involve slow-motion suicide."
you'd promised, but some promises were made to be broken.
"how did you know?" you ask now, as remus stares at you across the dusty floor of the shrieking shack.
"i suspected something was wrong for months." his voice is steady now, professorial. "your symptoms match chronic wolfsbane toxicity. slower heart rate. decreased body temperature. the blue tinge to your fingernails during winter." he swallows hard. "i thought perhaps it was something else. an illness you were hiding. i never imagined you were deliberately poisoning yourself."
"not poisoning. sharing," you correct gently.
"semantics." he sighs, shoulders slumping. "when did sirius figure it out?"
you startle. "how did you—"
"he's been watching you like a hawk before every full moon. slipping you potions when he thinks i'm not looking."
of course he'd noticed. remus notices everything.
"about three months ago," you admit. "he caught me researching antidotes."
remus nods slowly. "and he didn't tell me."
"he promised not to. said it was my secret to tell."
"typical." there's no heat in the word—just weary resignation. "loyal to a fault, even when loyalty is the wrong choice."
you inch closer, until your knees nearly touch his. "i'm not going to stop."
"yes, you are."
"no," you reach for his hand, relieved when he doesn't pull away. "i'm not. but i will be more careful. better antidotes. proper monitoring."
"there's no safe way to do this." frustration edges his words.
"there's no safe way to love you either," you say softly. "i chose this life—chose you—knowing what it meant."
he looks at you then, really looks, and something inside him seems to crack open. "i am not worth this."
"you don't get to decide what you're worth to me."
his fingers tighten around yours. "i can't watch you die by inches."
"then help me find a better way. but don't ask me to stop trying."
the transformation has left him raw, defenses stripped away. tears gather in his eyes but don't fall. "why?" he whispers. "why would you do this?"
you could answer with platitudes. with grand declarations. instead, you give him the simple, terrible truth.
"because the night you first transformed in front of me, i saw your bones break and reform. i heard you scream until your voice gave out. i watched you tear at your own skin." your voice doesn't waver. "and i decided then that if i couldn't stop your pain, i would share it. even a fraction. even if it killed me."
remus makes a sound—half sob, half bitter laugh. "merlin help me, but i don't deserve you."
"probably not," you agree with the ghost of a smile. "but you're stuck with me anyway."
he pulls you against him then, arms wrapping around you with desperate strength. his body is warm against your perpetually cold one. you fit your head beneath his chin, listening to his heartbeat—too fast, while yours is too slow. somehow perfect counterpoints.
"we're going to find another way," he murmurs into your hair. "a way that doesn't hurt you."
you don't argue, though you both know there might not be another way. the wolfsbane is the only modern advancement in lycanthropy treatment. everything else is medieval torture or folk remedy.
"i love you," you say instead, because it's the only truth that matters.
his arms tighten around you. "enough to poison yourself."
"enough to do whatever it takes."
remus sighs, his breath warm against your scalp. "that's what terrifies me."
outside, the morning has fully arrived. sunlight streams through the cracks, illuminating dust motes that dance between you like tiny stars. the wolf has retreated for another month, but its shadow remains—in his scars, in your slowing heart, in the space between kisses that tastes of bitterness and aconite.
"come home," you whisper against his chest. "let me take care of you."
"only if you let me take care of you too," he counters.
you nod, knowing neither of you will keep that promise completely. love between broken people is never neat or simple. it's messy and desperate and sometimes dangerous—a constant negotiation between what you're willing to give and what you can bear to take.
remus stands slowly, muscles protesting the movement. you rise with him, supporting his weight without making it obvious that's what you're doing. he's too proud for open help, even now.
"sirius will be waiting," he says.
"with tea and chocolate and a lecture for both of us," you agree.
remus almost smiles. "and several illegal potions, apparently."
"those too."
as you help him toward the hidden passage, he pauses, framed in weak sunlight. "promise me something."
"anything."
"no more secrets." his eyes search yours. "not between us. not anymore."
you hesitate, then nod. "no more secrets."
it's a promise you intend to keep this time, though you both know there will always be things left unsaid—the way he sometimes wakes growling in the night, the way your fingers sometimes turn blue when you're tired, the fear that lives in both your hearts that one day the wolf will win or the poison will.
but for now, in the fragile morning light, it's enough to walk together through the tunnel, toward whatever comes next. the wolf sleeps. the poison ebbs. and love—fierce, foolish love—carries you forward through another dawn.
the journey back to hogwarts is always the worst part. the tunnel seems longer after full moons, stretching endlessly beneath the whomping willow, damp earth pressing in from all sides. remus leans heavily against you, his breathing labored. you support him without comment, knowing his pride is as fragile as his post-transformation body.
"we should rest," you suggest when his steps falter.
"no," he says, determined. "almost there."
you don't argue. the sooner you reach the castle, the sooner you can both collapse somewhere warm and safe. but with each step, the cold spreads through your limbs, a familiar numbness creeping from fingertips up your arms. you've learned to hide it well—the tremors, the dizziness that follows every full moon now—but today feels different. worse.
by the time you emerge from beneath the willow, pale morning light making both of you squint, you're not sure who's supporting whom anymore. the castle looms ahead, a stone sentinel against the dawn sky. gryffindor tower has never seemed so far away.
"we should go to pomfrey," remus murmurs, noticing your pallor.
"and tell her what?" you manage a weak smile. "that i've been voluntarily ingesting traces of a controlled substance? i'm sure that will go over well."
he frowns but doesn't press the issue. not yet.
the castle corridors are mercifully empty this early on a saturday. your footsteps echo against stone floors, a stumbling rhythm that carries you up staircases and through passageways until you reach the fat lady's portrait.
"phoenix tears," remus whispers.
the portrait swings open, revealing the warm glow of the gryffindor common room. sirius is there, as expected, pacing before the fireplace. he looks up at your entrance, relief washing over his features before quickly transforming into alarm.
"bloody hell," he breathes, rushing forward to help. "what happened?"
"i know," remus says simply.
understanding floods sirius's face. "shit." he takes remus's other side, guiding you both to the sofa nearest the fire. "sit. both of you."
you sink into the cushions gratefully, the room swaying slightly around you. the fire's warmth doesn't penetrate the chill that's settled into your bones. your fingers are distinctly blue at the tips now, no matter how close to the flames you hold them.
"where is it?" sirius demands, rifling through his pockets.
"where's what?" remus asks, confused.
sirius ignores him, producing a small vial of pearlescent liquid. "here. drink this. now."
you take the vial with trembling hands, uncorking it with difficulty. the liquid burns going down, but it's a welcome heat—something to fight the ice forming in your veins.
"what the hell is that?" remus demands, watching as color slowly returns to your face.
"cleansing potion," sirius answers tersely. "more potent than the one our friend here has been using."
remus's eyes narrow. "and you've been providing it?"
"someone had to." sirius runs a hand through his disheveled hair. "since neither of you would listen to reason."
"you knew." remus's voice is dangerously quiet. "all this time."
"not all this time," you interject weakly. "only a few months."
"and you didn't think to tell me?" hurt bleeds into remus's anger.
sirius meets his gaze unflinchingly. "it wasn't my secret to tell."
"so you enabled this instead?"
"i kept them alive," sirius snaps. "which is more than they were managing on their own. merlin's beard, moony, what would you have done? let them collapse in some corridor alone because you didn't know what was happening?"
remus falls silent, the truth of sirius's words hanging heavy between them.
your vision blurs suddenly, darkness creeping at the edges. you try to focus on the flames, on the familiar tapestries adorning the walls, but everything swims in and out of focus. your heart stutters in your chest—too slow, then racing, then slow again.
"something's wrong," you whisper, voice sounding distant to your own ears.
both men turn to you sharply. remus's hand finds your wrist, fingers pressing against your pulse point.
"her heart's racing," he says, alarm edging his words. "sirius—"
"shit," sirius mutters, digging in his pockets again. "this hasn't happened before."
the room tilts suddenly. your limbs feel leaden, disconnected from your body. distantly, you're aware of falling forward, of remus catching you before you hit the floor, of his voice calling your name with increasing desperation.
"what's happening?" remus demands, voice cracking. "what's wrong with her?"
sirius kneels beside you, face grim. "the cleansing potion. she's building a tolerance."
just as you'd feared but refused to acknowledge. just as remus had warned mere hours ago.
"do something," remus pleads, cradling you against his chest.
"i'm trying!" sirius's voice rises. "i don't—i don't have anything stronger here."
your fingers clutch weakly at remus's shirt. his face swims above you, features blurred but beautiful—always so beautiful, even ravaged by transformation and fear.
"i'm sorry," you manage to whisper.
"don't," he says fiercely. "don't you dare apologize."
"should have told you."
"yes, you bloody well should have," he agrees, but there's no anger in it now, only terror. "stay with me. please."
sirius reappears in your narrowing field of vision, another vial in hand. "this is all i have left. it might help. might not."
"might make it worse?" remus asks.
sirius hesitates, then nods. "possibly."
"her choice," remus says, though it clearly costs him. "always her choice."
through the fog wrapping around your mind, you appreciate this small concession—that even now, terrified as he is, he respects your agency. your right to choose the manner of your loving him, even when that love might destroy you both.
you nod weakly, and sirius tips the contents of the vial between your lips. it tastes of ash and metal and something ancient. your body convulses once, violently, and then everything goes perfectly, blessedly still.
for a moment, you float in darkness. not unpleasant—just nothing. no pain. no cold. no weight of choices made or unmade.
then sound filters back. remus's voice, raw with emotion.
"—can't leave me. not like this. not because of me."
your eyes flutter open. the ceiling of the common room comes into focus gradually—rich red fabric draped between wooden beams. remus's face hovers above you, tear-streaked and desperate.
"there you are," he whispers when your eyes meet his. "there you are."
you try to speak but can only manage a weak cough. sirius appears with water, helping you sit up enough to sip from the glass.
"how do you feel?" he asks cautiously.
the honest answer is: shattered. like something inside you has broken irreparably. but the blue has receded from your fingertips, and your heart beats with something approaching a normal rhythm.
"better," you lie, because the relief on their faces is worth the deception.
remus helps you sit up fully, arranging cushions behind your back. his hands linger, as if afraid you'll disappear if he stops touching you. sirius collapses into a nearby armchair, suddenly looking every one of his years and more.
"that was too close," he says quietly.
no one disagrees.
morning sunlight streams through the tower windows now, painting golden rectangles across the worn carpet. somewhere in the castle, students will be waking, preparing for weekend activities with ordinary concerns. the simplicity of that existence feels alien to you now.
"it's over," remus says after a long silence. "this experiment. these potions. all of it."
you want to argue, to insist you can find another way, but your body's betrayal is too fresh to deny. your mouth tastes of copper and aconite and fear.
"i can't lose you," he continues, voice breaking. "not for this. not so i can have marginally less pain once a month."
"it was more than marginal," you protest weakly.
"nothing is worth this," he insists. "nothing is worth your life."
sirius clears his throat. "there might be... alternatives."
you both look at him.
"not wolfsbane," he clarifies quickly. "something else entirely. something i've been researching."
"your mysterious correspondence," remus says with sudden understanding. "the letters from abroad."
sirius nods. "there's someone in eastern europe. working on a different approach to lycanthropy. less about controlling the wolf, more about... integration."
"that sounds like dark magic," remus says warily.
"not dark. just... old. predating the divisions we've created between acceptable and unacceptable magic." sirius leans forward. "it might not work. but it also won't kill either of you."
hope flickers, fragile but persistent. you reach for remus's hand, finding it already reaching for yours.
"we can talk about it," you concede. "after."
"after what?" remus asks.
"after i sleep for about forty-eight hours." your attempt at humor falls flat, but remus's lips twitch nonetheless.
"i'll carry you upstairs," he offers.
"to the boys' dormitory? scandal," you murmur.
"everyone's at hogsmeade," sirius points out, and remus continues, "and frankly, i don't give a damn about school rules right now."
remus lifts you carefully, as if you might shatter in his arms. perhaps you might. your body feels different now—fundamentally altered by months of poison and today's near collapse. whether the damage is permanent remains to be seen.
as he carries you toward the spiral staircase, you rest your head against his shoulder. despite everything—the fear, the pain, the uncertainty—there's a strange peace in surrender. in knowing you've reached a limit, that something must change.
"this doesn't mean i love you any less," you murmur against his neck.
his arms tighten around you. "i know."
"just that i love you differently now."
he pauses on the stairs, looking down at you with those amber eyes that have seen too much suffering. "how?"
you consider this as he resumes climbing. "before, i thought love meant sharing your burden. taking some of your pain as my own."
"and now?"
you reach the dormitory. he pushes the door open with his shoulder and carries you to his bed, laying you gently on sheets that smell of parchment and tea and him.
"now i think..." you search for words as he pulls a blanket over you. "now i think maybe love is learning how to carry our separate burdens side by side. not trying to take what isn't mine to bear."
remus sits beside you on the bed, brushing hair from your forehead. "wisdom through near-death experience?"
"something like that." you catch his hand, press a kiss to his palm. "still not leaving you, though."
"i wouldn't let you if you tried," he admits, the possessiveness of the wolf bleeding into his voice.
you smile, eyelids growing heavy. "good."
he stretches out beside you, careful not to jostle the bed. even exhausted and hurting from his own transformation, his first concern is for your comfort. you shift to rest your head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.
"sleep," he murmurs, fingers combing gently through your hair. "i'll be here when you wake up."
you believe him. it's one promise neither of you will break.
as consciousness fades, you feel his lips press against your forehead. "thank you," he whispers, "for loving me enough to stay. even when staying means letting go."
you don't have the strength to answer, but he understands anyway. he always does. the wolf in him senses what words cannot express—that your love hasn't diminished, only transformed. like him, it contains multitudes. like him, it survives.
the last thing you register before sleep claims you is remus's heartbeat against your ear and sirius's voice from the doorway, uncharacteristically gentle:
heart — „ it's a beautiful lie, and for tonight, at least, you let yourself believe it."
warnings - dark themes , obsessive behavior , war violence references , death eater ideologies , canon-typical violence , explicit sexual content , power imbalances , morally grey characters , angst ,hurt/comfort , non-graphic violence
word count - 9,000+
marauders masterlist
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you've been staring at the same page of your potions textbook for nearly twenty minutes, the words blurring together as your mind wanders elsewhere. the common room is quiet this late, just the occasional crackle from the dying fire and the soft rustle of parchment from the few other slytherins still awake.
there's an empty space beside you on the leather sofa that feels more noticeable than it should.
he isn't here. again.
barty has a habit of disappearing lately. more than usual. sometimes for hours, sometimes for days, and you're left wondering where he goes, what he does, who he sees. the rational part of you knows he's probably just meeting with them—the inner circle, the ones already active in service while you're both still trapped in this castle playing at being students. the irrational part wonders if there's someone else.
(there isn't. you know there isn't. barty looks at you like you're the fucking sun and he's been living in darkness his entire life. but still.)
you slam your book shut, earning a glare from mulciber across the room. you don't care. seventh year is a joke anyway—what's the point of studying when you already know what your future holds? the mark on your arm pulses sometimes, like it knows you're thinking about it. like it's alive.
you've been wearing it for three months now. barty, longer. you both made your choices, if you can call them that.
the truth is, you've been waiting for him, just like always. waiting for him to stumble through the portrait hole with that manic gleam in his eyes, tongue darting out to wet his lips in that way that makes your stomach twist. waiting for him to catch your eye across the room and silently beckon you to follow him to some abandoned classroom or broom closet. waiting for him to press you against cold stone walls and whisper things against your skin that he'd never say in daylight.
it's pathetic, how much you want him. how much you need him. how you hate the way you orbit each other—close enough to burn but never close enough to merge.
"still up?" a familiar voice cuts through your thoughts, and your head snaps up so quickly you almost give yourself whiplash.
barty stands a few feet away, looking like he's been through hell. his uniform is rumpled, tie loose around his neck, and there's something dark smudged on the collar of his white shirt that you don't want to identify. his hair is a mess, like he's been running his hands through it repeatedly—or like someone else has.
"had to finish this essay," you lie, gesturing vaguely at the books scattered around you. "where've you been?"
he doesn't answer, just collapses onto the sofa beside you, close enough that your thighs press together. you can smell firewhiskey on him, mixed with something earthy and metallic.
"barty," you try again, softer this time.
"don't." his voice is sharp, but his eyes are tired when they meet yours. "not tonight."
you should press him. you should demand answers. you should walk away and stop letting him pull you into this toxic dance where you both pretend not to care until you're alone and desperate for each other.
instead, you say, "my room or yours?"
his laugh is hollow, but his hand finds yours in the space between you, fingers intertwining with an intimacy that contradicts everything about your public relationship. "neither. come with me."
you follow him without question, just like always.
the corridors are silent as you move through them, barty leading you with practiced ease through the castle's shadows. you don't ask where you're going. it doesn't matter. you'd follow him anywhere, and that terrifies you more than the mark on your arm ever could.
he takes you to the astronomy tower. it's forbidden after hours, but rules have never applied to either of you. not really.
"we're fucked, you know that, right?" he says once you're both standing at the edge, looking out over the grounds. the moonlight catches on his profile, turning him into something ethereal and untouchable.
"i know," you reply, because you do. you've both been fucked since the moment you were sorted into slytherin, with your family names and expectations weighing you down. since the moment you first locked eyes across the great hall and recognized something broken and familiar in each other.
"do you ever think about running?" he asks, and the question surprises you. barty doesn't run from anything. barty faces everything head-on, with that reckless intensity that both thrills and terrifies you.
"all the time," you admit. "but where would we go?"
"anywhere. nowhere." he turns to face you, and there's something desperate in his eyes that makes your chest ache. "just away from here. away from him."
you don't need to ask who "he" is. the dark lord's shadow looms over everything, even this moment that should be just yours.
"we can't," you say, even though part of you wants to grab his hand and disapparate right now, consequences be damned. "you know we can't."
barty's jaw tightens, and you watch the brief flicker of something—hope, maybe—die in his eyes. "yeah," he says finally. "i know."
he moves closer, until you're backed against the stone wall of the tower. his hands come up to frame your face, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones with a gentleness that feels out of place on barty crouch jr. this close, you can see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, the small scar near his hairline that you gave him in third year when you hexed him for calling you a blood traitor. before you understood each other. before all of this.
"sometimes i think you're the only real thing in my life," he whispers, and it's so raw, so honest, that you almost can't bear it.
in daylight, you're just two slytherins who occasionally study together. who bicker and compete and pretend there's nothing more between you than reluctant friendship. at night, you're this—something desperate and hungry and so painful it feels like drowning.
"barty—" you start, but he cuts you off with a kiss that tastes like firewhiskey and bad decisions.
you know how this ends. you'll lose yourselves in each other for a few hours, pretending the world outside doesn't exist. pretending there isn't a war brewing. pretending the marks on your arms don't bind you to a future neither of you really wants. and then morning will come, and you'll go back to pretending you're nothing more than classmates who occasionally fuck when you're too drunk or high to remember why you shouldn't.
but for now, his hands are in your hair and his mouth is on yours, and you let yourself forget everything else.
breakfast the next morning is a study in avoidance. barty sits three people away from you, laughing too loudly at something regulus is saying. you push your eggs around your plate and try not to remember how he looked last night, vulnerable in a way he never allows himself to be in the light of day.
"you look like shit," evan rosier comments as he slides onto the bench across from you. "rough night?"
you give him a look that would wither lesser men. "fuck off, rosier."
he grins, unperturbed. "ah, so it was with crouch again. when are you two going to stop this ridiculous dance and just admit you're together?"
"we're not together," you snap, too quickly. "there's nothing between us."
evan's eyebrows rise in disbelief. "right. and i'm secretly dumbledore's love child."
you don't dignify that with a response, instead grabbing your bag and standing abruptly. "i've got herbology."
"it's saturday," evan calls after you, but you're already walking away.
you don't have a destination in mind, just need to be away from the great hall, away from barty's deliberate indifference, away from your own pathetic longing. you end up by the lake, sitting under the beech tree where you first kissed him back in fifth year—both of you drunk on smuggled firewhiskey after slytherin won the quidditch cup.
"hiding from me?"
you don't need to look up to know it's him. you'd know his voice anywhere, the way it seems to wrap around you even when he's saying the most mundane things.
"not everything is about you, crouch," you reply, keeping your eyes fixed on the lake's surface.
he drops down beside you, close enough that your shoulders brush. "liar."
there's a beat of silence, and then he sighs. "about last night—"
"don't," you interrupt. "we don't need to do this. we never do."
it's your routine. pretend it didn't happen. pretend you don't matter to each other. pretend, pretend, pretend until you can't anymore, and then fall back into each other like gravity.
"maybe we should," he says quietly, and something in his tone makes you finally look at him.
he looks tired in the daylight, shadows under his eyes that weren't there at the beginning of the year. there's a tension in his shoulders that never seems to leave him now. you wonder when you both got so old, so worn down. you're only seventeen, for fuck's sake. you should be worried about NEWTs and quidditch and stupid teenage drama, not... this. not dark marks and death eaters and the looming reality of what comes after graduation.
"what's the point?" you ask. "nothing's going to change. in a few months, we'll be out of here, and then..." you trail off, not wanting to speak the future into existence.
"and then we belong to him," barty finishes, his voice flat. "completely."
the admission hangs between you, heavy with all its implications. you've both made your choices, but sometimes you wonder if either of you really understood what you were choosing.
"i don't want to talk about that," you say finally. "not today."
barty nods, then reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small vial of clear liquid. "brought something better to talk about."
you recognize it immediately—essence of euphoria, brewed to be more potent than the standard variety. barty has a talent for potions that even slughorn doesn't fully appreciate. he's modified this one to last longer, hit harder, leave fewer traces in the system afterward.
"it's not even noon," you point out, but you're already reaching for the vial.
his smile is sharp as he watches you uncork it. "since when do you care about the time?"
you don't. time stopped mattering the moment you took the mark. all that matters now is finding ways to make existence bearable until... well. until whatever comes next.
you take a swig, then pass it back to him. the effect is almost immediate—warmth spreading through your limbs, the edges of the world softening, colors becoming brighter. barty drinks his share, then tucks the empty vial away.
"better?" he asks, his pupils already dilating.
"getting there," you murmur, leaning back against the tree trunk and letting your eyes drift shut. "is this what you do when you disappear? brew illegal potions and get high alone?"
"sometimes," he admits. "sometimes i'm with them." you don't need to ask who he means. "sometimes i just need to be somewhere else. somewhere that isn't... this." he gestures vaguely at the castle, at himself, at the space between you.
"and where is that?" you ask, genuinely curious. barty crouch jr., for all his intensity and presence, has always been something of an enigma. even to you, who knows the taste of his skin and the sound he makes when he comes and the way he looks when he thinks no one is watching.
"nowhere," he says after a long pause. "it doesn't exist."
you open your eyes to find him staring at you with an expression you can't quite decipher. it makes your heart beat faster, the euphoria in your system amplifying every sensation, every emotion.
"what?" you ask, when his staring becomes too much.
"i think about you," he says suddenly. "when i'm with them. when he's talking about what's coming, about the world he's going to build. i think about where you'll be in it."
this is dangerous territory. you never talk about feelings, about the future, about what you might be to each other beyond stolen moments and plausible deniability.
"and where am i?" you ask, the words barely audible.
barty's hand finds yours in the grass, fingers intertwining with a certainty that belies the uncertainty of everything else. "with me," he says simply. "always with me."
the euphoria makes you brave. "and if i don't want to be?"
his grip on your hand tightens fractionally. "then i'd find you. i'd always find you."
there's something possessive in his tone that should frighten you but instead sends a thrill down your spine. barty has never been subtle about his obsessions, his fixations. you've just never been certain if you were one of them until now.
"what if there's nothing left to find?" you ask, thinking of the war, of the mark, of all the ways you both might be destroyed in the coming months.
he shifts, suddenly moving to straddle you, his face inches from yours. "then i'd piece you back together," he says fiercely. "bit by bloody bit."
you believe him. that's the terrifying part. barty crouch jr. does nothing by halves. if he's decided you're his, then nothing short of death will change that—and even then, you're not entirely sure.
"you're fucking insane," you whisper, but you're already arching up to meet his mouth, hands sliding into his hair to pull him closer.
"only about you," he murmurs against your lips, and you swallow the words like they're salvation instead of damnation.
three days later, you're sitting on your bed in the empty dormitory, a letter from home crumpled in your fist. your parents are proud of you. proud of the choices you've made. proud that you're following in their footsteps, upholding the family legacy.
you feel sick.
there's a soft knock at the door, which is strange because no one in slytherin knocks. you ignore it, but it comes again, more insistent this time.
"go away," you call, not caring who it is.
the door opens anyway, revealing barty. he looks unusually serious, none of his typical manic energy present.
"you missed dinner," he says, closing the door behind him and casting a silencing charm with a casual flick of his wand.
"not hungry," you reply, turning away from him to stare out the window at the darkening sky.
he crosses the room silently, sitting on the edge of your bed. close, but not touching. "what's wrong?"
you laugh, the sound hollow even to your own ears. "what isn't?"
barty sighs, running a hand through his hair. "fair point."
you sit in silence for a moment, then wordlessly hand him the crumpled letter. he smooths it out, eyes scanning the contents quickly.
"ah," he says simply when he's finished. "parents."
"they're so fucking proud," you say, the words bitter on your tongue. "like i've done something amazing instead of..." you trail off, unconsciously rubbing at your left forearm where the mark lies hidden beneath your sleeve.
barty's expression darkens. "at least they're proud. my father would disown me if he knew. probably have me arrested himself."
you've both avoided talking about barty crouch sr.—head of magical law enforcement, notorious for his harsh stance against death eaters. the irony of his son being among their ranks is not lost on either of you.
"is that why you did it?" you ask suddenly. "to spite him?"
barty's eyes flash dangerously. "i did it because i believe in the cause."
"do you?" you challenge, reckless in your despair. "do you really, barty? or do you just believe in belonging to something? in being seen as powerful? in being wanted?"
he moves so quickly you barely have time to react, pinning you to the bed with his body, one hand gripping your jaw. "careful," he hisses, his face inches from yours. "questions like that get people killed these days."
but you're beyond caring. "then kill me," you whisper. "it would be kinder than what's waiting for us out there."
something flickers in his eyes—pain, maybe, or understanding. slowly, his grip on your jaw softens into a caress. "don't say that," he murmurs. "don't ever say that."
"why not? it's true." your voice cracks on the last word, and you hate yourself for the weakness.
barty's expression shifts, softens into something you rarely see from him—genuine concern, maybe even tenderness. "because i need you," he admits, so quietly you almost don't hear it. "i need you to survive this."
"why?" you press, needing to hear him say it, needing some confirmation that this thing between you is more than just convenience and lust and shared circumstances.
he stares at you for a long moment, something vulnerable flickering in his eyes before he shutters it away. "you know why."
and you do. you do know why. it's in every glance he sends your way when he thinks you aren't looking. it's in the way he touches you—sometimes rough and desperate, sometimes with a gentleness that makes your chest ache. it's in the fact that he keeps coming back to you, no matter how many times you both agree it needs to stop.
barty crouch jr. is obsessed with you. has been since fifth year. perhaps longer.
and merlin help you, you're just as obsessed with him.
you reach up, tracing the sharp line of his jaw with your fingertips. "we're so fucked up," you whisper.
his lips quirk into a small, sad smile. "beyond repair."
"what are we going to do?" you ask, hating how young and uncertain you sound.
barty lowers himself beside you on the bed, pulling you against his chest in a rare display of non-sexual intimacy. "survive," he says simply. "together."
you close your eyes and breathe him in, trying to memorize this moment. these are the times you cling to when everything else feels like it's falling apart—the quiet moments when you're just barty and you, not death eaters or students or pawns in a war you barely understand.
"promise?" you murmur against his neck.
his arms tighten around you. "promise."
the silence stretches between you, filled with all the things you can't say. then barty shifts, his hand finding your chin and tilting your face up to his. his eyes are dark, pupils blown wide—whether from the earlier euphoria potion or something else, you can't tell.
"why do you do that?" he asks, voice rough.
"do what?"
"look at me like that. like you're trying to memorize me." his thumb traces your lower lip, the gesture possessive rather than tender. "like i'm going to disappear."
"aren't you?" you counter. "you've been disappearing for months."
something flashes in his eyes—guilt, maybe, or frustration. "i'm right here," he says, and then his mouth is on yours, hungry and insistent.
this isn't like his usual kisses—careful at first, building slowly. this is desperate from the start, all teeth and tongue and barely controlled need. his hands tangle in your hair, tugging just hard enough to hurt in a way that makes heat pool low in your belly.
"barty—" you manage between kisses, but he silences you with another bruising kiss.
"shut up," he murmurs against your mouth. "just... shut up for once."
his teeth scrape down your neck, lingering at the pulse point where your heartbeat betrays your want for him. the sound he makes is almost feral—half growl, half moan—as his tongue traces patterns on your skin that feel like ownership.
"i can feel you," he whispers, "right here." his teeth graze your pulse again. "racing for me. always for me."
normally you'd fight him on this, push back against his commands, but something in his voice—something raw and fractured—makes you yield. you let him push you back against the pillows, his body covering yours like he's trying to leave his imprint on every inch of you.
his hands are everywhere—sliding under your shirt, gripping your hips, tracing the curve of your throat. there's an edge of desperation to his touch, like he's afraid this might be the last time. like he's committing the feel of you to memory.
"need you," he breathes against your skin, and the words send a shiver down your spine. barty crouch jr. doesn't admit to needing anything or anyone. "need to feel you. need to know you're real."
you reach for him, hands sliding under his shirt to feel the warm skin beneath. he's lost weight in recent months, his ribs more pronounced under your fingertips, but the muscles in his back flex as he moves against you. you trace the ridges of his spine, the sharp angles of his shoulder blades.
he pulls back just long enough to tug his shirt over his head, then yours follows. his eyes rake over you, dark and hungry, before he dips his head to drag his teeth along your collarbone. not gentle, not careful—barty has never been either of those things, not really. not even with you.
"mine," he murmurs against your skin, and it should bother you, this possessiveness, but instead it sends another wave of heat through you. "tell me you're mine."
"yours," you agree, because in this moment, it's the truth. maybe it's always been the truth.
his smile is sharp, almost predatory as he leans back to unbutton your jeans, dragging them down your legs with an efficiency born of practice. his follow, and then there's nothing between you but the thin fabric of your underwear.
barty's hand slides between your legs, finding you already wet through the cotton. "already ready for me," he says, voice rough with satisfaction. "always so ready."
you should be embarrassed by how quickly he can affect you, but you're beyond caring. you arch into his touch, silently begging for more.
he obliges, pushing your underwear aside to slide a finger into you, then another. his thumb circles your clit with just enough pressure to make you gasp, your hips bucking involuntarily.
"that's it," he encourages, eyes fixed on your face with that intense focus that makes you feel like the only person in his world. "let me see you."
you lose yourself in the rhythm he sets, in the way his fingers curl inside you, in the way his other hand grips your hip hard enough to bruise. it's too much and not enough all at once.
"barty, please," you manage, not even sure what you're asking for.
but he knows. he always knows what you need, sometimes before you do. he withdraws his fingers, ignoring your whimper of protest, and lowers his head instead. the first swipe of his tongue against your center has you arching off the bed, a choked sound escaping your throat.
he laughs, the vibration sending shockwaves through you. "so responsive," he murmurs against your flesh. "so perfect for me."
his tongue works against you with single-minded focus, alternating between long, languid strokes and quick flicks that have you seeing stars. his hands grip your thighs, spreading you wider, holding you open for his assault. there's something almost worshipful in how completely he devotes himself to your pleasure, even as he maintains absolute control of it.
you're close, so close, but just as you're about to fall over the edge, he pulls back. your protest dies in your throat as you see the look in his eyes—dark, possessive, almost feverish with need.
"not yet," he says, voice rough. "want to be inside you when you come. want to feel you. want you to remember who you belong to."
he sheds the last of his clothes, his cock hard and flushed against his stomach. you reach for him, but he catches your wrists, pinning them above your head with one hand.
"stay," he commands, and you do, watching as he positions himself between your legs.
he enters you slowly this time, inch by torturous inch, his eyes never leaving yours. the stretch is exquisite, your body yielding to accommodate him in a way that feels like surrender.
"fuck," he breathes when he's fully seated within you. "like you were made for me. just for me."
he begins to move, setting a pace that's just shy of what you need. it's maddening, how well he knows your body—knows exactly how to keep you on the edge without pushing you over. his free hand traces patterns on your skin, mapping your body like territory he's claiming.
"please," you gasp, straining against his grip. "barty, i need—"
"i know what you need," he interrupts, voice strained with the effort of his control. "but i'm not done with you yet. not even close."
he shifts, changing the angle so he hits that spot inside you that makes your vision blur. your back arches, a moan tearing from your throat. he smiles, satisfied, and increases his pace, driving into you with a force that would hurt if you weren't so desperate for it.
"that's it," he growls. "take me. all of me."
his control begins to slip, his rhythm becoming more erratic as his own pleasure builds. he releases your wrists to grip your hips instead, pulling you into each thrust. your hands immediately fly to his back, nails digging into his skin, marking him as he's marking you.
"come for me," he demands, one hand sliding between your bodies to circle your clit. "now."
your body obeys before your mind can process the order, pleasure crashing through you in waves. you cry out his name, vision going white at the edges as the orgasm tears through you. barty groans in response, his movements becoming frantic as he chases his own release. he comes with a shuddering gasp, burying himself deep inside you, his body tense and trembling above yours.
for a long moment, neither of you moves. your hearts race in tandem, breath mingling in the small space between you. barty's weight should be crushing, but it's comforting instead—anchoring you to this moment, to him.
slowly, he lifts his head to look at you, something unreadable in his eyes. his tongue darts out to wet his lips—that nervous tic you've watched for years—before he dips his head to press a surprisingly gentle kiss to the corner of your mouth.
"still with me?" he murmurs, brushing a strand of hair from your face.
you nod, not quite trusting your voice yet. he smiles—not his usual sharp grin, but something softer, almost vulnerable—before pulling out of you with careful movements. you expect him to roll away, to put some distance between you as he often does after sex, but instead he gathers you against his chest, one hand tracing idle patterns on your back.
the quiet stretches between you, comfortable in a way few things are these days. you feel yourself starting to drift, lulled by the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear.
then his hand stops its movement, coming to rest at the base of your spine. "i'm not done with you," he says, his voice pitched low in a way that sends a shiver of anticipation down your spine despite your recent release. "not even close."
before you can respond, he's moving, flipping you onto your stomach with surprising strength. his hand presses between your shoulder blades, keeping you pinned to the mattress as he straddles your thighs.
"barty—" you start, but the word dissolves into a moan as his mouth finds the nape of your neck, teeth scraping against sensitive skin.
"i told you to shut up," he reminds you, the words hot against your skin. "just feel. just be mine."
his hands map your body from this new angle, tracing the curve of your spine, the dip of your waist, the swell of your ass. there's something different in his touch now—less frantic, more deliberate. like he's studying you, committing every inch to memory.
"perfect," he murmurs, almost to himself. "so fucking perfect."
his weight shifts as he moves lower, his mouth following the path his hands have taken. he kisses his way down your spine, lingering at the small of your back where he knows you're sensitive. you squirm beneath him, already feeling desire building again despite your recent orgasm.
barty's hands grip your hips, lifting them slightly, positioning you how he wants you. his fingers trace the insides of your thighs, spreading you open. you should feel exposed, vulnerable, but instead you feel... cherished, in a way that's almost frightening in its intensity.
"look at you," he breathes, his voice full of wonder. "still wet for me. still wanting."
his fingers dip into you, gathering your combined wetness before sliding up to circle your clit again. you gasp, oversensitive but already responding to his touch.
"could touch you for hours," he says, his free hand stroking up your back. "watch you come apart for me over and over until you can't remember anything but my name."
he continues his gentle assault, building you back up with patient, knowing touches. when you're trembling on the edge again, he withdraws his hand, ignoring your whimpered protest.
"on your knees," he commands, voice rough with renewed desire.
you comply, pushing yourself up on shaky arms, presenting yourself to him in a way that would embarrass you with anyone else. with barty, it feels right. natural.
he positions himself behind you, one hand gripping your hip, the other tangled in your hair. you feel him hard against you again, ready so soon it's almost inhuman. but that's barty—intensity personified, always burning too bright, too hot, consuming everything in his path.
"mine," he growls as he pushes into you again, the new angle making you both groan. "say it."
"yours," you gasp as he begins to move, setting a pace that's both punishing and perfect. "only yours, barty. always."
his grip tightens in your hair, pulling your head back so your spine forms a taut arc. "and i'm yours," he says, the words sounding like they're being torn from him against his will. "only yours. no matter what happens. no matter what he makes me do. remember that."
the admission hits you harder than any physical touch could. barty doesn't do vulnerability, doesn't acknowledge weakness—not even with you. especially not with you. but here, in the dark of your dormitory, buried deep inside you, he's giving you a part of himself you've never been allowed to see before.
"i will," you promise, voice breaking as he hits that perfect spot inside you. "i'll remember. i swear."
his rhythm falters for a moment, like your words have affected him more than he expected. then he redoubles his efforts, driving into you with renewed purpose. one hand snakes around to find your clit again, circling with perfect pressure.
"come with me this time," he demands, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. "together. want to feel you."
you're already close, teetering on the edge of another release. his words, his touch, the relentless rhythm of his hips against yours—it's all too much. you shatter with a cry that might be his name, might be a prayer, might be nothing but pure sensation given voice.
barty follows immediately, his own release triggered by the pulsing of your body around him. he collapses over your back, his weight pressing you into the mattress, his breath hot against your neck as he gasps your name like it's the only word he knows.
slowly, carefully, he pulls out of you, then gathers you against his chest as you both lie on your sides. his arms wrap around you from behind, holding you close like he's afraid you'll disappear if he loosens his grip even slightly.
"you're mine," he murmurs against your hair, his voice already heavy with approaching sleep. "no matter what happens. remember that."
you cover his hands with yours where they rest against your stomach. "i know," you whisper. "and you're mine."
he makes a sound—half agreement, half contentment—and presses a kiss to the back of your neck. his breathing begins to even out, his body relaxing against yours as sleep claims him.
you lie awake a little longer, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart, feeling the rise and fall of his chest against your back. in these moments, it's easy to forget the mark on your arm, the future that awaits you both. easy to pretend you're just two people in love, not pawns in a war you barely understand.
barty shifts in his sleep, murmuring your name as he pulls you closer. even unconscious, he can't bear to let you go. it should frighten you, this level of obsession, this intensity of feeling. instead, it comforts you. in a world where everything is uncertain, barty's need for you is the one constant you can rely on.
eventually, you let sleep take you too, safe in the knowledge that for tonight, at least, neither of you is going anywhere.
when you wake a few hours later, it's to the sensation of barty's lips on your shoulder, his hand tracing lazy patterns on your stomach. it's still dark outside, the dormitory quiet except for your mingled breathing.
"thought you were asleep," you murmur, voice thick with remnants of dreams.
"was," he replies, his mouth moving to the sensitive spot behind your ear. "woke up. couldn't stop touching you."
his hand drifts lower, finding you still sensitive but already responding to his touch. "insatiable," you accuse, but there's no heat in it. no real desire for him to stop.
you can feel his smile against your skin. "only for you," he says, and then he's shifting you onto your back, hovering over you with that intense focus that makes you feel like the center of his universe. "always for you."
this time is different—slower, more deliberate. barty takes his time, mapping your body with his hands and mouth like he's discovering you for the first time. there's still that edge of desperation, of possessiveness, but it's tempered now with something almost like reverence.
when he finally enters you again, it's with a gentleness that makes your chest ache. his eyes never leave yours as he moves within you, his pace steady and unhurried. one hand cradles your face, thumb brushing over your cheekbone in a gesture so tender it brings tears to your eyes.
"beautiful," he whispers, watching a tear escape to trail down your temple. "so fucking beautiful. mine. all mine."
you come with his name on your lips, softer this time but no less intense. he follows a moment later, your name a broken prayer on his tongue.
afterwards, as you lie tangled together in the rumpled sheets, barty traces patterns on your skin—circles, spirals, shapes that might be runes or might just be the random meanderings of his restless mind.
"what are you thinking?" you ask, watching his face in the dim light filtering through the curtains.
he's quiet for so long you think he might not answer. then, "about the future," he says finally. "about what happens after we leave here."
you tense slightly, not wanting to break the bubble of peace you've created. "barty—"
"no, listen," he interrupts, propping himself up on one elbow to look down at you. "i need you to understand something. what's coming... it's going to change things. change us. i might... i might have to do things. say things. be someone you don't recognize."
fear coils in your stomach at his words, at the intensity in his eyes. "what are you saying?"
his hand finds yours, fingers intertwining with a fierce pressure. "i'm saying that no matter what happens, no matter what it looks like, i'm yours. only yours. remember that. promise me you'll remember that."
there's something desperate in his expression, something that goes beyond the usual intensity. it frightens you more than the mark on your arm, more than the thought of the dark lord himself.
"i promise," you whisper, because what else can you say? "but barty, you're scaring me."
his expression softens, and he leans down to press his forehead against yours. "don't be scared," he murmurs. "not of me. never of me."
"i'm not scared of you," you clarify. "i'm scared for you. for what he's doing to you."
barty's expression shutters slightly, that familiar wall coming down between you. "he's giving me purpose," he says, a defensive note entering his voice. "giving us both purpose."
"is that what you call it?" you can't help but ask. "because from where i'm standing, it looks a lot like servitude."
his jaw tightens, and for a moment you think you've gone too far. then he sighs, the tension leaving his body as he collapses back onto the pillows. "maybe it is," he admits quietly. "but it's too late now. for both of us."
you curl against his side, head resting on his chest where you can hear the steady beat of his heart. "we could run," you suggest, not for the first time. "just leave. go somewhere he can't find us."
barty's laugh is hollow. "there is nowhere he can't find us. you know that."
"then we fight," you say, raising yourself to look at him. "not for him. for ourselves. for each other."
something flickers in his eyes—hope, maybe, or longing. but it's quickly replaced by that familiar fervor, that devotion that frightens you more with each passing day. "it's not that simple," he says.
"it could be," you insist. "if we wanted it to be."
he looks at you for a long moment, something unreadable in his expression. then he pulls you down for a kiss that tastes of desperation and resignation and something that might be love if either of you were brave enough to name it.
"sleep," he murmurs against your lips. "we can talk about it in the morning."
but you both know you won't. in the morning, you'll go back to pretending. back to being just two slytherins who occasionally study together, who bicker and compete and pretend there's nothing more between you than reluctant friendship. back to the parts you've been playing for so long they're starting to feel more real than what happens in the dark.
for now, though, you let him hold you, let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, the two of you could find a way through this together. that maybe, in a world that seems determined to tear you apart, your love for each other—because that's what this is, even if neither of you will acknowledge it—might be enough to save you both.
it's a beautiful lie, and for tonight, at least, you let yourself believe it.
you both know it's a lie. there are no guarantees, not in the world you're stepping into. but for tonight, in the quiet of your dormitory with barty's heartbeat steady against your ear, you let yourself believe it.
graduation comes too quickly. suddenly you're standing on the platform at hogsmeade station, trunks packed, the castle growing smaller in the distance as the train pulls away. seven years of your life, over in an instant.
you're alone in your compartment. barty is somewhere else on the train, surrounded by the others—the ones who share your mark, your fate. he's been distant these past few weeks, disappearing more often, coming back with that wild look in his eyes that means he's been in his presence.
the dark lord has taken a special interest in barty. everyone knows it. his talent, his fervor, his willingness to do whatever is asked of him—they've caught the attention of the most dangerous wizard alive. you should be proud. instead, you're terrified.
the compartment door slides open, and you look up expecting to see evan or regulus. instead, it's barty, looking more composed than you've seen him in months. he's already changed out of his hogwarts robes into simple black ones, like he's eager to shed the last remnants of childhood.
"there you are," he says, sitting across from you. "i've been looking all over the train."
"well, you found me," you reply, aiming for casual and missing by a mile.
he studies you for a moment, head tilted slightly. "what's wrong?"
everything, you want to say. everything is wrong. we're children playing at being soldiers in a war we didn't start. we've pledged ourselves to a madman. we might be dead before we're twenty. i might lose you.
instead, you shrug. "just thinking about what comes next."
barty leans forward, elbows on his knees. "i know what comes next," he says, voice low and intense. "we rise. we prove ourselves. we help him create a world where we don't have to hide what we are, what we believe."
you look at him—really look at him—and wonder when he started believing his own propaganda. or maybe he always did, and you were too blinded by whatever this is between you to see it.
"is that what you want?" you ask carefully. "really?"
his eyes narrow slightly. "it's what we both want. it's why we took the mark."
you took the mark because your family expected it. because refusing meant exile at best, death at worst. because barty had already taken his, and the thought of being separated from him was somehow more terrifying than binding yourself to a monster.
but you don't say any of that.
"right," you agree, looking away. "of course."
barty's hand shoots out, gripping your wrist tightly. "don't do that," he says sharply. "don't shut me out. not now."
"i'm not," you lie. "i'm just tired."
his grip tightens fractionally before he releases you. "we're meeting tonight," he says after a pause. "at malfoy manor. he wants to see all the new recruits."
your stomach twists with dread. "all of us?"
barty nods. "it's an honor. he rarely addresses everyone at once."
an honor. right. being paraded before a man—if he can still be called that—who views you as nothing more than a tool. a means to an end. expendable.
"i'll be there," you say, because what other choice do you have?
barty watches you for a moment longer, then stands abruptly. "i have to get back. bellatrix is expecting me."
of course she is. bellatrix lestrange has taken barty under her wing, recognizing in him the same fanatical devotion she herself possesses. you hate her for it, for encouraging the darkness that's always lingered at the edges of barty's personality.
"see you tonight, then," you say, trying to keep the bitterness from your voice.
he pauses at the door, looking back at you with an expression you can't quite read. "it's going to be worth it," he says suddenly. "you'll see. everything we've sacrificed—it'll be worth it in the end."
you smile, but it doesn't reach your eyes. "i hope you're right."
after he's gone, you press your forehead against the cool glass of the window and watch the countryside blur past. you think about the last seven years—about meeting barty on your first day, both of you wide-eyed and full of ambition. about the rivalry that turned to reluctant respect that turned to... whatever this is now. about lazy afternoons by the lake and frantic nights in empty classrooms and quiet mornings when you pretended not to care.
you think about the mark on your arm and the future it represents.
you think about running.
but you know you won't. because running means leaving barty behind, and despite everything—despite the growing darkness in him, despite the madness that sometimes flashes in his eyes, despite the fact that you're both heading toward destruction—you can't imagine a world without him in it.
so instead, you close your eyes and try to prepare yourself for what comes next.
malfoy manor is imposing even in summer, dark and gothic against the twilight sky. you stand before the gates, heart racing, palms sweaty. you're wearing your finest robes, hair neatly styled, mask firmly in place—both the literal one required for meetings and the metaphorical one you've perfected over years of hiding your true self.
"you came," barty's voice comes from behind you, and you turn to find him approaching from the road, his own mask hanging loosely from his fingers. he sounds surprised, like he half-expected you to run after all.
"i said i would," you reply, straightening your shoulders. "i keep my promises."
something flickers in his eyes—relief, maybe, or gratitude. he steps closer, close enough that you can smell his cologne, the same one he's worn since fifth year. "i was worried," he admits quietly. "after the train..."
"i'm here," you say simply. "let's just get this over with."
barty reaches out, his fingers brushing against yours briefly before falling away. "stay close to me," he murmurs. "don't speak unless spoken to. don't make eye contact unless he demands it."
you've heard the rules before, from your parents, from the others, but hearing them from barty makes the reality of the situation hit harder. "i know."
"and whatever you do," he continues, voice dropping even lower, "don't let him see your doubt. he'll know. he always knows."
before you can respond, the gates swing open with an ominous creak. barty straightens, all vulnerability vanishing from his expression as he settles his mask into place. "it's time."
you follow him up the long gravel path to the manor, other black-robed figures converging from different directions. no one speaks. the only sound is the crunch of gravel underfoot and the distant cry of peacocks from the gardens.
inside, the manor is as opulent as rumors suggest—marble floors, crystal chandeliers, ancient artifacts displayed in glass cases. lucius malfoy stands at the entrance to a large ballroom, greeting each arrival with a nod. he's not wearing a mask, his platinum hair gleaming in the candlelight.
"crouch," he acknowledges as barty approaches. "and..." his cold gray eyes shift to you, a flicker of recognition passing through them. "ah, yes. the newest additions to our ranks. he's waiting."
you follow barty into the ballroom, which has been transformed into something resembling a throne room. rows of masked figures stand in concentric semicircles, facing a raised dais at the far end. on it sits a high-backed chair, and in that chair...
your blood turns to ice.
lord voldemort looks both more and less than human. tall and gaunt, with skin so pale it's almost translucent, eyes like burning coals in a face that seems to be melting and reforming even as you watch. he radiates power and malevolence in equal measure.
barty's hand finds yours in the shadows between your robes, squeezing once before letting go. a reminder. a warning. a promise.
you take your place in the outer circle beside him, keeping your eyes fixed on the floor as names are called and reports are given. the inner circle speaks first—bellatrix, passionate and wild; lucius, cool and calculated; severus, recently graduated but already rising through the ranks with his potions expertise.
then it's the new recruits' turn. one by one, they step forward, pledge their loyalty, receive their assignments. regulus, evan, mulciber, avery—familiar faces from school now transformed into soldiers.
"barty crouch junior," voldemort calls, his voice high and cold, carrying easily through the silent room.
beside you, barty straightens, squaring his shoulders before stepping forward. he moves differently here—confident, eager, none of the restless energy that usually animates him. he kneels before the dais, head bowed in perfect submission.
"my lord," he says, voice clear and steady. "i am yours to command."
voldemort regards him with something that might be amusement on a human face. "yes," he agrees. "you are. and i have such plans for you, young crouch. such plans."
barty's head lifts slightly, and even from where you stand, you can see the fervor in his eyes. "i will not disappoint you, my lord."
"see that you don't," voldemort replies, before dismissing him with a wave.
barty returns to his place beside you, practically vibrating with excitement. you want to reach for him, to ground him somehow, but you dare not move.
your name is called next, and it takes every ounce of willpower to step forward, to cross the expanse of marble floor under the weight of so many hidden eyes. you kneel where barty knelt, feel the cold seeping through your robes into your knees.
"look at me," voldemort commands, and reluctantly, you raise your eyes to meet his.
immediately, you feel a pressure in your mind—subtle at first, then more insistent. legilimency. you've been warned about this, trained to guard your thoughts, but nothing could prepare you for the actual sensation of another consciousness sliding through your memories like fingers through water.
you focus on what you know he wants to see—your loyalty, your willingness to serve, your belief in the cause. you bury everything else—your doubts, your fears, your feelings for barty—beneath layers of fabricated devotion.
voldemort's lips curve into something approximating a smile. "interesting," he murmurs. "you have... potential. but also weakness." his gaze flicks briefly to where barty stands. "attachments can be dangerous things."
your heart stutters in your chest. he knows. of course he knows.
"unless," voldemort continues, "they can be used to strengthen resolve rather than weaken it." he leans forward slightly. "can you do that, i wonder? can you turn your... affections... into something useful?"
"yes, my lord," you reply, the words automatic, empty.
voldemort studies you for another long moment, then nods. "we shall see. for now, you will work with bellatrix. she will teach you what it means to truly serve."
bellatrix's cackling laugh echoes from somewhere to your right, sending chills down your spine. working with her means being separated from barty, who you know has been assigned to dolohov's group. it's deliberate, you realize. he's testing you both. seeing if your loyalty to him outweighs your loyalty to each other.
"thank you, my lord," you manage to say before retreating back to the circle.
the rest of the meeting passes in a blur. more names, more assignments, more pledges of loyalty. finally, voldemort rises, his tall frame seeming to stretch even further as he addresses the assembled crowd.
"my faithful followers," he begins, his voice caressing the words. "we stand on the precipice of a new world. our numbers grow daily. the ministry weakens. soon, very soon, the wizarding world will be cleansed of the filth that has infected it for too long."
murmurs of approval ripple through the crowd. beside you, barty's breathing has quickened, his eyes fixed on voldemort with an intensity that frightens you.
"go forth," voldemort continues. "fulfill your assignments. prove your worth. those who serve me well will be rewarded beyond measure. those who fail..." his gaze sweeps the room, lingering briefly on you. "will wish for death long before it finds them."
with that pleasant thought, the meeting is adjourned. death eaters begin to disperse, some disapparating immediately, others gathering in small groups to discuss their assignments. bellatrix beckons to you from across the room, her heavily-lidded eyes gleaming with malicious anticipation.
before you can move, barty's hand closes around your wrist, pulling you toward a secluded alcove. "what did he say to you?" he demands, voice low and urgent. "i saw him looking into your mind."
"nothing important," you lie. "just testing my loyalty."
you hesitate, then nod. there's no point denying it. "he knows, barty. about... whatever this is."
"and?" barty presses. "what did he say?"
"that attachments are dangerous," you reply, watching his face carefully. "unless they strengthen resolve rather than weaken it."
something flickers in barty's eyes—concern, maybe, or fear. but it's quickly replaced by that familiar fervor. "he's right," he says. "this—us—it can make us stronger. more devoted. we can prove ourselves together."
you study him, this boy—man now, you suppose—who has been the center of your universe for longer than you care to admit. he looks different in death eater robes, his face half-hidden by the mask pushed up onto his forehead. there's a hardness to him that wasn't there before, an edge of fanaticism that grows sharper every time he's in voldemort's presence.
"is that what you want?" you ask softly. "to prove yourself to him?"
barty's hand moves to cup your face, thumb brushing over your cheekbone. "i want us to survive," he says, echoing his words from months ago in your dormitory. "i want us to thrive in the world he's creating. i want..." he trails off, something vulnerable flickering in his eyes. "i want you. always."
and despite everything—despite the mark on your arm, despite the monster in the next room, despite the darkness growing in barty with each passing day—you still want him too. still need him like you need air to breathe.
"okay," you whisper, leaning into his touch. "okay."
barty's lips brush against yours, brief but fierce. "meet me tonight," he murmurs. "after your session with bellatrix. my flat in london. you remember the address?"
you nod. "i remember."
"don't be late," he says, already pulling away, mask sliding back into place—both literal and figurative. "and be careful with bellatrix. don't let her see any weakness."
with that, he's gone, striding across the ballroom to where dolohov waits with several other death eaters. you watch him go, memorizing the line of his shoulders, the confident set of his stride.
"touching," a voice purrs from behind you, and you turn to find bellatrix leaning against the wall, watching you with undisguised amusement. "young love among the ranks. how... sweet."
gideon's arm feels heavy around your shoulders as you sit with him in the three broomsticks. it's your fourth date, or maybe your fifth—you've lost count, the days blending together in a haze of performative smiles and mechanical responses. he's in the middle of telling you about quidditch practice, his voice animated, hands gesturing wildly as he recounts some spectacular save he made.
you're nodding at all the right moments, laughing when his expression indicates you should, but your eyes keep drifting to the corner table where she sits with dorcas meadowes and mary macdonald.
marlene mckinnon. your ex-best friend. your ex-something-else-entirely.
she hasn't looked your way once, deliberately keeping her back to you, but you know she's aware of your presence. you can tell by the tension in her shoulders, the way she holds herself too still, too controlled. the marlene you knew was never still—always fidgeting, always in motion, hands dancing as she spoke.
"hey," gideon says, snapping his fingers in front of your face. "you in there?"
you blink, dragging your attention back to him. "sorry. just tired from studying."
"you're always tired lately," he observes, a hint of annoyance creeping into his voice. "if i didn't know better, i'd think you were avoiding me."
"don't be ridiculous," you say, forcing yourself to touch his hand, to smile up at him. "i'm just stressed about o.w.l.s."
he seems placated by this, his expression softening. "well, i know something that might help you relax," he murmurs, leaning in to press his lips against yours.
you let him kiss you there in the middle of the crowded pub, his mouth tasting of butterbeer and nothing else. nothing like—
"you taste like strawberries," you had whispered against marlene's lips, both of you hidden in the shadows of the quidditch stands after everyone else had gone. it was a chilly october evening in fifth year, and marlene had pulled you close, wrapping her scarf around both your necks.
"it's lip balm," she'd said, smiling against your mouth. "do you like it?"
you'd kissed her again in response, deeper this time, your fingers tangling in her wild curls. "i like everything about you," you'd breathed, and the look on her face—shock melting into pure joy—had made your heart stutter in your chest.
the scrape of chair legs against wood pulls you from the memory. you look up to see marlene standing, throwing some coins on the table. she's laughing at something mary said, but her eyes are dull, her smile not reaching them. dorcas touches her arm in a gesture that seems too intimate, and something ugly twists in your stomach.
"i need to use the loo," you tell gideon, extracting yourself from his embrace. he nods, already turning to wave over james potter and sirius black who've just entered the pub.
you follow marlene, watching as she separates from her friends and heads toward the back of the pub. she slips into the narrow hallway that leads to the toilets, and without allowing yourself to think, you follow.
she's washing her hands when you enter, and her eyes meet yours in the mirror. for a moment, neither of you speaks. then she sighs, turning off the tap and reaching for a towel.
"stalking me now?" she asks, her voice deliberately light, but there's an undercurrent of something raw beneath it.
"we need to talk," you say, checking to make sure you're alone before casting a quick silencing charm on the door.
marlene raises an eyebrow. "now you want to talk? after four months of pretending i don't exist?"
"that's not fair—"
"fair?" she cuts you off, her voice rising slightly. "you want to talk about fair? was it fair when you shoved me away on your birthday? when you told me what we had wasn't real?"
you flinch, your back hitting the door. "i never meant to hurt you."
"well, good luck with that," she says bitterly. "because you'd have to stop the world just to stop hurting me now."
she moves to push past you, but you catch her wrist. "marls, please—"
"don't call me that." she jerks her arm away like your touch burns. "you lost the right to call me that when you started parading around with prewett."
"i'm not parading—"
"you're not?" her laugh is hollow. "what do you call it then? letting him paw at you in public, kissing him where everyone can see? you never let me touch you like that, not even when we were alone."
it had been raining the first time you'd told her no. you were in the library, studying in a secluded corner, and she'd reached for your hand under the table. you'd pulled away as if scalded, glancing around frantically to see if anyone had noticed.
"no one's looking," she'd said, hurt evident in her voice.
"someone could see," you'd insisted, your voice barely above a whisper. "we need to be careful."
"careful," she'd repeated, the word sounding like a curse on her lips. "always so careful."
"that was different," you say weakly.
"yeah, it was different because you were ashamed of me," she says, her eyes bright with unshed tears. "you still are."
"i wasn't—" you start, but the lie tastes sour in your mouth. "i was scared."
"and i wasn't?" she demands. "you think i wasn't terrified? the difference is i thought you were worth it. i thought we were worth it."
she moves to leave again, and this time you let her go, your arms hanging uselessly at your sides. just before she opens the door, she turns back to you.
"you know what's pathetic? even now, even after everything, i'd still choose you. i'd still stand up to the whole world for you." she shakes her head, a sad smile playing at her lips. "i'm cliché, who cares?“
she leaves without another word, the door swinging shut behind her. you stay in the bathroom for a long time, staring at your reflection in the mirror, trying to recognize the person staring back at you.
when you finally return to the table, gideon has been joined by his friends. he pulls you onto his lap without asking, his hand resting possessively on your thigh. across the pub, marlene is watching now, her eyes meeting yours over the rim of her butterbeer.
you don't look away this time. neither does she.
two weeks pass in a blur of classes and stolen glances across rooms. gideon becomes more insistent, his hands wandering further each time you're alone, his kisses growing more demanding. you let him, hoping that if you try hard enough, if you push yourself far enough, eventually your body will forget what it felt like to be touched by her.
it doesn't work.
"we should go to the room of requirement tonight," gideon suggests one evening as you study together in the common room. his hand is on your knee, fingers drawing slow circles on your skin. "get some privacy."
you know what he's asking. you've been dating for almost two months now, and he's been patient, but his patience is wearing thin. part of you thinks maybe this is what you need—to cross that final line, to prove to yourself that you can be what everyone expects you to be.
"okay," you agree, and his face lights up with surprise and excitement.
"really? brilliant. after dinner?"
you nod, already feeling numb. out of the corner of your eye, you see marlene enter the common room, a stack of books in her arms. she glances your way, then quickly averts her gaze, heading for a table in the far corner.
"i've never done this before," you'd confessed, your voice trembling as marlene's fingers skimmed under the hem of your shirt, tracing patterns on your bare skin. you were in the room of requirement, a space transformed into a cozy bedroom with a large four-poster bed and a fireplace crackling softly in the background.
"we don't have to," she'd whispered, pulling back to look into your eyes. "we can stop anytime you want."
but you hadn't wanted to stop. you'd wanted her hands on you, her mouth on yours, her body pressed against yours so tightly that you couldn't tell where you ended and she began.
afterward, lying tangled in the sheets, your head on her chest, listening to the steady beat of her heart, you'd felt more at peace than ever before. "i love you," you'd murmured into her skin, the words slipping out before you could stop them.
she'd gone very still, and for a moment you'd panicked, thinking you'd said too much. but then her arms had tightened around you, and she'd pressed a kiss to the top of your head. "i love you too," she'd said, her voice filled with wonder, as if she couldn't quite believe she was allowed to say the words out loud. "i love you so much it scares me sometimes."
dinner comes and goes. you pick at your food, unable to eat, your stomach a tight knot of anxiety. gideon doesn't seem to notice your discomfort, too busy joking with his friends, his arm slung casually around your shoulders.
across the great hall, marlene sits with her friends, laughing at something sirius black is saying. but there's something forced about her laughter, something brittle in her smile. she looks tired, dark circles under her eyes that weren't there before. before you. before everything went wrong.
"ready?" gideon asks as people begin to leave the hall, his breath hot against your ear.
you nod mechanically, letting him take your hand and lead you out. as you pass the gryffindor table, your eyes meet marlene's. something flashes across her face—pain, resignation, maybe both—before she looks away, her jaw set in a hard line.
the room of requirement provides a setting not unlike what it created for you and marlene—a large bed, a fireplace, soft lighting. but where that room had felt warm and safe, this one feels cold, impersonal.
gideon doesn't seem to notice or care. he's kissing you before the door even closes behind you, his hands already working at the buttons of your blouse.
"wait," you say, pulling back slightly. "can we slow down?"
he sighs but nods, leading you to sit on the edge of the bed. "sorry," he says, though he doesn't sound particularly apologetic. "you just drive me crazy, you know that?"
you force a smile, letting him kiss you again, trying to focus on the physical sensation instead of the emptiness growing inside you. his hands are back at your blouse, and this time you don't stop him as he undoes the buttons, his fingers fumbling slightly in his eagerness.
"you're so beautiful," he murmurs against your neck, and you close your eyes, pretending it's a different voice, different hands.
but it's not. it's not her soft touch, her gentle words, her strawberry-scented breath. it's rough stubble against your skin, calloused fingers that don't know where to touch, how to touch.
"gideon, i—i can't," you say, pulling away suddenly, your chest heaving. "i'm sorry, i thought i could, but i can't."
his face darkens, frustration evident in the set of his mouth. "what's the problem? we've been together for months."
"i know, i just—i'm not ready."
"not ready," he repeats, running a hand through his hair. "is this about mckinnon?"
your heart stops. "what?"
"you think i haven't noticed? the way you look at her, the way she looks at you?" he laughs, a harsh sound that echoes in the quiet room. "the whole school's been gossiping about it for years."
you feel the blood drain from your face. "i don't know what you're talking about."
"don't insult my intelligence," he says, standing up. "i thought dating me would help squash the rumors, that's why i asked you out. but if you're still hung up on her—"
"there's nothing between me and marlene," you interrupt, the lie tasting like ash in your mouth.
gideon looks at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "whatever you say," he says finally. "but i'm not going to be your beard while you figure things out."
he leaves without another word, the door slamming shut behind him. you sit on the bed, your blouse half-unbuttoned, your world crumbling around you.
if gideon knew, who else did? had everyone been talking about you and marlene all this time? had all your efforts to hide, to be normal, been for nothing?
you don't remember leaving the room of requirement or walking back to the gryffindor tower. you're operating on autopilot, your mind a whirlwind of panic and confusion.
the common room is mostly empty when you enter, just a few students studying by the fire. and marlene, sitting alone in the window seat, a book open in her lap though she doesn't seem to be reading it.
she looks up as you approach, her expression guarded. "you look like hell," she observes, but there's concern beneath the briskness of her tone.
"gideon broke up with me," you say, your voice sounding distant to your own ears.
she marks her place in the book before closing it, giving you her full attention. "i'm sorry," she says, though she doesn't sound sorry at all. "what happened?"
"he knows." the words come out in a whisper. "about us. he says everyone knows."
marlene is quiet for a moment, her eyes searching your face. "and that's why you're upset? because people might know you were with me?"
"i'm upset because i've been lying to myself, to everyone, for nothing," you say, sinking down onto the window seat beside her. "i've been so afraid of what people would think, and it turns out they already knew."
"not everyone," she says, a hint of bitterness creeping into her voice. "just the ones paying attention."
"what am i supposed to do now?" you ask, more to yourself than to her.
marlene sighs, running a hand through her curls. "what do you want to do?"
"what do you want?" marlene had asked you once, lying beside you in the grass by the lake, hidden from view by a large oak tree. it was early in your fifth year, before everything fell apart.
"right now? nothing. this is perfect," you'd answered, content to lie there with her, watching clouds drift across the sky.
"no, i mean in life," she'd clarified, turning on her side to face you. "after hogwarts. what's your plan?"
you'd thought about it for a moment. "i don't know. work at the ministry maybe? get married eventually, have a couple of kids." it was what was expected, after all. the path laid out for girls like you.
"to who?" she'd asked, her voice carefully neutral.
you'd turned to look at her, confused. "what do you mean, to who?"
"who would you marry?" her eyes had been serious, searching.
"i don't know, i haven't thought about it," you'd said, suddenly uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation.
"would you marry me?" she'd asked, her voice so quiet you'd barely heard it. "if you could?"
you'd sat up abruptly, looking around to make sure no one was nearby. "marlene, don't say things like that."
"why not?" she'd pushed, sitting up as well. "it's just a question."
"because people don't—it's not—we can't get married," you'd stammered, your face burning. "two girls can't get married."
"not legally, no," she'd agreed. "but if we could. would you want to?"
you hadn't answered. you couldn't. because the truth was, you had thought about it. in your most private dreams, the ones you never acknowledged in daylight, you'd imagined a life with her. a home, a future. but those dreams were impossible, forbidden. dangerous.
"never mind," she'd said after your prolonged silence, lying back down and closing her eyes. "forget i asked."
but you hadn't forgotten. and sometimes, when you looked at her, you wondered if she could see the answer written all over your face.
"i don't know what i want," you admit now, your voice small.
"yes, you do," marlene says, her tone gentle but firm. "you're just afraid to admit it."
she's right, of course. she's always been able to see through you, to the heart of you, in a way no one else can.
"i'm scared," you confess, your voice breaking. "i'm so scared all the time."
marlene's expression softens, and for a moment you think she might reach for you. but she keeps her hands firmly in her lap, maintaining the distance between you.
"i know you are," she says. "but living like this—denying who you are, who you love—that's scarier. trust me, i've tried both ways."
"have you?" you ask, genuinely curious. "tried to be with boys, i mean?"
she nods, a small smile playing at her lips. "twice. once in third year with benjy fenwick, before i really understood what i was feeling for you. and again last month with sirius."
the revelation hits you like a physical blow. "you and sirius?"
"nothing happened," she assures you. "we went to hogsmeade, he tried to kiss me, i couldn't go through with it." she shrugs. "turns out i'm cliché.“
you recognize the phrase from what she said in the bathroom at the three broomsticks. "what does that mean?"
"it means i'm in love with you," she says simply, as if stating a fact as ordinary as the color of the sky. "despite everything, despite how much it hurts, i can't stop."
her honesty leaves you breathless. "marlene—"
"you don't have to say anything," she interrupts. "i'm not telling you this to pressure you or to make you feel guilty. i'm telling you because it's true, and i'm tired of pretending it's not."
"what if—" you start, then stop, afraid to voice the thought.
"what if what?" she prompts gently.
"what if we tried?" you whisper, the words barely audible. "not hiding, i mean. being together, properly."
hope flares in her eyes, bright and dangerous, before she carefully schools her expression. "is that what you want?"
"i don't know," you admit. "i'm still scared. of what people will say, of what my parents will do when they find out."
"they might surprise you," she suggests, though her tone indicates she doesn't quite believe it herself.
"they might disown me," you counter. "your parents are different, they're more accepting. mine are—"
"traditional," she supplies. "i know. but you can't live your life for them."
"easy for you to say."
she laughs, a genuine sound that makes your heart flip in your chest. "nothing about this has been easy, trust me."
you sit in silence for a moment, the weight of the conversation settling around you. finally, marlene speaks again, her voice quiet but determined.
"here's what i think," she says. "i think you should take some time. figure out what you want, what you can live with. and when you know—really know—come find me."
"and if what i want is you?" you ask, hardly believing your own boldness.
her smile is sad, tinged with hope. "then you know where i'll be. i'm not going anywhere."
she stands, gathering her book and her bag. "it's late, and we both have transfiguration first thing tomorrow."
you nod, watching as she prepares to leave. "marlene?"
she pauses, looking back at you. "yeah?"
"thank you. for waiting, for being—" you gesture vaguely, unable to find the right words. "for being you."
"don't thank me yet," she says, her voice gentle. "i might not wait forever."
but the look in her eyes tells you she will. she'll wait as long as it takes for you to be brave enough to choose her, to choose yourself.
as she walks away, heading up the stairs to the girls' dormitory, you wonder if you ever will be that brave. if you'll ever be able to stand up to the world, to your parents, to your own fears.
the answer doesn't come that night, or the next. it doesn't come when gideon starts dating mary macdonald a week later, or when your mother sends you a letter asking if you've met any nice boys yet.
it doesn't come until the end of the year, when you're packing to go home for the summer and you find a small silver bracelet tucked into the bottom of your trunk. a bracelet with two charms: a star and a flower.
"the star is me," she'd explained on your birthday, her voice soft and uncertain, "and the flower is you. because you're... you're the most beautiful thing i've ever seen."
you hold the bracelet in your palm, the silver catching the light from the window. you don't remember putting it in your trunk—which means marlene must have placed it there, a silent reminder of what you once shared, what you could share again.
you slip it onto your wrist, the metal cool against your skin. tomorrow you'll go home to your parents' house, to their expectations and their plans for your future. you'll smile and nod and play the part of the dutiful daughter.
but in september, when you return to hogwarts for your sixth year, you'll find marlene on the train. you'll sit beside her, your hand finding hers beneath the cover of your robes. and maybe, just maybe, you'll be brave enough to keep holding on, even when there's nowhere to hide.
for now, though, you close your trunk, the bracelet a comforting weight on your wrist, a promise to yourself that someday you'll stop running. someday you'll be brave enough to face the world with marlene by your side.
ᵎ!ᵎ angst, emotional hurt, grief/mourning, parental death (mentioned), alcohol use, reconciliation, angst with hope, female rage somehow, trust issues, pining, pensieve, past betrayal, lowercase intended, miscommunication, second chance perhaps?
word count [ 6,800 ]
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the great hall buzzed with morning chatter, but it all faded to white noise as you stared blankly at your untouched porridge. three hundred takeout coffees later—that's how the song went, right? except in your case, it was three hundred breakfasts later, three hundred classes later, three hundred nights of staring at the ceiling while your roommates slept peacefully.
"you need to eat something," remus murmured beside you, his voice gentle but firm. "you've lost weight."
"not hungry," you replied, pushing the bowl away. your eyes unconsciously drifted across the table, landing on him—james potter, laughing at something sirius had said, his hazel eyes crinkling at the corners the way they used to when you'd whisper stupid jokes against his neck at three in the morning.
he caught you looking. you didn't look away fast enough.
something flashed across his face—pain, maybe? good. let him hurt. let him fucking hurt like you did.
"he asks about you," remus said quietly, following your gaze. "all the time."
"fascinating," you replied, voice dripping with venom. "tell him to keep asking. i'll keep not giving a shit."
remus sighed. "you know why he—"
"don't," you cut him off. "i don't care if his dad was dying, rem. i would have been there for him. instead, he chose to push me away, to be cruel, to make me hate him. and then he fucked jessica hall at that party two days later."
you stood up abruptly, slinging your bag over your shoulder. "i have ancient runes."
"it's thursday," remus pointed out. "you don't have ancient runes until—"
"then i'll be early."
"i'm not leaving," you whispered against his chest, two summers ago at potter manor. outside, rain lashed against the windows, but inside james' bedroom, everything was warm. his parents were downstairs, preparing dinner, and you'd snuck up to his room simply to hold each other.
"ever?" he asked, his fingers tracing patterns on your spine.
"ever," you confirmed, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. "they'll have to drag me out."
"good," he murmured, tipping your chin up to kiss you properly. "because i love you more than anything in this world."
"more than quidditch?" you teased.
"infinitely more than quidditch," he said solemnly.
"then i guess you're stuck with me," you whispered.
"promise?" he asked.
"promise."
in ancient runes, you could barely focus. professor babbling's voice washed over you as you stared out the window at the quidditch pitch. james would be there later for practice. you used to watch him practice, bundled in his oversized jumper, cheering him on. now you avoided the pitch entirely.
"miss y/l/n," professor babbling called. "perhaps you'd like to translate this passage for us?"
you dragged your eyes from the window, scanning the runes on the board. your mind was blank.
"i—i'm sorry, professor. i wasn't—"
"paying attention, clearly," she finished for you. "see me after class."
the rest of the lecture dragged on. when the bell finally rang, you approached babbling's desk with reluctance.
"this is the third time this month, miss y/l/n," she said, looking at you over her spectacles. "your marks are slipping."
"i know, professor. i'm sorry."
her expression softened. "is everything alright? you've always been one of my best students."
"just tired," you lied. "i'll do better."
she nodded, unconvinced. "i expect your translation essay on my desk by monday morning."
the library was quiet that evening. you'd claimed your usual corner table, surrounded by ancient runes texts and parchment, trying to focus on anything but memories of him.
footsteps approached. you didn't look up.
"can i sit here?"
your quill froze mid-word. his voice still affected you, still sent electricity down your spine despite everything. you refused to look up.
"everywhere else is taken," james added softly.
"library's big, potter," you replied coldly. "find another spot."
"please," he said, and something in his voice made you finally look up.
he looked awful. well, awful for james potter, which meant he was still unfairly beautiful but clearly suffering. dark circles beneath his eyes, hair more chaotic than usual, tie loose around his neck. he'd lost weight too, you noticed with unwanted concern.
"what do you want?" you asked.
"to study," he replied, holding up his transfiguration textbook. "nothing else."
against your better judgment, you nodded once. he slid into the chair across from you, careful to keep distance between you.
for thirty minutes, you worked in tense silence. you could feel his eyes on you occasionally, but every time you looked up, he was focused on his book.
until—
"your hair's different," he said suddenly.
you touched the ends of your hair self-consciously. you'd cut it after the breakup, a desperate attempt to feel different, to be someone new.
"observant," you muttered.
"i like it," he offered.
"i didn't do it for you."
"i know," he said quietly. "you never did anything for me. that's what i loved about you."
loved. past tense. the word stung more than it should have.
"is there a point to this conversation?" you asked sharply.
james looked down at his hands. "i just... miss talking to you."
"you should have thought about that before you made me hate you."
his eyes flashed with hurt. "is that what you think i did?"
"it's what you did, james," you said, your voice finally betraying emotion. "you were cruel. deliberate. you pushed and pushed until i broke. and then you fucked jessica hall two days later."
"it wasn't like that," he said, so quietly you almost didn't hear him.
"enlighten me, then," you challenged. "tell me how it was."
he opened his mouth, then closed it again. his eyes—those stupid hazel eyes you used to get lost in—filled with something like regret.
"i can't," he finally said.
you laughed bitterly. "that's what i thought."
you gathered your books and stood. "stay at the table. i'll go."
"wait," he said, reaching for your wrist but stopping just short of touching you. "your essay. is it for babbling?"
"what's it to you?"
"you translated this wrong," he said, pointing to a line on your parchment. "it's not 'eternal darkness' here—it's 'temporary shadow.'"
you stared at him. "since when do you know ancient runes?"
a flush crept up his neck. "i've been studying it. i know how much you love it."
the implication hung between you. he'd been learning your favorite subject, even after everything.
"well, thanks," you said stiffly, correcting the translation. then, against your better judgment: "how's your dad?"
pain flickered across his face. "he, uh... he died. last month."
your heart dropped. "james, i'm—"
"don't," he cut you off. "don't say you're sorry. i know you are. it's who you are."
silence stretched between you, heavy with unspoken words.
"i should go," you finally said.
"for what it's worth, i never slept with jessica."
you froze, back still to him.
"she passed out on the couch," he continued quietly. "i put a blanket over her and slept on the floor. everyone just assumed..."
"why are you telling me this now?" you asked, still not turning around.
"because i'm tired of you thinking i'm someone i'm not," he said simply. "i'm many things, but i'm not a liar. and i never stopped loving you."
"you're an asshole!" you screamed, tears streaming down your face. three months ago, in an empty classroom, the beginning of the end.
"if that's what you think, then leave," james said coldly, his face a mask of indifference that didn't reach his eyes.
"what happened to you?" you asked, voice breaking. "where is the james i fell in love with?"
"maybe he was never real," he replied, turning away. "maybe this is who i really am."
"look at me," you demanded. when he didn't, you grabbed his arm. "look at me and tell me you don't love me anymore."
he finally turned, his eyes suspiciously bright. for a moment, his mask slipped, and you saw such pain that it stole your breath.
then it was gone, replaced by that cruel indifference. "i don't love you anymore."
the world stopped turning.
"liar," you whispered.
but you walked away anyway, because even if he was lying, he'd made his choice. and it wasn't you.
you didn't turn around in the library. you couldn't look at him, couldn't let him see how his words affected you.
"good night, james," you said, and walked away.
that night, you lay awake in your dormitory, staring at the ceiling. the anger that had sustained you for months was crumbling, leaving behind confusion and an ache that wouldn't subside.
"he never slept with her," you whispered to yourself. "he never slept with her."
but he'd still pushed you away. he'd still chosen to hurt you rather than let you support him through his father's illness. that betrayal couldn't be undone with one truth.
could it?
the next morning at breakfast, you felt his eyes on you the moment you entered the great hall. this time, you didn't look away. this time, you met his gaze across the crowded room.
he looked surprised, then hopeful. cautiously, he raised his hand in a small wave.
you didn't wave back. but you didn't look away either.
it wasn't forgiveness. it wasn't even the beginning of forgiveness. but it was something.
a crack in the ice.
maybe, three hundred more breakfasts from now, you'd be ready to hear him out. maybe you'd be ready to understand why he pushed you away when his father was dying, why he thought hurting you was better than letting you in.
or maybe not.
you picked up your spoon and began to eat your porridge, aware of him still watching you, aware of the small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
it wasn't over. not yet.
but whether that was good or bad remained to be seen.
three days passed. you'd caught him watching you in every shared class, during meals, in the corridors between lessons. his eyes followed you like a ghost, haunting your periphery.
you still hadn't spoken since that night in the library.
"he's miserable," lily evans said, sliding into the seat next to you in the common room on friday night. your friendship with lily had always been complicated—her history with james, the way she'd become a tentative ally after your breakup.
"that's not my problem," you replied, not looking up from your charms essay.
lily sighed. "i know what he did was awful. but—"
"but what?" you snapped, finally meeting her eyes. "you're going to defend him now? after all the shit you've said about him over the years?"
"people change," she said quietly. "he's changed."
you laughed bitterly. "into what? someone who destroys the people who love him? who pushes away anyone who tries to help him?"
lily studied you for a long moment. "he didn't want you to watch his father die," she finally said. "he didn't want you to see him fall apart."
your quill snapped between your fingers, ink splattering across your parchment. "he told you that?"
"no," lily admitted. "remus did. but only because he's worried about you both."
you closed your eyes, fighting back the wave of emotions threatening to drown you. "i would have been there for him," you whispered. "through anything."
"i know," lily said gently. "that's exactly what scared him."
"i think i want to be an auror," you told james, sprawled across his bed that summer before fifth year, his parents downstairs making dinner. "or maybe a curse-breaker."
james traced his fingers along your arm, leaving goosebumps in his wake. "you'd be brilliant at either."
"what about you?" you asked, turning to face him.
he shrugged. "dad wants me to join the ministry."
"but what do you want?"
james was quiet for a long moment. "i want to do something that matters," he finally said. "something brave."
you reached up, brushing his hair back from his forehead. "you're the bravest person i know, james potter."
he caught your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm. "only when i'm with you," he whispered. "you make me better than i am."
"no," you said, shaking your head. "i just see who you really are."
he pulled you closer, his forehead resting against yours. "swear you'll never leave me," he whispered, vulnerability raw in his voice.
"i swear," you promised. "not even if you beg me to."
how terribly ironic those words would become.
you skipped dinner that night, taking refuge in the astronomy tower. the stars always calmed you, reminded you how small your problems really were in the grand scheme of things.
except this pain didn't feel small. it felt all-consuming.
"i thought i might find you here."
you didn't need to turn to know it was him. james' footsteps were as familiar to you as your own heartbeat.
"are you following me now?" you asked, keeping your eyes on the stars.
"no," he said, stopping several feet away. "but i know you come here when you're upset."
"i'm not upset."
"liar," he said softly.
the accusation—so gentle, so knowing—broke something inside you. you spun around, fury rising like a tidal wave.
"don't you dare," you hissed. "don't you fucking dare call me a liar. not after what you did."
james flinched but held his ground. "i deserve that."
"you deserve worse," you spat. "you want to know what upsets me, james? the fact that you decided, all on your own, that i wasn't strong enough to handle your pain. that you'd rather destroy us than let me see you vulnerable."
"it wasn't about you not being strong enough," he said quietly.
"then what?" you demanded, stepping closer. "what possible reason could justify how you treated me?"
something dangerous flashed in his eyes. "you want to know how my father died?" he asked, voice cracking. "he wasted away. inch by inch. day by day. until he wasn't my father anymore—just a shell. i watched my mother break apart trying to save him, trying to be strong for him. i watched her lose herself in his suffering."
tears streamed down his face now, but he made no move to wipe them away. "i couldn't do that to you," he whispered. "i couldn't watch you destroy yourself trying to save me."
"that wasn't your choice to make," you said, your own voice breaking. "i loved you. i would have—"
"exactly," he interrupted. "you would have given everything. sacrificed everything. and i would have let you, because i was selfish and scared and falling apart."
you shook your head, anger warring with grief. "so instead you decided to be cruel?"
"i thought if you hated me, it would be easier," he admitted. "for both of us."
"don't touch me," james snapped, jerking away from your hand. two weeks before the breakup, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep.
"james, please," you begged. "talk to me. whatever's happening, we can face it together."
"there is no 'we,'" he said coldly. "there's me, and there's you, and right now i need you to leave me the fuck alone."
you stepped back as if slapped. "what's happened to you?"
he laughed, a hollow sound that chilled your blood. "maybe i'm finally showing you who i really am. maybe this is who i've always been."
"i don't believe that," you whispered.
"then you're a fool," he replied, walking away without looking back.
later that night, you found him on the quidditch pitch, flying recklessly in the pouring rain. when he finally landed, soaked and shivering, you were waiting with a towel and dry clothes.
he stared at you, something like desperation in his eyes. "why are you still here?" he asked, voice raw.
"because i love you," you said simply. "even when you're like this."
for a moment—just a moment—his mask cracked. he reached for you, pulling you against his wet clothes, burying his face in your neck. "i don't deserve you," he whispered.
"maybe not," you agreed, holding him tightly. "but you have me anyway."
the next day, he acted like it never happened. the walls were back up, higher than before.
"you broke my heart," you whispered in the astronomy tower, stars witnessing your confession. "not when we broke up—i could have survived that. you broke it when you made me believe i never really knew you at all."
james looked stricken. "i'm sorry," he said, and the words seemed torn from somewhere deep inside him. "god, i'm so fucking sorry."
"sorry doesn't fix anything."
"i know," he agreed. "nothing can fix what i did. but i need you to know that everything before—every moment, every word, every promise—that was real. that was the truest thing in my life."
silence stretched between you, heavy with history and pain and love that refused to die, no matter how badly you both had wounded it.
"i saw you," you finally said. "with that ravenclaw girl last week. she looks like me."
james paled. "it's not—"
"i don't care who you fuck, potter," you cut him off. "but at least have the decency not to replace me with my clone."
"she asked me for help with transfiguration," he said quietly. "nothing happened."
"do i look like i care?" you asked, but your voice betrayed you, cracking on the last word.
"yes," he said simply. "you do."
you turned away, unable to bear the honesty in his eyes. "leave me alone, james."
"i can't," he whispered. "i've tried. for months, i've tried. but i can't stop loving you. i can't stop missing you. i can't stop hating myself for what i did to us."
you closed your eyes, fighting back tears. "that's your problem, not mine."
"look at me," he pleaded. "just look at me and tell me you don't love me anymore."
the echo of your own words from months ago hit you like a physical blow. slowly, you turned to face him.
"i don't love you anymore," you said, but your voice shook, betraying the lie.
james stepped closer, closing the distance between you. "liar," he whispered, his breath warm against your face.
"i think i want to marry you someday," james murmured against your hair, both of you hidden beneath his invisibility cloak in the astronomy tower, breaking curfew to watch a meteor shower the winter of sixth year.
you laughed softly. "we're sixteen, james."
"i know," he said, tightening his arms around you. "but i also know what i want. who i want."
you turned in his arms to face him. "you might change your mind."
"never," he said with such conviction that your heart stuttered. "you're it for me. the rest of my life, you're it."
you kissed him then, slow and deep and full of promises neither of you were old enough to make but made anyway.
his proximity was intoxicating, dangerous. you could smell his cologne—the same one you'd given him last christmas. you stepped back, needing distance.
"we can't do this," you said. "you can't just decide you want me back and expect me to fall into your arms."
"i know," he said, not following when you retreated. "i know i have no right to ask anything of you."
"then what do you want from me?" you demanded.
james ran a hand through his hair—that familiar, infuriating gesture that had always made your heart skip. "a chance," he said simply. "not forgiveness, not yet. just... a chance to show you who i really am. who we were."
"i know who we were," you said bitterly. "we were everything. and then we were nothing."
"we were never nothing," he whispered.
you turned away, unable to look at him anymore. "i have to go."
"please," he said, desperation edging into his voice. "just tell me if there's any hope. even the smallest chance."
you paused at the door, not turning around. "i don't know, james," you admitted. "i honestly don't know."
three days later, you found a small package outside your dormitory door. inside was a vial of swirling silver memories and a note in james' handwriting: these are my truths. if you want to see them, pensieve in dumbledore's office. password is 'acid pops.' he knows you're coming.
you stared at the vial for hours, turning it over in your hands, watching the memories shimmer and dance.
did you want to see inside his head? see the truth he couldn't speak aloud?
did you want to risk understanding him?
because understanding might lead to forgiveness. and forgiveness might lead back to him.
and you weren't sure if you were ready to fall again, knowing how badly it would hurt if he let you break a second time.
but that night, as you lay in bed staring at the vial on your nightstand, you made your decision.
tomorrow, you would see his truths.
tomorrow, you would decide if what you had was truly over.
morning arrived with a sense of inevitability. you'd barely slept, the vial of memories a constant presence in your consciousness. by dawn, you were already dressed and waiting for an appropriate hour to visit the headmaster's office.
at precisely eight o'clock, you found yourself standing before the stone gargoyle.
"acid pops," you murmured, and the statue leapt aside, revealing the spiral staircase.
dumbledore was waiting, as if he'd been expecting you at this exact moment. his blue eyes twinkled knowingly over his half-moon spectacles.
"miss y/l/n," he greeted. "mr. potter informed me you might be visiting. the pensieve is ready for your use."
you clutched the vial tightly. "thank you, professor."
"memories are curious things," dumbledore mused as he led you to the cabinet where the pensieve sat. "they show us truth, but always through the lens of the one who experienced it. remember that as you view them."
with those cryptic words, he excused himself, leaving you alone with the shallow stone basin.
hands trembling slightly, you uncorked the vial and poured the silvery contents into the pensieve. the memories swirled, hypnotic and terrifying. taking a deep breath, you leaned forward until your face touched the surface, and then you were falling, falling...
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james sat beside a hospital bed in st. mungo's, holding the frail hand of a man who barely resembled the strong, vibrant fleamont potter you remembered from previous summers. his father's skin was pallid, stretched thin over protruding bones, his breathing labored.
"how is school, son?" fleamont asked, his voice a ghost of its former self.
"good," james lied, forcing a smile. "we're top of the house cup standings."
"and your girl?" fleamont's eyes brightened slightly. "when will you bring her to visit again?"
james swallowed hard. "soon, dad. she's... she's busy with exams."
another lie. you watched james' face carefully, saw the pain etched into every line.
euphemia potter entered then, carrying tea. her normally impeccable appearance was disheveled, dark circles prominent beneath her eyes. she looked like she'd aged years in months.
"james," she said, her voice brittle. "your father needs rest. perhaps you should return to school now."
james nodded, pressing a kiss to his father's forehead. "i'll be back next weekend."
in the corridor outside, euphemia collapsed against her son, silent tears streaming down her face. "the healers say there's nothing more they can do," she whispered. "it's just a matter of time now."
james held her, his own face a mask of controlled anguish. "how much time?"
"weeks. maybe a month."
you watched as something hardened in james' eyes—a decision forming.
"don't tell anyone," he said. "not yet."
the scene shifted. james in dumbledore's office, receiving the news of his father's deteriorating condition. "you'll need to prepare yourself, mr. potter," the headmaster said gently. "and perhaps consider who you wish to have support you through this difficult time."
"no one," james said firmly. "i don't want anyone to know."
dumbledore studied him over his spectacles. "isolation rarely eases grief, mr. potter."
"i'm not isolating myself," james argued. "i have my friends. sirius, remus, peter."
"and miss y/l/n?" dumbledore inquired. "surely she would want to support you."
the memory showed james turning away, his voice tight. "especially not her."
another shift. james in the boys' dormitory, sirius confronting him.
"you're destroying her," sirius said bluntly. "and yourself in the process."
"it's better this way," james insisted, pacing like a caged animal. "you've seen what this is doing to my mother. she's fading away right alongside him, sirius. i can't... i can't watch that happen to y/n too."
"so your solution is to make her hate you?" sirius demanded. "that's fucked up, prongs."
"she'll move on," james said, but his voice broke on the words. "she'll find someone better. someone whole."
"you're a fucking idiot," sirius said, but there was no heat in it—only sadness.
the scene changed again. james standing outside the charms classroom, watching you laugh with your friends. the naked longing on his face was devastating. remus appeared beside him.
"it's not too late," remus said quietly. "tell her the truth."
"it is too late," james replied, turning away as you emerged from the classroom. "i made sure of it."
memories began to blur together now—fragments of james receiving owls from st. mungo's, sleepless nights, moments where he nearly broke and ran to find you, only to stop himself. and underlying it all, a sense of desperate, suffocating love for you that he was systematically trying to destroy.
then the party after your breakup. james, drunk and miserable, while everyone around him celebrated. jessica hall approaching him, flirting openly.
"want to go somewhere quieter?" she suggested, trailing her fingers down his arm.
james looked at her through glazed eyes. for a moment, it seemed he might agree—might try to lose himself in someone else.
instead, he shook his head. "i can't," he said simply.
later, jessica passed out on the couch, james covering her with a blanket before collapsing on the floor nearby, tears streaming silently down his face as he clutched something in his hand—a small velvet box containing a ring you'd never seen.
the final memory was the most painful. james at his father's funeral, standing stoic beside his mother as they lowered the coffin into the ground. you weren't there—couldn't be there—because you didn't know.
afterward, in the empty potter house, james finally broke. he destroyed his room in a fit of grief and rage, shattering photo frames of the two of you, ripping down the quidditch posters you'd always teased him about, smashing the mirror where you'd once stood behind him, arms wrapped around his waist as you both got ready for the day.
when the destruction was complete, he sank to his knees among the debris, clutching a salvaged photograph of you to his chest, whispering your name like a prayer.
────────────
you emerged from the pensieve gasping, tears streaming down your face. the room spun around you as you gripped the edge of dumbledore's desk for support.
it was too much—too raw, too real. the james in those memories was both familiar and foreign. the boy you loved, twisted by grief and misguided protection.
you needed air. needed space to process what you'd seen.
dumbledore was nowhere in sight as you fled his office, running blindly through the corridors until you found yourself outside, the cool spring air hitting your tear-streaked face.
without conscious thought, your feet carried you toward the lake—your spot, where you and james had spent countless hours hidden from the world.
he was there. somehow, you knew he would be.
james sat beneath the beech tree, staring out at the water, looking more vulnerable than you'd seen him in months. he turned at the sound of your approach, hope and fear warring in his eyes.
"you saw," he said. not a question.
"i saw," you confirmed, your voice raw from crying.
silence stretched between you, filled with everything you couldn't say.
"why didn't you just tell me?" you finally asked, the question that had haunted you for months.
james looked down at his hands. "because you would have stayed," he said simply. "you would have sacrificed everything to be there for me, and i couldn't bear it."
"that wasn't your choice to make," you said, anger flaring again despite what you'd witnessed.
"i know," he admitted. "i know that now. i was... i was trying to protect you from my pain."
"by causing me pain instead?" you demanded, stepping closer. "by making me believe everything we had was a lie?"
james flinched. "i thought it would be easier if you hated me."
"easier for whom?" you spat. "certainly not for me. do you have any idea what it did to me, watching you become someone i didn't recognize? hearing you say you didn't love me anymore with that mouth that used to beg for mine?"
you were trembling now, months of suppressed rage finally breaking free. "that mouth that used to whisper how much you loved me, how you'd never hurt me—and then you turned into a lying traitor right before my eyes."
james looked stricken, each word landing like a physical blow.
"i deserved that," he whispered. "all of it and worse."
"yes, you did," you agreed. "you took everything from me, james. not just our relationship—you took my trust, my belief that i could recognize truth from lies, my ability to let anyone close again."
you sank down onto the grass, suddenly exhausted. "i understand why you did it now," you admitted. "but understanding doesn't erase what happened."
james remained standing, keeping his distance. "i don't expect it to," he said softly. "i just... i needed you to know the truth. even if it changes nothing between us."
you looked up at him, really looked at him for the first time in months. behind the grief and regret, you could still see traces of your james—the boy who had loved you completely, who had promised you forever and meant it.
"it changes things," you finally said, voice barely audible above the gentle lapping of the lake. "but i don't know how much."
hope flickered in his eyes—fragile, tentative. "what does that mean?"
you stood, brushing grass from your robes. "it means i need time, james. time to decide if what you did is something i can forgive. time to figure out if there's anything left worth salvaging."
"i'll give you all the time you need," he said immediately. "i'll wait—however long it takes."
you nodded, turning to leave, then paused. "your father... i wish i could have been there. for both of you."
james' eyes filled with tears. "he asked about you," he said, voice breaking. "right until the end."
the admission cracked something inside you. without thinking, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him—the first time you'd touched in months. he stiffened in surprise, then melted against you, his body shaking with silent sobs.
"i'm so sorry," he whispered against your hair. "i'm so fucking sorry."
you held him, letting him break apart in your arms the way he'd been so afraid to do. this wasn't forgiveness—not yet—but it was something. a beginning, perhaps. or at least not an ending.
when you finally pulled away, his face was wet with tears, but there was something lighter in his expression—as if sharing the burden had lifted some of his grief.
"i should go," you said softly.
he nodded, not trying to stop you. "thank you," he said. "for seeing. for understanding, even if you can't forgive."
you turned to leave, then looked back one last time. "i don't know if we can ever be what we were," you said honestly. "too much has happened. but maybe... maybe we can find out who we are now."
it wasn't a promise. it wasn't even hope, really. but it was possibility.
and for now, that would have to be enough.
a week passed. you avoided each other by unspoken agreement, both needing space to process what had happened by the lake.
you caught glimpses of him—in the great hall, during classes, across the common room. each time, your eyes would meet briefly before one of you looked away. the air between you was charged, electric with possibility and uncertainty.
your friends noticed the shift. "something's different," lily observed one evening as you both studied in the library. "between you and james."
"nothing's different," you lied, not looking up from your potions text.
lily arched an eyebrow. "you looked at him yesterday. actually looked at him, without that hatred in your eyes."
you sighed, closing your book. "i saw his memories," you admitted. "in dumbledore's pensieve."
"oh," lily said softly. "his father?"
you nodded. "and everything else."
"does that change things?"
you traced a finger along a scratch in the wooden table. "it explains things. i'm not sure it changes them."
but that wasn't entirely true. something had changed—you could feel it every time james entered a room, the awareness that prickled across your skin, the way your body still responded to his presence despite everything.
understanding had eroded some of your anger, but not all of it. in its place was something more complicated—a tangle of hurt, longing, and unresolved desire that made it difficult to breathe when he was near.
"i want you," james whispered against your neck, his hands sliding beneath your shirt. seventh year had just begun, before everything fell apart. you were hidden in the room of requirement, celebrating your anniversary.
"show me," you challenged, arching into his touch.
his eyes darkened as he looked at you, hunger and adoration mingling in his gaze. "tell me what you want," he said, voice rough with desire.
"everything," you replied, pulling him closer. "i want everything."
later, curled against him in the tangled sheets, you traced the contours of his face with gentle fingers. "promise me something," you whispered.
"anything," he said immediately.
"promise you'll always tell me the truth. no matter how difficult it is."
james caught your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm. "i promise," he said solemnly.
another promise broken.
the astronomy tower had become your refuge again, a place to escape when thoughts of james threatened to overwhelm you. past midnight on a friday, you leaned against the stone parapet, staring at the stars and trying to quiet your mind.
the door creaked open behind you.
you didn't need to turn to know who it was. weeks of avoiding each other, and now here he was, drawn to the same place as you.
"i'll go," james said quietly.
"stay," you replied, surprising yourself. "if you want."
he approached cautiously, keeping a careful distance between you as he leaned against the parapet. for a long while, neither of you spoke, the silence filled with stars and shared history and things unsaid.
"i miss you," he finally said, the words startlingly honest in the darkness. "every fucking day, i miss you."
you closed your eyes, his voice washing over you like a physical touch. "i'm still angry," you admitted. "i understand why you did it, but i'm still so fucking angry, james."
"you have every right to be," he said. "i wouldn't expect anything else."
you turned to look at him then, really look at him. moonlight sculpted his features, throwing shadows beneath his cheekbones, glinting off his glasses. he looked beautiful and devastated and so familiar it hurt.
"i miss you too," you whispered, the confession torn from somewhere deep inside you. "and i hate that i miss you."
something shifted in his expression—hope warring with restraint. "where does that leave us?"
"i don't know," you said honestly. "i don't trust you anymore. but i can't stop wanting you either."
james inhaled sharply at your words. "y/n—"
"don't," you cut him off. "don't say anything. not yet."
you stepped closer, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. close enough to see his pupils dilate, to hear his breath catch.
"i'm still so fucking mad at you," you whispered, your voice shaking. "i'm mad at you for lying. i'm mad at you for pushing me away. i'm mad at you for making me love you so much that even after everything, i still can't stop."
james remained perfectly still, as if afraid any movement might shatter this fragile moment between you.
"i need you to understand something," you continued, your voice low and intense. "if—and that's a big if—if we ever try again, it can't be like before. you don't get to decide what i can handle. you don't get to 'protect' me by lying. you talk to me, even when it's hard. especially when it's hard."
"i understand," he said, his voice rough with emotion.
"do you?" you challenged, stepping even closer. "because i need to know that you get it, james. i need to know that you understand what you did to us."
"i do," he whispered. "i destroyed the best thing in my life because i was scared and stupid and thought i knew what was best for you."
"and you'll never do that again?" you demanded.
"never," he swore, his eyes never leaving yours. "i swear on my life, on everything i am."
you reached up, your hand hovering near his face without touching. "i want to believe you."
"then believe me," he said simply.
something broke inside you then—the last of your resistance crumbling beneath the weight of need and anger and love that had never truly died. you closed the distance between you, your mouth crashing against his with bruising force.
james froze for a heartbeat, then responded with equal desperation, his hands tangling in your hair as he backed you against the stone wall. the kiss was nothing like the tender exchanges you once shared—this was raw, hungry, almost violent in its intensity.
you bit his lower lip hard enough to draw blood, tasting copper on your tongue. "i'm still angry," you gasped against his mouth.
"i know," he groaned, lifting you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist. "be angry. i deserve it."
your nails dug into his shoulders through his shirt, marking him, claiming him even as you punished him. his hands gripped your thighs with bruising pressure, his body pressed against yours with a need that matched your own.
"this doesn't fix anything," you warned between kisses, your breath coming in harsh pants.
"i know," he repeated, his lips trailing fire down your neck. "nothing fixes it. nothing except time and truth and proving myself to you every day for as long as you'll let me."
you pulled back, forcing him to meet your eyes. "no more lies," you demanded. "ever."
"no more lies," he agreed, his gaze steady on yours. "i'm an open book to you. always."
for a long moment, you searched his face, looking for any hint of deception. finding none, you pulled him back to you, your kiss softer now but no less desperate.
"i still love you," you confessed against his mouth, the words both surrender and challenge. "god help me, i still fucking love you."
james pressed his forehead to yours, his breathing ragged. "i never stopped," he whispered. "not for a single moment."
you disentangled yourself from him, feet finding the floor again. standing face to face, both of you disheveled and breathing hard, reality began to seep back in.
"we can't just pick up where we left off," you said, straightening your clothes with trembling hands. "too much has happened."
"i know," james said, not reaching for you again though his eyes betrayed how much he wanted to. "i don't expect that."
"so what now?" you asked.
james ran a hand through his hair—that achingly familiar gesture that had once made you roll your eyes fondly. "now we take it one day at a time," he said. "we start over. slowly. on your terms."
you nodded, stepping back to create distance between you. your body still hummed with desire, your lips still tingling from his kiss. "i need to think," you said. "i need to be sure this is what i want."
disappointment flickered across his face, but he nodded. "whatever you need."
you moved toward the door, pausing with your hand on the handle. "james?"
"yes?"
"i'm not promising anything," you said. "but i'm not saying no either."
a ghost of a smile touched his lips. "that's more than i deserve."
"probably," you agreed, a reluctant smile of your own emerging. "i'll see you tomorrow."
as you descended the stairs from the astronomy tower, your body still ached with unresolved tension, your mind racing with conflicting emotions. nothing was resolved. nothing was fixed. but something had shifted—hope rising from the ashes of what you'd lost.
you were still angry. you still didn't fully trust him. but beneath it all was the undeniable truth that had never changed, even when you wished it would:
you loved james potter. despite everything, in spite of everything, because of everything—you loved him.
and maybe, just maybe, that was somewhere to start.
the tip of your wand presses into the hollow of james potter's throat, hard enough to make him swallow. his adam's apple bobs against the wood, and you watch the way his pulse jumps—not with fear, no, never with fear. james potter doesn't do fear. he does arrogance, he does recklessness, he does that infuriating fucking grin that's spreading across his face right now like he's not seconds away from being hexed into next week.
"say that again," you hiss, your voice low, venomous. "i dare you."
james' grin widens, something dangerous flickering behind his glasses. "ravenclaw's seeker's got the reaction time of a concussed kneazle," he repeats, slow, deliberate, like he's savoring every syllable. his breath ghosts across your skin, warm despite the distance you're trying to maintain. "what, you gonna deny it? saw her miss that snitch by a mile last match. even hufflepuff was laughing."
you press your wand harder until a small red mark blooms on his skin. "you're such a prick."
"yeah," he agrees, shameless, voice dropping to something that sends unwelcome shivers down your spine. "but you love it."
you don't. you don't. you hate the way his stupid, messy hair catches the sunlight, hate the way his glasses are always slightly crooked, hate the way his fucking eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles. hate that he's still smiling now, even with your magic crackling at his throat. hate that you can feel the heat radiating off him, that your fingers remember the exact texture of his jersey from that one time you shoved him in the corridor and your hand lingered for a heartbeat too long.
"wink at me again," you say, voice trembling with fury, "and i'll hex your eyes out."
james doesn't blink. doesn't even hesitate. "then what are you gonna look up at when you're down on your knees, darling?"
the words hit you like a bludger to the chest. but you can't look away from james, from the way his gaze drops to your mouth for half a second before flicking back up, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. your stomach twists, something molten and forbidden pooling low.
"i hate you," you spit, but the words come out breathless, betraying you.
"liar," he says, soft, the single word wrapping around your throat like a vice.
your breath catches. something in the air shifts, crackles, like the moment before lightning strikes.
and then—
sirius' hand clamps around your wrist like a vice, yanking you back so hard you stumble. the sudden movement breaks the spell—literally, your wand jerks away from james' throat, leaving behind a faint red mark. james doesn't even flinch. just watches you with those eyes that see too much, that always have.
"what the fuck do you think you're doing?!" sirius snaps, his grip tightening. his eyes are wild, flicking between you and james like he's trying to piece together a scene that makes sense. it doesn't. none of this does. none of this ever has, not since that first day on the train when james looked at you like he'd been waiting his whole life to find you.
you wrench your arm free, glaring. "hexing your new brother," you sneer, the words tasting like acid. "since you've so carelessly replaced me and regulus."
the words land like a curse. sirius' face goes rigid, his jaw tightening. for a second, you think he might actually hex you. but then james laughs—light, easy, like he's not standing in the middle of a fucking landmine.
"mate," he says, clapping sirius on the shoulder, "relax. we were just having a chat."
"a chat?" sirius repeats, voice sharp with disbelief. "her wand at your throat isn't a chat, james.”
"it is when it's her," james says, and something in the way he says it—like it's a secret, like it's a confession—makes your skin prickle with goosebumps.
"he's right," you mutter, crossing your arms to hide the way your hands have started to shake. "we were just talking."
james grins. "see? she gets me."
"oh, for fuck's sake—" sirius drags a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. "you two are impossible."
"takes one to know one," you shoot back.
sirius glares at you, then at james, then back at you. "i don't know what's going on here," he says slowly, "but i swear to merlin, if this is some fucked-up, tension-filled—"
"it's not," you cut in, too fast, too defensive.
james raises an eyebrow, something knowing and wicked in his expression. "if it was?"
sirius looks like he wants to strangle both of you. "right," he says flatly. "well, if you're done trying to murder my best friend—"
"attempted murder," james corrects, and you hate the way his voice curls around the words, like they're some inside joke only the two of you share.
"—then maybe we can all walk away before someone ends up in the hospital wing."
you scoff but lower your wand. james, the bastard, winks at you again. slowly. deliberately. like a promise.
sirius groans. "i hate you both."
you don't look at james as you walk away. you don't. but you can feel his smirk, like sunlight on your skin—warm, relentless, impossible to ignore. feel his gaze burning into your back, leaving invisible fingerprints you'll never be able to wash away.
the quidditch pitch, two days later.
the roar of the crowd is deafening, a tidal wave of sound crashing over the pitch as you tighten your grip on your broom. the wind whips through your hair, sharp and biting, but you barely feel it—your blood is too hot, your focus razor-edged. across the field, james potter grins, spinning his bat in one hand like he's already won.
you hate that grin. hate that it sends liquid heat sliding down your spine, hate that you can't look away.
"black!" your captain barks. "eyes on the quaffle, not potter!"
you tear your gaze away, jaw clenched so tight it aches. it doesn't matter that james' laughter carries on the wind, bright and taunting. it doesn't matter that every time your brooms pass within inches of each other, your pulse stutters, your breath catches, your body remembers something it shouldn't. none of it matters.
because quidditch isn't about him.
madam hooch's whistle shrieks, and the game explodes into motion.
james is good.
you always knew that, of course—everyone at hogwarts knows james potter is the best chaser gryffindor's had in years. but knowing it and seeing it are two different things. he moves like he was born in the air, all reckless speed and impossible precision. when he dives, the crowd gasps. when he scores, they scream.
and when he looks at you—just once, just for a heartbeat—as he soars past, you forget how to breathe.
you don't watch. you don't care.
you steal the quaffle from a distracted gryffindor chaser and tuck it under your arm, spiraling into a sharp turn. the goalposts loom ahead, and you can already see the keeper bracing, but you don't hesitate. you feint left, then twist right at the last second, hurling the quaffle with all your strength—
a blur of red and gold slams into you.
the impact knocks the breath from your lungs, your broom lurching violently sideways. you barely manage to stay on, gripping the handle until your fingers ache. when you look up, james is right there, so close you can see the flecks of gold in his stupid, infuriating eyes. so close you can count his eyelashes, can see the sheen of sweat on his upper lip, can feel the heat of him even through your quidditch robes.
"nice try," he says, breathless, grinning. "almost had me."
for a split second, you're not sure if he's talking about the quaffle or something else entirely.
you snarl, shoving past him. "fuck you, potter."
he laughs, loud and bright, and then he's gone, streaking back toward the action. but the ghost of his touch lingers, burning through layers of fabric like a brand.
the game is brutal.
gryffindor's up by thirty when you finally get your revenge. james has the quaffle, weaving through defenders like they're standing still, but you're faster. you cut him off mid-dive, shoulder-checking him hard enough to send him veering off course. the quaffle slips from his grip—
you catch it.
the crowd erupts. you don't hear them. all you hear is the rush of blood in your ears, the pounding of your heart as you race toward the hoops. james is already recovering, already chasing you, but you're not letting him win. not this time. not ever.
the keeper lunges. you fake high, throw low.
score.
the ravenclaw stands go wild, but you don't celebrate. you just turn, meeting james' gaze across the pitch. he's not smiling anymore. his eyes are dark, hungry, fixed on you like you're the only thing that matters.
good.
the game doesn't end.
not for you. not when the quaffle is a burning weight in your hands, not when the wind screams past your ears like it's begging you to go, go, go. james is on your tail, always, always there, but you don't look back. you don't have to. you know the exact shape of his frustration in the way he swears when you fake left and barrel right, when you twist midair and hurl the quaffle through the center hoop before the keeper even blinks.
score.
200 to 80.
the stands are a blur of blue and bronze, roaring your name, but you don't stop. can't stop. not when james is breathing down your neck, not when his voice cuts through the chaos—"you're not getting past me again, black."
you laugh, sharp and breathless, adrenaline making you reckless. "watch me."
the next goal is harder. gryffindor's keeper is pissed now, eyes locked onto you like you've personally insulted his entire bloodline. doesn't matter. you feint high, drop low, and when james lunges to block you, you spin, robes snapping against the wind, and pass to your teammate at the last second. they score before gryffindor even realizes what's happening.
score.
230 to 100.
james' jaw is clenched when you fly past him, his usual smirk wiped clean off his face. it's the most satisfying thing you've ever seen. almost as satisfying as the way his eyes follow you, dark and intense, like he can't look away even if he wanted to.
you lose track of time. of everything, really, except the quaffle, the hoops, the way james' shoulders tense every time you dart out of reach. you score again. and again.
280 to 120.
the crowd is losing their minds. even the gryffindors are staring at you like you've grown a second head. you don't care. you're untouchable.
then—
a flash of gold in the corner of your vision.
the gryffindor seeker plunges, hand outstretched, and the world seems to slow. you see the snitch flutter, trapped between their fingers. hear the deafening shriek of the whistle.
150 points.
the scoreboard flickers.
280 to 270.
silence. then—
"ravenclaw wins."
and the second the whistle shrieks, james potter snaps.
his gloves hit the grass before the crowd's cheers even reach their peak. his chest heaves, not from exhaustion—no, james could fly for hours without breaking a sweat—but from something darker. something raw. his fingers curl into fists at his sides, knuckles white, trembling with the force of holding himself back.
and his eyes—merlin, his eyes.
they're locked onto you like you're the only thing left in the world— this time, in the most negative way possible. like he wants to ruin you. like he wants to take you apart piece by piece and put you back together with his hands, his mouth, his teeth.
you don't flinch. you tilt your chin up, meeting his glare with a smirk still sticky with sweat and victory. but inside, your heart is pounding so hard you think it might crack your ribs.
sirius is suddenly between you both, hands up like he's trying to ward off an explosion. "james—"
but james doesn't even look at him. doesn't even blink. his voice is low, rough, a blade dragged over gravel. "you."
one word. that's all it is. but it feels like a curse. like a confession. like a prayer.
you raise an eyebrow, fighting to keep your voice steady. "me."
for anyone else, this would be the moment james loses it. for anyone else, he'd already have them pinned to the ground, wand at their throat, voice sharp with hexes. but you? you're different. you've always been different. and that's the worst part.
he could lunge at you. could scream, could shove, could make you regret every fucking point you scored today.
but he doesn't.
because james potter is a storm held back by a single, fraying thread—and that thread is you.
his jaw works, his breath coming in sharp bursts. then, without another word, he turns on his heel and stalks off the pitch, shoulders rigid with fury.
the crowd parts for him like he's something dangerous.
maybe he is.
sirius lets out a slow whistle, glancing at you. "you're gonna be the death of him."
you watch james disappear into the locker rooms, your heart pounding in a way that has nothing to do with the game. your skin feels too tight, your breath too shallow, your blood singing with something you refuse to name.
"good," you mutter.
and the second the words leave your lips—"good"—something in the air shatters— james stops dead.
his back is still to you, shoulders heaving, fingers twitching at his sides like he's physically restraining himself from turning around and ruining you. the crowd's cheers fade into white noise. the wind dies. even sirius goes unnaturally still beside you, like he's holding his breath.
then—
james turns.
slow. deliberate.
his glasses are slightly crooked from the game, his hair wilder than usual, sweat glistening at his temples. his lips are parted, his breath uneven. but his eyes—fuck, his eyes. dark with something that makes your stomach twist, your thighs press together, your breath catch in your throat.
he takes a step toward you.
then another.
and another.
until he's so close you can feel the heat rolling off him in waves, can smell the leather of his gloves, the sharp tang of broom polish, the sweat and adrenaline clinging to his skin. his gaze drops to your mouth for a fraction of a second before snapping back up, and you feel the look like a physical touch.
"you think this is funny?" his voice is low. rough. barely recognizable.
you swallow, fighting to keep your voice steady. "a little."
his jaw clenches. "you think i'm joking?"
"i think," you say, your voice betraying you with a slight tremor, "you're pissed because i beat you at your own game."
a muscle feathers in his cheek. "you didn't beat me."
"ravenclaw won."
"that's not what i meant."
the words hang between you, charged, dangerous. his chest brushes yours with every ragged breath he takes, but he doesn't touch you. not yet. the anticipation is a living thing, crawling beneath your skin, making every nerve ending tingle.
you can feel it, though—the tension, the want, the way his fingers twitch like he's imagining wrapping them around your throat. or your waist. or your hair. pulling until you gasp, until you arch, until you admit what you've been denying since the first time you saw him.
"what did you mean, then?" you whisper, the words barely audible over the thunder of your pulse.
his eyes burn into yours. "you know."
"i don't."
"liar."
the accusation hits like a slap. because he's right. he's always been right. from the first day on the train, when he looked at you like he'd found something precious, something his, and you looked back like you wanted to set him on fire. you've been lying to yourself, to him, to everyone.
you open your mouth to argue, but then—
his hand snaps up, fingers tangling in the front of your quidditch robes, yanking you forward until your lips are a breath from his. his other hand cups your jaw, thumb pressing into the corner of your mouth, rough, possessive, claiming.
"this," he growls. "this is what i meant."
and then—
he kisses you.
not sweet. not gentle.
hard.
hungry.
like he's been starving for it.
like he's done pretending he doesn't want you.
your fingers curl into his jersey, clinging, as his teeth graze your bottom lip, as his tongue slides against yours, as he ruins you in front of everyone. as he claims you, marks you, takes what's been his since the beginning.
when he finally pulls back, his breath is ragged, his lips swollen, his eyes wild.
"still think it's funny?" he murmurs, his voice wrecked in a way that makes heat pool in your belly.
you're too busy trying to remember how to breathe to answer. your heart is pounding, your lips tingling, your body humming with a need so intense it's almost painful.
your fingers tighten in his jersey, yanking him back before he can pull away completely. his breath hitches—just once—before you crash your lips into his again, harder this time.
you bite his lower lip, sharp enough to make him groan, and he loses it. his hands drop to your waist, hauling you flush against him, his grip bruising. you can feel the furious pound of his heartbeat where your chest presses against his, can taste the sweat and adrenaline and anger still coiled on his tongue. can feel every hard plane of his body against yours, every place where you fit together perfectly despite years of pretending you don't.
when you finally break apart, gasping, your lips brush his as you murmur—
"this was never about quidditch, was it?"
his grip tightens, fingers digging into your hips like he's afraid you'll disappear if he lets go. "no."
"then what was it about?"
his thumb drags over your bottom lip, smearing the blood from where your teeth caught it. his voice is wrecked, raw with a vulnerability you've never heard from him before. "you know."
ᵎ!ᵎ post-full moon , slightly explicit/mature , fluff , hurt/comfort , hogwarts era , heavy emotional vulnerability , “tell me to stop” , emotional & physical intimacy
word count [ 1,200 ]
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the dorm is too quiet without the others. james left his quidditch jersey slung over the bedpost, sirius’s boots are kicked haphazardly near the door, and peter’s half-eaten chocolate frog sits abandoned on his nightstand. but they’re gone now—off to hogsmeade with the girls, laughing and shoving each other in the snow. you stayed. you always stay.
remus sits cross-legged in front of the fireplace, his back to you. the flames paint his skin gold, but they can’t hide the new bruises on his neck, the way his shoulders slump under the weight of what he becomes once a month. his sweater is too big on him, the sleeves unraveling at the cuffs. you want to thread your fingers through every hole, stitch him back together with your hands.
“you should’ve gone with them,” he says, voice rough. he’s been saying variations of this since you slipped into the dorm an hour ago, your knees bumping his as you settled beside him. “you’d be warmer there. butterbeer. the three broomsticks. not… this.”
you don’t answer. instead, you reach for the sleeve of his sweater, tugging it gently until his hand is in your lap. his fingers twitch, cold and scraped raw. you press your palm to his, measuring the difference—his knuckles broader, your fingertips softer. he exhales, shaky.
“see?” you murmur. “i am warm.”
his throat works. the fire pops. he turns his hand over in yours, his thumb brushing the inside of your wrist. his touch is hesitant, like he’s still afraid you’ll pull away. but you don’t. you never do.
“you’re ridiculous,” he mutters, but there’s no bite to it. just that quiet, tired fondness that makes your chest ache. “sitting here with me when you could be drinking butterbeer and listening to sirius make a fool of himself.”
you grin, nudging his knee with yours. “sirius makes a fool of himself every day. this is more special.”
he huffs a laugh, low and rough. “special. right. watching me brood by the fire like some tragic hero.”
“you are tragic,” you say, leaning into him just enough that your shoulder presses against his. “but not in the way you think.”
he goes still for a second, then tilts his head to look at you. the firelight catches in his eyes, turning them honey-gold. “oh? enlighten me, then.”
you pretend to think, tapping a finger against your chin. “hm. tragic because you’re so dramatic about everything. tragic because you refuse to admit you like my company. tragic because—”
“alright, alright,” he groans, but he’s smiling now, just a little. the kind of smile that only shows when he forgets to hold it back. “you’ve made your point.”
“have i?” you tease, tugging at his sleeve again. “because i could keep going.”
he rolls his eyes, but his fingers tighten around yours. “you’re insufferable.” “you love it.”
the words slip out before you can stop them, light and joking—but the second they hang in the air, something shifts. his breath catches, just barely. the fire crackles. your heart pounds.
and then, softly, so softly you almost miss it:
“...yeah. i do.”
the silence stretches between you, thick and sweet like honey. his words hang in the air—yeah. i do.— and suddenly the room feels smaller, the fire brighter, the space between your bodies electric.
you don’t speak. you don’t need to.
his fingers trace idle patterns against your palm, calloused and careful, like he’s memorizing the shape of you. the firelight flickers, casting shadows across his face—the curve of his mouth, the dip of his throat, the faint scar cutting through his brow. you want to touch all of it. you want to taste the salt on his skin.
slowly, so slowly, his hand slips from yours. for a heartbeat, you think he’s pulling away—but then his fingertips brush your waist, tentative, testing. your breath hitches. his eyes dart to yours, searching for permission, for protest. you give him neither. you just watch him, lips parted, chest rising too fast.
the touch lingers, warm through the fabric of your shirt. his thumb presses into the dip of your hip, and you shiver. he notices. of course he does.
“cold?” he murmurs, voice rough.
you shake your head. “no.”
his fingers tighten, just a little. “liar.”
but he’s smiling—that rare, real smile, the one that crinkles the corners of his eyes. the one he saves for moments like this, when the world outside doesn’t exist, when it’s just the two of you and the fire and the quiet.
outside, the rain starts to fall. it patters against the windows, soft and steady, but inside, it’s warm. inside, his hand is on your waist, his breath mingling with yours. inside, his heart is beating hard enough that you can feel it where your knees touch.
you lean in. just a little. just enough.
his gaze drops to your mouth as the rain drums harder against the glass. his fingers flex at your waist, gripping like you might vanish if he doesn’t hold on. your lips are so close now you can almost taste the words he hasn’t said—the ones stuck in his throat, the ones that smell like wolfsbane and sound like a heartbeat.
“remus,” you whisper.
his name is a spell, a plea. his eyes darken.
for a second, he hesitates. you see it—the flicker of fear, the old ghost of i ruin everything i touch. but then your hand finds his chest, right over the scar padfoot swears looks like a crescent moon, and he makes a sound so quiet it’s barely there at all.
when he kisses you, it’s not sweet. it’s not soft. it’s a collision—lips bruising, teeth clashing, his hands tangling in your hair like he’s drowning and you’re air. you gasp, and he swallows it, pulls you closer until there’s no space left between you, until you’re pressed so tight you can feel the shake in his bones.
it’s messy. it’s perfect.
he breaks away first, forehead pressed to yours, breath ragged. “...sorry,” he mutters, but he doesn’t let go. his thumbs dig into your hips like he’s mapping the shape of you. “i didn’t—i shouldn’t have—”
you bite his lower lip, sharp. he groans.
“shut up,” you murmur against his mouth.
and this time, when he kisses you, he doesn’t stop as the fire sputters, casting jagged shadows across the walls while his hands slide under your sweater, rough palms skating over the dip of your spine.
you arch into him, nails scraping the nape of his neck, and he growls—actually growls—low in his throat. it’s not human. it’s not safe. but still, it makes your stomach flip.
“remus,” you gasp again, but he’s already dragging his mouth down your jaw, your throat, teeth scraping where your pulse jumps. his breath is hot, uneven. you can feel the tension coiled in him, the way he’s holding back, always holding back.
“tell me to stop,” he murmurs against your collarbone, voice wrecked. his fingers dig into your hips hard enough to bruise. “please.”
you don’t.
instead, you fist your hands in his hair and yank his head up, forcing him to look at you. his pupils are blown wide, gold almost swallowed by black. there’s a wildness there, something barely leashed. it should scare you. it doesn’t.
“i’m not afraid of you,” you say, slow, deliberate.
his breath hitches. his grip tightens. for a heartbeat, he just stares at you, chest heaving, like he’s waiting for the punchline. then, with a broken sound, he crashes into you again, mouth desperate, hands frantic.
the couch creaks under your weight as he pins you down, his body a solid line of heat against yours. his lips are everywhere—your neck, your shoulders, the hollow beneath your ear—each kiss more bruising than the last.
you can feel the tremors running through him, the war between what he wants and what he thinks he deserves.
“you’re shaking,” you whisper.
he stills, forehead pressed to your sternum. “i know.”
you card your fingers through his hair, gentle now. “look at me.”
when he does, his expression guts you—raw, vulnerable, aching. you kiss him softly this time, just a brush of lips, and he makes a noise like it hurts.
outside, the storm rages. inside, he comes apart in your hands.
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