Bite Size Stories

You can find my stories here -> AO3

Personal @lunariadusk

Characters I written:

1. Thank you so much!

The fog had rolled in off the coast thick enough to swallow Feldcroft whole.

Sebastian stood at the edge of the property, hands shoved into his coat pockets, watching it curl around the stone fences like something alive. He hadn't slept. The dark circles beneath his eyes had become permanent fixtures at this point — part of his face the same way the tension in his jaw was, the same way the slight downward pull at the corner of his mouth had been since Anne got worse.

He heard you before he saw you. Footsteps on frost-hardened ground, then the warmth of a shoulder pressing against his arm.

"You're going to freeze," you said.

"I'm fine."

"You've been standing out here for an hour."

He didn't answer that. There wasn't much to say to it that wasn't an admission of something he wasn't prepared to make. That the walls of the cottage had started closing in. That Ominis's careful, measured concern had begun to feel like a verdict. That the only place he could breathe was outside, alone, in the cold and the fog where nothing expected anything from him.

Except you'd followed him out anyway.

"Sebastian."

"I said I'm fine."

You were quiet for a moment. Not the uncomfortable kind of quiet — not the kind that meant you were waiting for him to apologize or explain himself or perform some version of okay that he didn't have in him tonight. Just quiet. Present.

The fog shifted. Somewhere below the hill, a sheep made its displeasure known and then went silent.

"You don't have to talk," you said eventually. "I'm not out here to make you."

He exhaled. The breath came out ragged at the edges, and he hated that — hated the way grief had a habit of living in the lungs, making even ordinary air feel labored.

"Then why are you out here?"

You turned to look at him, and even in the grey smothering dark he could see your expression clearly enough. No pity in it. He was grateful for that more than he knew how to say.

"Because the fog's thick tonight," you said simply, "and it's easier to stand in it with someone."

Sebastian looked back out at the white nothing swallowing the valley. His chest ached in the specific, formless way it had been aching for months — the way that didn't have a name beyond too much and not enough and I don't know how to fix this.

But your shoulder was still pressed against his arm and the fog was thick, yes — dense and cold and indifferent.

But you were warm.

He didn't move away.

Tom doesn't break.

He's built himself into something impenetrable—all sharp edges and cold calculation, emotions locked behind walls of Occlumency that would make lesser wizards weep. He doesn't beg. Doesn't plead. Doesn't show weakness.

Until you.

"Please," he breathes against your neck, and the word sounds foreign in his mouth. Wrong. Like he's speaking a language he swore he'd never learn.

You're in his bed, in his space, unraveling him with patient hands and whispered praise. Every touch chips away at his carefully constructed armor, and he's losing the battle to remain unmoved.

"Look at me," you murmur.

He does—dark eyes glassy, pupils blown wide, jaw clenched like he's fighting himself. There's something desperate in his expression, vulnerable in a way that would horrify him if he weren't so far gone.

"Let go, Tom."

"I can't—" His voice catches, control slipping. "I don't—"

"You can." Your fingers thread through his hair, gentle but firm. "You're safe here."

That's what does it. The promise of safety, something he's never truly had. His breath hitches, and then—

The sound that escapes him is small, broken. Almost a whimper.

His eyes widen in mortification, shame flooding his features. He tries to pull away, to rebuild those walls, but you hold him closer.

"Don't," you say softly. "Don't hide from me."

"This is—" He can barely speak. "I'm not supposed to—"

"Be human?" You kiss his temple. "Feel things? Want things?"

Another shaky breath. He's trembling now, fighting years of conditioning that taught him vulnerability equals death.

"I have you," you promise. "You're allowed this."

"If you could have anything," Sirius asks, sprawled across your sofa like he owns it, "what would you wish for?"

It's three in the morning. He showed up an hour ago, restless and unable to sleep, climbing through your window like a stray dog seeking shelter. This is becoming a pattern.

"That's a loaded question, Black."

"Humor me." His grey eyes are too bright, manic energy barely contained. Full moon was last week, which means Moony's recovering and Padfoot has nowhere to run. "Anything in the world. What would it be?"

You could say something safe. Money, success, the usual answers. But Sirius doesn't do safe, and he has a way of pulling honesty from you at ungodly hours.

"To give you peace," you say quietly.

He goes very still. "What?"

"You asked." You curl up in the armchair across from him. "I'd wish you could sleep through the night without nightmares. That you could look in a mirror without seeing your family looking back. That you could forgive yourself for things that weren't your fault."

His expression does something complicated—vulnerable and defensive at once. "That's a terrible wish. Completely wasted."

"It's my wish."

"You could ask for anything, and you'd use it on me?" He sits up, running hands through his hair in agitation. "I'm not worth that."

"Yes, you are."

"I'm not." His voice cracks. "I'm a Black. We're rotten, all the way through. Bad blood, bad choices, bad—"

You cross to him, taking his face in your hands. "You're the bravest person I know. You chose goodness when your entire family chose darkness. You'd die for the people you love. That's not rotten, Sirius."

He closes his eyes, leaning into your touch like he's starving for it. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Then prove me wrong."

He laughs—broken and bitter and achingly sad. Then he pulls you down onto the sofa beside him, holding on like you're the only solid thing in his world.

"Stay?" he whispers.

Tom doesn't do spontaneity. Every move he makes is calculated, deliberate, part of some grand design only he can see. Which is why finding him disheveled in your doorway at midnight—tie loose, hair falling into his eyes—stops you cold.

"Tom?"

He steps inside without invitation, closing the door behind him with controlled precision that doesn't quite hide the tension in his movements. His eyes are darker than usual, fixed on you with an intensity that makes breathing difficult.

"I've been thinking," he says, voice low and dangerous, "about control."

"Oh?"

"How I've built my entire existence around it. Mastering magic, people, my own inconvenient weaknesses." He moves closer, predatory. "And then there's you."

Your back hits the wall. He braces one hand beside your head, leaning in until you can feel his breath.

"You," he continues, "are a problem. You make me want things I have no use for. Make me distracted. Reckless." His free hand traces your jaw. "I've tried logic. Tried distance. Tried convincing myself this is temporary madness."

"And?"

His smile is sharp, almost self-deprecating. "It's not working."

Then he's kissing you—fierce and claiming and nothing like the careful control he usually maintains. His hands are in your hair, pulling you closer, and there's something almost desperate in the way he touches you. Like he's warring with himself even now.

"Tell me to leave," he murmurs against your mouth. "Tell me this is a mistake."

You pull him closer instead. "No."

His laugh is dark, triumphant. "Good."

The parchment looks like it's been through a war.

Crossed-out lines, ink blots, what appears to be a tea stain in one corner. Ron's handwriting sprawls across it in frustrated loops, and you can practically see him hunched over a desk, swearing under his breath.

Dear— (crossed out)

To—(also crossed out)

Right, okay, here goes.

I'm bad at this. Hermione says I should just tell you how I feel but that's the problem, isn't it? I feel about a hundred things when you're around and most of them don't have words. Or the words sound stupid when I write them down.

Like how you laugh at my jokes even when they're not funny. Or how you don't mind that I eat too much or talk with my mouth full or that my family is mental. You just—you like me anyway. Just Ron. Not Ron who-helped-save-the-world or Ron Weasley-the-Keeper. Just me.

And that's terrifying because what if I mess this up? I mess things up all the time. Ask Harry. Ask Hermione. Ask literally anyone.

But you make me want to be braver. Not in the facing-down-Death-Eaters way. In the telling-you-I-love-you way, which is somehow scarier.

So there it is. I love you. Have for ages, probably. And if you don't feel the same, that's alright, I'll get over it.

(That's a lie. I won't. But I'll pretend to be fine about it because that's what mates do.)

Yours (hopefully),

Ron

P.S. Hermione helped with the spelling. Don't hold it against me.

You press the letter to your chest, smiling so hard your face hurts. Then you grab parchment to write back.

Dear Ron,

It comes out over repotting a Mandrake.

Not romantic, by any stretch. You're both elbow-deep in soil, Neville demonstrating the correct grip while the Mandrake screams bloody murder, and somehow between the earmuffs and the chaos he says—

"I think I'm in love with you."

You freeze. The Mandrake takes advantage, nearly wriggling free.

"Neville—"

"Don't—" He fumbles with his earmuffs, ears already crimson. "Don't stop, the Mandrake will—just keep holding it while I—"

So you stand there, holding a furious Mandrake, while Neville carefully repots it with practiced hands that are trembling slightly. It's absurd. It's completely absurd.

He finally secures it, brushing soil from his hands. Won't look at you.

"Sorry," he mutters. "That was—I didn't mean to say it like that. I had a whole speech planned. There was a point where I was going to mention that you're the best thing about coming to work every morning and I completely lost the thread and—"

"Neville."

"—probably should've waited until we weren't handling dangerous magical plants but you were laughing at something and I just—"

"Neville."

He stops. Finally looks at you, brown eyes terrified, resignation already settling in like he's bracing for disappointment. This man who fought in a war still expects to be found lacking.

"You're the best thing about my mornings too," you say.

He blinks. "Oh."

"Eloquent."

"Sorry, I just—" His face transforms slowly, disbelief giving way to something luminous. "Really?"

"Really." You reach up, brushing soil from his cheek. "Though next time you confess your feelings, maybe not during Mandrake repotting?"

Harry Potter kisses like he's still surprised anyone wants to.

Tentative at first—a question more than a statement, his hand cupping your face like you might disappear if he's not careful. Like every good thing in his life has been temporary, and he's waiting for this to be taken away too.

"Okay?" he whispers against your mouth.

"More than okay."

That's when he relaxes, deepening the kiss with a confidence that sends heat straight through you. His other hand finds your waist, pulling you closer, and there's still that edge of desperation—the boy who lost too much, who holds on too tight because he knows how quickly everything can end.

You thread your fingers through his perpetually messy hair, and he makes this sound—small and wanting—that does absolutely unfair things to your composure.

"Been thinking about this," he admits between kisses, voice rough. "For weeks. Months, maybe."

"Why didn't you—"

"Because I'm an idiot?" His laugh is self-deprecating. "Because I kept convincing myself you couldn't possibly want—"

You kiss him again, swallowing whatever self-doubt was about to follow. Harry's fought dark wizards and horcruxes, but his own worthiness? That's the battle he can't seem to win.

When you finally break apart, his glasses are crooked, his lips are kiss-swollen, and he's looking at you like you've performed magic.

"I want this," you tell him firmly. "Want you. Not the Chosen One. Just Harry."

His smile is brilliant, breaking across his face like sunrise. "Just Harry works for me."

Then he's kissing you again—less tentative now, more certain—finally believing he's allowed this happiness.

"This is beneath me."

Draco's expensive hiking boots—purchased specifically for this trip and somehow still immaculate—sink slightly into the mud. His disgusted expression would be funnier if you weren't equally exhausted.

"You agreed to come," you remind him, adjusting your pack.

"I agreed to a scenic walk. This is mountaineering. There's a difference." But he's still climbing, still keeping pace beside you despite his complaints. Draco Malfoy never admits defeat, even against geography.

The summit breaks through the clouds ahead, and you pause to catch your breath. Draco stops too, not winded at all—Quidditch conditioning, probably—but using the opportunity to scrutinize you.

"We could turn back," he offers, and there's something genuine beneath the hauteur. "If you're tired."

"I'm fine."

"You're limping."

Damn him for noticing. "It's nothing."

His jaw tightens. Then, without ceremony, he's taking your pack, adding it to his own.

"Draco—"

"Don't argue." His tone brooks no disagreement. "I won't have you injuring yourself because you're too stubborn to accept help."

"That's rich, coming from you."

His smirk is sharp. "I'm allowed to be stubborn. I'm a Malfoy." But his hand finds yours, steadying you over a rough patch. He doesn't let go after.

At the summit, the view is breathtaking—rolling hills, distant villages, sky stretching endlessly. Draco stands close, still holding your hand, his usual armor of sarcasm temporarily abandoned.

"Beautiful," you breathe.

"Yes," he agrees, but he's looking at you, not the landscape. His expression is soft, vulnerable in a way he rarely allows. "Though I still maintain this was a terrible idea."

"You climbed a mountain for me, Draco."

His smile is small, real. "Don't let it go to your head."

The word tastes like poison on his tongue.

Beloved.

Severus stares at the inscription you've left in the book—a rare Potions text you somehow procured for his birthday. To my beloved Severus. As if the word could ever apply to him. As if he's something cherished rather than tolerated.

"You're angry." You're watching him from the doorway, uncertain.

"I'm—" He stops, jaw tight. Anger would be simpler. Anger he understands. This feeling coiling in his chest is far more dangerous. "Why would you write this?"

"Because it's true?"

"Don't." The word comes out harsher than intended. "Don't romanticize what I am."

You move closer, maddeningly unafraid. Everyone else in this castle fears him—his reputation, his temperament, his past.

But not you.

"What you are," you say quietly, "is someone who brews pain potions for Madam Pomfrey at three in the morning. Who vanishes students' mistakes before they can be punished. Who pretends to be heartless while having far too much of one."

"You see what you want to see."

"I see you, Severus." Your hand covers his where it rests on the book. "The man who reads poetry he pretends to hate. Who feeds the castle cats. Who looks at me like I'm—"

"Like you're the only light in a very dark existence," he finishes, voice raw. The truth escapes before he can stop it.

Your smile is gentle. "Then perhaps you understand why I used that word."

Beloved.

He's spent so long believing himself unworthy of softness that he's forgotten how to accept it. But you're patient, and for the first time in decades, Severus allows himself to hope.

"Thank you," he whispers. "For the book."

For seeing him. For staying.

"I've botched this, haven't I?"

Newt won't meet your eyes, fingers fidgeting with his napkin. The restaurant is lovely—candles, white tablecloths, the sort of place normal people bring dates. But Newt has never been normal, and watching him try is somehow worse than if he hadn't tried at all.

"What makes you say that?"

"I've talked about Mooncalf mating habits for twenty minutes." His ears are red. "And doxy dental structure. And you haven't touched your food because I keep—I'm doing it again, aren't I?"

You reach across the table, stilling his restless hands. "Newt."

He finally looks up, blue-green eyes anxious behind falling curls.

"I asked you to dinner because I wanted to spend time with you. That includes the Mooncalf expertise."

"Most people find it tedious."

"I'm not most people." You squeeze his fingers. "Though I am wondering why you chose here instead of somewhere you'd actually enjoy."

He blinks. "This is where people go on proper dates. Pickett said—" He stops, looking mortified. "I took romantic advice from a Bowtruckle."

Your laugh startles both of you. "What did Pickett suggest?"

"Flowers. Candlelight. Trying not to talk about creatures." Newt's smile is self-deprecating. "I managed one out of three."

"The flowers are lovely," you assure him, nodding at the slightly wilted bouquet he'd thrust at you earlier—clearly picked from someone's garden. "But next time, take me somewhere you love. Show me your world, not what you think I want to see."

His expression transforms—hope and relief and something warmer. "There's a Kelpie sanctuary outside the city. It's not romantic, exactly, but—"

"It sounds perfect."

"Really?"

"Really."

James Potter is losing a snowball fight to a girl, and he's never been happier about failure in his life.

"Give up yet, Potter?" You're laughing, cheeks flushed pink, another snowball already forming in your gloved hands.

"Never!" He's grinning like a maniac, glasses fogged and crooked, snow melting in his perpetually messy hair. "Potters don't surrender!"

"Potters get pelted, apparently."

The snowball hits him square in the chest. He staggers backward dramatically, clutching his heart. "Betrayed! Murdered! Tell my broom I loved her!"

"You're ridiculous."

"Ridiculously charming?" He's already moving, closing the distance between you with that easy Quidditch-honed grace. "Ridiculously handsome? Ridiculously—"

You throw another snowball. He catches it mid-air, still advancing.

"That's cheating," you protest, backing up.

"Seeker reflexes, love. Not my fault you're outmatched." But his hazel eyes are warm, playful, completely focused on you like you're the only thing in the world worth looking at.

It's intoxicating, being the center of James Potter's attention. Like standing in sunlight.

Your back hits a tree. He braces one hand against the trunk, snowflakes catching in his hair, melting on his flushed skin.

"Caught you," he says softly.

"You're supposed to be throwing snowballs, not—"

"Not what?" His voice drops lower, and suddenly the cold doesn't matter. "Not telling you you're brilliant? Not thinking about kissing you? Because I'm failing spectacularly at both."

Snow falls silent around you, and he looks at you like you hung the moon.

"Then stop failing," you whisper.

"There's a niffler in the owlery."

Ominis sighs, long-suffering. "Sebastian?"

"Who else?" You guide him carefully up the last steps, his hand light on your elbow. "Though how he managed to sneak it past the actual owls is beyond me."

The owlery is chaos—hooting, flapping wings, and somewhere beneath it all, guilty chittering. Ominis tilts his head, listening with the same intense focus he brings to everything. His wand pulses red at his side.

"Southwest corner," he says. "Behind the support beam."

"How do you—"

"The owls are avoiding that area. Different echo." He moves forward with surprising confidence, navigating the space like he can see it. In a way, you suppose he can. Just not the way you do.

You watch him work, coaxing the niffler out with patient words and careful movements. There's something mesmerizing about Ominis—the way he exists in a world you can barely comprehend, finding beauty in sounds and textures you take for granted.

"Got it," he murmurs, cradling the squirming creature. A barn owl swoops low, and you flinch. Ominis doesn't. "They won't hurt us. They're just curious."

"How can you tell?"

His smile is soft. "Their wing beats. Aggressive owls sound different—sharper, more deliberate." He pauses. "That one above you just landed on your shoulder, didn't it?"

"Yes," you breathe, frozen as talons grip gently.

"Stay still. She likes you."

The owl nuzzles your hair, and Ominis's expression is impossibly tender, like he can see exactly what's happening through your wonder.

"I wish you could see this," you whisper.

"I can," he says quietly. "Just differently than you."

The parchment sits unopened on your desk for three days before Remus finally mentions it.

"You haven't read it."

You jump, turning to find him in your doorway, looking tired and resigned and achingly vulnerable. Full moon was two nights ago. He's still pale, still healing.

"I wasn't sure you meant to send it," you admit.

His laugh is brittle. "I didn't. Sirius nicked it from my room. Said I'd been pathetic long enough." He moves into the room slowly, like he's expecting you to bolt. "You can throw it away if you'd like. Pretend you never—"

"Remus." You pick up the letter. "Why would I throw it away?"

"Because I'm a werewolf with nothing to offer. Because you deserve someone who isn't a danger to you one night a month. Because—" He stops, jaw clenched. "Because I've memorized a hundred reasons why you shouldn't want me, and I can't think of a single reason why you would."

Your heart breaks at how easily he believes his own unworthiness.

"Then you're not as clever as everyone says, Professor Lupin." You break the seal, unfolding the parchment. His handwriting is neat, careful, like he rewrote it dozens of times.

I have no right to love you, but I do. Completely. Desperately. In ways that terrify me because I know how this ends with you realizing you deserve better and me watching you walk away. But Sirius says I'm a coward for not telling you. So here it is: You are the best part of my day. Every day. And if you'll have me, monster and all, I'm yours.

"You think very little of my judgment," you say quietly, looking up at him. "If you believe I'd choose anyone but you."

His expression cracks. "You mean—"

"What are you writing?"

Sebastian's voice makes you jump, nearly knocking over your inkwell. He's leaning against the Undercroft's entrance, that infuriating smirk playing at his lips.

"None of your business, Sallow."

"Must be about me, then." He crosses the space between you with easy confidence, peering over your shoulder before you can slam the journal shut. "Let's see... 'His arrogance is matched only by his—'"

You elbow him in the ribs. "Do you ever respect boundaries?"

"Not when I'm curious." He drops onto the floor beside you, closer than strictly necessary. "Come on. What's so secret?"

The truth is, half the pages are about him. Sebastian Sallow with his brilliant mind and his reckless decisions. The way he looked at you after that first trip to the Restricted Section—like you were finally someone who understood. How he's been different since Anne, darker, more desperate.

"I'm documenting our research," you lie.

"Liar." But his voice is gentle. He reaches for the journal, and this time you let him take it. His eyes scan the page, and something shifts in his expression. "You're worried about me."

It's not a question.

"Someone has to be," you say quietly. "You're so focused on saving Anne that you're not seeing what it's costing you."

Sebastian's quiet for a long moment, fingers tracing the words you wrote about him. About dark magic and dangerous choices and how brilliant people often destroy themselves.

"Maybe," he says finally, "I need someone to remind me who I was before all this."

"That's what I'm trying to do."

You wake to find him already awake, which means it was a bad night.

Sirius sits at the edge of the bed, shoulders tense, running his hands through his hair repeatedly—a tell he doesn't know he has. The sheets are twisted, damp with sweat.

"Azkaban?" you ask softly.

He flinches. "How did you—"

"You always hold your breath. Like you're trying not to scream."

For a moment, he's silent. Then: "Dementors don't care if you're innocent. They feed all the same." His voice is hollow, scraped raw. "Twelve years of my worst memories on repeat. You'd think I'd run out of things to relive by now."

You shift closer, not touching yet. Sirius needs to choose contact after the nightmares, needs to remember he's allowed autonomy over his own body.

"What was it tonight?"

"James." The name breaks. "Always James. Sometimes it's the moment I suggested Peter as Secret Keeper. Sometimes it's finding their house destroyed. Tonight it was—" He stops, jaw clenched. "His laugh. I dreamed I could still hear his laugh, and then I woke up and remembered I never will again."

Your heart cracks. "Sirius—"

"I killed him," he whispers. "My best friend, dead because I was so bloody sure I was clever."

"Voldemort killed him. Peter betrayed him."

"And I made it possible." He finally looks at you, grey eyes devastated. "Some days I wake up and forget they're gone. Just for a second. Then I remember, and it's like losing them all over again."

You take his hand. He grips it like a lifeline.

"You're not alone in this," you say.