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"Well…" Sirius passes off the two drinks and starts on a pint. "What did you think of the one you had last time?"

Your eyes blink wide. "I, um. It was good. I don't remember what it was called…"

"Mojito," he supplies. A customer down the bar calls for his attention, and Sirius slides a napkin to you, his fingertips touching yours briefly. "Sorry, lovely, can you excuse me for just a minute? I promise not to forget you."

He gets that customer's order and a few others, pouring some shots quickly to quell the urgency surrounding the bar for a little while. While he darts around, Sirius is conscious of the feeling of your eyes following him, like a shiver held at the base of his spine.

"So," he says when he circles back, "what'd you think of it? The mojito."

You make a sound like a puff of air turned to a laugh. "I can't believe you remember that." Sirius raises an eyebrow at you while he pours vodka into a shaker, and you go on almost shyly, "You must serve so many people every night."

"You remember certain faces."

And Sirius remembers yours. He thinks of it as his right, after putting up with so much shit from customers, to pay the pretty ones a bit of extra attention. You came in first a couple of weeks ago. Since then, you've been back fairly regularly, though usually with various other friends. This is the first time Sirius has seen you here alone.

"You can tell me if you didn't like the mojito," he says, looking you in your eyes. Indulging in a private delight at the way your lashes flicker when you have his full attention. "I won't take it personally, promise. We can make you something else."

Honestly, Sirius hopes you didn't like it. Mojitos are a bitch to make. He'd do it again for you, though.

"No," you say, "I liked it. I'd have another, if—only if it's not too much trouble."

"None at all," Sirius lies, and gets out the muddler.

"Thanks," you say, with enough quiet sweetness to make him happy to do it.

He finishes the drink he was making, delivering it to its customer and starting on yours. You watch his wrist twist as he muddles mint in the bottom of a clean shaker. Sirius flicks his eyes up, and yours move away quickly.

"You don't seem like a barfly," he says.

"Oh?" You lean closer as if to hear him better. "I don't know, what makes someone a barfly?"

"Hours logged, I reckon. Gotta do at least ten a week."

Your eyebrows fly up. "Ten?"

"Ten's really on the low end."

"Oh—then, yeah. I guess I'm not one."

Sirius snickers. No shit—you don't even know what a mojito is. "You've been coming around a fair amount, though."

You hear the question he isn't asking. Your bottom lip dents sheepishly. "I just like it here, I guess."

The shiver chooses this moment to zip up Sirius' spine, the feeling tingling all the way to his fingertips. Despite your obvious bashfulness, you hold his gaze across the bar. He almost spills simple syrup on the counter.

"It seems like you're always here," you say after a moment.

"Well, I actually work here," Sirius tells you.

You smile. "I mean that you're here every time I've come in. Do you work every night?"

"From five to two," he confirms. Your smile dims a bit, and Sirius feels himself frown in response. He sets your drink on the bar. "Try that for me, lovely."

You pull the straw towards you dutifully and take a sip. The soft breath you let out after does something funny to his knees. "That's really good, thank you."

"Yeah? It's okay? We can try something else if you like."

"No, it's perfect. I think this is my favorite." Well, Sirius has done it now; he owes an apology to all other bartenders you encounter. But you smile at him again, your eyes crinkling endearingly, and fuck all other bartenders, actually. Sirius will get out the muddler for you as often as you like. "Thanks very much."

"You're very welcome," he tells you. Sincerely, though not without a heavy dose of flirting. Your lashes kiss at the corners. "I do work every night, but that means I'm free during the day. I like coffee."

Your voice softens as though you're trading secrets. "You do?"

"I do."

"There's a coffee shop I like down the street from here. Would you want to go sometime?"

Sirius grins. "Would you be there, too?"

"Um. Hopefully."

That’s an entirely different issue. One you think, eventually, you could have forgiven on its own.

It meant months of overworking yourself, trying your best to support Morgan as he tried to lead a team that essentially had its legs cut off. You had to watch Spencer retreat into himself as grief consumed him. Consumed you. You had to pick yourself up after a bad day because the one person you needed was 7000 miles away. 

When the days ended, they never really did. There were more things to worry about than just the BAU, like the sweetest Hotchner boy. Your free time was spent helping Jess with Jack. You made sure she didn’t have to do it alone. Dinner and homework and soccer games. You were there.

To know now that he said yes to ease the pain of lying to you, that he left you in this mess alone, well, it reignites the flames of your anger.

“You got to escape from it!” you say, voice sharp. “You left.”

Aaron nearly flinches at your tone. Never once has he heard that type of anger from you directed at him.

“You got to leave while I stayed here alone.” Your voice trembles despite your efforts to steady it. “I had to live through every single day believing my friend, our friend, was dead.”

“I know.”

“No,” you cut in, shaking your head. “You don’t.”

Guilt starts to melt into Aaron’s features. It softens the set of his jaw, dims his eyes and drags his shoulders lower. 

He’s been selfish. It’s a truth he almost never has to face. His entire life is built around sacrifice, his career, his family, the choices he makes everyday. But this had been for him. Watching you grieve had been unbearable and every lie had felt like another betrayal.

“But it doesn’t even matter, I don’t care about Pakistan.” You wipe impatiently at your eyes. “I–I care about the fact that I trust you. Always. And I have for a long time and I know you have reasons for everything you do but this one I can’t figure out. How could you hide this from me?” 

“I couldn’t tell you. JJ–” His tone is pleading and his eye contact never waivers as he tries to explain. “-- is the only other person that knew. It had to be that way. We had to keep Prentiss safe and the fewer people that knew she’s alive the easier that was.”

“I know that.” Your voice is sharper than intended. “But you couldn’t have– have given me a clue?”

His eyes fall away from you, studying the grain of the dining table because this has suddenly become too much. Everything that has built up within you over the last few months is bubbling up to the surface. Aaron shakes his head with a heavy sigh.

“Not even when I was crying in your arms, falling apart, night after night, before you left?”

Aaron remembers those nights all too well. Nights where you were inconsolable, mourning your friend who was gone and would never come back. You wouldn’t sleep and you barely ate, the only solace you seemed to find was in him. 

It all broke his heart, watching you, his love, become a shell of yourself. Especially, when he remembered that he held the key to stop your pain and he couldn’t use it. All he could do was sit like a guardian, telling you lies, telling you it would be okay, telling you you’d get through all of this together. All while knowing you were carrying a grief he could have lifted.

“No,” he says softly, sadly. “I couldn't."

Silence creeps back in, and you watch the steam curl into the air. You’ve never heard Aaron sound so defeated. The anger that had burned so fiercely only minutes ago gutters beneath the weight of it leaving behind something far worse. Your inescapable sadness.

 Aaron feels it too, overcome with helplessness. This isn't a problem he can solve and fix as easily as he’d like, he can’t see the path forward that helps you rather than hurts you. He doesn’t want to hurt you or for you to be hurt any longer. 

“I know,” you shrug, tears collecting on your lashline. “It still hurts, though.”

“I’m sorry, honey, that it had to be this way.”

You’re nodding your head before he finishes, sniffling as your nose starts to run and the sting behind your eyes becomes more noticeable. You know he had his reasons, you know why he did it. Knowing doesn't lessen the sting.

You give Aaron a sorry excuse for a smile, the corners of your mouth barely lifting as you formulate your next sentence carefully. You don't want to hurt Aaron, there's no part of you that could ever want that, but there are things that need to be said that you think might.

“After all this…” you clear your throat. “...This big secret you kept, how am I supposed to know that you won't keep something from me in the future?”

“Unless I absolutely have to,” he says, immediately. “I won’t.”

“How can I believe that?” His mouth opens and closes as he searches for words. “Where do you draw the line for things you can and can't tell me? How am I supposed to know you’re telling the truth?”

“You just have to trust me.” Aaron replies resolutely.

“I could before,” you whisper. “I don’t know that I can now.”

Aaron slumps back in his chair, as if your words are a physical blow. He is the picture of defeat as he rubs a hand over his face. Maybe if he does it hard enough the last ten minutes will have never happened or maybe he’d find some magic words to fix this mess. He loves you and you love him, so how have you got here?

His eyes are sad and impossibly tired when he drops his hands into his lap, you can hardly look at him. You feel sick.

“Tell me–” he starts, unsure and clumsy. “Tell me what to do, honey. Tell me how to fix this and I will.”

The twisted thing about it all is you don't think there is anything he can do. Can’t think of a single thing Aaron can say or do that would make any of this easier. They say time heals all wounds and you hope it mends this one.

“You should go see Jack,” you can’t look at him as you speak, eyes fixed on the table, unable to watch as defeat and heartbreak start to fill his eyes. You’ve never seen him this way, it’s awful. “He’s missed you so much and, I think, I need some space.”

There's a second where Aaron doesn't move, frozen in place, he can’t even tell if he’s breathing. He’d already planned ahead, asking Jess to have Jack for one more night so he could speak with you. Maybe he expected something easier than this. He’d imagined tears and anger, but not this quiet defeat.

The idea of leaving you here, upset and miserable, kills him. But what gives him the right to pick and choose when and how he’s going to be there for you. He’s already taken enough choices away from you. In your shoes, Hotch doesn’t think he’d want to be around himself either.

“Okay.” he says in a tone that suggests all of this is anything but okay as he stands. “Let me know when you're ready to talk, sweetheart, please and I'll be here.” 

He doesn't move towards the door until you look at him and nod. The walk away from you feels longer than it ever has. Once he has a hand on the door handle he turns to look at you where you sit unmoved at the table. 

“I love you.” For the first time since he’d spoken those words to you, Aaron doesn’t wait to hear them returned. He can’t take the chance that you might not say them back anymore.

“I cannot be photographed like this,” Fenwick huffs, gesturing animatedly at the fat lip he received at last night’s game. The vain bastard.

“Fenz, please. You’re just as handsome as ever,” you contend through the door.

Fenwick scoffs, shooting the door a disbelieving look. “Well, duh. That was never up for discussion.”

“Where’s Black?” Remus ventures helpfully. “He’s usually all about the social media presence.” 

“Team’s entire feed is Black already,” Krum grumbles. “Asshole is pretty, but not that pretty.” 

“Fenwick,” you call out.

The player in question eyes the door warily. “Yes?”

Your question echoes like a death toll. “Who else is in there with you?” 

With this, the remainder of the locker room freezes; four professional six-plus foot hockey players hold their breath like terrified rabbits in the face of a prowling mountain lion. 

“Fenwick,” Woods hisses. “Don’t you fucking-”

“Lupin, Krum, and Woods,” Benji rapid fires, wincing contritely in the face of his three teammates groaning in betrayal. 

“Fenwick, you’re off the hook if you open this door right now,” you promise. 

“Benji Fenwick, if you open that door-” Remus starts, only to be cut off by Krum.

“I will string you by testicals to rafters, Fenwick.”

“Guys, I love you, you’re my entire world, I would take 83 slapshots to the ribs for all of you-”

“Fenwick…” Remus pleads again.

“-I cannot be photographed like this.” 

Benji—in his final act of betrayal—swings the door open and flies out into the hallway behind you, using your smaller frame like a human shield. And while Remus is surprised by the show of restraint from Krum and Woods, there was never any chance that Remus was going to go shoving past you to get to Fenwick. 

No matter how badly he wanted to throttle the sod. 

“Förbannada skit,” (translation: fucking shithead) Remus curses under his breath, though even he can hear the resignation in his voice.

You have the grace to smile apologetically at the three remaining players, holding your camera up in one hand and the other in a universal sign of surrender. “Any chance one of you is willing to smile for the camera? I’ll be so quick.” 

“No. Russians do not do this,” Krum announces, earning him a glance from Woods.

“Russians don’t what? Smile?”

“Da.” 

“Woodsy, you’ve got a nice smile,” Remus hedges cautiously, cautious of drawing attention to himself by pointing it in someone else's direction.

“You do,” you agree, flashing a smile in the assistant captain's direction. “But we’ve got lots of the team captains already.”

Woodsy’s smile is victorious. 

“Well, then,” he hums happily, offering the last two players in the locker room a smarmy salute. “Lady, gentlemen.” 

Krum mutters Russian profanity under his breath as he finishes up in his own stall. 

“Just a picture,” you all but beg, and Remus’ traitorous heart squeezes at how desperate you sound.

It doesn’t squeeze enough for him to willingly place himself in front of your camera lens, though. 

“Is never just a picture with you, l’vyónak,” (Львёнок: lionet/little lion, lion cub) Krum argues, but his use of a Russian epithet belittles whatever ire he has with you.

That’s the danger of the team's favourite social media team member. While they all make a point of avoiding you like the plague, there’s something about you that has wiggled its way into the heart of every player on the team. You even managed to win over the prickly Russian goalie and the notoriously aloof Remus.

Especially the notoriously aloof Remus.

Perhaps that’s part of the reason he avoids you so resolutely; he doesn’t want to do anything to draw attention to the fact that he’s really quite smitten with you. 

Honestly, when you’re not waving a camera or phone in his face, you may very well be his favourite person on the team’s support staff. 

And that’s saying a lot, considering that their PT, Lars, has magic fingers and turns Remus into a certified pile of goo twice a week during their therapeutic massages. 

“It must be Loops,” Krum decides, earning him a strangled sound of disbelief from Remus.

“Why must it be Loops?”

Krum shrugs as if it’s really quite simple. “Because, Russians do not do this.”

“Russians smile, Krum. You have a lovely smile,” you argue sweetly, and—dammit—even Krum softens. 

“Paper, rock, scissors me,” Krum announces. 

“I beg your pardon?”

Krum doesn’t bother responding, merely steps up to Remus with one palm raised flat and facing upwards, the other held above it in a fist. 

“Paper, rock, scissors. Da? Scissors me, Loops.”

“Never say that again,” Remus tells him emphatically.

“Why won’t scissors me?” 

“Krum, please stop asking me to scissor you.” 

Remus loses the stand-off with his starting goalie when he’s distracted by your laughter. Dammit, he wishes Swedes didn’t smile either. 

“Okay, it all comes down to a game of rock, paper, scissors,” you announce, holding up your damn camera to capture the moment between teammates. Krum was right; it’s never just a picture with you. 

Remus—against all his better judgement—mirrors Krum’s posture and does, indeed, play a round of rock, paper, scissors. 

He loses when Krum crushes Remus’ scissors with his rock.

“Best two out of three?” Remus all but begs. 

“Net,” Krum declines, slinging his bag over his shoulder and striding from the room. “Smile for camera like good little Swede.”

“Bye, Viktor!” you call out after him.

Krum replies from some distance down the hall. “Goodbye, Львёнок.” 

“I’m really sorry, Lupin.” You sound so apologetic, look even more so when Remus removes his glare from the now empty hallway his teammates have abandoned him in to face you. “I know no one likes to get stuck with me, we can be quick.”

And well, now doesn’t Remus feel like the biggest prick. “I love being stuck with you.”

Too honest, dial it back, Loops. 

“It’s that” He points at the camera like it might bite. “that I struggle with.”

You laugh good naturedly at him. “Fair enough. Come sit, we’ll be quick.” 

It is not, in fact, quick, because apparently all of Remus’ smiles look like pained grimaces. 

“You look like you just ate something sour.”

“I don’t look like anything,” Remus argues.

“Yes you do.”

“This is just my face.”

“Your face is usually nicer than this,” you counter.

“Well, now you’re just being hurtful.”

You laugh and look up from your camera; Remus smiling in victory at eliciting it. 

“See! Like that. Why can’t you smile like that for me?” 

I did just smile like that for you, Remus thinks grimly. It’s the camera I’m not fond of. 

You sigh. “Fine.”

“Fine?” 

You hum thoughtfully, scrolling through the viewfinder on your camera. You’re silent for so long that he thinks you’re going to dismiss him before you carry on. “What do you think you’d do for work if you were more athletic?” 

Remus pauses, his mind like a record, scratching and skipping and trying desperately to feed the needle back onto the thread. 

“What?”

“If you were more athletic,” you repeat, still not looking up. “What do you think you’d be doing? Like, a sport, or something.” 

“What sport?” Remus clarifies. “If I was…”

“More athletic,” you confirm. 

Remus is staring at you open mouthed, confused as to how he’s not possibly missing something in translation here. 

“Can you repeat that?” 

You’re still looking down at your camera, but your lips purse as if you’re fighting off a smile. 

“What kind of sport would you be playing, or job would you be doing, if you were more athletic?”

“More athletic?” Remus balks, disbelief colouring his tone. “I’m an athlete!”

“Well, yeah, sure.” Sure, you say! Like Remus hasn’t dedicated the majority of his life to perfecting his skill, strength, and body to elite levels. “But like, if you were more.”

Remus lets out a startled laugh, and then you finally look up at him.

Your eyes shine with mirth, silent laughter shaking your shoulders as you smirk triumphantly at Remus. 

It’s over for Remus then; he dissolves into delighted laughter which only picks up when you join him. 

“Unbelieveable,” Remus huffs with a shake of his head.

“That’s me,” you agree triumphantly, lowering your camera until it hangs from your neck. “That’ll be all.”

You don’t end up showing Remus what you managed to capture of him while you made him question all of his life’s work and choices; the picture you ended up posting on the team’s social media was of him and Krum playing rock, paper, scissors, plus one of Remus throwing his head back in defeat and Krum smirking (though certainly not smiling) triumphantly. 

It’s only (much) later that Remus finally sees the picture you took of him that day—one of him laughing at your chirping—used as his contact image on your phone. 

He’s glad that’s where it stayed; he looks entirely too love sick for that to be posted onto the team’s account.

“Have I done something? Please don’t leave, I’d worry myself to death if you left me now.” His voice is familiar and warm, slow, forever mellifluous. You’ll never get sick of the way he talks—it’s one of the reasons you fell in love with him, how he could make anything at all sound like a love note. “What’s making you feel unsure? Tell me what’s going on in there.”

You know that Aaron’s gentle, but he’s gone so sweet so suddenly it has emotion brewing in you that you haven’t earned. You swallow a silly lump and try to smile. “It’s nothing,” you say. 

Aaron slowly cards his hand behind your neck and encourages you into the curve of his neck, his second hand at the small of your back in a perfect fit. Warm and big, stretching over one of your most delicate parts. 

“I don’t know what to think about it, honey. I don’t ever want you to feel like you’d rather be at home than with me. If you need space, you can have it. Of course you can have it, but I’m getting the feeling that that’s not what this is about. Do you trust that you can talk to me?”

You want to cuss, but your throat burns, and all you can force out is a reprimanding, “Aaron.” 

“‘Cos I can fix anything.”

“I know that.”

“Yeah? So let me fix it for you, sweetheart.”

It is perhaps your greatest shame to be near tears in his arms as you plead with him to pretend you never said it. “I was just– I just wondered how you’d react, is all, there’s nothing wrong.” And Aaron doesn’t believe you, still soft as silk, so you tell him about the video you saw and he hums. You’re worried he’ll be rougher with you, then, because it’s not like you’ve earned his sympathy, but he rubs your back slowly and hums pensively, the smell of his skin under your nose. 

“Something still doesn’t feel right, does it?” he asks in a murmur, unaware of the molten heat in your throat and stomach simultaneously. You couldn’t explain it to him if he did notice it. “Did you– was it a surprise, that I wanted you to stay and work things out with me? I’m sorry if I didn’t make that clear, that I’d fix anything for you.”

It’s just—it borders being too much, too kind. It’s the ache of biting into something sweet with a bad tooth, how he’s gone this tender, how he hasn’t once pushed you off of his chest. It hits you how willing he is to spend endless minutes reassuring you over nothing, a scenario that you created, and how easily he reads your smallest emotions. 

You’re downed by a video prank, and it’s all your fault. 

Luckily, Aaron doesn’t seem to mind at all. He tips your head back with your ear against his shoulder, looking up at him from his chest all wide-eyed and in love as he leans down for a slow kiss. “Do you want to go home?” he asks quietly. 

You shake your head, worried your voice will wobble and betray you if you speak, so Aaron leans down again to press another kiss to your mouth, this time very purposefully misaligned, so as to kiss right under your nose. 

“What can I do to make you feel better?” he asks, like you haven’t just deregulated yourself by accident. 

“I’m okay. Sorry.”

“Don’t say sorry.” He gives your back a good rub, like he’s waving his hand into your spine. “How’s that? Is that helping?”

“Little more,” you tell him. You don’t mention going home again. 

You try to focus. You don’t think so. You manage to piece together the right sounds to tell him this time. 

Sirius nods. His fingers twitch beneath your head in a lazy scratching motion. “Sweet. I wasn’t in the room when you fainted, but it looks like you might’ve fallen back down onto the couch and then the floor, so we should be good.” 

You take a few deep breaths. Your body feels like you’ve just woken from a deep, disorienting sleep, and somehow also run a marathon while doing that. “Thanks,” you say. 

Your boyfriend rolls his eyes and moves your head into his lap, brushing a strand of hair from your forehead. “Don’t mention it, sunshine. All in a day’s work.” He grins when your lips twitch tiredly. “Just take it easy. We’ll get you some water when you’re ready, okay?” 

You hum, letting yourself relax while he’s watching over you. Sirius has helped after you’ve passed out in public and once while crossing the street, so you know he’s more than capable of looking after you here in your home. Slender fingers tunnel into your hair to scratch soothingly at your scalp. 

“So,” he says casually, “do you come here often?” 

An amused exhale comes out your nose. You must make a funny face, because Sirius’ brows furrow. 

“What?” 

“I’m trying to decide if saying something about falling for you would be too cheesy.” 

He laughs, a surprised, barking thing. “Hey, cheese is welcome. I thought you had hit your head for a second there.” 

“Sorry…if you say your thing again, I can try to flirt better.” 

He had wanted to aim for its head or its neck, to put it out of its misery as quickly as possible, but he knew if he missed, the whole camp would starve that night. He had seen the way Remus had been clutching his stomach every night before bed, his face twisting. 

So Sirius had shot the deer somewhere across its body. He couldn’t remember anymore, he just recalled the way he had nearly been sick in his mouth as its legs buckled beneath its weight. Sirius had darted out, quick to get to the deer before walkers started to head for the noise of the gunshot. He had been forced to watch the soul drain from its big brown eyes. 

Now, that felt like nothing compared to looking into your eyes at this moment. 

Sirius’ large hand cupped the back of your head, slender fingers threading through your hair as his whole jaw clenched, his teeth gritting. Your lips opened, agony splitting across your features. 

“Baby,” he whispered feebly. “Fuck. Sweetheart. Let me see, let me see.”

The walker he had just gotten off you lay only a foot or two away. Its lifeless eyes stared up at the ceiling, its jaws still open from its attempt to bite you. Sirius’ most-used blade remained impaled in the centre of his forehead, blackened with blood.

“Sirius, it hurts,” you whispered quickly, your hands finding his as he helped to shift you on the floor, helping you lean into him so he could examine your side. 

Your shirt had grown wet and sticky with crimson blood, and he had to peel the material off you as if you had been swimming, tucking it up beneath your breast. Sirius made a low hissing sound as panic began to rise in his chest, hot and fast, and he knew if he didn’t do something soon, you wouldn’t make it. 

“You’re alright,” Sirius hushed as you made an awful whimpering noise. He wasn’t sure if he was talking to you or himself. 

“Is it bad?” You asked reluctantly. 

He noticed the way your head was lulling slightly, tipping back against him as if you were fighting the pain. Your face had lost lots of its colour, your bottom lip already trembling. 

“You’ll be fine,” Sirius said, a lump in his throat, and pressed a large hand to the wound. He could feel the slow but steady flow of hot blood. You cried out for a moment, and he couldn’t stop apologising. 

“The medicine kit’s in my bag,” you murmured.

“I know, sweetheart. Thank you,” Sirius replied, and he grabbed your backpack which had landed just behind you both. 

Sirius grabbed the small medicine kits that Pandora made you all to take on runs. He fumbled with the tin to get it open, leaving behind red fingerprints. 

“I don’t know…” Sirius muttered, and the panic began to set in even faster as he looked at the small tin, trying to remember what everything was and what to do. “I’ve never stitched somebody up before.”

You tried to peel yourself from the floor. “I’ll be fine,” you attempted. “Let’s get back and Remus can… Remus knows how… Remus…” You struggled with your words, visibly upset as you lost your train of thought.

“Baby,” Sirius panicked, and he caught you before you fell back against the concrete floor of the shop you had been raiding. “Here, let’s prop this under your head.”

He folded your backpack in half and slotted it there, and then he reached for the utility belt around his waist, ignoring the knife and the gun, and settling on the radio. They only used it in case of emergencies, because noise attracted walkers, which got you killed. However, Sirius knew that Remus was only back at the flat they were all huddling in, and you had both cleared all the walkers in the shop before one of them had pushed you through some glass. 

He held down on the radio. “Remus?”

The second or two it took to hear the crackle of static nearly made Sirius throw up. He kept one hand on your arm, rubbing soothing circles with his thumb, his head turned to the door to make sure nothing came through. 

“Sirius?” James’ voice came through. “Are you alright?”

“I need Remus,” Sirius nearly whined, and the panic began to bubble when he realised how quiet you were being, as if trying to preserve all of your energy and concentrate on breathing. “James, get Remus.”

“Remus!” They heard James’ urgent call, and then silence. 

The static came seconds later. “Sirius?” Remus panicked. “Sirius, are you there?”

“Rem,” Sirius dry-sobbed, his heart aching. “She’s hurt. She’s—it’s not a bite, it’s—she fell, there was glass—she’s got a cut across her ribs. It’s bleeding lots. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to help her. I don’t know if I can—I don’t know—”

“Sirius, calm down for a moment,” Remus urged, obviously alarmed. Sirius could hear the terror in the way his voice nearly trembled. “Apply pressure. Alright? Find some clean cloth—hold it on the wound. Is it really bad?”

“It’s okay,” you murmured.

“No, it’s—” Sirius ran a hand through his hair and handed you the radio so you could press down on the button. “You will be fine, darling, but the cut is not.”

He grasped at the bottom of his shirt and ripped it as hard as he could. Sirius pressed it to the wound. You cried out, your hand releasing from the button for a second. 

“Shh,” Sirius cooed. “Hush, darling—I know, I know it hurts. We need to stay quiet so walkers don’t find us, alright? And you need to hold your thumb on that button so I can keep speaking to Remus, alright? Can you do that for me?”

Your thumb found the button where Remus was panicking. 

“Rem,” you breathed out. 

“Darling,” Remus coughed. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m really scared.”

“Sirius’ got you,” Remus promised. “He’s got you. You’re alright with him."

You nodded, though Sirius cursed and closed his eyes. “You need to get here,” Sirius warned. 

“I am on my way,” he said, cutting off slightly. “I left a minute ago.” “We’re still at that Tesco. Fuck, Remus, what should I do now?”

“Okay, okay,” Remus thought for a second. “You need to sanitise it. And you need to sanitise your hands and the needle that’s in the medkit. Have you found the medkit yet?”

“We already have it,” you grunted. “Sirius, is it that bad?” You asked worriedly. “Does it really need stitches?”

“It needs stitches, sweetheart,” he whispered, one hand finding your hair. He brushed his fingers through it. “I’m sorry.”

You closed your eyes and nodded. You could hear him rattling around for the antiseptic. Selfishly, you didn’t want to help him find it. You knew the pain was going to be excruciating once he dumped it over your wound. Maybe a small part of you wished he would leave you alone so you could succumb to your wound and wither away. 

You knew it wasn’t rational. You could see the way his hands were trembling and the heaviness of his breaths, and you felt too awful to watch him go through it. It was the very last thing you wanted: for Sirius or Remus to be in pain.

 Your hand reached out and your fingers grasped his. “It’s okay,” you told him, and Sirius paused for just a moment before he nodded and grasped the bottle, popping off the lid. 

“Have you done it yet?” Remus panted over the radio. “What’s happening there?”

“I’m about to do it,” Sirius said wearily, and poured part of the bottle over the needle and his hands, wincing at the burns across the driest parts of his fingers, and a graze he’d obtained a few days before. He couldn’t begin to think of how painful it would be for you. 

“Give her something to bite down on,” Remus ordered. “If the walkers hear her cry, you won’t be able to help her.”

Sirius’ eyes were nearly watering as he hunted around him and handed you the part of his shirt which was not soaked crimson. Your mouth trembled as he pressed it to you. 

“Please,” you sniffled. “I don’t want to. It’s going to hurt.”

“It will hurt a lot worse if you don’t let Sirius help you, sweetheart,” Remus urged over the radio. “I’m three or so streets away. Pour the antiseptic, Sirius. If it gets infected, we’re fucked.”

“I’m sorry,” Sirius whispered for the hundredth time, and then, without any more warning, the stench of alcohol hit your nose, and slid across your wound like water.

Your back arched from the ground as you screamed. The noise was hardly muffled by the fabric between your teeth, your hands releasing the radio as you howled in agony, tears squeezing from your eyes which were clenched shut. Sirius’ cry nearly battled yours, panicked and hurt, his hands shaking as he cleaned the cut. 

“I’m so sorry,” he sobbed.

You weren’t sure you had ever seen him so scared before. It nearly battled your own fear, your hand reaching for his, both your palms slick with blood. 

“Sirius,” you cried. “Just do it. Just do it!”

Sirius scrambled for the radio and pressed down on it. “Remus? Remus, are you there?”

"I’m here,” Remus panted. “I’m right here, baby. I’m not too far now.”

“I need you to tell me how to stitch her up,” Sirius pleaded. “I’ve cleaned her up—it’s just bleeding.”

“Too much to wait for me?” Sirius could hear the sound of feet smacking on the pavement, and Remus’ uneven breaths as he raced, most likely faster than he ever had in his entire life. 

“I can’t risk it,” Sirius said firmly, his gaze hard as he took in your weak frame. “She needs my help right now. I have the thread through the needle.”

“Did you disinfect the thread, too?”

"Yeah, yeah. I did that. What now, Rem?”

You squeezed your eyes closed tighter. You wished you couldn’t hear them. The anticipation was killing you. Your hands clenched. 

“Right, right. Okay. You need to push the needle into her skin about a couple of millimeters away from the start of the cut, alright?” 

“Right, okay. I’m going to let go of the radio. Keep talking.” Sirius breathed out shakily. You felt him getting closer. 

“Give him to me,” you urged.

Sirius passed you the radio. You pressed down on the button as he moved closer to your ribs again. 

“You need to push it through and try to get the needle to come out about the same distance on the opposite side, okay? Then you’re going to tie it off. You need to tie it as well as you can so it doesn’t come apart, but not too tight, or they’ll tear anyway.”

“Please,” you whimpered, and you weren’t sure who you were talking to or what you were asking for. 

“I know, sweetheart, I know,” Remus breathed. “Stay with me, okay? I have some painkillers. We’ll get them inside of you as soon as I’m there.”

“I’m going to start now,” Sirius warned, and you nearly broke your teeth clamping them down as he pierced your skin with the metal, your entire stomach turning at the feeling of the thread dragging through your sore wound. 

You howled, sobbing, and you wanted to desperately reach for him and shove him or kick him away. 

“Get off of me!” You pleaded. “Stop it! Please! Sirius!”

“Shh, honey, try to keep your voice quiet,” Remus urged, but his voice sounded underwater. 

Sirius poked the needle through the other side. You fought the urge to throw up any contents in your stomach. Your skin was coated in a layer of sweat, glittering and shimmering, the blood vanished from your lips and cheeks. 

“I am so fucking sorry,” Sirius spat, seemingly growing angry as he began to knot it. “My hands are fucking shaking too much. Fuck!”

“It’s alright,” Remus coaxed. “Breathe in. Breathe out. You can do this, Sirius. Tie it off.”

“The thread keeps moving when she’s breathing so hard.”

“Baby, try to calm your breathing,” Remus murmured. “I know it’s hard. If Sirius can get this right the first time, you’ll never have to do it again.”

You sobbed but attempted to obey. You could faintly hear Remus and Sirius speaking to each other, and your thumb kept coming on and off of the button as your vision flickered and your eyelids grew ridiculously heavy. You fought the urge to go to sleep. 

The door burst open. You nearly laughed, seeing as a herd of walkers would be the cherry on the cake to top the entire situation off, but then there were hands on your side and Remus’ soft, soapy smell filled your nose.

“I’m here, I’m here,” he muttered breathlessly. 

Sirius sobbed in relief and collapsed backwards as Remus poured antiseptic over his own large hands, grabbing the needle from him. 

“You did so well, Sirius,” Remus promised, “You’ve looked after her so well. Sweetheart, keep your eyes open, yeah? Show me how well Sirius has done.”

Your gaze flickered open. “I’m just really tired now, Rem.”

“Please don’t go to sleep,” Sirius urged you, and his hand raked through your hair, most likely coating it in your own blood, but neither of you cared. 

Remus pressed the needle into your side for your last stitch. Your scream was silent this time, your throat so raw that it felt like it was being split open. Sirius held you down as you withered, and once Remus began to tie off the stitch, quicker and more expertly than Sirius, you started to cry hard. 

“You did so well,” Sirius whispered, peppering kisses across your face.“Need a bandage, sweets.”

You slumped against him, your fingers twitching for Remus. His face was pale, all the life seemingly sucked from him as he held onto you. 

“You scared the fuck out of me,” Remus admitted, his mouth threatening to pull down into a perfect semicircle. 

“I’m sorry,” you murmured, and both your boys began to laugh in disbelief. 

Remus reached across and grasped the back of Sirius’ head, pulling him closer so they were above you, both their hands resting on your body. Remus pressed a hard kiss against Sirius and then placed their foreheads together. He leaned down and kissed your salty lips after. 

“You’re okay. We’ll all be alright.”

He approaches without a sound, all warmth and certainty cloaked in silence. You see his reflection before you feel him—the flicker of his dark eyes, the slow lift of his hands.

From a velvet box, he retrieves a necklace: silver, fine as a thread, strung with a single obsidian star. 

The charm glimmers with something ancient, a pulse of enchantment just beyond recognition. You don’t recognize the symbol at first, not until the pendant brushes your collarbone and you feel the enchantment hum gently against your skin.

The chill of the metal is brief, and then there is the heat of his fingers, brushing the back of your neck. He lingers there and when he leans in he presses his lips to your skin, right where your pulse flutters.

“I still can’t believe you’re making me wear this,” you whisper, trying to steady your breath and failing. 

Your voice trembles at the edges, not because of fear, not entirely, but because you know where you’re going.

Because you know who will be there.

“Your mother is going to behead me with her eyes. And your cousins, I don’t think they even bother hiding their hatred anymore. Not that they ever did. I mean, do you remember last time? Narcissa told me I looked like a swan drowning. I don’t even know what that means.”

Regulus doesn’t interrupt, he never does. 

“I just don’t want to embarrass you,” you admit softly, your hands wringing themselves in your lap now, fingers tangled in nervous threads. “They’re going to look at me and see someone who doesn’t belong, someone who shouldn’t be there, someone who—”

“You belong to me.”

You freeze. His hands are still resting on your shoulders, thumbs tracing tiny circles that you didn’t even realize had soothed you into silence. You look up at him in the mirror, and his gaze is already waiting.

“They can say whatever they want, amour,” he murmurs, eyes dark and steady, “and they will. They always do, but I stopped caring about their opinions the moment I realized they couldn’t love anything without destroying it.”

Your heart folds at the edges, soft and aching. He has always been like this—quiet, composed, never loud with his affections, but devastating with them all the same.

He doesn’t promise things with grand declarations or raise his voice to drown out the noise. He simply stands with you, day after day, word after word, until his loyalty becomes the one thing you don’t question.

He leans forward again, arms wrapping around your waist now, and rests his chin lightly against your shoulder.

“You walk into that ballroom,” he says, barely more than a whisper against your skin, “and you hold your head higher than any of them. Not because of them, because of you, because you are more than they will ever understand.”

“I still think I’m going to throw up,” you murmur, half-laughing.

“You won’t,” he says, kissing your jaw. “But if you do, you’ll do it gracefully. And I’ll hex anyone who dares to comment.”

That makes you laugh, properly this time, and he smiles against your skin. 

You glance sideways at him, take in the sharp lines of his profile, the way his hair falls loose at his collar, the curve of his mouth set somewhere between solemnity and affection.

“I know I’m overthinking it,” you murmur, the silence too loud around your thoughts.

“But sometimes I feel like walking into these places is like being willingly set on fire, just to see how long I can smile through it.”

He looks at you then—fully—and stops walking. “Don’t do that,” he says gently, tugging your hand until you turn toward him. “Don’t talk about yourself like that.”

“I’m just being honest.”

“So am I,” he says, and then, without giving you time to step back or brace for it, he spins you softly in place, pulling you into him so that the fullness of your dress sways around your ankles.

You land against his chest, your breath catching in your throat as his arm slides around your waist. The other lifts to cradle your face, thumb brushing against your cheek, his gaze fixed on you like you are the only thing he’s ever seen that made him question the world he was raised in.

“Do you know what I see?” he whispers, voice dipping lower with each word.

“I see grace in motion, I see strength wrapped in beauty, I see someone who stands in rooms full of cruelty and still holds onto softness, and I see the most beautiful woman I’ve ever touched and I still can’t believe she lets me touch her at all.”

Your breath stumbles out of you in a small, startled laugh, but he’s already leaning in, lips grazing your neck where your pulse beats so clearly beneath your skin. 

The kiss is feather-light, almost reverent, and then another follows, just below your ear, then lower still, and your hands curl in the lapels of his suit to steady yourself as your knees begin to forget how to hold you up.

“Regulus—” you breathe, but it comes out as more of a sigh.

“You wear white like it was spun for you,” he murmurs into your skin.

“You speak and my world quiets. You worry and I want to carry every weight until you forget how to frown. You reach for me and I forget everything I was ever taught to want, because none of it ever came close to you.”

Your fingers climb to his shoulders, clutching tighter now, your body drawn to his like a tide pulled toward gravity. The silk of your dress rustles as you shift against him, and the scent of him makes your head spin. 

You tilt your face, brush your lips against his jaw, a silent invitation that speaks louder than anything you've said aloud.

He chuckles softly, not unkind, but with that aching kind of fondness that wraps around you like warmth in winter.

“No, amour,” he murmurs, voice threaded with restraint that costs him something. He presses one last kiss to your collarbone, slow and deliberate, before pulling back just enough to look at you. “We have to go.”

Your groan is dramatic and half-playful, your fingers still tangled in the folds of his robes. “You’re cruel.”

He smiles. It’s crooked this time, boyish in the way it rarely is, and entirely undone by you. “If I don’t leave now, I won’t leave at all,” he admits, brushing your hair back from your cheek with gentleness. 

“And if I give in, we’ll be late, and I won’t be able to stop. And tonight, of all nights, I need them to see you. I need them to see what I chose instead of them.”

Your throat tightens.

Regulus leans in again, his lips brushing the shell of your ear now, velvet and promise and flame. “But when we’re back—” his voice dips, warm and low, “—I’m going to spend the entire night showing you how much I love you. Every minute of it, slowly.”

You shiver. Your heartbeat is a hymn in your chest.

“And if you still think you don’t belong,” he adds, kissing your temple, “I’ll remind you again, and again, until you forget they ever made you doubt.”

You close your eyes and breathe him in. And for the first time since the invitation arrived, you begin to believe you might survive this night—because you are not walking into it alone.

The air outside the dressing room clings with a kind of hush, broken only by the gentle click of your heels and the rustle of silk with every step. 

Regulus walks beside you, silent as always, but present in a way that steadies the tremor in your chest. His hand rests over yours, fingers tangled just tightly enough to keep you tethered.\

The carriage waits outside, polished black and moonlit, drawn by a pair of thestrals that flick their heads but make no sound. He helps you in with the ease of habit, and when you settle into the dark leather seats, you realize he hasn’t let go of your hand. 

You ride in near silence, the quiet between you made of shared thought rather than absence. He watches you out of the corner of his eye as though he’s memorizing you again, dress and necklace and all, but says nothing.

You glance out the window as the manor comes into view—Grimmauld Place transformed. The windows shimmer with charmed frost, and light pours from within like liquid gold. 

A quartet plays softly somewhere inside, and you can already see the silhouettes of guests drifting past tall arched windows. You swallow.

“I still think your mother is going to hex me on sight,” you murmur.

“She won’t,” Regulus replies, calm and certain.

“No offense, but I don’t think certainty applies to Walburga Black.”

He smiles faintly. “If she does, she’ll regret it. I’ll make sure of it.”

You glance at him—at the quiet promise in his voice, the way it’s laced not with arrogance, but loyalty. He isn’t loud in his defiance. He never has been. 

When you enter the ballroom, it feels like walking into a relic—heavy with history, thick with enchantments that tangle around your ankles like smoke. 

The chandeliers float above like frozen constellations, dripping crystal and silver, casting fractured light across the black marble floors.

The entire space glows in cold elegance: long tables draped in obsidian silk, wine dark as garnet glinting in goblets, every movement reflected in the polished floor beneath your feet.

Regulus doesn’t loosen his grip on you.

You feel the eyes before you see them. 

“She looks odd,” someone murmurs behind a fan.

 “Is that silk? Bold choice,” says another, sharper voice.

 “Didn’t know half-bloods came in white,” someone else laughs, too quiet for most ears.

Regulus hears. Of course he does. His jaw tightens, but he keeps walking, his hand warm and steady against your spine. You press a little closer to him.

“Don’t give them the reaction they want,” he murmurs without looking down. “They’re only brave in groups.”

You exhale slowly, nodding.

He leads you into the middle of the floor, and everything else fades into hush. The world narrows to the soft glide of his steps, the rhythm of the dance between you, the heat of his palm against yours. 

“You’re holding your breath,” he says softly.

“I’m trying not to look like I want to flee.”

He turns you in one fluid motion, your skirts sweeping the floor like mist. “You don’t look like that,” he says. “You look like you know exactly what you’re doing.”

“I don’t.”

“Then you’re very convincing.”

You smile despite yourself. “You’re surprisingly charming tonight.”

“I’m always charming,” he replies, with the barest edge of amusement.

You laugh, and the weight in your chest lightens.

Later, you slip away for a moment of air, ducking near the arched corridor that leads to the gallery. 

That’s where you find Andromeda, standing with a glass of wine, her posture regal without effort. Her dress is pale silver, understated but elegant, her hair pinned into a low twist that speaks of old money and quiet rebellion.

She turns when she sees you.

“My, you clean up well,” she says, voice smooth and laced with fondness. “Though I must admit, I was beginning to wonder if you’d survived the entrance.”

“Barely,” you murmur. “I think someone tried to curse my hem with a trip-jinx disguised as a compliment.”

“Ah,” she says lightly, sipping her wine. “Welcome to the House of Black.”

You laugh.

Andromeda tilts her head slightly, her eyes sharp, thoughtful. “You look lovely,” she adds, more sincerely. “That colour suits you.”

“Thank you. I wasn’t sure if it was too much.”

“No,” she says. “It’s exactly enough.”

You glance away. “I feel like I’m trying not to unravel.”

“Then you’re doing a fine job of it. I learned long ago that here, grace is a kind of armor. Wear it until they tire of throwing stones.”

You nod. “How did you survive this world?”

“I didn’t,” she says simply. “I left it. But Regulus—” her voice softens slightly, “—he’s not like the rest of them. He’s quieter about it, but the break is there. You’ve helped him make it real.”

You’re not sure what to say to that. So you say nothing, but your heart feels steadier.

Before long, Regulus finds you again. You don’t see him approach, but you feel him—his presence brushing close. His hand finds yours, fingers lacing effortlessly.

“Stealing you for a moment,” he says, glancing at Andromeda.

She nods. “Only a moment. I’ll keep your absence noticed.”

He leads you down a side corridor, then through another, past heavy curtains and walls lined with bookshelves. You don’t speak until the noise of the ballroom has faded to a distant hum.

“Where are we going?” you whisper.

“Here,” he says simply.

It’s a small study—dark and quiet, firelit. The door closes behind you with a soft click.

Before you can ask, he’s already pulling you to him, hands at your waist, mouth finding yours with the same quiet hunger he’s been holding in all night. 

You melt into him, your fingers sliding up into his hair, your body arching with practiced ease into his hold. The kiss deepens, slow and warm, and you moan into it, the tension slipping from your shoulders like silk sliding from skin.

His hands travel gently, possessively, over the curves of your back, his lips brushing your jaw, your throat, the dip beneath your ear.

“You’re driving me mad,” he murmurs, barely a breath. “Do you know that?”

You smile against his mouth. “I was starting to suspect.”

He laughs, a soft, breathy sound against your skin. “You look so beautiful, amour, Tu es la plus jolie fille que j'ai jamais vue, mon amour.”

“You keep talking like that and I’ll never make it through the rest of the evening.”

He leans back just enough to meet your eyes, still breathless. “Then we’d better go back now,” he says, though he makes no move to release you.

You blink at him. “You’re stopping this?”

He smiles, warm and wicked. “We have hours yet,and I plan to spend all of them after this reminding you why I’m worth enduring these evenings for.”

You breathe out a slow, dazed laugh.

“Now come,” he adds, brushing a final kiss across your cheek. “They’ll miss us, and you still haven’t danced with me twice.”

You straighten the bodice of your dress, fingers brushing over the silk as if smoothing fabric could ease the tremble beginning in your ribs. 

The heat of Regulus’s kisses still lingers against your throat, and though your mouth tastes like wine and him, there’s something else now pressing in at the edges—responsibility, decorum, the weight of being seen.

“I think I’ll stay here for a minute,” you murmur, adjusting your neckline with a soft sigh. “Freshen up. Fix this hem before it unravels completely.”

Regulus’s brows draw together. “You sure?” His voice is quiet, but there’s something firm beneath it, like the idea of leaving you alone, even in his own home, puts him on edge.

You smile up at him, brushing your fingers over his chest as if to reassure him. “Yes. I’ll only be a moment. And besides—Andromeda’s probably still near the gallery. I’ll find her.”

He doesn’t speak right away. His eyes flick over your face, searching for something you’re not sure he names. Then murmurs, “I don’t like the idea of you wandering this house alone.”

“I’m not a child,” you reply, gently but amused. “And you promised your mother you’d speak to the guests from St. Petersburg. You’ve spent nearly the whole night glued to my side.”

His mouth twitches, but not in disagreement.

“I won’t be long,” you add, smoothing the lapel of his robe. “You’ll find me before the next dance?”

“Always,” he says. 

He kisses your cheek before he leaves, his hand lingering just a second too long on your waist. And then he's gone—swallowed into the golden thrum of the evening, back into the tangle of names and obligations that the House of Black never stops demanding from its heirs.

You stand still for a moment in the quiet room, letting your breath settle.

The mirror is old, etched with ivy vines in its silver frame. You lean toward it, dabbing at the corner of your lip with a lace handkerchief, checking that your necklace hasn’t shifted, that the pale silk still sits smooth against your skin. 

You murmur a quick cooling charm, press a softening spell to your lips, and slip out the side door—intent on finding Andromeda.

But the house is a maze. Somewhere between the east corridor and the gallery, you miss a turn. The halls here twist in silent curves, lined with portraits whose eyes follow you like questions, and the flickering sconces seem too dim, too far apart. 

Your heels click softly against the floor, and the further you walk, the more you start to feel the chill seeping back in. .

Eventually, you spot the entrance to the ballroom again—the carved double doors wide open, music swelling gently beyond. You exhale in relief and head toward the sound, hoping to find Andromeda or Regulus again before anyone notices your brief absence.

You step just inside, and the shift is immediate.

They’re gathered near the wine table—half a dozen purebloods, all in deep jewel-toned robes, laughing softly over the rims of their glasses. 

You recognize some of them. Mulciber, Selwyn, Avery, and Rosier, with his ever-present smirk. A few you don’t know by name, but you’ve seen them enough to recognize the tilt of their mouths when they look at you.

Their eyes find you the moment you enter.

The laughter dies down, not all the way, but just enough to sharpen. 

You turn, slow and poised, planning to walk calmly back the way you came and find Regulus or Andromeda.

But you only take two steps before three of them peel away from the others, stepping into your path like they were waiting for this exact moment.

The room does not stop, the music doesn’t falter, the wine still pours. But for you, the air sharpens.

The one who approaches first is tall, pale, with an expression carved from disdain. His robes are midnight blue, his ring heavy with a Black family crest, though you don’t think he belongs directly to it.

“Well, well,” he says, sipping from his glass and letting his eyes drag slowly down your form. “I thought the help wasn’t allowed to mingle with the guests.”

Your fingers tighten around your clutch. You take a small step to the side.

He mirrors it.

“What’s the matter?” he asks, head tilting. “Lost your pureblood escort?”

Behind him, another smirks. “Careful,” he drawls. “They say she's clever. You might get hexed.”

“Not by her,” the first replies. “She wouldn't dare.”

You draw a breath and lift your chin, spine lengthening with practiced grace. “Excuse me,” you say, voice cool but steady. “I was just leaving.”

But he steps closer.

And the exit feels farther than it did a moment ago.

It happens too fast to stop but slow enough that you remember every detail.

The man with the wine doesn’t speak. He simply steps closer with a kind of ease that drips arrogance, his expression coiled into something that resembles amusement but hums with quiet malice. 

The crystal goblet in his hand tilts ever so slightly. For a heartbeat, you think—perhaps hope—it’s an accident.

But it isn’t.

The red spills like venom across your bodice.

It pours over the neckline of your white silk gown, blooming across the fabric in heavy, blood-colored streaks. It splashes onto your stomach, your waist, your arms. The silk darkens instantly, clinging to your skin, seeping into the stitching, crawling over the satin like rot.

You gasp, staggering back a step, hand flying to your chest, trying uselessly to stop the stain from spreading.

The man smiles as he lowers the now-empty glass.2

“Well look at that! It seems blood always stains,” he says loudly, clearly, deliberately.

It lands with the weight of a curse.

The surrounding crowd is silent for a moment, and then soft laughter rises like smoke, too smooth, too rehearsed, too cruel to be anything but intentional. No one steps forward. No one scolds. No one so much as flinches.

You’re frozen in place. The wine is cold, as it seeps through the fine fabric and chills your skin beneath. But it’s not the temperature that has your chest tightening—it’s the way they’re watching. Like your pain was planned, like this was a performance and they’ve all just taken their seats.

You turn to leave. Your steps are stiff, your throat burning. You want to find Regulus. You want to find Andromeda. You want to wake up from this, tear the ruined dress from your body and disappear into a night where you never came at all.

You take only a few steps before a hand closes gently but firmly around your wrist, halting you. You do not see the owner of the hand—only feel the sudden restraint. Before you can pull away, a deliberate push unsettles your balance, sending you off course.

A sharp scrape runs across your upper arm. It burns briefly, then stings.

Looking down, you notice the fabric of your dress torn where a ring snagged the seam. Blood wells slowly through the satin, vivid against the pale silk. It mingles with spilled wine, staining the fabric as though it were always meant to be.

The laughter around you does not cease. If anything, it deepens, curling around your ears like a thick velvet thread.

You do not cry, not now, but your breath begins to catch, trembling slightly.

Then a hand rests lightly on your shoulder. It is neither harsh nor unkind, but sudden enough to startle you. Turning, you find yourself no longer alone.

Regulus stands before you, a calm yet resolute presence separating you from the others. The atmosphere shifts subtly but unmistakably.

His gaze does not seek yours. Instead, it settles on the man who still clutches the empty glass—the same one who shoved you moments before.

Regulus’s eyes snapped to your arm where the blood welled beneath the torn silk, dark and vivid against the delicate fabric. 

It wasn’t just a wound—it was an insult writ in crimson, a raw mark of the contempt you had endured. The mingled wine stain and blood on your dress screamed humiliation, and it shattered something deep inside him.

His breath hitched, trembling with something fierce and uncontrolled. The laughter—low, cruel, mocking—wrapped around you like suffocating chains, each chuckle a slap against his heart.

Without thinking, he seized the empty wine goblet from the man who stood too close, the one who had shoved you, whose laughter still echoed like a blade in the heavy air. 

The glass was cold, fragile in his hand, but Regulus held it like a weapon.

His voice broke free in a savage roar that shattered the fragile veneer of the ballroom’s polished grace. “Do you think blood stains?” His words sliced the silence, jagged and merciless. 

“Do you think that because she bleeds, because her blood mixes with your filth, she is anything less than any of you!”

He thrust the glass forward, eyes blazing. “I’ll show you how Black blood stains.”

With a brutal shove, he slammed the man backward against the carved stone pillar. The goblet slipped from his fingers and shattered, shards scattering like the shattered pride of those around him.

In an instant, the room erupted. Wands whipped up, light flashing like blades drawn in panic and outrage. The air thickened with magic and tension.

But Regulus was unshaken. His own wand sprang from his sleeve with a flick of his wrist, a dark, lethal promise gleaming in his hand.

“I will not hesitate,” he growled, voice low and charged with wrath, “to tear apart anyone who harms her again! I don’t fucking care who any of you are!”

The crowd held its breath, caught between fear and fascination.

Then Walburga’s voice, sharp as a whip, cut through the chaos. “Enough, Regulus!”

Her presence was cold command. Her eyes flickered with disdain as she stepped forward, her lips pressed into a thin, unforgiving line.

He spun toward her, every muscle coiled in fury. “You will not silence me, Mother!” he spat, voice ragged and fierce. “Not after what you’ve done.”

“You disgrace this family with this girl,” Walburga said icily. “Lower your wand and leave this hall.”

Regulus’s hands clenched the wand so tightly his knuckles whitened. His breath came ragged, voice rising in a crescendo of unrestrained anger. 

“Disgrace? She is the only thing here worthy of honor. The only blood that matters, and you—you are poison!”

Without warning, he shattered the empty goblet in his fist, the crack of breaking glass echoing like thunder. The jagged shard flew through the air, catching Walburga’s cheek with a sickening cut.

Gasps tore through the stunned crowd.

Regulus’s voice dropped to a low, venomous hiss, thick with contempt. “Even your blood stains, Mother. Filthy red, just like the rest of this rotten house.”

Regulus turns.

And the moment he sees you, really sees you, his fury falters.

Because you’re shaking. Your hand is clutched at your side, trying to hide the blood, the silk soaked with wine and something far more human. 

Your lip trembles, and your eyes shimmer, and there’s nothing he can do to stop it now. The humiliation. The fear. The way they all watched.

Tears pour from your eyes before you realize it, the sob catching at your throat like it’s been waiting all night to be let out. You try to step away, try to hide—but Regulus is already at your side, his arms pulling you in like the world is ending.

“No,” he breathes, over and over again, kissing the crown of your head, holding you like you’re made of glass and flame all at once. “No, no—I'm here, you're safe now, I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

You bury your face into his chest, sobbing harder than you have in years, your fists clutching at his blouse, smearing blood and wine into velvet. 

He doesn’t care. His hand is cradling the back of your head, his other arm wrapped fully around your waist, rocking you just slightly as if trying to comfort the storm out of your bones.

“I’m so sorry, amour, ” he whispers, voice raw and low, “I should’ve stayed. I never should’ve let you out of my sight. I knew they’d try something—I knew—”

“Regulus,” you choke. 

“I’m here, ma belle.” His jaw tightens again, but his voice stays gentle. 

You cling to him like you’ll fall if you don’t. He lifts you gently, one arm under your knees, carrying you through the parted crowd. No one dares speak, not even Walburga, not even Bellatrix. The room has gone quiet as stone.

Only the fury in Regulus Black’s eyes dares meet theirs.

He doesn’t stop until you’re upstairs. He finds the guest room furthest from the ballroom and kicks the door shut behind him.

He sets you down softly on the velvet chaise, then drops to his knees in front of you. His hands tremble as they brush over your stained dress, searching for the cut.

“Let me see it,” he murmurs. “Please.”

You nod, breath catching. The torn silk peels away, and he sees it—a shallow slash, bright red and angry.

His face crumples.“I’ll fix it,” he whispers, voice barely audible. “I’ll fix it all.”

“Come on,” he whispers, his voice breaking. “Let me take you away from here.”

And this time, when he carries you through the hall, no one dares look him in the eye. Not even the portraits.

They all turn their faces away.

Because Regulus Black has chosen.

And he chose you.

You knew it before he spoke, before his fingers found yours with a reverence that felt like a vow—he had chosen you, not just in that moment, but in every quiet glance, every defiance that led him here. 

He would never return to this house, and you would never need him to. 

As for Regulus, nothing he left behind could measure against what he held in his arms. In his eyes, you were purity uncorrupted, something sacred they could never touch. 

He would tear down bloodlines, unmake legacies, dismantle every stone of the house that made him, if it meant being loved by you. And as always, he would take you home—carry you from cruelty, dress your wounds with devotion, and leave you blanketed in a love that demanded nothing and gave everything. 

Remus was limping a little as he closed the door behind him – the slam making you flinch while his back was turned. He had forgone his cane today, and was evidently paying the consequences. 

Maybe it was because Regulus got a black letter from home earlier this week that he still refuses to show you. Maybe it was the fact that he showed Sirius who also refuses to tell you what it said, meaning that it had to be bad. Maybe it was caused by you barely seeing either of them – and thus not being grounded by them – this past month with how hard they had been training for the end of quidditch season.

Or maybe it was because once your brain is convinced there is something to protect itself from, it will continue to do so even long after the threat is gone and all you’re surrounded by is your sweet boyfriend and his kind brown eyes. 

Either way, you could not help but instinctively fawn over him as he slumped down beside you on your bed.

As soon as he dropped his bookbag by the end of the bed, he beelined for your side. You propped up the pillows, making everything ready for him, but the lanky boy chose instead to crawl up on top of you and collapse with his head on your chest. The weight usually helped ground you, but with your body already dysregulated, you found it stifling and hard to breathe. 

All of this was pushed aside in favour of your hand going up to scratch at his hair while your free arm caressed his back, soothing.

“You’re alright, sweet boy.” You willed it to be true, both for him and for you. “I’ve got you. Do you need any pain potions? A massage?”

Remus made a slight tsking noise that made it even harder to breathe. “Just need you, dovey.”

You loved him. Gods, how you loved him. And you knew he loved you. Why was the panic still rising in your chest, tingling in your fingertips?

You kissed the top of his head in response, tightening your hold on him and trying to force your body to soften. “Well, you’ve got me. All of me. Whatever you want, love.”

Remus buried his face further against your chest, tipping his nose up to brush it against the side of your neck. Tender. Sweet. Suffocating. He pressed slight kisses to the skin there, breathing you in. “All of you?” he asked, voice again growing hoarser, but this time with another intention.

You knew how to make everything okay. 

The smile you plastered on widened, just for him, just to make him feel alright, to ward off any irritation remaining in his bones. With gentle fingers, you moved your hand to his chin and lifted his head at the same time as you slid further down your bed, so that you would come face to face. It shifted his weight off of you, which helped you focus on your mission. Wordlessly, you brought him in for a greeting kiss, lips pressed against each other and then opening one another, diving in.

Remus’ breath hitched that way it always did when you kissed for the first time in a while, like he couldn’t believe it, then promptly melted. His strong arms came to wrap around your waist, pulling you further against him; and just like that, you were suffocating again, but you kept shoving it down. 

You led inquisitive, kind fingers to the hem of his ruffled shirt, sliding up beneath it and exploring the expanse of skin. Your lips moved together, Remus deepening the kiss further and you gifted him a soft moan for his efforts that saw him doubling down on them. You pressed your body against his, giving your all, as your hands only escaped to begin unbuttoning his shirt and loosening his tie. Trembling.

“Need you,” Remus mumbled against your lips before he began trailing his kisses down the side of your neck. You pushed his shirt off, successfully leaving him half naked, and quickly moved onto your next mission, which was unbuckling his trousers. “Gods, I need you. You’re so lovely, so good.”

You kept keening at his attention, making soft sounds you knew he liked. You couldn't say anything, though, too focussed on breathing. His tongue kissed down your neck, lapping at your pulsepoint.

It was then that Remus’ movements froze for a second. Lips pressed against your rapidly beating pulse. “Dovey?” he asked, tone still coated with desire, but checking in. You kept his face buried in your neck with a hand on the back of his head, so that he wouldn’t try to look you in the eyes. “You alright?”

You hummed in the affirmative, going back to exploring his body with your free hand. “Let me make you feel good,” you murmured, ducking your face down to his own neck, leaving open-mouthed kisses there as you slid your hand down his unzipped trousers, cupping him. He groaned.

Your movements were instinctual, habitual, but you didn’t realise how robotic they were. Even with his eyes squeezed shut in pleasure, hips bucking, Remus was beginning to pick up on it. “Mm, dove, w-wait a second.” It was all breathless mumbles.

You doubled down, grinding your palm against Remus’ length straining through his boxers, kissing down his neck and slowly trying to lower yourself with kisses down his chest. Kissing away his ire, his upset. His breath stuttered, but he managed to say your name, not as a moan but in an attempt to reach you.

What he did next made sense to Remus as a way to get you grounded again; it terrified you.

With a swift, kind movement, Remus grabbed your wrist and rolled the two of you from laying on your side to him laying on top of you. Your hand was removed from his trousers, and your face was drawn out from its hiding place, finally revealing your eyes to Remus’.

They flashed with fear for the one second you looked into each other’s irises, before you quickly averted your gaze. The unexpected movement, the sudden weight of him on top of you, the caging position you were in – it brought forth the hyperventilation you had been trying to fight back.

“Hey, dove,” Remus tried, voice unsure. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

You’re looking everywhere but Remus, breathing hard. This was not how you wanted this to go, not how you needed it to go. Your mind is suddenly yanked backwards, 2 years, 5 years, 12 years, through dark corridors and dark eyes zeroed in on you, shadows over your face, bruises on your body, pure and utter misery. He's angry, everything is wrong, you've done something wrong.

It was all you could do not to cry; because you knew crying only made it worse.

Though you didn’t see him, you could tell Remus had caught onto this sudden switch because his voice suddenly changed from uncertain to slightly panic as he said, “Hey, hey, my love, hey, you’re alright.”

He scrambled off of you, sitting awkwardly beside you instead, trousers still unzipped, the moment frozen in time. His hands hovering above you, wanting to comfort but not knowing how. Instinctively, you rolled your body to the other side, hiding away, as one arm wrapped around you securely and the other covered your face.

Hiding. What you always did best.

It broke Remus’ heart.

He whispered your name twice, voice breaking slightly. As he grew more determined, piecing together what was happening as best he could, he settled properly beside you. Your chest was heaving more and more violently, never quite catching your breath. “Dove, it’s alright. You’re safe. You’re safe, okay? You haven’t done anything wrong. But I need you to breathe for me, sweetheart. Please, breathe for me. Copy my breath if you need to.”

Remus didn’t touch you. He sat still beside you, all movements slow and measured, as he desperately tried to conjure up memories of conversations he had had with you or your bothers about how to help you through episodes. Going back to the first years of his friendship with Sirius where he held his hands through moments like this – well, maybe not exactly like this, but close enough. It was hard to think when he was this freaked out on your behalf but he had to try.

He breathed in and out loudly, slow movements, hoping to get you to copy him. You remained in your curled up position, struggling to catch on, but he wouldn’t give up. 

Grounding. You had told him about grounding, he had seen James do it for Sirius countless times after you all left. “You’re safe, my love. So safe. We’re in your dorm, it’s just you and me here. No one is angry, nothing is wrong. You’re okay.” He kept breathing for the both of you.

When he heard the violent sob that tore its way out of your throat, he thought for a second that he had said something terrible, that he had made the situation so much worse somehow.

Then, your voice rang through your head, confiding in him about how difficult it is to cry when you feel unsafe, how it only really happens when you’re with someone you trust.

He let out a sigh in relief – but it didn’t make the sound any less heartbreaking.

“That’s it, love, you’re all right. Let it out, do whatever you need. I’m here for you, okay? You’re safe.” Remus felt like he was reading off a list of what to say when someone is having a panic attack, which meant he felt like an utter buffoon, but you kept crying and you kept breathing, so he was at least not making it worse. 

“Oh, my girl, you’re okay.” He was fighting tears in his own eyes as he looked at you, ached to hug you but knew he couldn’t. “Can I come around to the other side of the bed, dove?”

He was expecting a no if not silence, but you emphatically nodded your head, another sob tearing from your throat.

Slowly, careful not to startle you, Remus eased his way off the bed and walked around to the other side, so that he could see your face without you emerging from your near-fetal position. He fully ignored his screaming knees and hips as he kneeled on the side of the bed, keeping his fingers interlocked on the mattress so they wouldn’t reach for you. Your eyes were squeezed shut behind your hand and his heart hurt more than his joints when he thought about what you must be seeing behind your eyelids.

He whispered your name softly. “My love, it’s okay. Whatever it is, it’s okay, you haven’t done anything wrong. Whatever you’re seeing in your head isn’t real, not anymore, you're with me.” His voice broke on the end, but he willed it back to its soft, sweet nature to calm you. “Can you open your eyes for me, dove? It’s not real, I am. I am. It’s alright.”

Tears were still streaming freely down your scrunched up face, but tentatively, with no shortage of hesitation or fear, you began to peel open your eyes. The second you could see Remus’ concerned, loving face through your veil of tears, you broke further, hand shooting free to clasp over his.

“Oh, Remus, I’m so sorry,” you sobbed. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

The feeling of your hand over his was a balm that empowered Remus to take further care of you, the stinging fear that you would be better if he left the room easing in his chest. He slowly turned his hands over, inviting you to clasp your hands together – sighing audibly when you did.

“What are you apologising for, sweet thing? You haven’t done anything wrong, nothing. There is nothing to apologise for. Just breathe for me.”

But you were shaking your head, cries intensifying. It looked like you wanted to say more, but couldn’t bring yourself to. Breath continuing to hitch.

“You’re safe, my love,” Remus murmured yet again, trying to catch your eye so you wouldn’t disappear into your mind. “I’ve got you, you’re always safe with me. I’ll leave if you want me to, but–”

“No!” you cried instantly, shaking your head. “No, please, please don’t.” Remus had already begun shushing you, promised he wouldn’t, but you continued. “Please stay. Remus, would you hold me?”

Remus didn’t point out that he had been until you began to hyperventilate, didn’t show you anything except an endless sea of understanding. He nodded and whispered, “Of course, my love. You’re sure I can touch you? I’ll hold you.”

You kept nodding through tears, shuffling back to make space for him.

Remus carefully slid in next to you, opening his arms so that you could position yourself how you wanted, scared to make you feel uncomfortable again. You attached yourself tightly to his side, mimicking the inverse of how you laid earlier, this time your head resting on his chest as you held him closely. He placed one hand on the middle of your back, a spot he knew made you feel protected, while the other wrapped your hand in his.

“Shhh, I’ve got you dovey.” Remus kissed the top of your head, slightly swaying you. “Do you want to talk about it?”

You shook your head as you cried, but even then you managed to bite out a few words. “I’m sorry. I knew you were upset and I wanted to make it better, I–”

When your sentence broke off with a sob, Remus tightened his hold on you, eyebrows furrowing in heartache for his sweet dove. “Oh, my love, you have nothing to apologise for. Nothing. You’re perfect, so sweet. But you never have to make me feel better, especially not like that.”

You made a hollow sound at that, and Remus continued. “Love, I would never want you to do something you don’t want to do. And I would never take my bad day out on you, you know that.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” The tone of your voice told him he shouldn’t have insisted that you knew as much; you were drenched in guilt and shame.

“No, no, my lovely lovely girl. You don’t get to be sorry, alright? This is not your fault. I’m not angry with you. I’ve never been angry with you.”

Vaguely, Remus was aware that stating absolutes like that weren’t healthy for you in the long run, that he shouldn’t reinforce that anger is inherently a bad thing. In this very moment, though, he could not care less about the long run and only wanted to bring his partner back down to him. He kept kissing your head, thumb brushing over the back of your hand. 

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” he emphasised again in a whisper, so quiet with his lips brushing against your hair. “You’re perfect. Just breathe for me, dovey, breathe. I want you to feel alright.”

You remained like that for quite some time, with Remus doing his best to ground you as your breathing finally picked up on his and slowed down, but your heart kept up its rapid speed, like it wanted to run away to where no one could see it. He hummed quietly, the way you would hum for him when he couldn’t sleep before a full moon.

“Can I ask you something absolutely awful?” You whispered at last, voice still choked.

Remus’ lips twitched where they were pressed against your hairline. “I highly doubt anything you could ask me would be horrible, my love; please ask me anything. I want to help you.”

You shook your head violently against him, making him tighten his grip on your back to steady you and protect you from yourself as shuddering heaves escaped from your chest. “No, it is. It is awful.”

“I will love you anyway. I will answer anything.”

Another sob escaped you as you opened your mouth but failed to speak. Remus kept humming against you, cradling you as he waited in patience. “Can you please–” You squeezed your eyes shut. “I’m sorry. Can you please– can you get Sirius?”

Get Sirius.

Remus almost wanted to laugh through the tears shining in his eyes at the sight of your torment. You were painfully endearing, even now.

“Sweet, sweet girl,” he murmured, peppering kisses against your forehead. “That is far from awful; that is lovely. You’re lovely. Of course I’ll get Sirius.”

You hiccuped. “I don’t want you to feel like you’re not enough,” you whispered through your continuing sobs. “I– no bloke wants his girlfriend to ask for his best friend when she’s upset, but I just– I need my brother.”

“Of course you do.” Remus squeezed you tighter, getting ready to release you. “Of course you do, my love. Luckily I’m not some bloke, okay? I’m yours. Yours. I want to help you.” Careful not to startle you, he starts untangling himself from your grasp, kissing every piece of skin near him that he knew you would be comfortable with.

“It’s just– he’s changed so much. Since. So when I see him, I know it’s over.”

Remus’ heart positively shattered for you – all three of you.

He pulled back enough to see your face, gently cupping your cheek. “I’ll run and get him, alright? Then I can leave you alone with him, or sit in the corner, whatever you’d like. It will just be a minute, are you alright to stay here alone?”

You nodded, but tightened your grip on his collar. When he looked at you in question you slowly leaned forward to kiss him goodbye – giving him time to pull away should he want to. As if he would ever want to. Remus waited patiently for your soft lips to meet his, the perfect gel for his wound.

“Just a minute, sweetheart.”

No later than he was out of your arms was Remus out the door, hastily pulling a jumper on and unzipping his trousers – his situation having calmed down somewhere between the tears. He made sure to close the door gently behind him, and then he was speeding down the corridor, heading for the boys’ dormitory.

A snowy layer of guilt and self-hatred began to fall down in his mind – how could you pick up on it so late, how do you always do the wrong thing – but Remus swallowed his pride and squeezed his eyes shut as he hurried. He would make it right by doing what you asked, by getting you your brother. That was the one thing Remus had zero qualms about; he would happily fourth wheel your pack of codependent siblings for eternity if it meant your smiles would continue to be more frequent.

For each step he took between your dorms, Remus made a new silent prayer that his mates had not stayed late at quidditch practice.

His prayers were quickly answered in the form of the unmistaken boisterous laughter of his three mates sounding down the hallway. Part of Remus, the one that still felt achingly guilty from the whole ordeal, felt a pang of fear of Sirius’ reaction. That his best mate would agree with his most cruel thoughts and claim that Remus had caused the heartbreak that was your current predicament. Though Sirius had made no threats towards him about dating his little sister, choosing instead to love and trust Remus, there was still an unmistakable weariness whenever your heart was on the line, in whatever way.

Remus hoped he had not deemed himself unworthy of that trust today.

Even if he had, he knew he would still hurry to get Sirius a thousand times over, if that would help you.

Out of habit, Remus knocked on the door twice before quickly pushing it open, not waiting for a response; it was his dorm too, after all. His eyes immediately landed on Sirius leaned back against James’ chest on his bed, cheeks rosy from practise and laughter. Meanwhile, Peter was sprawled out like a starfish on the carpet, in the middle of some deranged story that had the others in stitches.

All heads flew up with a smile when Remus entered, but Sirius’ brows were the first to furrow.

“Sorry, can I–”

“Everything alright?” Sirius interrupted, not to be mean but because he could not help himself. He sat up, detangling himself from James, whose hand automatically went to stroke his back soothingly.

“Yes, but could you come for a minute? She needs you.” Remus didn’t want to say too much here and now, both to avoid wasting time and because he didn’t want to expose your vulnerable plea to the other boys. He knows you view James like an additional older brother and Peter like a best friend, but this feels like a blood-kin kind of situation. A raised-by-Walburga-Black kind of situation.

Sirius elegantly shot up from the bed, squeezing James’ hand in parting without looking back as he sidestepped Peter’s messy limbs. It was an excellent choreography of movements, owed to ballet classes you both had told horror stories of, as Sirius swiped up one of his jumpers on the way to the door and squeezed out past Remus. A man on a mission.

Remus gave a tight-lipped smile to the two remaining boys as he closed the door, speeding after Sirius. The other boy cast a brief look over his shoulder, brows furrowed in concern. “Where is she? What happened?”

“In her dorm. She caught on that I had a bad day and it triggered her.” Remus struggled to keep up with Sirius, but he refused to slow down just on account of himself.

He was half expecting Sirius to ask him what he had done, to join the symphony of voices in the back of his head telling him that he did this to her. Instead, Sirius’ shoulders merely deflated a little as he picked up his pace.

By the time the two of them had made it to your dormitory door, Remus was out of breath while Sirius seemed to be holding his. The part of Remus that was just Sirius’ best friend was concerned about how watching his little sister, whom he adored above all else, having an episode might trigger him in turn. The part of Remus that was in love with you, though – which was all of him – was just grateful to be able to do something for you, anything.

Sirius gently pushed down the doorhandle, announcing himself immediately as he slipped into the room. “Babygirl? It’s me.”

Over Sirius’ head, Remus instantly spotted you, sitting upright on the bed but curled in on yourself. Arms wrapped around your knees that were pulled to your chest, forehead on your knees and shoulders shaking with tears and uneven breaths.

Your head picked up at the sound of Sirius’ voice, glistening eyes and deep-seated frown on display. You made a small sobbing noise that sounded like your older brother’s name.

In an instant, Sirius was by your side.

“Hey, hey,” Sirius whispered, in a voice so uncharacteristically soft it sounded foreign in his mouth, yet perfectly at home when directed at you. “Hey bébé étoile, what’s going on, hm?”

He climbed onto the bed, carefully dragging your body into his lap, so that he could cradle your head against his chest. You put up no fight, disappearing into Sirius’ embrace the moment he invited you in. The choreography from earlier continued, it was like you were born to be in each other’s arms, knowledgeable and comforting.

Remus stood in the doorway, mesmerised by the sight but unsure where to go. He could hear Sirius’ soft shushing, but not quite make out what he was saying, a mix of English and the French he usually refuses to speak.

With his hand on the doorknob, Remus was about to leave you two alone when he heard his name being called. 

“Rem? Could you stay, please?” Your eyes peered around Sirius’ comforting hand on the back of your head, an insecurity creeping into your beautiful irises that Remus thought had no business living there.

“Of course, dove,” he whispered, hurriedly closing the door – careful not to make it slam this time – and coming up to sit at the edge of the bed. He made himself comfortable as you disappeared into Sirius’ neck, whose attention had remained on you.

It was strange to watch you two like this. Independence was so important to you, going to unfair extremes to prove yourself stoic and strong and untouchable. And though you are the softest soul Remus knows when you are alone, he knows how much it means for you to stand your own ground.

While he didn’t think this lessened your independence in any way, it still felt out of place to see you looking so young. Curled up against Sirius, your hand cupping his ear and tracing every single piece of silver jewellery that was placed there, each a loud fuck you to the house you both survived, evidence of your departure. Watching you ground yourself with the cool metal and matching your breathing to Sirius’, your eyes closed as he whispered against your hairline, occasionally kissing it with a featherlight touch. 

It was beautiful. Remus felt a simmering pride within him for you both, for finding safety and unity in one another still, for, after every rough spot, to still be on each other’s team. His smile turned watery.

“You’re safe, bébé étoile,” Sirius whispered as your breathing evened out. “Remus isn’t like that. He would never be like that.” He looked up at Remus over your head, with an expression of gratitude and love. He didn’t even know how you were triggered or what Remus had done, yet he still felt those words to be true. 

Remus could feel himself being stitched into the fabric that was your new family.

You heaved a deep breath and sat up a little, still between Sirius’ sprawled out legs, but no longer leaning on him. With still slightly shaking fingers, you wiped beneath your eyes – and began to laugh. A soft, twinkling laugh that Remus couldn’t hold himself back from joining in on, at least not when he saw Sirius do the same.

“Phew,” you said in a quiet, yet exaggerated tone. “Almost overreacted to that one. Glad I didn’t.”

Remus chuckled more at your irony, but shook his head. He had the audacity to bump his knee against yours on the small bed. “No such thing, my love.”

“I for one think you should overreact more. Have you tried hexing him when you think he’s upset with you? That one always works for me.” Sirius made a clicking noise and winked at you.

Nevermind the fact that if Sirius ever had instinctively raised his wand at James, Remus knew he would have broken it in self-disgust.

You just laughed a bit more, falling backwards on the bed, arched over Sirius’ thigh in a way that surely couldn’t be comfortable but that he didn’t have the heart to comment on just yet.

Sirius seemed to agree as he smoothed his hand up and down your shin. “You landing yet, ma puce?”

You groaned. “Don’t call me that.”

He instantly grinned, looking over at Remus. “She’s landed alright.” He clamped down on your knee and jostled it a little for good measure, making you sit up, leaning back on your hands.

Just before he thought it himself, you declared, “I’m exhausted.” 

The endeared smile that spread on Remus’ face must have been sickening. “I can imagine, dovey. Feeling your feelings like that is no easy feat.”

“Yeah, well, you’re next,” you teased, but the gratitude still shone through your smile.

“Am I now? How will you enforce that?”

“I’ll give you something to cry about.” You transferred your weight to one hand as the other reached out to grab Remus by the collar and – gently, despite what it may seem – pulled him down to pile on top of you and Sirius. The latter faux shirked, as if the barely-there weight on his legs would crush him while you and Remus giggled.

It would be a while before Sirius went back to the dorm, well after you told him he could, a simmering concerned ache swimming in his eyes even as you teased one another. And even when Sirius did, Remus had a hard time agreeing to come with, despite the fact that your dormmates would be returning any minute and neither of them fancied detention for overstaying their welcome in the girls' dorm.

It was solved in true Black siblings fashion; yet another night of you crashing over at the Marauders’ dormitory. Unlike in your first years at Hogwarts when you would sleep in Sirius' bed, you stayed in Remus' this time. Though, Sirius still made his case clear. “No snogging in front of me – panic attacks I can put up with, but that is where I draw the line.”

James’ POV

“Pads, what the fuck!” James shifted back into his human form, scrambling to drag Padfoot out of the massive blackberry bushes he’d launched himself into. The run had been quiet, almost peaceful, just the two of them out for a moonlight romp to blow off some steam from the day.

Then, of course, Sirius buggered that right up.

Padfoot yipped and whined, the thorns pulling at his onyx fur, and flopped onto the ground beside it with a dramatic grunt. He quickly shifted back into a disgruntled Sirius, checking over himself for injuries.

“I didn’t know they were like…pointy!” Sirius huffed, relaxing when he realized he only had a few shallow scrapes. “Just wanted a fucking snack—”

“Of course they are—what is that?” A high-pitched clicking sound interrupted them. James crouched down, peering into the thicket of brambles and ripe, midnight purple fruit.

Something tiny and velveteen was trembling in a knot of thorns, it’s squeaks of discomfort barely audible. A wing fluttered out, delicate and leathery, a bead of carmine dripping from a hole pierced clean through the taught flesh.

A wee bat was caught in the brambles.

“Shit,” James cursed, tugging his sweatshirt sleeve down over his hand and shoving his arm socket-deep into the loathsome bush.

“What are you—”

“It’s alright, I’ve got ya’—please don’t bite me, please don’t bite me.” James wrapped his hand as gently as he could around the little bat’s body, feeling it’s heart fluttering rapidly in it’s chest. “Okay, there we go. I’m just gonna—fuck, ow, sodding thorns.” James brought the critter out as carefully as he could, making a concerted effort to keep his fist lax despite the thorns snagging his sleeve and jabbing into his forearm.

Once he had it completely removed from the bush, he slowly uncurled his fingers. The bat lurched upwards, flapping it’s tattered wings once, twice, then plummeted. James dove forward, catching the little thing just before it crashed to the ground, and cradled it safely back to his chest.

“Is that a bat?” Sirius asked, stepping closer.

“Must’ve been eating some fruit,” James muttered to himself, peeking open his fingers to peer at it. It blinked at him, eyes wide and dark as obsidian, the grayish fur of it’s snout stained with blackberry juice. It was trembling terribly, heart going a million miles a minute, and James knew he couldn't just leave it here.

Sirius looked stricken. “Shit, I’m sorry, mate.” he stroked a finger across the wing draped over James’ knuckles and the bat writhed in his hand, clicking disdainfully.

“Should we take it to Hagrid?” James asked, wincing when it’s thumb claw scratched across his inner wrist, uselessly trying to flap the injured appendage. Poor little thing.

“Poppy, probably. Hagrid’ll squish it.”

“Good point. Grab my scarf, will ya’?” Sirius tossed him his scarf from their belongings and James wrapped it as best he could around the creature, effectively immobilizing it, tiny head poking out from the top of the bundle.

“S’kinda cute,” Sirius said, leaning closer.

The bat loosed a vicious hiss, and he recoiled.

“Nevermind, christ.”

As quickly as they could, they hurried to the infirmary, the swaddled bat tucked into the crook of his arm, pressed against his chest.

“Boys! What one earth—” Madam Pomfry rushed to greet them at the door, probably expecting the worst given their history. “What’s that?”

“It got caught in a blackberry bush, tore up it’s wings…” he carefully unfolded the blanket, expecting the bat to try and fly away again, but it seemed to have exhausted itself, lying limply in his hands, breathing hard.

“Oh, dear,” Madam Pomfry tutted, taking the bat from him and setting it onto an examination table. “You poor thing.”

“It’s actually a bat,” Sirius joked, and she swatted him as she rushed past to grab some supplies.

“Have you nothing better to do?” Madam Pomfry bit, returning with a tincture and some stitching supplies.

“You know what, Poppy, I actually do. C’mon James, I bet the kitchens still open—”

“I’m going to stay—if that’s alright,” he said, glancing at Madam Pomfry. “Just to make sure it’s okay.”

“Suit yourself. Stay gorgeous, Pop!” Sirius blew her a kiss before making a swift exit.

Madam Pomfry began cleaning the scratches and tears along it’s wings and soft belly, and James was shocked to see how docile the bat had become. Relaxed even when Madam Pomfry lifted it into her hand to place a clean towel underneath it.

It was rather cute, almost puppy-like as it blinked up at him, nose twitching from the strong scent of the tincture, ears flicking this way and that.

“Dearie, I think it would be best if you changed back,” Madam Pomfry said gently, stroking the bats head.

James looked down at himself, confused. “To a deer?”

Suddenly, there was a flash of magic, one James knew all too well, and then there was a girl sitting where the bat was moments before, his scarf draped around her neck.

He reared back, stunned that not only was the bat an animagus, but an animagus he knew.

“Y/n?” He gawked, and you rolled your eyes.

“Potter,” you replied.

“You-you’re—you’re a bat?”

“And you’re a genius.”

He blinked at you, completely dumbfounded. A bat tracked, he supposed. You were quiet, a loner. He couldn’t remember ever seeing you with more than a friend or two, and you’d never attended a party. Really, he only ever saw you in his afternoon Charms class and in the library in the evenings. You hardly ever spoke, wrapped up in your own world.

He always had the distinct impression that you hated people, and now, staring down the barrel of your glare, he was certain of it. But saints, you were gorgeous. Death glare and all.

It then occurred to him that he’d had his entire hand wrapped around you not even ten minutes prior, and went hot under his collar.

James couldn’t remember the last time he’d been at a loss for words, but here he was, staring slack-jawed like a complete idiot.

“Perhaps you should thank him for saving your from that bush,” Madam Pomfry prodded gently, taking your arm to examine the gashes riddled there.

“Wouldn’t have been an issue if he kept a leash on his dog,” you bit.

James winced, guilt curdling in his stomach even though there was nothing he could have done to stop Sirius. The cuts on your arms looked bad, a deep and angry red, dried blood mixing with the purple stains on your skin.

How could he make this right?

Reader POV

You fought to hold your glare, but the pained look in James’ eye was rapidly unraveling your resolve. Of course it was James fucking Potter that found you. The golden head boy of Gryffindor, in all his infuriatingly handsome and tender-hearted glory, saved your dumbass from crucifixion-by-blackberries.

You’d almost rather be crucified than sit there for another second. The lights in the infirmary were too bright, the space too open, too sterile.

Why couldn’t you have been anywhere else tonight? If you had ever believed in good luck, you certainly wouldn’t believe in it now.

“Thank you, James,” you acquiesced, unable to mask the bitterness in your tone.

James smiled at you despite your tone, because he never stopped fucking smiling. “Thank you for not biting me,” he said, looking down at his palm—still stained with blood. Your blood. Because he had his hand wrapped around you. His giant, deliciously warm hand holding you ever so gently…

“Ow!”

“Sorry, dear. Just a few more,” Madam Pomfry soothed, having made the first stitch while you were distracted. Distracted by James fucking Potter.

You needed to get a grip. Him saving you doesn’t change anything. Sure, you would have been forced to stay there for eternity, or skewer yourself shifting back. But he was still James Potter, the embodiment of everything you despised most.

You hated Hogwarts, hated the crowded halls and musty rooms and catty students. You hated the classes, which either moved too slow or too fast. You hated the professors, with all their snobbery and favoritism.

Thus, you hated James. Because he not only loved the school, but the school loved him back.

Graduation couldn’t come soon enough. No more morning classes, no more roommates, no more James fucking Potter.

James seemed to sense your discomfort, his dark brows drawing together in concern. “Are you alright, though? Really?”

“Fine,” you hissed through gritted teeth, a headache blooming behind your eyes so sharply it rivaled the stitches you were receiving. You squeezed your eyes shut. Merlin, it’s too fucking bright.

You tried desperately to disappear into your mind, that secret garden where it was always midnight, always dark and quiet and safe, and escape for a little while.

“I suppose I’ll leave you to it then,” James said, sounding almost forlorn. Unsure in a way that was so unlike him, it made you open your eyes again. He shuffled on his feet, running a hand through his unruly black hair. “See you in Charms, then?”

You nodded, and he left without another word, glancing back at you a final time before the door swung shut behind him.

“James is a good lad,” Madam Pomfry said, giving you a pointed look. “Would do you well to let him in a little bit.”

You shrugged, and closed your eyes once more.

It wasn’t until you’d been patched up and sent on your way that your realized you still had his scarf wrapped around your neck, the smell of him, sun-dried laundry and cedar, lingering in your nose. You tucked it into the bottom of your trunk, telling yourself you’d take it to the be cleaned tomorrow morning.

The following afternoon…

You were dreading Charms, dragging your feet as you walked down the final corridor. You’d slept most of the day, your schedule being mostly afternoon classes, and the last thing you wanted to do was socialize.

Not that anyone talked to you, but still. Just being around other people was draining. Not to mention, James would be one of those people.

And sure enough, when you made your way into the classroom, you found James sitting next to your usual spot in the back corner, chatting animatedly with his friend Remus. The only one of his friends you found somewhat tolerable.

Of course, every other seat was taken.

James was dressed in his usual Gryffindor attire, a sweater vest and loosely done tie, white sleeves pushed up to show off the thickness of his sun-kissed forearms. Black slacks hugged his toned legs. Really, all of his clothes seemed just a fraction too tight over his Herculean build—saint’s sake you needed to get a hold of yourself. You were not interested in James Potter.

“There you are!” James chirped, and you groaned inwardly. You noticed the other students murmuring to themselves, wondering why James had taken an interest in you of all people, but James seemed oblivious to it. “How are you feeling?” He asked, pulling out your chair for you as you approached.

“I’m fine, a little sore,” you said, dropping into your seat and rummaging through your bag to avoid meeting his eyes.

“Goldenrod helps,” Remus said, giving you sympathetic look. “And chocolate.”

“I’m fine,” you repeated, setting your books on the desk, and Remus shrugged, bidding you both farewell before walking back to the boys usual spot by the sunlit windows. It made your preferred corner look like a cave in comparison.

Flitwick dove into the lecture before James could ask anything else, to your profound relief.

But then—“I brought you these,” James whispered, sliding a tin across the table and under your nose. He seemed almost…nervous? “They’re, ah—they’re blackberry scones.”

Oh, no. You felt your heart swell in real time as you reached for the lid, a current of electricity flying through you when your fingers accidentally grazed his. “Why would you—”

“Ms. y/l/n!” Flitwick scolded. “Pay attention!”

You quickly pushed the tin away, heat scorching your cheeks. “Sorry, sir,” you squeaked, ducking your head back down to your notes. When the lecture resumed, you shot James a rueful glare.

“Sorry.” He grimaced. “They might be rubbish, I’ve never really baked before.”

You couldn’t believe what you were hearing. Was this real life? James fucking Potter baked you scones? “James, you shouldn’t have—”

“I wanted to, as an apology for last night.”

“You don't have to apologize. I’d rather just forget it, honestly,” you admitted.

“Oh.” A flicker of hurt passed through his expression as he looked down, and you immediately regretted your blunt words.

You really were terrible in these situations, sucking the fun out of the room like a blackhole.

“Well, I’m glad to have properly met you,” he said after a beat, flashing you a toothy smile, dispersing the tension as quickly as it came.

You stared at him, perplexed. Your attitude had rolled off of him like water on a duck’s back. “Uh, thanks,” you said, painfully awkward, and stuck your nose into your book.

James’ POV

His palms were sweating, why the fuck were his palms sweating? And he couldn’t keep his hands out of his hair. And he wanted to keep talking, merlin, he felt like he could talk your ear off, but he held his tongue.

Talking to him seemed like the last thing you wanted to do, so he kept his mouth shut, not wanting to annoy you further.

You practically ran from him when class ended, and now, he was racking his brain for something he could have done to make you dislike him so much while sitting at dinner in the Great Hall.

There was something different about you, a depth in your eyes that piqued his interest. He was so used to people fawning all over him, tripping over themselves to talk to him, but you couldn't care less about who he was.

If anything, you seemed to like him less because of who he was. Which as driving him a little bit mad.

“You reckon he’s still thinking about that bat girl?” Peter muttered to Remus.

“Oh, absolutely. He was up at 5 a.m. baking,” Remus chuckled. “Spent the entirety of Charms today practically drooling all over her.”

“That's pathetic,” Marlene tittered, and it was enough to draw James out of his head.

“Fuck off, ‘Kinnon,” he said, flicking a chip at her.

“What's the obsession, anyways?” Sirius asked, his feet kicked up on the table, twirling his wand in his fingers. “It's not like you smashed her into a thorn bush.”

“No, I believe that was you,” James bit, avoiding the question, an ember of irritation flaring in his chest. He wasn't obsessed. Just…intrigued. “Have you even apologized?”

“To her human face? No,” Sirius said, looking a bit guilty. Then, he stood up on the bench, sweeping his gray eyes across the Great Hall. “I don't see her.”

“She's not here,” James grumbled, sounding more petulant than he probably should.

“She eats in the library,” Lily supplied.

James whirled around to face her. “How do you know that?”

“Because I pay attention to other people, you git.”

“C’mon, then. I have wrongs to right.” Sirius hopped down and grabbed his bag. James was already on his feet.

“You really shouldn't!” Lily called after them, but they were gone, Great Hall doors swinging shut behind them.

As they neared the library, James felt his skin start to heat, palms going clammy as his heart beat faster and faster. When they reached the doors, James nearly changed his mind, almost told Sirius they should just return to the Great Hall and leave you be, but his friend was on a mission.

Sirius pushed open the doors, startling the dozen students milling around at the front. “Any of you lot seen y/n?”

James felt his lungs shrivel in his chest. This was going to go badly, he could feel it.

“Padfoot,” he chastised.

“She's always back by the Forbidden Section,” a Ravenclaw offered.

“Cheers!” Sirius grabbed James by the elbow and dragged him through the crowd that had gathered and towards the Forbidden Section.

James had never felt so conspicuous in his life, and it made his skin crawl with aversion. Normally, he loved nothing more than being the center of attention, but he didn't want you to see him like that.

They rounded a corner, entering the darker, quieter part of the library, and sure enough, there you were. Curled up in an overstuffed armchair under a single, low-burning lantern, a book open in your lap and a scone in your hand.

You brought it to your lips, nibbling on the edge while your eyes drifted over the page, focused intently on whatever you were reading.

James had the strange realization that he'd very much like to be scone right about now, and felt his cheeks warm for the upteenth time that day. He scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to clear the image from his mind.

“There she is!” Sirius called, and you nearly jumped out of your skin. Though you quickly masked your surprise with irritation, lips pulling down into an adorable frown.

“Were you looking for me?” You asked, eyes flitting to James before quickly averting.

“We were, doll.” Sirius sauntered up to you, dropping onto his knees in front of your chair. You looked like you couldn’t decide whether to shift and fly away, or kick him in the teeth.

“Sorry to bother you,” James said, leaning against the bookshelf beside you. “Lily said you'd be here.”

“What, um, why exactly were you looking for me?” Your looked back and forth between the two of them, a small furrow forming between your brows, fidgeting in your seat.

“Prongs here was gracious enough to remind me that I hadn't properly apologized for hurting you.” Sirius patted James’ knee. “So, I am sincerely and deeply apologetic for body slamming you into an evil, evil bush.Can you ever forgive my inelegance?”

Your eyes widened, the color of you irises richer, more captivating in the low light.

Fuck, he was staring again.

“It's, uh—it’s okay, Sirius,” you said, glancing up at James again with a look he immediately recognized: help me.

Maybe you didn't hate him so much after all.

“Alright, mutt. You apologized, back off of her,” James said, sticking out his leg to push Sirius back a step. Your eyes melted with gratitude, and James’ heart lost its rhythm, beating slower as something foreign and liquor-sweet flowed through him.

“I vow to be more careful in my pursuit of late-night snacks.” Sirius stood up, crossing his heart.

“Just no snapping bats out of the air, yeah?” You said, a shy little smile lifting the corner of your mouth.

“Never,” Sirius promised, and you nodded.

“How'd the scones come out?” James asked, filling the small gap of silence.

You shot him another grateful look and holy shit, he could get used to that. “You only managed to burn some, so that's good.”

He smirked, thoroughly enjoying this more mischivious side of you. “I blame the ovens,” he said.

“Sure, James,” you chuckled.

He could jump for fucking joy. You laughed at his joke!

“That's impressive, considering it was the ass crack of fucking dawn when he made them,” Sirius teased, flashing him a malicious wink.

You pulled a face, nose scrunched up in faux disgust. “That's way too early.”

“Nocturnal type, hm?” James asked without thinking, mentally smacking himself. Of course you were a night owl, you were a bat for Godric’s sake.

“You could say that,” you giggled. “Most of my classes are later in the day.”

“Then you should study with us tomorrow morning!” Sirius said suddenly, and James groaned, ready to neuter him for being so uncouth. “We're going to meet here after breakfast to study for the Potions exam.”

“Oh, uh—” you started to pick at your nails, loosing your footing in the conversation as quickly as you'd found it.

“No pressure,” James added, seized by the need to alleviate your discomfort. “It’s just going to the four of us, Lily, and Marlene.”

“And Prongs will make more scones!” Sirius waggled his eyebrows.

It's decided; James was going to smother him in his sleep.

“Maybe,” you finally answered, avoiding James’ eye, and his heart sank.

Sirius nodded, apparently satisfied with how this disastrous encounter went. “Lovely. Now, if you'll excuse us, James and I have to, ah, hit the gym…for…Quidditch reasons.”

You raised an eyebrow at the obvious lie, but didn't comment. “Enjoy,” you said, sinking back into your chair and turning your attention back to your book.

James chased a cackling Sirius out of the library. “You're a terrible fucking wingman,” James hissed, smacking him on the back of the head.

“I know, that was god-awful,” Sirius snorted. “But, maybe you'll get to see her tomorrow? So not a complete failure.”

“Or, she’ll never talk to me again because I'm friends with imbeciles that send her to the infirmary!”

“I guess we'll find out!”

“Now, I'm actually taking you to the gym with me as punishment,” James glowered. He needed to work off some of this stagnant energy, too, his mind and body buzzing from that small interaction.

“No! Merlin, please—no!” Sirius cried as James hauled him by the hair down the corridor.

Reader’s POV

You lingered outside the library, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. Were you really doing this? You couldn't remember the last time you hung out with more than a few people at a time, let alone in the morning.

But you couldn't deny that at part of you, a miniscule, insignificant part of you that barely garners mentioning, wanted to see James. And with James came his friends.

He'd been kind to you, saved you from certain stabbing, made you apology baked goods, the least you could do is show your face for one morning study session.

There was something about James that was hard to say no to. He was so genuine, so eager. Even you couldn't bring yourself to pop his optimistic bubble, no matter how ambivalent you felt towards most things.

He was making it very difficult to continue despising him.

You could suck it up for one morning to make him happy. And only because he saved you. You owed him. Not because you cared about him, his feelings, or his opinion of you.

Definitely not.

Before you could chicken out, you pushed through the doors and into the library. It was sun-soaked and bustling, energy humming along the walls and marble floors. The chandeliers cast rainbows across the space, brightening the countless rows of books. Dust hung in the air like glitter, and it was almost, almost pretty.

Already, your head was starting to ache.

It didn't take long to find James and his friends, James’ voice carrying across the quiet library.

“She gets headaches if it too bright! Help me or fuck off, Pads,” James said, his voice pitching with distress.

“You need to relax, James. Your stress sweat is stinking up the room,” Marlene teased.

“That is so not helpful,” James bit. “And I smell delightful, thank you very much.”

“Because you practically fumigated the dorm with cologne,” Remus retorted just as you stepped around the corner.

“I did not—y/n!” James nearly toppled off the chair he was standing on, dropping the robes he was trying to pin up over the window.

The whole group swiveled towards you, and your stomach dropped out.

“Morning!” They all chorused.

You managed a small wave. “Good morning,” you mumbled, kicking yourself for agreeing to this. What the hell were you thinking? You didn't belong here.

Then, James was beside you, dropping a brawny arm over your shoulders, the alleged cologne wafting over you like a summer breeze. Verdant and sunny. “I'm so glad you came,” James murmured to you as he lead you to an available spot on the less-sunny side of the table. His bag was sitting in the seat, though his stuff was cluttering the space directly next to it.

He'd saved the spot for you, knowing you'd prefer to be out of the sun.

“Me too,” you found yourself saying, butterflies tickling the underside of your ribs.

That's it, you've officially lost your mind.

James pulled the chair out for you and you sank into it, the shade enveloping you like a cool blanket, and you felt a little more at ease. The group immediately launched into conversation about classes and Quidditch, their ease quickly growing contagious as you worked on your Potions formulas. James was reclined beside you, apparently able to work on his essay while chattering endlessly, and you found yourself chiming in, laughing at his silly quips and lame jokes.

One study session turned into two, then three, then a week passed before you knew it. You'd spend the morning with them, studying in the library or common room, then James would meet up with you for dinner in the library after Quidditch practice, sometimes with Sirius and Remus in tow.

You hadn't given much thought to your new routine, brushing it off as a temporary anomaly, until Saturday morning, when you woke up two hours earlier than usual and realized there would be no studying this morning. A kernel of disappointment lodged in your chest.

You were starting to wonder why you disliked him, any of them, in the first place. They were kind, funny, and more welcoming than ninety percent of the other people you'd met at Hogwarts.

The kernel of disappointed grew into a boulder of guilt, crushing and cold, at the realization. Your comfort was a construct. You'd been so stuck in your own head, in your assumptions, that it hadn't occurred to you that maybe you were wrong. That maybe, way out of your comfort zone, you'd actually love it.

A soft knock sounded against your dorm door. You threw off your covers and wrapped the blanket around yourself before pulling open the door.

You were not expecting to see Lily Evans standing there dressed in shorts and a bikini top, a pair of sunglasses keeping her copper hair out of her face. She had a colorful bag slung over her shoulder.

“Morning, sunshine,” she chirped, smiling at you.

“Oh, uh, hey, Lily. What's up?” You pulled the quilt tighter around yourself. Merlin, Lily was beautiful.

“We're spending the afternoon by the lake and I was wondering if you wanted to join?”

“Who, ah, who’s going to be there?” You asked, tongue thick with anxiety.

“James,” she replied, green eyes glimmering. “And the others too, but who cares about them.”

“Well, I—I don't have a bathing suit—”

Lily pushed past you, dropping her bag onto your bed and rummaging through it before pulling out an adorable black bathing suit. “I had a feeling you'd say that. And before you start—” she held up a finger to shush your protests, “We can make it whatever size you need.”

“Lily—”

“Please? We really want you there. It's been nice having a sane person around,” she said, taking your hands. “And James was too shy to come here and ask himself.”

You snorted. “James Potter? Shy?”

“I know.” Lily nodded solemnly. “He's different with you—good different,” she clarified when your frowned. “He's baking, for Merlin’s sake.”

You giggled, warmth blooming in your chest. “Alright, you win.”

Lily grinned, clapping her hands together. “They're already there, so let's go!”

You quickly changed it the bathing suit and your one pair of shorts, fishing your sunglasses from the very bottom of your trunk.

“Oh, honey,” Lily purred, casting an appreciative eye over you. “He's going to combust.”

Embarrassment burned your cheeks, but deep down, you hoped she was right.

It was a gorgeous day, temperate and blue-skied, a rare, cloudless afternoon in Scotland. It seemed half the school was frolicking around the grounds, piled onto picnic blankets and playing football in the open fields, wildflowers dotting the hillside.

When your reached the edge of the lake, your traitorous eyes immediately found James.

Waist-deep in the blue water and sun-kissed, rippling muscles on display as he splashed around with Peter and Remus, dark hair slicked back and dripping onto his broad shoulders. He was practically glowing, a gilded God among scrawny teenagers, and your mouth went sandy.

Then, he saw you.

If you thought he was glowing before—Lily was right, the poor boy damn near combusted. His face shattered into an enormous smile, his glasses going crooked from the force of it.

“Y/n!” He called loudly enough to alert everyone in the general vicinity, throwing his arms out in surprise.

“Hey, James,” you laughed, giving him a timid wave. It felt like every eye turned to you, burning into your skin like the dazzling sunlight. “I'm just going to go set my stuff down,” you said to Lily, spotting a shady tree just by the water you could retreat to.

The tree was just wide enough to hide you from prying eyes, the shadow of its leaves a balm on your overheated skin. You'd only been outside for five minutes, and already you were floundering. Here you were, hiding away instead of running into the water with Lily, towards the fucking Adonis waiting for you.

“Hey, you.”

You jumped, whirling around to find James standing right behind you, rubbing a towel over his sopping hair. “Oh, uh, hey.” Merlin, he was even more beautiful up close.

“Lily dragged you out, huh?” He wrapped the towel around his waist, leaving his hair even wilder than usual.

“She did,” you replied, desperately trying to keep your eyes from wandering down his torso. “Said you were too much of a pansy to ask me yourself.”

James guffawed, head falling back on his shoulders as he laughed. “That witch,” he chuckled. “You didn't come just to humiliate me, did you?”

You rolled your eyes. “Well, you are the center of the universe.”

“Your universe, ideally.” He flirted, and your stomach flipped, somersaulting with your lungs and leaving you a bit breathless.

Thankfully, a screech from Lily being thrown into the water by Remus saved you from having to formulate a response. You turned at the sound, and your gaze snagged on a group of fifth years ogling James, and glaring daggers at you.

One of the girls shielded her mouth with her hand, muttering something to her friend while her eyes flicked up and down your body, and they burst out laughing.

Anxiety coiled tight in your chest, skin suddenly too tight on your body, the bathing suit suffocating. Everything was too bright, too loud, too open—

“Hey,” James said gently, his hands finding your hips and turning so his body was blocking yours from the girls. “Love, look at me. What's happened?” He bent down, trying to catch your eyes as they bounced around from onlooker to onlooker.

Fuck, everyone was looking.

“Them,” you mumbled, voice pitched an octave higher.

James looked back towards them, brows furrowed, and you made a hiss of protest, grabbing his chin and turning his head back towards you.

“Don't look,” you pleaded, crossing yours arms over your chest to cover yourself.

His confused expression twisted in consternation, guilt flickering in his eyes. “Look at me.”

You couldn't, too focused on the others.

“Don't look at them, look at me,” he said, a little firmer, his grip tightening on your hips. Your eyes flicked up to his, finding them molten, burning, pupils wide and dark. “Do you want to be here with me?” He asked.

Tentatively, you nodded. Unable to lie to him when he was looking at you, holding you, like that.

“I want you here with me too. More than anything.”

“James—”

“If you want to go back to your dorm, I'll take you myself right now,” he promised, voice trodden with sincerity. “We will do whatever you want to do. Just say the word.”

We will. The two words echoed in your mind, as tangible and concrete as your bat sonar. Whatever you decided, whatever you wanted, he was with you.

“I want to stay here,” you said, forcing yourself to hold his eye so he knew you meant it.

“Would you like to swim, or stay here in the shade?”

You hesitated, then— "Swim,” you answered.

He grinned, and one his hands skimmed across your hip towards your stomach. “That's a brave girl,” he cooed, and with a flick of his wrist, he popped the button of your shorts open.

Your mind went gooey as James helped you shimmy your shorts down your legs, letting them drop into a heap at your feet, tingles erupting over your skin in the wake of his hands.

“Brace yourself, sweetheart. Water’s cold,” was his only warning before he scooped you up, wrapping your legs around his waist and charging into the frigid water with you in his arms.

“James!” You shrieked as he spun you, the heat of his body a sharp contrast to the bite of the water reaching your ribs.

“Couldn't let you talk yourself out of it,” he hummed, one of his hands coming up to smooth the hair out of your face. Droplets of water ran down your neck, making you shiver, and his smile widened.

“Just don't throw me,” you warned, failing miserably at sounding stern.

He scoffed. “You're crazy if you think I'm letting you go now, love.”

Then, a giant arc of water came crashing over the both of you, soaking you completely in a blast of cold. James tightened his grip on you, sturdy enough to keep you both upright under the onslaught.

You sputtered and wiped the water from your eyes, cursing, only to find Sirius doubled over laughing.

“Hold that thought,” James said, carefully setting you on your feet, the water reaching your chest. He shot a withering glare at Sirius, and the tattooed boy straightened, eyes glinting with challenge. “You're gonna regret that.” And James lunged, tackling Sirius back into the water with an echoing splash.

You wasted the afternoon in the water, splashing and horseplaying until you were shivering, toes numb and fingers crinkly, cheeks sore from smiling.

James wrapped an arm around your middle from behind, catching you mid-yawn, the setting sun and the cold sapping the last dreggs of your energy. “C’mon, love. Your lips are looking a little blue,” he murmured, resting his chin against your shoulder.

“Why are you looking at my lips?” You chided lightly, turning your head so your nose brushed his cheek.

He chuckled. “Can't help myself.”

You let him coax you out of the water and onto the plush grass, and stretched out on your towel under the tree you scouted earlier, letting the warmth of the sinking sun soak into your chilled skin.

James sat beside you, his back against the tree and legs stretched long. “Never thought I'd see this,” he said, quietly enough you weren't sure if he was speaking to you.

“See what?” You asked, tilting your head back to peer up at him, dappled sunlight kissing his tanned chest.

“You stretched out in the sun like a housecat,” he teased. “Sunshine looks pretty on you.”

Affection curled in your chest, simpering and saccharine. “Thanks, Jamie.” You inched up at bit, resting your head on his lap and letting your eyes flutter closed, basking in the drowsy decadence of it all.

His fingers combed thorough your hair, untangling the knots sewn by the water, and drawing you deeper into oncoming sleep.

“But you look stunning in the moonlight too,” he murmured, fingertip tracing the slope of your nose, the curve of your jaw. “My little night dweller.”

It felt like a dream, sweet and simple and golden, and you couldn't believe how different your life looked with James Potter in it.

“Tell me something awful about you,” you asked, twisting to look up at him.

“Something awful?” He smirked, dropping his arm over your waist, thumb grazing lazily on your skin. “I snore in my sleep. I put too much sugar in my tea. What kind of awful are you after?”

You giggled, shaking your head. “Nevermind.”

“I’d think you'd find plenty awful about me,” he ribbed.

“You'd think,” you hummed, turning your face away so you didn't melt under the radiance in his gaze.

Quickly, you were succumbing to James’ charm, being drawn closer and closer to his gravity, a lonely moon caught in the heavy orbit of the sun.

You felt helpless to it, and that scared you more than anything. You didn't want to need him, to need anybody. It was so much safer to be on your own.

But you weren't sure you wanted safer anymore.

James’ POV

After that day by the lake, James was hooked. Trailing your scent, your energy, your presence like a starving hound. He couldn't get enough of you, and you were kind enough to indulge him. Things hadn't progressed further than they did that day, lingering touches and loaded glances.

Normally, James would dive head first into the deep end, but he found himself wanting to follow your lead. Relishing in the quiet in between moments as much as the more charged ones, content to just be near you, savor you in whatever capacity you'd allow him.

He was just grateful you'd let him in at all. It felt like a gift, a glimpse at something secret and deeply rare, and it was not a blessing he was keen to squander by indulging in his usual hedonistic impulses.

He was happy to tread lightly, to let you step out of the shadows one bit at a time. Patience was never a virtue of his, but for you, he'd find the strength.

A week later, James was late to dinner, Quidditch practice having run well over. Sweat and dirt still clung to him, his training uniform uncomfortable against his balmy skin. But he was fucking starved, the gnawing in his stomach eating away at his mood.

The only thing getting him through was knowing that you'd be there waiting for him. He hadn't seen you at all that day, and it was wearing on him much like the hunger. Leaving him raw and wanting.

He went to push open the doors to the Great Hall at the same moment Lily came dashing out of them.

“Lils?”

“James! What took you so damn long?” She grabbed him by the wrist and dragged him into the Hall. “I was just going to look for you!”

“Practice ran long, saints, Lily—what's up?” He registered the shouting in the next moment, Sirius’ booming voice echoing off the high ceiling. A crowd had gathered at the end of one of the tables, jostling and jeering. Slughorn was in the thick of it, trying to get between Sirius and whoever he was raging at with little success.

Then, James noticed you standing just behind Sirius, Remus hovering protectively at your side. You had a hand pressed to your mouth, the other arm wrapped around your torso. Tears were pooling in your pretty eyes, and the last shred of James’ patience severed.

He knew instantly what had transpired, had heard the mutterings in the hall, the gossip and the merciless chatter. He knew people were talking about the two of you, the Head Boy and Hogwarts' resident recluse, and he knew that it was wearing on you, despite the brave face you put on.

He just never thought anyone would take it this far.

He was across the Hall in a few long strides. He grabbed the bloke Sirius was screaming at by his hood and yanked him backwards, throwing him down onto the ground. “What do we have here?” James snarled, looming over the sniveling rat, his boot placed firmly on the pricks sternum to keep him from scuttling away. “Upsetting my girl, are we?”

“No, no! I, uh—”

“What happened, love?” James asked, looking over his shoulder to you, but you only shook your head, too upset to speak. His rage flared hotter. “Padfoot?” James tried again, turning to Sirius.

“Him and his buddies were crowding her, calling her mute—” Sirius voice broke, splintering with anger. “Asked if her tongue worked at all,” Sirius spat, glaring at the other two boys cowering behind Slughorn.

James turned his attention back to the roach under his boot. “Give me one reason why I shouldn't rip your tongue out and shove it up your ass?”

“Fuck, Potter! It was a joke!” He sputtered.

“Let’s see if it was worth the laugh, then,” James cocked his foot back, kicking the kid sharply once in the side, then again in the kidneys when he curled up to protect his vitals.

Too fucking bad.

James kicked him a third time, pain shooting up his shin from the force, but before he could drop onto him, imagining ripping the fuckers tongue out with his bare hands, breaking his face open under his fists, a pair of arms wrapped around his middle. They pulled back on him with meager strength, trying to tug him away from his groveling victim.

He immediately knew it was you.

“Stop, Jamie. Please stop,” you whimpered, your forehead pressed between his shoulder blades. “It’s done. It’s over.”

His hand rested over yours on his abdomen, his breath coming out in jagged huffs. He hadn't realized he was shaking with rage until he felt your steadiness pressed against him. Trying to hold him together.

“He hurt you,” was all James could think to say, the crimson pulse of anger still throbbing at the edges of his vision. No one fucking hurt you.

“And you hurt him back,” you murmured into his jersey, clinging to him like you were afraid he'd lunge again. Hurting him wasn't enough. He needed to ruin him, throttle him, beat him so badly no one fucked with you ever again— “It's over.”

James drew a deep inhale, trying to focus at your warmth against his back, your willowy fingers clasped under his. “It's over,” James repeated, fixing the perpetrators with a warning glare. “So apologize, and stay the fuck away from her.”

They all nodded, muttering apologies while scooping up their groaning friend and hurrying out of the Great Hall. Only once they were gone did you release him.

James turned to face you, guilt churning in his stomach and an apology on his tongue, but you were already half-way down the aisle, wiping angrily at your cheeks as you stormed out. Leaving James standing there, feeling as filthy inside as he was on the outside.

No, no, no.

He knew he shouldn't. Knew he should let you go, give you space so you both could calm down. But he ran after you anyways.

“Y/n!” He shouted, running out into the hall and catching up to you in a few long strides. “Hey, wait—sweetheart, please—”

“I can't do this James,” you blurted, spinning on your heel to face him, and he staggered to a stop. “I-It's too much.” You shook your head as tears rolled down your cheeks, like you'd come to some sort of decision in your head. “I thought I could, but I can't—I tried, I—I’m sorry.”

His mind was reeling, too cluttered with anger and adrenaline and panic to find the words to make you stay. “Baby, don't go—” He reached for you, but you took a step back, then another. “We can do this—” His fingers brushed your hand the same moment you shifted, rocketing off through an open window, disappearing into the dark night.

“No, y/n! Wait!” He cried, but you were long gone, leaving his heart cleaved in two, his soul hollowed out. “Shit,” he cursed under his breath, tugging hard at the roots of his hair. It wasn't enough. “Fuck!” He shouted, his fist connecting with the stone wall and making the nosy portraits scatter. Something cracked in his hand, but he could barely feel it over the agony in his chest.

“Prongs,” Sirius called, he, Lily, and Remus following him out onto the hall.

“I went too far,” James muttered, chest rising and falling rapidly, barely able to breathe through the crushing guilt. The sucking vacuum of emptiness you left behind.

“We all did,” Remus said gently. “Sirius whacked one of them in the head with a dinner plate.”

James loosed a wry chuckle, splintered and uneven, and shook his head. “I fucked this up, pushed her too far.”

None of his friends commented. The pity on their faces was answer enough.

“You can fix it, just—just give her some space,” Lily said, approaching cautiously. Like he was some kind of wild animal.

He stepped back from her, unable to bear their sympathy when he felt so wretched. “I'll see you later,” he muttered, turning on his heel and stalking away.

Reader’s POV

A week later…

Burrowed under your blankets, cocooned in the thick warmth of your own labored breathing, steamy from your countless shed tears.

You couldn't believe you had run off like that, skittish as a hare, spooked at the first sign of trouble. He'd stood up for you, damn near got himself expelled because some dip shits wagged their tongues at you.

But you couldn't escape the cloying tar pit of shame their words opened in your gut—what if they were right? What if all you were to James was a conquest? Another trophy for his display case?

It ate through you, sticky and dark and consuming, worsened by the guilt swimming through like a barbed alligator. Because how could you think that of him? How could you dismiss all you'd learned about his heart over the last few weeks so flippantly?

James wasn't like that, and he surely wouldn't have risked his Head Boy status for a meager hunt already halfway snared. He wouldn't treat someone like a consolation prize.

But…how well did you really know him?

Certainly not enough to expose yourself to the inevitable agony of trying to wrap your arms around the sun. He was James fucking Potter. He was everything. And you were bitter and lonely and lost.

You were better off here, saving all your romanticism for your inner life, rather than waste it on a fantasy.

“Y/n,” one of your roommates called gently, shaking your shoulder through the quilt. “You have some visitors.”

“I don't feel well,” you muttered petulantly.

“That makes two of you,” Sirius said, and your stomach dropped.

Slowly, you inched yourself out of the blanket, squinting at the golden sunlight filtering into the room. The air was decidedly cooler out there than in your little cave, and it stung your tear-scraped cheeks.

Sirius and Remus stood by your bed, the latter looking supremely uncomfortable.

“What do you want?” You asked, scrubbing a hand over your face to clear the cobwebs and crustys.

“Normally we wouldn't, ah, get involved,” Remus began, scratching the back of his head. “But—”

“But James is our best mate, and he's an absolute disaster,” Sirius cut in. “And clearly you aren't fairing much better.”

“So you've come to lecture me?” You bit, stung by his bluntness.

“No,” Remus said, glaring pointedly at Sirius. “We wanted to talk to you because—”

“Because we probably understand what you're feeling better than anyone,” Sirius finished.

You raised an incredulous eyebrow. “That’s presumptuous.”

“Perhaps,” Remus placated. “But we know better than anyone what it's like to be loved by James, and not really understand why.”

Your jaw clenched, a bitchy retort lashing at the backs of your teeth despite the glow his words stoked to life in your chest. James didn't love you. How could he?

Sirius sat on the edge of your bed, yet again completely unperturbed by your attitude. “James can be really fucking naive, and entirely too optimistic. Down right ignorant sometimes if I’m honest—”

“But he's also genuine, and loyal,” Remus interjected. “And it makes you want to, ah, redirect him, if you will.”

“You push him away because you don't think he understands what he's signing himself up for,” Sirius clarified. “Moons and I have done it at least a dozen times each.”

“And how is that relevant to me?” You asked, crossing your arms over your chest, like that would stop them from seeing into your heart further.

“Maybe it isn't.” Sirius shrugged. “Maybe you actually do think he's a brute and hate him for defending your honor in front of the entire school.”

Ouch.

You shot him a loathsome glare.

“Or maybe you're scared shitless by how loudly he loves, so you bailed to try and protect yourself,” he shot back.

“And to protect him from you,” Remus added.

You shook your head, fresh tears burning behind your eyes. You hated how right they were, and how pathetic it made you feel.

“Look,” Sirius said, softening his voice. “We just wanted to say that it's worth it.”

You looked back up at them, their faces blurred with salt water, as the fight rinsed from your body like grime from a window pane.

Remus offered you a handkerchief. “It's vulnerable, and it's messy, but it's worth it,” Remus said. “He’s worth it.”

Sirius nodded sagely. “You just have to trust him.”

“It's not him I don't trust,” you murmured, ringing the handkerchief in your hands, Remus’ initials staring up at you in delicate silver thread.

Remus gave you a sad, knowing smile. “You have to trust yourself too.”

“Alright, that's quite enough sentimentality for one afternoon,” Sirius said, pushing to his feet and ushering Remus towards the door.

“His first match back is Saturday!” Remus called over his shoulder as Sirius herded him out onto the hall.

“We'll save you a seat,” Sirius said with a wink before closing the door behind him.

Their words echoed in your mind, ringing true despite the countless excuses you'd made over the last few days. Deep down, you knew Remus was right; James was worth it.

But could you love him the way he deserved with all your pessimism and anxiety and thorns?

Would it be so bad to try?

James’ POV

He didn't see you for two weeks after that, besides in Charms, where you kept your head down and refused to look at him. He returned to his usual spot beside Remus, wishing it was your warmth he felt instead of the afternoon sun.

Two weeks he sat in evening detention, staring out the windows and hoping to see your silhouette flutter past the moon. 14 days he was benched from Quidditch for his injured hand, remembering the way your soft skin felt under his rough palm. 336 hours he found himself without words, preferring the silence over pointless chatter. 20160 seconds he spent in his head, where you were still beside him, and you looked at him with fondness instead of fear.

Everyone was buzzing for his first match back on the pitch. But he felt disconnected from it all, like the James Potter they were talking about was someone else entirely.

He didn't want to be that James Potter, he wanted to be your Jamie.

He hoped the feeling would melt away once the match started, flying through the air always did wonders for his mood, but if anything, he felt worse. You weren't there to watch him, so what was the fucking point?

His mood reflected in his play, and so the match went on, and on, and on. In the sixth hour, the sun long ago set, the players were dead in the air, the stands listless. But Quidditch didn't stop until the snitch was caught or enough points were scored that losing team forfeited, and James hadn’t scored a single point.

His hand was aching, sore from disuse, and his captain was screaming at him. Even his friends looked disappointed, slumped against one another in their seats, where they hadn't budged for the entire game.

Something whizzed by, catching his attention. At first he thought it was the snitch, and lifted his hand to signal the Seeker, but then it flew by again. Zipping by like a little shadow.

He nearly fell off his broom when he realized.

You slowed a bit, fluttering around his head, the delicate breeze from your wings ruffling his sweaty hair.

“Hey, you,” he murmured, unable to stop the smile pulling the corners of his mouth. He reached out to touch you when you suddenly banked away, swooping down towards the goals.

You gripped the top of the largest hoop with your little feet, and dangled upside down from it, stretching your wings before wrapping them around yourself, like you were getting comfy.

The Hufflepuff Keeper spotted you and flew a bit closer, curious. James was about to shout for them to leave you alone when you loosed a wrathful hiss, flaring your wings, and the Keeper reared back, screeching about a flying rat.

“Potter!” King shouted at him, and he turned just in time to catch the Quaffle headed his way.

The Keeper was too distracted by you to guard the hoop properly, and James smirked.

“Potter scores ten points for Gryffindor!”

“Another ten for James Potter!”

“That's 50 points for Gryffindor, what a come back!”

The continued scoring seemed to re-energize the game, the crowd on its feet and roaring in approval. James couldn't remember the last time he enjoyed a Quidditch match so much, and it was all because of you.

“And the Seeker catches the snitch! GRYFFINDOR WINS!”

James whooped and cheered with his team, but he was searching the sky for you, his heart so full he thought he might choke on it. It seemed you were gone, though, as he had a feeling you might be, the excitement and cheering too much for your sensitive ears.

He landed heavily on the ground, his muscles exhausted from hours of staying airborne, and straightened to greet the crowd of Gryffindors that were pouring onto the pitch. But as soon as he did, he spotted you racing towards him.

“You did it!” You cried, throwing your arms around his neck as your body collided with his, making him stagger back a step.

His mind short-circuited, struggling to process what was happening. You weren't gone, you were here and wearing his scarf and…hugging him? In front of the entire student body?

Did he fall off his broom and hit his head? Because this had to be a dream.

He dropped his broom to hold you properly, one arm looped around your waist, the other holding your head against his shoulder. He squeezed as tight as his tired muscles could, burying his nose into your neck and drawing a long, greedy inhale.

“Couldn't have done it without you,” he murmured, fighting back the tears of relief pooling behind his eyes. You were here. It wasn't a dream, or a fantasy. You were real, solid and beautiful and trembling in his arms as the crowd cheered, confetti raining over your heads as fireworks popped in the obsidian sky.

You pulled your head back, cheeks streaked with tears and gave him a wobbly little smile. “I'm so proud of you, and I'm sorry for what I said.”

He shushed you with a peck on the cheek, then another on your nose, temple, the corner of your mouth—Merlin, he couldn't stop himself.

“I want to try again,” you said through water-logged giggles, fingers curling the hood of his uniform. “Please, Jamie?”

“Of course,” he said, caving to temptation and pecking your lips. “I’m yours,” he mumbled against your lips, and you grinned, kissing him again. You tasted like nectar and moonlight. Sweeter than any victory. And he let himself indulge, setting you on your feet so he could kiss you harder, deeper, drown in your winsome little sounds as you finally, finally, opened up for him.

The shadow to his sunlight, the moon to his tides, the other half of his heart, safe in his arms at long last.

Outside, the world begins to soften. The sharp edges of fences and rooftops blur beneath a fine dusting of white. The trees stretch their arms toward the sky, catching snow in their branches like old friends reuniting after too long.

It’s the kind of snowfall that doesn’t just cover the ground—it changes it. The kind that makes everything seem quieter. Gentler. Like the world is trying to remember how to be kind.

Inside, it’s warm. You’re curled on the couch, legs tucked beneath you, a book forgotten against your chest. The pages are slightly bent where your fingers loosened their hold. You’re still in pajamas—an oversized jumper and fuzzy socks that don’t match—but they feel like armor against the chill.

The fire crackles softly. The room smells faintly of cinnamon and pine. And for a few moments, you let yourself believe the day might stay like this—slow, quiet, untouched.

Then a voice rings out from the kitchen, loud and delighted:

“Guys! Snow! It’s snowing!”

It’s James, obviously.

You barely have time to register the words before he barrels into the room, socked feet skidding across the floor, arms flailing like a Quidditch player mid-dive.

“Look! Look, it’s actually snowing!” he shouts, pointing toward the window like it’s the first snowfall of the century and not just November being dramatic.

You sit up with a startled laugh. “Jamie, I see it.”

“No, you don’t see it,” he insists, grabbing a pillow and gesturing wildly with it like it’s a weather map. “You have to witness it. You have to feel it in your bones. It’s snow, baby!”

And just as the words leave his mouth, the thunder of approaching footsteps rattles the floorboards.

Sirius appears in the doorway a heartbeat later, looking half-feral and entirely thrilled. His coat is hanging off one shoulder, hair a chaotic mess of curls, and—of course—he’s barefoot.

“Did someone say snow?” he demands, eyes gleaming like a boy who just found the key to a locked candy shop. He’s already heading for the front door, wild with joy.

“Sirius, you don’t have shoes on—”

Too late. The door slams open, letting a rush of cold air curl around your ankles like curious fingers. Sirius charges into the yard with a laugh that sounds like it belongs to someone who’s never known sadness.

James whoops and sprints after him, slipping slightly as he fumbles to put on a jacket and yell something about “preemptive strikes.”

You blink at the open door, at the snow swirling lazily across the threshold like it’s been waiting for an invitation.

Then you hear a soft chuckle.

Remus leans against the doorway to the hall, dressed in a thick sweater and wrapped in a long, familiar scarf—the one you knit him last winter. The one with the uneven stitches and frayed tassels, charmed to shimmer gold in the sunlight. He doesn’t mention it. Just smiles at you like he knows every thought you’ve had since you woke up.

“We both know how this ends,” he says calmly, as Sirius yells something unintelligible from the front garden.

You sigh, but you’re smiling already. “With a truce and three ruined coats.”

“And probably a broken flower pot.”

“Again?”

He shrugs, moving to pull your coat from the hook by the door. “Tradition.”

He crosses the room and stops in front of you, eyes warm. “Arms up, darling.”

You obey without question, and he slips your coat over your shoulders, his hands gentle as he adjusts the collar and buttons the top. He’s close enough for you to smell his cologne—tea leaves and old books and something that feels like home.

“You’ll need gloves too, dove” he murmurs, already fishing them from your pocket.

“And boots. Can’t have you losing toes just because Sirius thinks frostbite is character building.”

Remus slides your gloves gently onto your hands, like he’s worried he’ll break you if he’s too rough.

You grin up at him, warmth blooming in your chest and spilling to your toes, and let him fuss.

He crouches to grab your boots while you slip on mismatched socks—one has a tiny cartoon stag, the other a crescent moon—and when he comes back up, he’s already holding your gloves in one hand and a knitted hat in the other.

You snort. “He would say that.”

“He did say that. Last year when he stuck his hand in a snowbank to prove he could hold it longer than James.”

“And James got third-degree burns from hot cocoa.”

“That's right, pretty girl.”

There’s another shout from outside—something about honor and betrayal—and Remus presses a kiss to your cheek before gently nudging the hat Sirius gave you last winter into your hands. The one with the little white stars stitched across the black wool. You pull it on, tugging it over your ears, and Remus offers you his gloved hand.

Outside, shouting erupts. A snowball fight has definitely begun, and judging by the string of swear words from Sirius, he’s already been hit in the face.

“You ready?” Remus asks, eyes crinkling at the corners.

You nod.

He holds the door open for you and steps into the cold. The snow is falling heavier now—slow and gentle, like the sky is settling down to sleep.

The yard is chaos.

And the snow, still falling in silent spirals, greets you like an old friend.

Sirius hides behind a tree, breath visible in bursts as he tries to form another snowball with one hand and brush snow out of his hair with the other. His coat is still only half-zipped. He’s somehow managed to find shoes—but they’re clearly the wrong size. Probably James’s.

James is across the garden, ducked behind an overturned wheelbarrow, whooping like he’s in a Quidditch final, hurling snowball after snowball with shocking accuracy.

The first one hits Sirius in the shoulder. The second smacks him in the side of the head.

“You absolute menace!” Sirius yells, wiping snow out of his eyes.

“Preemptive!” James calls back smugly.

“Unfair, I was defenseless!”

“Should’ve zipped your coat!”

You’re still standing on the porch, laughing quietly to yourself, when Sirius spots you.

His face lights up like you’ve handed him the sun.

“There’s my girl!” he shouts, abandoning his cover immediately. “Come on! We need reinforcements!”

“She’s not on your side,” James hollers.

“She is,” Sirius counters, bounding toward you like an overexcited dog. “Because I love her the most.”

Remus snorts. “That’s definitely not true.”

“Don’t start,” you mutter, smiling.

Sirius reaches you just as you step off the porch, scooping you into a bone-crushing hug that lifts you off the ground. He’s freezing, damp, and smells like fresh snow and trouble.

“You ready to destroy Potter?” he asks in your ear, voice muffled by Remus’s scarf.

“Always, siri ”

He sets you down with a wild grin and grabs your hand, tugging you toward the center of the yard where the snow is untouched and perfect for ambushes.

Remus trails behind you, hands tucked into his pockets, watching all of you like you’re the most ridiculous, most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

And maybe you are.

Because the snow keeps falling, and your laughter rises louder than the wind, and in the middle of it all—James yelling, Sirius twirling dramatically after being hit, Remus muttering tactics under his breath as he builds a snow barricade—you realize this might be your favorite kind of magic.

Not spells or charms or enchanted stars.

You don’t remember who laughed first, only that it caught like wildfire. It burned through the tired in your bones, the sting in your cheeks, and the snow down your collar. It didn’t stop—even when James was wheezing from where Sirius had tackled him straight into the bushes, even when Remus shook his head like a disappointed professor but wore that stupid fond smile he couldn’t hide if he tried.

The battle ended in truce. All of you panting, pink-faced, soaked—snow glittering in your hair like stars. Sirius declared himself the winner despite having the most snow in his coat. James argued his case with a stick used as a gavel. Remus refused to participate in the ruling and threatened to hex both of them if they tracked more snow into the house.

And so, in the hazy hush of winter dusk, you dragged yourselves back inside.

The heat hit like a sigh. That sudden flush of warmth against cold-bitten skin stung your eyes a little—the way they sting after crying too hard or laughing too much or watching someone you love do something unbearably tender.

The house bloomed with the mess of it—boots kicked off in mismatched pairs, scarves dangling from doorknobs, puddles forming in doorways. Someone slipped on the rug (James) and blamed it on Remus (it wasn’t), which earned a wet towel to the face (from you).

Sirius dropped his coat in the middle of the hallway and immediately stole your favorite blanket. When you scolded him, he wrapped it around himself like a cloak and shouted “I am the chosen one!” before tripping over his own wet sock and nearly faceplanting into the armchair.

James vanished into the kitchen with the determined madness of a man on a cocoa mission. Pots clattered. Spells sparked. Marshmallows flew. He emerged minutes later with mugs of something steaming and sacred, glasses fogged and grin smug.

Remus, always the calm after the storm, returned with another blanket folded neatly over one arm and a tin of those little cinnamon biscuits he secretly hoards behind the tea tins.

You all sank into the living room like it was a landing pad. Not one of you sat normally. You were half on Sirius, half on Remus, your knees draped over James’s lap, your back pressed to Remus’s chest. Blankets tangled and layered until it was impossible to tell whose belonged to whom. Heat radiated in waves—fireplace, cocoa, bodies pressed together.

James handed out mugs like he was conducting a sacred rite.

“Hot cocoa is sacred,” he said solemnly. “Passed down from wizard to wizard with great care and precision.”

Sirius raised his mug with exaggerated reverence. “I pass down my cocoa by burning my mouth.”

You opened your mouth to stop him but didn’t move fast enough.

He sipped. Choked. Let out a wounded noise that was more betrayal than pain.

“Why does it always hurt like that?”

“Because you never wait.” Remus said without looking up, already rubbing his temple like he’d rehearsed this exchange a thousand times.

James laughed so hard he nearly spilled his drink.

“It’s not even hot hot yet!”

“Tradition.” Sirius gasped. “Burn it once. Appreciate it forever.”

You shook your head and took a slow, cautious sip of your own. The heat curled through your chest—thick and rich, marshmallows half-melted into a silky froth. It tasted like memory. Like holidays and snow days and being fifteen again and invincible.

Sirius shifted beside you until his head nestled against your shoulder, heavy and warm. 

He smelled like snow and pine and something softer—like old books and the worn-out scent of someone who’s lived in your orbit so long they’re part of your gravity.

His hand found yours under the blanket, fingers cold but seeking.

Remus leaned against the couch’s back, knees bent so your spine fit neatly between them. His arms slipped around your waist, slow and certain—the way he always held you when words weren’t necessary. His nose brushed the side of your neck like punctuation. You could feel him breathing. The rise and fall of his chest, slow and steady like tides. 

Every now and then, he kissed the crown of your head and didn’t say a thing.

James lay half-on, half-off the rug, one hand loosely cradling his cocoa, the other resting on your shin. He traced lazy circles just above your ankle, humming something tuneless under his breath. He looked at all of you like he couldn’t believe this was real. Like he’d bottle this moment if he could and wear it around his neck.

Outside, the world had gone white.

Snow fell like a lullaby, soft and slow and endless, blurring the edges of everything until it felt like the sky had dropped a quilt over the earth and whispered, rest now. The windows fogged with breath and frost, and inside, time didn’t seem to move at all.

They were tangled up in each other on the couch, limbs draped like vines, heads on shoulders, hands tucked beneath blankets. The fire crackled low, casting flickering amber across knit socks and the curve of sleepy smiles. Mugs sat forgotten on the table—half-full, half-empty, sweet with cinnamon and clove.

James was the first to speak, voice low and rough with contentment. “We should bottle this feeling. Sell it, make millions.”

Sirius laughed, lazy and warm. “We’d be terrible capitalists. We’d give it away for free and forget to charge.”

“Sounds about right” Remus murmured, running his fingers absently through your hair, then into Sirius’s, then along James’s arm—like he couldn’t stop touching, as if to reassure himself everyone was really here.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to. You just leaned into the warmth of them all, heart full to the brim.

“I love us,” Sirius said suddenly, not looking at anyone in particular. “Like—disgustingly much. Sickening, tragic, poetic levels of love.”

James turned his head against your thigh and grinned. “You mean like sonnets and stolen glances and deathbed confessions?”

“No,” Sirius said, eyes sparkling. “Worse. I mean cuddling under four blankets, fighting over the last cinnamon bun, and watching Remus cry at Christmas ads.”

“I don’t cry,” Remus said indignantly.

“You sniffle!” you corrected, grinning.

“And I love that,” Sirius said, softer now. “I love that we all exist in this tiny, perfect moment. With snow on the window and sleep in our bones and nothing pulling us apart.”

You reached for their hands, finding them easily in the warmth. No need to search.

They were always there.

“This is it,” James whispered. “This is the part of life they write books about.”

Remus kissed his forehead. “We’ll write our own.”

And as the snow whispered secrets to the windows and time slipped soft and golden through the quiet, you let yourself fall into the moment, into them—all their sleepy warmth and easy affection, all the laughter tucked into their shoulders and the unspoken love that clung to everything they touched, and maybe it wasn’t perfect, maybe it never would be, but it was real, it was safe, it was theirs.

And in the hush of it all, with Sirius breathing music into the air and James brushing his thumb across your leg like he couldn’t help it and Remus watching you like you were something worth reading a hundred times over, you realized you didn’t need a vow or a promise or a future written in stars.

this was what love looked like when no one was watching.

You make a stymied giggling sound. Something flares in Sirius’ chest. “Hey, we’re engaged now. If I’m going down, I’m taking you with me.” 

Sirius grins. “Wouldn’t have it any other way, beautiful.” 

“Sirius,” his mother hisses. 

Your lips disappear inside your mouth. Sirius rolls his eyes but obeys the implicit command, going quiet again. He reaches for your hand underneath the armrest, squeezing. 

Now that your relationship is public, your families know better than to let you and Sirius slip from their sights. During intermission you’re both kept in your seats while attendants leave the box to replenish food and drink. You shift a little in your seat, smiling and nodding politely at comments about the performance. Sirius suspects the gauzy underskirts of your dress are bothering you. You rarely complain, but when prompted Sirius can usually coax you into admitting some discomfort or another. You seem never to get used to the threads and trimmings of royalty. He’d pay a handsome fortune to see what you used to wear in your day-to-day life. Occasionally seeing you in your sleep clothes is treat enough; if he let his mind roam free, Sirius might indulge in fantasies of cutoff shorts, sweaters with threads pulled loose by age, thrift store sundresses and grass-stained trainers. 

You tap Sirius’ hand meaningfully before asking your grandmother to point you toward the facilities. The lights are down again, the press gone back to the foyer, so you’re waved off with no courtiers to follow you. Sirius waits a few minutes before saying he needs them as well. His mother snatches his wrist as he stands, but he’s made his announcement just loudly enough to be overheard; she can’t avoid letting him leave, though she makes sure to pin him with a baleful stare as he does. 

He finds you in a sitting area nowhere near the facilities, leaning against a wall with your lip caught between your teeth. You free it when you see Sirius, pushing off the wall to come towards him. 

“Hi,” you sigh, hugging him. 

Sirius enfolds you in turn. “Hi,” he says back, strangely breathless. It’s not unheard of for you to touch him, but to put your arms around him so unthinkingly, like you’ve been waiting all day to do it…Sirius wouldn’t have guessed such a gentle motion could knock the air out of him so entirely. He’d happily never breathe again. 

“Are you alright?” he asks. 

“Yeah. Sorry.” Your hold tightens on his shoulders for a moment before you let go. “It’s just a lot.” 

“Is your skirt irritating you?” He grins. You mirror it, and Sirius watches with approval as some of the tension in your posture uncoils. 

“How’d you know?” you ask, something soft and almost coquettish in your tone.

“You’ve been squirming like someone let a colony of ants loose under there.” 

Your face becomes serious. “Really?” 

“No. You’re the picture of poise and good manners, I just have an eye for itchy formal wear. Stop worrying, sweetheart; the camera loves you.” 

“My grandmother said someone released a picture of me last week where I looked like a hunched-over tortoise.” 

“Well, your grandmother—and I say this at risk of a war between our nations—is a dunce.” 

There it is again. Laughter like fireworks popping in Sirius’ chest, hidden regrettably behind a raised hand. Your eyes are all impish delight. 

“You’re awful.” 

“You’re not a tortoise. It would be the flattery of a tortoise’s life to be compared to you.” 

“Isn’t it just…” You shake your head, expression unguarded in that way Sirius loves to think only happens around him. “Don’t you find all this engagement stuff a bit much?” 

He feels himself frown. “You’re upset about the engagement?” 

“Aren’t you?” 

“I thought,” Sirius says, somewhat offended though endeavoring not to be, “this was what we wanted.” 

“No, I know.” You blow out a breath. “I know. I just wasn’t expecting it to happen this fast, I suppose. Have they started talking to you about venues for the wedding yet?” 

Sirius lifts a brow. “No. Those sorts of decisions typically go through my mother, not me.” 

“Well, they’ve been talking to me about it.” You begin pacing, the layers of your dress swishing with every step. Sirius finds himself watching your restless hands. “Apparently, every member of my family has gotten married in the same church, but every member of your family has gotten married in a different church, and it’s only recently been brought to everyone’s attention that the members of both churches have been involved in some suspicious activities over the years. So now our advisors want to pick a new location, but your family wants to stick to tradition.” 

“Rather predictable of us,” Sirius owns.

“I’ve already had people asking me about floral color schemes. I don’t even recognize half the words they threw at me there.” You go by him once, twice, three times, your pace quickening with what Sirius presumes is the quickening of your heartbeat. “They want me to get allergy tested to be sure I won’t cause some sort of unexpected scene because of anything they serve at the reception. And—oh, I don’t know if you know, but we’re meant to taste cakes on Tuesday.” 

“That sounds fun,” Sirius says. “I rather hope I’m invited to that one, actually.” 

“It’s—yeah, that one does sound fun,” you allow, steps faltering slightly. “If we could just taste cakes, there really wouldn’t be any problem, but it’s not just that, you know? I’m supposed to start looking for a wedding dress soon.” 

“Alright. Hey.” Sirius catches your arm before you can pass him by again. You stop, looking down as though surprised to see his fingers denting gently into the crook of your elbow. He doesn’t let go. “Sweetheart, we can call it off. Okay? It’s alright.” 

You look confused. “Call off what, the engagement?” 

He nods. “We were never going to see it all the way through, right? We can end it whenever you like. Right now, if you want.” 

“I…” Your eyes move over his face. Sirius looks right back at you. “I don’t want that.” 

It’s absurd, the relief that washes through him. Sirius has a horrible feeling that he is setting himself up to be so, so heartsick. 

“No?” he asks, just to be sure. 

You shake your head. “I’m just…I’ll get used to it.” Your fingers find the end of his tie, toying with the silky material. “What about you? How are you doing with it all?” 

Sirius smiles. “There are worse fates than to be betrothed to a beautiful girl.” 

You get that look you do whenever he compliments you. Gaze fleeing his, lips curving bashfully, like they’re not sure if they’re allowed. “You don’t need to flirt with me,” you say. “We’re alone.” 

“Oh, but I love flirting with you,” he confesses. “Would you really deny me one of my scant joys in life?” 

Your eyes flick up to his, mirthful. “Your scant joys? The palace staff had out-of-season oranges sent from Brazil last week because you wanted an orange cake.” 

Sirius shrugs. 

“I’m just saying. There’s no one around to hear it.” 

“Lovely, I’ve been flirting with you since the moment we met.” He sweeps his thumb over the back of your arm, partly to tease you and partly just because he wants to. He pretends not to feel the goosebumps that rise from the action. “I’m not sure I could stop if I wanted to—or if you’d even recognize me. You might not like me without my flirting, did you ever think of that?” 

“I’d like you,” you say. Simply, unhesitatingly. 

“I suppose we’ll never know.” 

You shake your head again, your expression earnest. “I would.” 

Sirius’ heart thudders. He is suddenly, inescapably aware of the thickness of the air between you. It’s lessened in distance, somehow, heavying from your warm breaths and the heat of your bodies. His hand is still curled around your elbow. You have his tie between your fingers. Without thinking, Sirius closes the gap. 

You draw in a little breath. Your lips are soft and giving, and Sirius is terrified of you, he really is. You have his heart in the palm of your hand. 

When you don’t move after a moment, he draws back, his hand slipping down your forearm. Rejection is hot and sharp as a fire poker between his ribs.

He opens his eyes to find yours never closed. 

“I—” 

“Wait.” Your hand tightens on his tie, the other gripping his arm back. Your chin tips up, and your voice is breathless, ardent, pleading. “Sirius—” 

"Sirius?" you breathe, blinking like you need to make sure he’s real.

He’s already grinning, head tilting slightly as he takes you in. "Fancy seeing you here, sweetheart."

Your lips part, caught somewhere between a smile and disbelief. "I—what? You work here?" You nod toward the tattoo parlor behind him, still a little stunned.

Sirius jerks a thumb over his shoulder. "Yeah, just here at the shop." He smirks, rocking back on his heels. "Were you expecting some grand reveal? Me in a suit and tie, in some high-rise office?"

You laugh, eyes flicking over him—over the rolled-up sleeves, the effortless posture, the tattoos creeping along the veins of his arms. "No," you admit, a bit too breathless. "I think this makes more sense."

Sirius watches as your gaze lingers on his arms, the flush creeping into your cheeks unmistakable. His smirk widens. Oh, he thinks, she likes them.

"See something you like, darling?" he drawls, rolling his shoulders just enough to make the muscles in his forearm flex, pretending to wipe a smudge of ink off his wrist.

Your eyes snap back up, wide. "What? No! I mean—yes. I mean, I—"

Sirius laughs, all easy confidence and mischief. "That’s alright. You can look, sweetheart. I don’t mind."

Your face burns. Oh, he is insufferable.

You cross your arms, trying to will away the heat creeping up your neck. "You're very pleased with yourself right now, aren't you?"

"A little," he admits, his grin downright sinful.

You huff a laugh, shaking your head, but when you look back up at him—really look at him—your expression softens, all teasing melting into something gentler. The fading sunlight casts a warm glow over his sharp features, and for a moment, you forget the tattoos and the smugness and just focus on him.

"I really didn’t expect to see you," you say, quiet and honest. "This is… a nice surprise."

Sirius is still wearing that cocky grin—until he sees the way you're looking at him.

It knocks the breath right out of his lungs.

Your eyes are so soft when they meet his, full of warmth and something he doesn’t quite know how to name yet. And just like that, the teasing is gone, the ego boost forgotten. The bravado slips, replaced with something real, something slower.

"Yeah," Sirius says, almost dazed. "It is."

Silence stretches between you, comfortable but charged.

Then Sirius clears his throat, shifting on his feet. "You know, now that you’re here… I was thinking, we should go out again sometime."

Your lips part slightly. "Another date?"

"Yeah." He tilts his head, voice quieter now. "If you want to."

Your heart is thundering, and you barely have to think before nodding. "I would like that." You smile, something playful tugging at the corners of your lips. "Maybe this time without any… interruptions."

Sirius groans at the memory.

Your first date had started out promising—he’d taken you to the cinema, and things were going well. You had gotten there early enough for him to smirk and toss his arm over the back of your seat, leaning in with a teasing, “Cozy, aren’t we, sweetheart?” And you’d been smiling, your eyes bright, your fingers playing absently with the hem of your sweater. But then, halfway through the film, the couple sitting two rows ahead of you decided to turn their breakup into the main event.

It started with a hushed argument, barely a whisper over the sound of the film. Then it escalated. The woman accused the man of still being in love with his ex. The man countered by saying she had been emotionally cheating for months. It got louder. A bag of popcorn was thrown. Someone gasped dramatically.

And Sirius—completely, helplessly—laughed.

It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t just a small chuckle or a poorly stifled snort. It was an actual laugh, loud enough to make the man turn around and fix him with a glare that could have set the entire row on fire.

"You think this is funny, mate?" the guy had barked, his voice carrying through the whole theater.

Sirius had immediately slouched lower in his seat. "Nope. Not at all."

But it was too late. The guy stood up, a cup of soda shaking in his grip, and Sirius—ever the survivor—immediately ducked behind you like a shield.

You had been frozen for a second, caught between shock and trying not to laugh yourself. Then Sirius grabbed your hand, yanked you to your feet, and whispered, "Run."

And so you had—both of you stumbling out of the theater, laughing breathlessly, with the man still shouting after you. You had only made it to the sidewalk when you stopped, hands on your knees, gasping for air between giggles. Sirius had been beside you, grinning wide, exhilarated, delighted.

"That," he had said, still catching his breath, "was brilliant."

Now, standing in front of you outside the tattoo parlor, Sirius shakes his head, as if physically trying to rid himself of the memory.

"I promise that won’t happen again," he says, voice low with amusement.

You smile, your eyes twinkling. "We’ll see about that."

Sirius watches you for a second longer, then glances down the street. "You walking home by yourself?"

"Oh. Yeah." You nod. "My shift just ended."

He frowns slightly, shifting on his feet. "Let me walk you, sweetheart."

You shake your head quickly, a small smile tugging at your lips. "It’s still light out."

He sighs dramatically, like you’ve personally offended him. "So? You think I need an excuse to spend time with you?"

Before you can reply, the parlor door swings open again.

"Sirius!"

James is standing in the doorway, hands completely black with spilled ink. There’s a splatter on his shirt and something suspiciously shiny in his hair.

"I knocked over the whole bloody thing—come help before Remus makes me mop it up!"

Sirius closes his eyes, grimaces, then opens them again to look at you. "I swear, it’s like babysitting two very loud, very messy toddlers."

"I can hear you!" James calls.

You’re already laughing, shifting on your feet. "I’ll see you soon, then?"

"Count on it."

He watches you go, that same smile lingering on his lips until you disappear around the corner.

Then he sighs, shakes his head, and turns back into the chaos.

Sirius always keeps an eye out for you now.

At first, it was casual. A glance down the street when he stepped out for a smoke, a second look when he locked up for the night. Just in case you were leaving work late. Just in case he caught a glimpse of you walking by.

But it’s more than that now.

Now he’s listening for the soft click of the bookshop door. Now he’s watching the sidewalk like a hawk, just on the off chance that you’ll pass by again.

The idea of you walking home alone at night doesn’t sit right with him.

But if he’s honest, that isn’t where this all started.

It started at the grocery store.

You two shop at the same corner market—the one that’s open late and somehow always has the weird brand of cereal Sirius likes. For weeks, he’d noticed you there. Noticed the girl with shiny hair, who always took her time in the frozen section, who hummed under her breath while scanning labels.

You.

He never said anything. Never even caught your name. Just watched in passing, quiet and curious, wondering if you ever noticed him too.

And then, one night, everything changed.

It was past 1AM when Sirius trudged down the street toward the market, hoodie pulled over his head, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jacket. He wasn’t looking for anything deep—just beer, maybe something sweet. The city was quiet, dim, a little too cold for March, and he hadn’t expected to see anyone else out.

But there you were.

Standing outside the market in pajama shorts and a worn-out sweater, one hand curled around the handle of the glass door, the other pressed to the window as you peered inside like you could will it to open.

Sirius paused at the corner, blinking.

You jiggled the handle again, muttering something under your breath, your hair falling into your face as you leaned in to squint past the reflection.

"Erm… y’alright?" he asked, approaching cautiously.

You turned, startled, your cheeks going warm. "Oh—hi. I—" You pushed your hair behind your ear, suddenly sheepish. "I got this insane craving for ice cream, and I thought I’d just run down here real quick, but for a place that says ‘Open 24/7,’ they’re really putting on a performance tonight."

Sirius looked past you at the door—and saw the crooked sheet of printer paper taped to the glass:

CLOSED FOR THE WEEKEND. SORRY.

He huffed a laugh and pointed it out to you.

You stared at the sign like it had personally betrayed you. "You’ve got to be kidding." You folded your arms, turning away from the door with a dramatic little huff. "I came all the way down here in my pajamas for nothing."

He smiled, unable to help it. You were flustered and frustrated and adorable.

"You know," he said, "I see you around here all the time."

You turned to look at him, surprised. "Really?"

"Mhm." Sirius shrugged. "Usually in the cereal aisle. You always look very intense when you’re comparing granola brands."

You laughed, biting your lip. "Well, it’s a serious business."

And just like that, you were talking. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. You were funny, effortlessly charming, and Sirius couldn’t remember the last time he enjoyed a random conversation that much.

Before you turned to leave, he said it without really thinking—

"If you ever need ice cream at one in the morning again, maybe… we could go together?"

You blinked, and then smiled. "Yeah. Okay."

You handed him your phone with cold fingers, and he typed in his number, heart racing like he was seventeen again.

And now—weeks later—he thinks about that moment all the time.

He thinks about how easy it was to talk to you. How you looked up at him like he was someone worth listening to. How you texted him the next day with a simple, “still want that ice cream?”

He’s never had something like this before.

You’re kind and interesting and warm in a way that makes Sirius feel like he’s standing too close to the sun, but doesn’t want to back away. You ask him questions like you care about the answers. You smile at him like he’s someone good.

He wants something real with you.

But Sirius Black has always been better at temporary. He’s always been good at quick things—fast nights and forgettable mornings and never texting back.

With you, it’s different. And he doesn’t quite know what to do with that.

He wants it—wants you—but the idea of a serious relationship? Of doing it right? It terrifies him.

And so he watches for you through the shop window, heart caught between hope and hesitation.

James and Remus exchanged a glance over their moping friend.

Sirius had been leaning against the counter for the better part of twenty minutes, his sketchbook open in front of him, untouched. The pen in his hand tapped a slow, inconsistent rhythm against the wood, his eyes drifting lazily toward the front window every few minutes like he was waiting for something—or someone—to appear.

Remus flipped the page of his book with an exaggerated sigh. "You know, this would be a lot more tolerable if you actually did something about it."

"Are you gonna ask her to be your girl or what?" James asked, half-lounging on the arm of the worn leather couch they kept in the back corner. His tone was teasing, but not cruel.

Sirius scoffed, barely glancing up. "We’ve only gone out once."

"Yeah, and you haven’t stopped talking about her since." James smirked. "You like her."

"He’s got it bad," Remus murmured.

"You’re both annoying," Sirius muttered, tossing his pen onto the counter and running a hand through his hair.

James shrugged. "You literally stop working every time she walks past. I’m amazed you haven’t carved her name into someone’s thigh by accident."

Remus didn’t look up from his book. "She’s not the kind of girl you should be playing games with, Sirius."

That got his attention. Sirius bristled, standing straighter. "I’m not playing games."

James raised both hands, mock innocent. "Easy, mate."

"I wouldn’t do that to her," Sirius snapped, quieter now but no less serious. He exhaled hard, voice dipping low. "I just… I don’t know. I’ve never felt this way before. And it scares the hell out of me."

There was a beat of silence, just the hum of the tattoo machine from the back and the rain starting to tap at the windows.

"Well," James said eventually, nodding toward the glass storefront, "you might want to sort it out quickly."

Sirius frowned. "Why?"

James tilted his chin toward the street. "Because it looks like someone else is moving in."

Sirius turned—and his stomach dropped like a stone.

There you were, walking down the street in the soft glow of the streetlamps, hair catching light like spun gold. And beside you, far too close, was some guy.

Tall. Smiling. Talking to you like he had a right to.

Sirius stared, hands curling around the edge of the counter, jaw tightening.

The guy leaned in as he spoke, his shoulder brushing against yours, and you—

You were smiling.

Sirius felt something cold and heavy settle in his chest.

It didn’t mean anything. You weren’t together. You were allowed to talk to other people. You’d only been on one date. You weren’t his.

But watching you smile at someone else still felt like a punch to the ribs.

His mind raced—did you like him? Had you given him your number? Were you walking home with him?

He hadn’t even asked you to be his. Hadn’t even figured out what he wanted to say.

And now here you were, laughing at someone else’s joke. Looking up at someone who wasn’t him.

"Mate, you good?" James asked, his teasing gone now.

Sirius didn’t answer.

Remus squinted through the window. "Wait—is she okay?."

Sirius blinked.

Now that he was paying attention—really paying attention—he saw it.

The way you’d inched a step away from the guy. The way your hand clutched the strap of your bag tighter. The way you gave him a small, nervous smile but didn’t look him directly in the eye.

And then—

The guy reached out, fast and presumptive, and grabbed your arm.

Not just a tap, not a graze. His fingers curled around your bicep and pulled, dragging you half a step back toward him, his voice low but sharp.

Sirius’s vision tunneled.

His blood surged hot under his skin, rage slicing through his chest like something feral.

He was out the door before either James or Remus could say a word.

You were walking home from the bookstore, fingers curled tight around the straps of your bag, the familiar ache in your shoulders settling in after a long closing shift. The city had thinned out hours ago. Shops shuttered. The streetlights buzzed softly overhead, casting their usual pools of yellow light along the sidewalk. It was quiet—the kind of quiet that should’ve felt peaceful, but tonight it just made you feel small.

You exhaled, letting your thoughts drift back to the end of your shift.

Just before closing, a group of teenagers had come into the store, all energy and messy ponytails and oversized hoodies, giggling as they hovered around the “Trending Now” table. You’d watched them with vague amusement as one of them picked up a glossy paperback, reading the back cover aloud in a dramatic voice.

It was one of those rom-coms—something about opposites attracting, or enemies falling in love. They were cackling over a line in the blurb, something like “She’s the rule follower. He’s the chaos she never saw coming.”

You’d rolled your eyes, but not without fondness.

Still, their excitement, the breathless way they teased each other about fictional love interests—it was silly. That schoolgirl thrill over a guy just because he was tall or had a good jawline or a nice voice.

But even as you turned away, pretending to tidy the register, you’d felt the slow burn of heat creep up your neck.

Because that kind of behavior? That giddy, flustered, utterly irrational reaction?

That was you—whenever Sirius was around.

You always lost your composure.

It wasn’t anything obvious. You didn’t swoon or stammer or trip over your words. But the second he was near—standing too close or looking at you like he saw through every layer you tried to wear—your thoughts turned static. You’d forget what you were saying, or find yourself smiling for no reason. You weren’t proud of it. You didn’t want to be that affected. But Sirius had a way of undoing you without even trying.

You were so caught up in thinking about him—about his voice, and his hands, and the way he said your name like he’d never get tired of it—that you didn’t notice the sound of footsteps behind you until someone called your name.

"Hey!"

You stopped walking. Blinked. Turned.

Jeffrey.

Your chest deflated, the lightness of your thoughts disappearing in an instant.

He jogged up beside you like this was planned, like you’d been waiting for him.

You knew him from uni. You’d had a class together last year, ended up partnered on a group project. He was loud, confident, and always pushing boundaries under the guise of being "charming." You’d turned him down the first time he asked you out, and the second. But he never quite got the message.

You’d always been raised to be polite. To be gentle when saying no. To not make a scene.

And you hated that.

"Hey," you said, trying to keep your voice even.

"Didn’t realize you worked this late," he said, falling into step beside you without asking.

"We did a late close. Inventory stuff."

He nodded, like that gave him permission to keep walking beside you. "So, any plans this weekend?"

You hesitated. "Not exactly."

"Great," he said. "We can go out. I’ve been meaning to take you to that new noodle bar off campus."

You tried to smile, tried to find the right words to turn him down again without making him angry.

"Jeffrey, I—"

"C’mon, just one dinner," he said quickly. "I don’t get why you keep dodging this."

"I’m not dodging, I just don’t think—"

"You said you didn’t have plans."

You were starting to panic. You didn’t want to make a scene, but you also didn’t want this.

"I’ve told you before—I'm not interested."

"Why not?" he snapped. "You’re always acting like you like me, then backing off. Just say yes for once."

You stepped away, heart hammering. "Please don’t—"

But he reached out.

His hand clamped around your upper arm—tight, insistent. Not friendly. Not okay.

"Stop pretending you’re not into it," he muttered.

You froze, breath catching in your throat. Every nerve in your body fired at once. You tried to yank your arm back, but his grip only tightened.

And then—

"Oi!"

A voice, sharp and commanding, rang out across the street.

Sirius was there before you even realized what was happening, shoving Jeffrey back with a force that sent him stumbling a step or two, your arm finally released from his grip.

Sirius stepped between you like a shield, like a wall, his stance wide and his chest rising and falling with slow, controlled fury.

"Back off," he said, voice low and gravelly, the kind of voice that warned danger long before fists ever flew. "She doesn’t want to be with you."

Jeffrey scoffed, recovering from the shove and puffing himself up like he had something to prove. "What the hell do you know about what she wants?"

Sirius actually laughed. A humorless, sharp little sound that didn’t reach his eyes.

"I’m her boyfriend," he said, and the words hit the air with weight. His tone was steady, calm, lethal. "I know what she looks like when she’s comfortable. When she’s safe. And I know when she’s scared because some freak is following her around in the dark and grabbing at her like he owns her."

He took a slow step forward.

"So I’ll say it one more time."

His voice dropped even lower, almost a whisper now—meant only for Jeffrey to hear.

"Leave my girl alone."

And with that, Sirius shoved him again—this time with more intent. Not enough to knock him down, but enough to send the message.

Jeffrey stared at him, chest heaving, jaw clenched like he wanted to say something smart—until his eyes flicked past Sirius and landed on you.

You were still frozen, your hand curled protectively around your arm, your chest rising in short, uneven breaths. You looked small behind Sirius’s broad shoulders. Shaken.

Jeffrey’s expression faltered. He took a step back.

"Whatever," he muttered, eyes darting to the side. "She’s not worth it anyway."

Sirius moved like he was going to lunge—just the tiniest shift forward—

And Jeffrey flinched before turning and skulking down the street, muttering curses under his breath.

Sirius didn’t move until the guy was completely gone. Not just around the corner—gone.

Then he turned, fast, all that anger gone in an instant, replaced by wide eyes and panic and you.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice cracking around the edges now, his hands reaching out but not touching you yet, waiting for permission. "Did he hurt you?"

"Thank you, Sirius. I—I don’t know what would’ve happened—"

Your voice wavers as you say it, barely above a whisper, and Sirius doesn’t hesitate. He pulls you into him like it’s instinct, arms wrapping tightly around your frame until your cheek is pressed to his chest and his warmth is all around you.

One of his hands rises to cradle the back of your head, gentle, steady. The other finds your waist, anchoring you there like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.

"You don’t have to worry about that," he murmurs into your hair, lips brushing against your temple. "I’ve got you. You’re alright now."

Your fingers fist into the fabric of his shirt. You can feel how fast his heart is beating, feel the tension still bleeding from his arms even as he holds you carefully, like something precious.

Your own breath is shaky as it leaves you, buried in the smell of him—ink and smoke and citrus shampoo. Familiar. Safe.

Sirius’ hand moves in slow circles along your back, grounding you with every pass. "Come on," he says, voice hushed. "Let me walk you home. No more walking alone at night, yeah?"

You nod against him, but your voice betrays you. "I—", you start, then pause, swallowing down the tremble. "I don’t want to be alone right now, actually."

Sirius goes still for a second. Not tense—just… surprised. You feel his arms tighten just slightly around you, like he’s holding you closer without realizing he’s doing it.

Then he clears his throat, dipping his head to speak more softly. "Well… we could go to my place?"

You pull back just enough to look up at him, eyes still wide, a little uncertain. "If that’s alright with you?"

He lets out a soft, breathy laugh, relief washing over his face like warm water.

"Sweetheart," he says, brushing a bit of hair away from your cheek with his thumb, "of course it’s alright with me."

Then he leans in and presses a kiss to your temple. His lips linger there, just for a second too long, and when he pulls back, he’s smiling—boyish and proud and a little too pleased with himself.

"It better be alright with you, girlfriend."

You blink. "Girlfriend?"

Sirius shrugs, his smirk twitching at the corners. "I mean, you could say no. But after what just happened, I’d rather you didn’t."

A startled laugh bubbles up in your throat, and you duck your head, still clinging to him. "I wouldn’t dream of it."

He grins, so bright it feels like the streetlamp above you flickered in response.

"Good," he says simply, then links his fingers with yours like he’s done it a thousand times.

And with that, he leads you gently down the street, his thumb rubbing slow lines into the back of your hand. The air is cooler now, the quiet hum of the city returning as the panic fades behind you.

But Sirius is still beside you, warm and solid and steady. The sky above you was velvet and stars, and the city lights cast everything in gold.

But you only noticed his hand in yours.

Sebastian grinned, breathless, a sharp rush of adrenaline thrumming through his veins. The barn reeked of damp hay, smoke, and blood, the air shimmering with heat from the relentless spellfire. He pivoted just in time to deflect a Bombarda, the impact knocking him back a step, but he recovered fast—too fast for the poor bastard who had thrown it. With a flick of his wrist, he wrenched the Ashwinder’s wand from his grip, then sent a Diffindo slicing through the air. The man hit the ground with a strangled cry, unmoving.

That was the last of them.

Sebastian exhaled hard, wiping a line of blood from his brow where a near miss had grazed him. He should have felt triumphant. He should have felt relieved.

But instead, he felt uneasy.

It had been a bad idea to split up.

The two of you never did that—never needed to. You had fought and bled together for years, perfecting a rhythm that didn’t require words. It wasn’t just trust, it was instinct. And yet, when you insisted, all stubborn confidence and reckless certainty, he had let you go.

He shouldn’t have.

Because the barn was clear, and you weren’t back yet.

Sebastian turned on his heel, bolting through the side door and into the open field beyond. The night air was thick with the scent of burning ozone, the grass scorched where spells had landed. In the distance, flashes of magic still clashed, illuminating the darkened farm in jagged bursts. Red, green, white, blue.

And then your voice. Strained. Furious. Tired.

Sebastian sprinted toward the sound, heart slamming against his ribs. He caught sight of you just beyond the treeline, tangled in a final skirmish against one last Ashwinder. You were still on your feet, still fighting, but something was wrong.

You were hurt.

Your stance was off—your left side sluggish, your dodges not as sharp as they should have been. Blood darkened your robes where a wound had already torn through fabric, your wand arm trembling under the effort of holding your defense.

Sebastian ran toward you, wand already snapping up as he fired off a volley of Basic Casts. The spells shot through the air in quick succession, streaks of gold against the dark. But the Ashwinder barely reacted—his wand flicked lazily, deflecting each attack with a casual ease that made Sebastian’s stomach twist.

"Ah, there you are," the Ashwinder drawled, sidestepping a stray blast that sent dirt flying. His lips curled into a smirk as his gaze flicked between you and Sebastian. "You Aurors always come in pairs, don’t you? Like a matched set."

Sebastian barely heard him. He was too focused on you. The fight had gone on too long, and you were exhausted.

Sebastian held the Ashwinder off with a flurry of casts, slipping seamlessly to your side. He kept his wand raised, breath coming quick and shallow, sweat dampening his collar as he positioned himself between you and the threat. His body thrummed with adrenaline, his mind racing through every possible outcome, every spell that could end this now.

"Fancy meeting you here," he said breathlessly.

You huffed a breath—almost a laugh, but too ragged, too weak. "You took your time."

"Had to make a dramatic entrance."

The Ashwinder tilted his head, unconcerned, his wand still held lazily at his side. There was something about the way he stood—casual, relaxed, too comfortable for a man facing two Aurors in a fight to the death. He was unbothered. Amused. Like he had already won.

"This isn’t going to end the way you want it to, you know." His voice was calm. Certain.

Sebastian’s jaw clenched.

He’s stalling.

The realization cut through the haze of adrenaline, sending warning bells shrieking through his mind. He had seen this before, too many times, too many fights that had turned just before the final blow landed.

And then he saw it.

The flick of the man’s wrist. A subtle, practiced movement, too smooth to be anything but deliberate, his fingers curling around his wand as an incantation left his mouth.

Sebastian knew dark magic when he saw it. He had spent a lifetime running from it, pretending his hands weren’t just as stained. He had seen spells most would never dare utter, watched them take root in the bones of men who had deserved far worse. And in that instant, he knew.

This wasn’t just any curse. This was meant to kill.

The spell tore from the Ashwinder’s wand in a flash of crimson, slicing through the air like a blade. It was too quick, too vicious, aimed straight for Sebastian's chest, but before he could react—before he could cast, or dodge, or breathe—

You were already moving. There was no hesitation. No pause. No second-guessing. Just you shoving him aside.

Sebastian stumbled, the force of you knocking the air from his lungs. His boots skidded against the scorched earth, hands grasping at nothing as he lost balance for half a heartbeat.

The night exploded in red light, a sickening crack tearing through the air. It was the sound of flesh meeting force, of limbs jerking in ways they weren’t meant to, your body snapping like a marionette with its strings cut.

Then you hit the ground with a horrible, lifeless thud.

Sebastian’s breath locked in his throat. It was like time had collapsed in on itself, like the world had narrowed down to the unbearable stillness of your body sprawled in the dirt.

“No—NO.”

Sebastian turned sharply, wand raised, ready to kill. Ready to rip the Ashwinder apart, to end him with whatever unforgivable curse came to mind first—

But there was nothing. The Ashwinder was gone. Vanished.

With the danger gone, he fell to his knees beside you, hands reaching, grasping, shaking as he hovered over you.

Your body twitched. Shaking like an exposed wire, snapping with electricity, the aftershocks of magic still crackling through your limbs.

Sebastian reached for your face. “Hey—hey, look at me, you’re fine, it’s fine—”

Blood dripped from your lips. Thick and dark, slipping down your chin, staining your skin.

You weren’t fine.

You weren’t fine, and Sebastian—he should have been faster. He should have seen that spell coming, should have moved in time. In fact, he should have ripped that bastard apart before he had the chance to even cast it.

Sebastian’s breath was a harsh, ragged thing in the back of his throat. His pulse thundered so loudly it drowned out everything else. He was shaking, rage burning through his blood so violently it felt like it might split him apart. But he had bigger problems.

Like the way blood was dripping from your mouth and your nose and your ears. The way you clawed weakly at his robes, desperate for something—for him—as your chest heaved in shallow, gurgling breaths. The way your lips trembled, trying to form words that wouldn’t come.

Sebastian could feel panic rising. He could feel it thrumming beneath his skin, curling around his ribs, clawing at his throat like a vice—but he couldn’t let it take hold. He had to stay calm. He had to fix this.

He was already moving, tugging at the front of your coat, ripping through buttons and fabric as he yanked it open. His fingers fumbled at your shirt, hands tearing at the fabric, desperate to find the wound.

Sebastian's hands slid over your chest, your sternum, your stomach, pressing desperately, trying to stop the bleeding that had no source, his fingers slick with your blood.

“Where—” His voice broke. “Where is it?”

There was nothing.

No. That didn’t make sense. The spell had hit you dead center. It should have burned through you, should have split skin and shattered ribs, and yet—

No gaping hole, no shattered ribs, no jagged tear of flesh where the spell should have struck. No injury to bandage, no visible wound to close.

Only evidence.

Scarring, curling across your skin in intricate, fractal-like patterns branching out from where the curse had struck, winding across your chest and shoulders like the roots of something hungry. And blood. Not from a single source—not pooling from a wound he could heal—but everywhere. Your nose. Your ears. Your mouth. Your eyes.

Your chest rose in shallow, desperate breaths, each one a ragged, gurgling effort that sent fresh rivulets of blood spilling down your chin. Your fingers twitched against his wrist, gripping at him like he was the only thing tethering you here.

Sebastian’s stomach lurched. You were drowning in your own blood.

You were dying.

This was a curse. Not a wound. Not something he could stitch up or set right with a simple spell. This was something deeper. Something worse.

No. No, no, no.

“Stay with me.” Sebastian wiped your mouth with frantic, shaking fingers as he tried to keep his focus, tried to think. He knew dark magic, had studied it in ways he wasn’t proud of, had seen the aftermath of curses that twisted people apart from the inside out. This wasn’t just an attack—this was designed to ruin. To erase.

He needed to counter it.

Sebastian forced magic into his wand, too much, too fast, the raw surge of it crackling along his arm as he pressed the tip to your chest.

The spell nearly shattered on impact, the sheer force of his desperation threatening to unravel it before it could even take shape. But he didn’t care, he couldn’t care., he just had to fix this.

He ran through every healing charm he knew by heart, ones he had practiced for years, ones he had murmured over you a hundred times before, through broken bones and deep gashes, through the bruises and burns of battles past.

"Vulnera Sanentur." His voice trembled, his grip so tight on his wand that his knuckles turned white.

Nothing.

"Episkey." Another pulse of magic, another useless attempt.

"Ferula—"

"Brackium Emendo—"

Every spell bounced off you, the energy dispersing into the air, wasted, slipping from his grasp like water through his fingers.

Sebastian’s breaths came sharp and ragged, frustration clawing at his ribs as he tried again. And again. And again.

"Reparifors."

Nothing.

"Anapneo—" His voice cracked. He could hear the blood clear momentarily from your throat, your breath rattling as you sucked in a breath, your chest struggling beneath his hands, but it only took a moment before blood still bubbled from your lips again, your body still shaking, still deteriorating.

"No, no, no—come on—" Sebastian pressed harder, forcing magic into you, trying to make it work, trying to force the spell to take, but the harder he pushed, the worse it got. His own magic sparked, burning too hot, too wild, and it wasn’t fixing you—it wasn’t doing anything. t was like throwing a lifeline into the abyss and feeling it slip through empty air. Like trying to hold back the tide with bare hands.

This wasn’t something he could heal. This wasn't something Sebastian could fix, not by himself.

The realization sent a sickening, leaden weight crashing into his chest, something so final, so wrong, that for a moment, he thought it might break him.

Sebastian had spent years clawing his way out of the darkness, had fought tooth and nail against the temptations of the past, against the reckless desperation that had once led him down paths he couldn’t take back. But right now, with you dying, he would have burned the entire world to ash if it meant saving you.

"Fuck—" His voice broke as he moved, hands desperate as he gathered you against him, pulling you up and into his lap with an urgency that bordered on frantic. His arms locked around you, his body curling protectively around yours like he could somehow shield you from what was happening.

You were feverish. Your skin was slick with sweat and blood, burning against him despite how violently you were shivering. Every breath you took was a ragged, struggling thing, each one sounding more painful than the last.

Sebastian’s hand fumbled for his wand again, clumsy with panic. He cast Anapneo without thinking, without pausing, forcing the magic through even as his voice trembled on the incantation.

A brief moment of relief.

The blood in your throat cleared just enough for you to suck in another gasping, rattling breath. But it wasn’t enough. The moment the magic faded, the blood pooled again, slipping past your lips in sluggish, crimson trails, soaking into your collar, your torn shirt, his hands.

Sebastian cursed under his breath, tugging at his sleeve, using the fabric to wipe at your face, brushing away the fresh blood streaking your chin, catching the slow dribble from your nose, but the blood kept coming, staining the fabric, staining his fingers, staining you.

Another cast. Anapneo. eEnough for another breath, another heartbeat, another second of you still here.

"Hey," he whispered, pressing his forehead against yours, thumbs brushing over your cheeks. "You're okay. You're—you're gonna be okay."

But he could see it in your eyes.

Fear.

It was deep and wide, unmistakable even as you fought to keep your expression steady. You had faced death a hundred times before, had stood beside him in battle without hesitation, had bled for your duty, for him. And never—not once—had he seen you afraid. But now, your eyes were wide, darting, searching, looking to him for something he couldn’t give you.

You knew you were dying.

Sebastian clenched his jaw. His pulse pounded, his vision tunneling to nothing but you—you, shaking, struggling, fading.

Sebastian had seen bodies before. Had watched people die a thousand times in battle, in back alleys, in the ruins of homes left burning, in the aftermath of violence and choices made too late. He had seen blood soak the earth, had heard the final, rattling gasps of those who didn’t make it, had felt the cold, empty weight of knowing that nothing could be done.

But it was never supposed to be you.

His breath hitched—sharp, broken—panic eclipsing instinct, smothering logic, drowning out the training drilled into him over years of war. He was losing you. The realization hollowed him out, left something splintering and raw in its wake.

And then—

Then he was crying.

Not the restrained, bitter tears of grief he had learned to swallow down, but helpless, frantic sobs, shaking him from the inside out, tearing through his chest with every word, every desperate, useless attempt to keep you here.

"No, no, no—" His voice cracked, hoarse and broken, as his hands pressed against your face, as if he could hold you here, as if his grip alone could keep youalive.

Sebastian sobbed, rocking slightly with you cradled against his chest, his forehead pressed against yours. His free hand tangled in your hair, brushing it back from your damp forehead, his thumb skimming across your temple in a helpless, desperate attempt to soothe, to comfort.

"I should have never left you." The words spilled from him before he could stop them, breaking apart at the edges, raw and unfiltered. "I should have—I never should have let you go off alone, I should have stayed, I—fuck, I should have been faster—”

Another tremor wracked your body, and Sebastian choked on his own breath, panic clawing at his ribs, making it impossible to think.

"No, no, no, stay with me—" He cast Anapneo again, frantic. His vision blurred with hot, stinging tears as you sucked in another shuddering breath, but he knew—he knew—this wasn’t going to last. Eventually, you would lose too much blood. Eventually, no spell would be enough to keep your lungs working.

Sebastian let out a strangled noise, something desperate and untamed, something that sounded more like an animal in pain than a person.

His hand smoothed over your hair again, trembling fingers carding through it as he pressed his lips to your forehead, his tears slipping into your hair.

"You shouldn’t have had to take that curse for me." His voice broke completely, all the air knocked out of him as the weight of it crushed him. "Why did you do that? Why the fuck did you do that? That should have been me—I would have taken it, I would have—" He sucked in a sharp, gasping breath. "I should have protected you. I should have—" His jaw clenched so hard it ached, another sob forcing its way up his throat.

You made a sound—weak, barely there. Your fingers twitched at his sleeve, trying to grasp at him, trying to tell him something.

His arms curled tighter around you, his fingers gripping the back of your neck, pressing you closer.

"I love you."

The words tumbled out before Sebastian could think better of it, before he could stop them.

Because they were true. So fucking true.

"I love you—I should have said it, I should have said it sooner, I—I thought—" A shuddering breath, a ragged sob. "I thought I had more time."

His hands pressed to your cheeks, his thumbs smoothing over bloodied skin, his lips ghosting over your forehead, over your hair, over everywhere as if he could somehow kiss you back to life.

"I love you—" Another whisper, another broken, wrecked admission, his heart tearing itself to shreds in his chest. "Please, you have to stay with me, please—don’t leave me."

His voice cracked. His whole body cracked.

Sebastian Sallow, who had spent his entire life fighting, clawing, surviving, was begging. Praying to every fucking god there was, every single god he didn’t believe in, that something—anything would hear him. That some force greater than himself, greater than the world would take pity on him, on you, and undo this.

Because this was losing you. This was your fingers twitching weakly at his robes before going still. This was your lips parting as if to speak only to fall silent. This was your breath—ragged, struggling, fading.

"You are not dying, you hear me?" His voice was wrecked, shaking as he crushed you against him. "You are not fucking dying, I won’t let you—"

Footsteps. Distant. Faint. Like echoes through water, like a sound trying to reach him from a place that didn’t exist anymore. Then shouting. Urgent, frantic voices cutting through the thick, suffocating haze of his grief, his panic, his desperation.

"Sebastian!"

He knew that voice.

Ominis.

Another followed. "Where is she?"

Anne.

There were others too—more voices he should have recognized, voices calling his name, voices filled with alarm and urgency—but none of them mattered. None of them fucking mattered.

Sebastian’s fingers dug into you, his arms curling impossibly tighter around you as his forehead pressed against yours, his whole body trembling with the force of his sobs. Your skin was so warm, too warm, feverish and slick with sweat, but your chest—

Your chest wasn’t rising.

Your lips had parted just slightly, as if you had meant to speak, to answer him, to tell him something, but there was nothing. No sound. No breath. No pulse beneath his fingertips.

A strangled noise ripped its way from his throat.

"NO—NO, PLEASE—"

Then hands. Hands on him. Grabbing, tugging, trying to pull him away from you, to separate you, and something deep inside of him snapped.

Sebastian screamed.

It was raw, violent, a gut-wrenching, hollowed-out kind of sound that could tear the heavens apart if the gods fucking cared enough to listen. His whole body locked up, every muscle tensing as he fought, thrashing against the hands pulling at him, his grip on you turning bruising, his fingers refusing to let go.

"Don’t fucking touch me—DON’T YOU FUCKING TOUCH ME—"

"Sebastian, let go!" Someone was pleading with him, voice trembling, but he couldn’t.

"She’s not breathing!" His voice cracked, his chest heaving with the force of his sobs, his body shaking so violently it felt like he was falling apart. "She’s—she’s not breathing, I—" He gasped, curling over you, shielding you, clutching you so tight it hurt, but he couldn’t let go. "I can’t—I can’t—I can’t let her go—"

"Sebastian, listen to me—*"

"DO SOMETHING!" His head snapped up, his tear-streaked, blood-smeared face twisting with something wild, something feral, something beyond words. "FUCKING DO SOMETHING!"

Anne lunged forward. Her hands clamped around Sebastian’s wrists, firm and unyielding, forcing them away, forcing him away from you. But Sebastian fought.

"Garreth, grab his arm!" A voice snapped, urgency threading through her voice.

Sebastian barely had time to react before strong, freckled hands locked around his bicep, yanking him back. "Sebastian, stop!" Garreth gritted out, struggling against the sheer wildness of him, the way he thrashed like a caged animal, desperate to get back to you.

"I’ve got him—" The other voice came again and an arm hooked around his other side, her grip like iron, "pull him back!"

Sebastian screamed.

"NO—NO—LET ME GO—LET ME GO—"

His voice shattered the air around them, a wrecked, raw agony that vibrated down to his fucking bones, that twisted through his ribs like something that would never heal.

"Sebastian, you have to let them help her!" The woman shouted, struggling to keep hold of him.

"She’s not breathing!" Sebastian roared, his face streaked with tears and blood, his body writhing, his feet digging into the dirt.

"Anne’s got her—" Garreth gritted out, his own voice tight, "Sebastian, stop! You need to come with Natty and I—"

But he couldn’t stop because you were dead. You were fucking dead.

Sebastian's body snapped forward, another frenzied attempt to break loose, and Natty cursed under her breath, her fingers slipping from his arm.

"Garreth, hold on to him—" she ordered before letting go.

Sebastian lurched forward, nearly wrenching free, but Garreth held, struggling to keep him back.

Natsai came into view, her expression grim, her jaw tight. "I’m sorry, Sebastian."

He barely processed the way she raised her wand, the flick of her wrist, the sorrow laced through her voice as she spoke the words—

"Incarcerous."

Ropes lashed around him before he could react. Thick, unyielding ropes snapped tight around his arms, his chest, his legs, dragging him down, binding him, trapping him.

Garreth stumbled slightly as he let go, quickly joining Natsai, Ominis, and Anne at your side.

Sebastian could only watch.

Bound, restrained, helples, his body shaking, his breath coming in sharp, ragged sobs as he knelt in the dirt, completely and utterly fucking useless while the others moved.

Somewhere, buried beneath the all-consuming panic, he knew there was nobody else he could trust with this.

Garreth and Natty—the other top duo in the Auror department, second only to you and him. They had saved more lives than he could count, had fought beside the both of you in battle after battle, had survived things that should have killed them.

Anne—his sister, a professional Healer, with hands steady enough to stitch together miracles.

Ominis—the best fucking Cursebreaker that Sebastian had ever known, with magic deeper than most could ever comprehend.

They were the best of the best.

And still—

Even as Anne worked desperately to force life into you, pressing her wand to your chest, even as Garreth and Natty wiped the blood from your face, their hands trembling as they tried to cool your fevered body, even as they did everything possible to bring you back to life, it wouldn't matter. Because in the end, it came down to breaking the curse, and your life was in Ominis' hands.

All because of Sebastian. Because he had failed. Because he had let you go alone.

Sebastian's vision tunneled in on Ominis, on the precise way he moved, the slow, deliberate motion of his wand over your skin, over the fractal-like curse marks that pulsed against your fevered flesh.

It was taking too long. It was all taking too fucking long.

Sebastian clenched his jaw, his breath coming in sharp, shaking gasps as he yanked at the ropes. “Ominis,” he ground out, his voice hoarse with desperation. “Hurry the fuck up.”

Ominis didn’t respond. His brow was furrowed, his expression drawn in tight, sharp lines as he carefully guided his wand, as if even breathing too hard might unravel everything.

Sebastian struggled against the binds again, his voice rising. “Hurry up! She doesn’t have time for this—”

Ominis snapped.

“If you want her to survive this, then shut the fuck up.”

Sebastian’s breath stalled, the sheer force of Ominis’ voice slamming into him like a hex to the gut.

He had never heard him like this before. Never.

Ominis was always composed, always measured. But now—

Sebastian stared, chest heaving, watching as his best friend hovered over you, his wand moving with painstaking precision, his shoulders tense, his jaw locked so tightly it looked painful.

“If I make one wrong move—if I slip, if I miscalculate, if I rush—” Ominis exhaled sharply, his fingers trembling just slightly as he adjusted his grip. “There will be nothing left to save.”

Sebastian felt like the world had tilted beneath him. A cold sweat broke out over his skin, his pulse thundering so violently he thought he might vomit.

Ominis didn’t look up. Didn’t acknowledge the way the air had gone deathly silent, didn’t ease the unbearable weight of those words. He just kept moving, slow and meticulous, his wand following the curse marks like he was tracing something delicate, something on the verge of breaking.

Another moment passed. Another eternity.

Sebastian’s breath came sharp and shallow, his heart hammering against his ribs as he lifted his head, watching, waiting, pleading, and then—

A sound. A sharp, gasping breath. A choking, wet inhale.

Sebastian barely had time to process it before Anne gasped, her hands flying to your chest as your body convulsed, your limbs twitching violently, blood dribbling from the corner of your lips as you breathed.

The sound was awful. Rattling, broken, strangled. But it was breathing.

Sebastian’s whole body went taut, his throat constricting with something wild and aching as Anne let out a huff of pure relief.

“She’s— she’s breathing—"

Anne didn’t waste another second.

"Garreth, diagnostics, now!" Her voice was sharp, cutting through the haze of fear still choking the air. "Natty, I need a Blood-Replenishing Potion—check my bag, it’s in the side pocket. Ominis, keep the counter-curse steady. If it falters for even a second—"

“I know,” Ominis snapped, his fingers white-knuckled around his wand.

Sebastian barely heard them. because you were breathing again.

His whole body went weak, his vision blurring as another sob tore from his throat. His head dropped forward, his shoulders shaking violently, every inch of him trembling with the unbearable weight of relief and grief and fucking everything.

Sebastian didn't even notice when ropes binding him disappeared. Didn’t feel the shift of magic as it loosened, didn’t realize his hands were free, didn’t register anything beyond the raw, gasping breaths rattling in his chest.

Because you were breathing.

His whole body trembled, his lungs struggling to keep up with the weight pressing against them—grief and relief colliding so violently inside him that he wasn’t sure how to handle it besides weep.

Then a warm hand landed on his shoulder.

Garreth.

"You're alright, mate," he murmured, voice low. "She's alright. Just breathe, yeah?"

Sebastian didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure he could. But when his shoulders gave out and his body slumped forward, Garreth caught him without a word. His arm wrapped solidly around Sebastian's back, his other hand firm against his shoulder.

Time blurred. Minutes. Hours. It didn’t fucking matter.

All Sebastian knew was that at some point, Anne inhaled sharply and leaned over you, her expression flickering with something urgent, something new.

Then, in a voice so quiet it barely reached him—

“She’s asking for Sebastian.”

Everything else fell away. The noise. The movement. The air itself.

Sebastian moved. He didn’t even know how he moved given his exhaustion, didn’t remember breaking free from Garreth’s steadying grip, didn’t remember pushing forward until he was there—until he was kneeling right there, his hands grasping for you before he could stop himself.

You were still too warm, feverish and clammy, but your fingers twitched weakly when Sebastian reached for you, curling toward him, grasping at his sleeve.

Sebastian let out a wrecked, shuddering breath. The he was leaning in, his forehead pressing against yours, his whole body curling around you like he could somehow shield you from everything that had already happened.

“I’m here,” he whispered, his voice breaking apart. “I’m here, I’m right here—”

Your lips parted, barely moving.

“…Sebastian.”

A whisper. A breath. A single, fragile word. And yet, it was everything.

A sob ripped from his throat, raw and unrestrained, and he didn’t care anymore. Didn’t care that his hands were still shaking as they smoothed over your hair, your cheek, brushing away the damp strands clinging to your fevered skin. Didn’t care that the others were still there, watching. Didn’t care about anything except you.

"You’re okay," he whispered, his voice breaking apart at the edges, hoarse from screaming, from sobbing, from losing you. "You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay."

Your fingers twitched again, curling weakly around his sleeve, barely gripping, but trying. The effort it took for you to do even that made something sharp lodge itself in his throat.

Sebastian turned his head slightly, pressing his lips against your temple, his breath shaking against your skin. He needed you to know he was here. That he wouldn’t let go.

Your lips parted, the corners barely twitching—too small to be a smile, too exhausted to be anything more than an attempt.

But then, your voice.

Faint. Weak. Barely there. But real.

“…Didn’t… mean to worry you.”

Sebastian let out a sharp, breathless laugh, wet with relief and something close to hysteria.

“You nearly died,” he rasped, his voice rough, wrecked. “You did die.”

Your lips parted slightly, another flicker of movement, your brows barely furrowing.

“…But I didn’t.”

Sebastian exhaled sharply, something caught between a sob and a laugh, and his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

He pulled back just slightly, his fingers smoothing over your forehead, your cheek, memorizing every inch of you, grounding himself in the fact that you were still warm. Still here.

His lips hovered over your temple, pressing barely-there kisses against your skin, murmuring half-broken words between every breath.

“I love you.” The words spilled from him before he could stop them, raw and aching and uncontrolled. His chest heaved, his body trembling from the weight of everything. "I love you so much. I should've told you sooner—I should've—fuck, I should've done everything sooner—"

Your fingers twitched against him. Sebastian barely heard your response—so quiet, so weak—but he felt it, the way your lips moved, the way you pressed ever so slightly into him.

"—love you too."

Sebastian stilled. His throat tightened. His heart stopped.

For a moment, he thought he imagined it. Thought his exhausted, grief-addled mind had conjured the words he so desperately wanted to hear.

But then—then you smiled.

And he knew.

You had said it.

You had said it.

A sharp, wrecked breath tore from his throat, his chest constricting so violently it hurt.

He didn’t deserve this moment. Didn’t deserve to hear those words, not after everything. Not after how he’d failed to protect you, how he’d let you get hurt, how he’d let you die.

But you had said it anyway.

Sebastian let out a sound—half-laugh, half-sob. His heart was a mess, a tangled knot of fear and relief and love so overwhelming that it threatened to consume him whole.

He had nearly lost you. Had watched you slip away, had felt the unbearable weight of helplessness pressing down on him as your life balanced on the razor’s edge. And now, you were here. Weak, barely holding on, but here.

And you had said it.

You said it.

Sebastian exhaled, his breath warm against your skin as he tilted his head, as he pressed his lips to your forehead, your temple, then your cheek, his nose nudging against yours as his breath hitched.

And then, slowly, carefully—so much more carefully than he had ever done anything in his life—he pressed his lips to yours.

It wasn’t how he had imagined his first kiss with you would go.

Not with blood still drying on your skin, not with the taste of salt from his own tears mixing between you, not with your body still weak and trembling beneath his hands.

But it didn’t matter.

Truly enticing—comparable to a siren—you carried an alluring presence that was impossible to ignore. With skin of a dazzling, pearlescent almost porcealine like quality—captivating eyes and a honeyed voice.

You were a creature to behold.

It wasn’t suprising in the slightest though, it seemed that everyone in your family held these same enthralling qualities, a notorious, long line of pureblood slytherin. And one would think you’d act as such, uppity, entitled and holier-than-thou, but it was quite the opposite.

Good-natured, courteous, poised—saintly, even. An overall good Samaritan.

Adored by many, hated by none.

Except Remus that is.

Well—hate was a strong word. He didn’t hate you, he had no reason to. But he couldn’t stop the agitating, grating feeling that crawled up the back of his neck whenever you were near.

He knew there was something wrong. He could feel it, it seemed like he was the only one who wasn’t helplessly drawn to you, like a moth to a flame—and it was starting to get to him.

He just didn’t get what all the fuss was about, granted, you were attractive—he wasn’t blind, he just didn’t like you. People practically worshipped the ground you walked on, praising you for being a decent human being, you even had the faculty playing into the palm of your hand.

And Remus wasn’t buying it.

He didn’t bother hiding the huffed scoff of disbelief and fed-up roll of his eyes from his friends when they passed you in the courtyard.

Predictably, you were surrounded—first-year girls giggling in your orbit, one perched behind you braiding your hair while you braided another’s. A few sat nearby on the benches, stringing together daisy chains like a scene plucked straight from a children’s storybook.

You looked like Mother Teresa, for crying out loud.

Later, in the Great Hall, his friends watched, as his spine became ridgid, grip on his spoon hardening the moment you walked in. As always, you strode in, arms linked with Pandora’s, that same wine-red lollipop in twirling your mouth, loud and obnoxious chatter circling between you.

At least, that’s how Remus saw it.

In reality, you’d walked in quite casually, reasonable volumed, light conversation following you, signiture lolly in hand. It seemed that today, Remus’ world was tinted slightly red with comtempt. He was practically burning a hole in the back of your head with his harsh gaze, as if he could will you spontaneously combust.

A sharp voice broke his concentration.

"Have you ever actually spoken to her?"

James.

Remus blinked, realization dawning as he registered the weight of his friends’ stares, the expectant looks they all shared. James’s tone was filled with exasperated skepticism. They knew he wasn’t your biggest fan—for whatever reason, he wouldn’t say.

Remus scowled, “Once.” And you were annoyingly nice through the entire interaction, despite Remus’ painfully obvious irritance, offering to help him infact.

It was late one evening when he limped into the hospital wing in search for Madame Pomfrey, still reeling in pain after a transformation—usually James or Sirius went to fetch his potion for him, but today he didn’t want to be bother. A white nurse’s apron tied neatly around your waist, gently changing the bandages of a battered Quidditch player. When you turned to him, peaceful expression contorting into one of concern. Without hesitation, you moved toward him, a little too quickly for his liking.

He stepped back, avoiding from your touch, as if it’d burn him, grumbling out, “Is Madam Pomfrey here?”

Slightly taken aback by his clear rejecting disposition, you explained that there had been a quite ghastly incident involving some first-years and the Whomping Willow. Reaching out a hand—

“She’s healing them on site at the minute, but if you tell me what’s wrong, I’m sure I can help you wit—”

Before you’d made it to the end of your sentence, he had already spun on his his heal and rushed away, sharply spitting, “Forget it.”

By the time he’d returned back to the common room, his limp had gotten slightly worse, straining under the pressure of his excertion—pain flaring with every step.

Lily was the first to notice, immediately rising from her seat to meet him, concern pinching her brows.

“Why didn’t you get healed?” she asked, her tone somewhere between scolding and worried.

He winced suddenly as he stretched his body out across the cushions. Both James and Sirius turned their heads in concern, faces mirroring Lily’s, brows knit upwards in a sympathetic grimance.

Sighing in defeat—“She wasn’t there.” Twisting and turning in a fruitless attempt to find a comfortable position where he couldn’t feel the searing ache in his bones.

“What do you mean, she wasn’t there? The hospital wing is never empty.” James’ voiced chimed in from his seat across the room, before he continue, ”Even then, you could’ve waited there.”

Lily was still adjusting the cushions she’d placed under his legs when she said, “I’ll go now if you wa—”

“No,” Remus interjected quickly, reaching out to stop her before she could stand, scratches on his knuckles still raw, sucking in a deep breath, willing his body to relax into the sofa, pushing the pain away from the forefront of his mind—he held her arm lightly.

“There’s no point going now, she won’t be back until later.”

Her face screwed in confusion, looking back at the others hoping they would intervene. Sirius made his way over to where they were, sitting by the fire, James following closely behind. They watched him, waiting for him to continue.

Lily frowned. “Who was there?”, his jaw tightened.

“It was only Y/N,” his eyes were shut as he ran a hand through his hair, his voice taking a sharp tone, a deep frown forming on his lips; “And I’d rather wait here in pain, than be healed by some girl playing dress up.”

His words were harsh and left little room for agrument, only cracking an eye open at the sound of James’ loud frustrated groan—his head rolled back, and his fingers forcibly rubbed at the wrinkles that had formed between his brows.

“So, let me get this straight, you turned away a perfectly good healer, in your state, because you don’t ‘like’ them?!”

Both Sirius and Lily looked gaped at him in shocked, shaking their heads in clear disapproval. He pursed his lips, forming into a thin, stubborn line.

“And she’s not ‘playing dress up’. Y/N has been volunteering under Madam Pomfrey since third year, Remus.”

Remus exhaled forcefully through his nose, but he didn’t argue.

Really, he should have felt guilty.

For the way he dismissed you. For the way he recoiled like you were something foul, despite your only offense being offering to help him. But he couldn’t find it in himself to act the slightest bit remoseful—pushing his face into the sofa, trying to block out the world. Wanting to ignore the way his head only throbbed—the headache had been making it’s presence known for hours.

Only pounding louder at the mention of your name. Even his friends came to your defense.

Since then, he’d made it his mission to stay out of your way—hating the person he became in your presence. It was ridiculous really, having such hostility to a person who had been endlessly kind.

He tried to avoid you, really.

But it seemed as though the Gods were punishing him.

First, it was in duelling class, you were no daisy, a truly gifted witch—and remained undefeated in casual combat.

He wanted to watch you get knocked off your high-horse, zero interest in parttaking. But alas, the Professor had decreed, that ‘The winner stays on’, and much to his misfortune it had rolled around to his turn.

He stepped onto the platform him and you turned to look at him—eyes bright, light pleasant smile on your face—he felt that same prickling irritation crawl up his spine.

You bowed to him, adherring proper etiquette, and he followed suit, gripping his wand tightly as he moved into position.

The duel began with a flick of wands and a burst of movement. He had to admit—grudgingly—that you were good. Swift on your feet, sharp reflexes, casting defensive spells, deflecting him with ease.

You weren’t even try to win.

The goal was to disarm, and disarm only—and yet you hadn’t made one attempt at him, effortless precision in the way you diverted every one of his spells, riccoching away with loud hisses. Barely having moved from you position, hand still comfortably behind your back—while Remus had broken a clear sweat, inching up the platform, closing the distance that was set between you.

Remus was by no means an amateur, so this was just embarrassing.

You were only blocking, like this was some silly game, like you were playing with a child. And it was starting to make him irrationally angry. The surrounding students had taken a step back, whispering amongst themselves as your wands clashed in bursts of white and blue.

Did you think you were so good, that you needed to pull your punches?

It was already in motion when he’d realised what he’d done, his aggrevation got the better of him, and with a calculated flick of his wrist, Remus sent a well-aimed flippendo, straight at you. You saw the look in face, the anger crumbling as the spell left his lips.

It immediately broke through, sending you flying upwards, a sharp white flash leaving your wand.

For a moment, the room was still.

Gasps sounded, echoeing in Remus’ ears, and the Professor stood up abrupty from his seat by the platform, eyes rising and falling, following the movement of you body.

He barely registered the sting of magic, the clattering sound of his wand, is what brought Remus back into the room.

Your chest heaved, each breath deeper than the last, trying to compensate for the wind that had been knocked out of you. Head bowed forward, sitting on you knees, palms spread across the floor, wand still in hand as you stumbled, failing to raise from your position.

Your reflexes had caught you, just barely preventing your entire body from crashing roughly against the hard mahogany.

Knees still burning from the hard connection. The silence broken as your friends made their way through the crowd, and as they neared, you raised a hand to halt them before they could fuss over you. You exhaled sharply, trying to straighten your spine, shaking the residual magic from your fingertips. Hands burning from bracing you impact, wand warm in your tight grasp, the energy still thrumming beneath your skin.

Remus stood frozen, chest rising and falling in rapid succession, his expression wavering between guilt and frustration. Someone reached out—Dorcas, maybe—but you only rolled your shoulders, breath still laboured as you shook off the lingering sting of the spell.

Despite his foul-play, you’d still won—effectively disarming him mid air.

Remus swallowed as he took a hesitant step forward—whether to speak, to apologize, he wasn’t sure. The professor finally spoke, ”That was reckless, Mr. Lupin.”Voice ringing in his ears, sharp and disapproving.

Without a word, you turned on your heel and strode toward the exit, footsteps ringing against the wooden floor.

You hadn't looked at him.

Hadn’t even spared him a glance.

The next time he saw you, days had passed, now in Potions.

He should have known Slughorn would meddle. The man had an affinity for grouping “brilliant minds” together, and Remus, to his horror, was no exception.

“You two will make an excellent pair,” Slughorn beamed, practically vibrating with excitement as he waved between you and Remus. “Top of my class, both of you—oh, the potential! I expect nothing short of excellence.”

For a few moemnt, your stood still, and he could have swore he saw you eye twitch. But then, you turned to him with a polite, yet tight-lipped and strained smile on your face, hands already moving to gather ingredients.

“Let’s get started, shall we?”

He didn’t respond—just nodded stiffly, shoving his sleeves up as he resigned himself to his fate.

The entire class, you worked in relative silence, opting to only speak when you spoke to him, your voice was so casual, so smooth, nowhere near as pinched and curt as his.

Still unable to fight off the relentless, gutwrenching burn of his blood at your proximity—he couldn’t explain it, couldn’t comprehend why his body has such an involuntary viseral reaction to you.

Observing you quietly, watching as you hummed while stirring the cauldron, peaceful concentration on your face. And he hated it, hated how when you look at him, your eyes remained just as kind as that day in the hospital—not holding an ounce of resentment towards him, not even a flicker of the disdain he was certain he deserved. It gnawed at him, made something coil tight and uncomfortable in his chest.

He should have been relieved—grateful, even—that you hadn’t taken his hostility to heart.

“Lupin?”

Your voice broke through his thoughts, dragging him back to the present. He realized, belatedly, that you were watching him expectantly, holding out your hand.

“Hmm?”

“The moonstone,” you repeated patiently, point at it, a jar of powdered moonstone that was next to his open textbook. “Are you going to add it, or should I?”

For a moment, he just stared.

And when your arm reached out and over to take the jar yourself, the time frame you needed add in the ingredient slipping away, the seconds almost slowed down as your arm made contact with the searing hot cauldron.

You retracted quickly, jar in your grasp, and holding your arm in pain.

Remus flinched, the scrape of your sharp inhale cutting through the low murmur of the classroom. “Shit—” the word slipped out, before he could think, his hand shot out, fingers wrapping gently around your wrist. But your skin was cold, shockingly cold, like there wasn’t an ounce of warm in you at all—the gasp leaving before he realised.

You pulled your arm away from him abrupty, he sat still watching as you pulled out your wand and muttered a cooling charm under your breath.

“I’m fine,” you said softly, breaking the silence. “It’s nothing.”

His jaw clenched watching the redness faded slightly, but the skin still looked tender. Your eyes flicked away from your arm to the cauldron—gaze ever focused, ever composed. But Remus saw it, the fear and the colour drain from you face at his reaction—you knew he felt it, felt you, your temperature*.*

Remus swallowed the apology clawing its way up his throat. What good would it do?

“We’ve got time to redo the step.” You mumbled, rolling down your sleeves.

He reached for the moonstone, fingers brushing against the jar’s glass. Without a word, measuring out the powder and added it to the cauldron in slow, careful motions.

Noting how, for the rest of the class, your gaze didn’t meet his.

“Perfect!” Slughorn’s voice rang through the classroom, loud and booming, as he peered delightedly into your cauldron. “Absolutely textbook! I knew the two of you would be a fantastic match.”

Lunch couldn’t have come fast enough, immediately as the bell run, he watched your figure slip away silently into the corridoor.

Remus had barely touched his food, stirring absentmindedly at his plate as James and Sirius chattered animatedly beside him. Lily sat across from them, eyes flitting between her book and whatever ridiculous conversation was unfolding at the table.

His was in daze, replaying the moment over and over again—on question on loop in his brain.

Why?

He knew full well it wasn’t normal, there was no doubt about it in his mind, and sure he ran hot, for his own reasons, but he couldn’t shake away the look you had in your eyes, the panic, how when you tore your hand from his grasp, the surface of his fingertips were still cold.

That day, you didn’t walk in with Pandora like usual, the spot on the bench remained empty, for the entire lunch hour.

Instead of attending lunch, you were pacing around the Observatory in the Astronomy tower, hand rubbing over the skin where your burn should be, it would’ve healed completely before the end of the class anyway, but the cooling charm, cut the time down to a meer 5 minutes.

You’d been knawing at the skin of your bottom lip for too long now, a nervous habit. Staring mindlessly out, hoping the skies would provide some solace to the turmoil brewing deep in the pits of your stomach.

Why did he have to touch you?

Hands gripping the metal of the railing, it was familiar, cold—matching your skin. Gods, you hated this, hated how you were—cursed, hated how all it took was mistake and your whole world would come crashing down upon you. And you’d, unfortunately, survive, forced to find a new identity, just as your parents had.

The mantra was heavy on you lips—he won’t know, he doesn’t know, he can’t know.

You wanted to go about your day, to make your way down to the hospital wing, do some good for once, but you knew it wouldn’t be smart—you couldn’t focus anything right now. Let alone treat sick people, something that needed your undivided attention.

Maybe its best you skip dinner too, you weren’t exactly hungry.

Walking back to the slytherin common room, mind in a state of complete disarray—it was the wet dripping down your chin that made you realise—you’d bitten your lip swollen and raw. Metallic taste in your mouth, you picked up your pace into a small jog.

“bathroom, bathroom, bathroom,” muttering under your breath.

Of course, in your time of need the nearest girls’ toilet was, what felt like, miles away. You were sure it looked worse than it actually was. The small gash was already healing—but you were running now, the drops were going to stain your shirt if you didn’t hurry.

Hand covering the your mouth, you felt him, and the floor, before you saw him.

A loud, “Ooof,” sounded from above you—and when you landed on the hard stone, you bit down re-opening your nearly healed wound. You couldn’t help the pained groan that escaped your lips, the sharp sting of fresh blood flooding your mouth.

“Bloody hell—”

The voice above you was unmistakable.

It just had to be him, didn’t it?

You scrambled upright, ignoring the way your limbs ached from the fall. Remus came round by you side, and Lily was on the other—her words were genuine and full of concern, ”Y/N! Are you alright?!”

Her hands were already reach for you, when you tried to say tell her that you were fine. Instictively avoiding her touch, backing up, and into Remus’ grasp, you were well and truly trapped. Hooking their hands under your arms, and pulling you to a stand.

His hands were achingly hot against your robes, and you forced your teeth back into the closing gash—keeping the blood flowing.

You really were short on luck today.

“Merlin, you’re so cold Y/N,” her hands already running up and down your arms to warm you, you shied away from her touch, but Remus kept a tight grip on you.

“I run a tad cold, I’m fine though, just heading to the bathroom.” It came out rushed and pinched, completely muffled from you hand, still pressing your teeth into it—eyes becoming more glossy by the second.

You so desperately needed to be anywhere but here.

Remus felt like a looming presence behind you, you couldn’t bring yourself to look at him—feeling his eyes scanning your frame. You were still trying to squirm out of his grip, but he wouldn’t release you.

It took a few more moments for Lily to stop forcibly rubbing you arm and take a step back, concern still etched into her face. “Are you sure? You look—”, she hesitated, before gesturing your appearence.

You let out a breathy, forced chuckle. “I’m fine, really.”

She didn’t look convinced, but she nodded slowly, allowing you a sliver of space.

Remus, on the other hand, hadn’t moved. His grip remained firm, his fingers twitching slightly where they pressed against your sleeve.

You refused to look at him.

He won’t know, he doesn’t know, he can’t know.

But the silence stretched between you, growing heavier with each second. You could feel his eyes on you, scanning every inch, catalouging every detail.

“You’re bleeding.”

It wasn’t a question.

Your stomach twisted violently. Your grip tightened over your mouth, fingers digging into your skin, willing yourself not to react.

“I bit my lip.” You interrupted quickly, words too sharp, too frantic. “That’s all.”

Remus still hadn’t let go, his face was almost unreadable—

“Let me see.”

Your heart lurched. “No.”

The word left your lips too quickly, too forceful, too much like a command. His grip tensed, just for a fraction of a second but you couldn’t wait any longer—each second riskier than the last, it was all already too much. Ripping your arm from is grasp, tears heavy on your waterline—”I have to go now.”

Before Lily was even able to offer her company, you were gone. Had bolted, practically running down the corridor, leaving them both behind.

You didn’t stop until you were safely locked inside the bathroom, palms pressed against the cold porcelain of the sink, chest heaving. You turned on the faucet, letting the water run over your trembling fingers, watching as it swirled pink before disappearing down the drain. Examining your lip—already healed.

He doesn’t know. He won’t know. He can’t know.

But no matter how many times you repeated it, you couldn’t shake the way Remus had looked at you.

The coil had already began to wined. It always started like this, suspicion, panic, terror. You could barely meet your own gaze in the mirror, splashing water on you face—hair sticking to your forehead, slow pulse thumping in your ear. A constant reminder.

Monster.

The rest of the week, you’d avoided meal times, giving Pandora a cheap excuse every morning, one day studying, the next day, tutoring, the day after hospital wing.

Thinking, hoping, praying to whatever deity had done this to you, for just a slither of mercy. You, of course, wrote home, detailing the incident. It was always better to keep them in the know.

The castle had begun to feel suffocating.

Too many eyes. Too many questions.

So you turned to the one place that had never judged you—the Forbidden Forest. Its not like anything in there could do real harm to you.

You were the monster they’d warn you about.

The shadows welcomed you, stretching long and dark beneath the canopy, swallowing you whole. Bark damp and cool under your fingertips, legs hanging comfortably from the branch. Feeling your stomach churn, as an unfamiliar heartbeat rang in your ears, much faster—nearing.

Its footsteps small and rapid, hands gripping onto the wood much tighter, when you saw it. A rabbit, your feet moved faster than your brain. Drawn in, you couldn’t help but instinctively follow, stalk—hunt— scent painfully sweet. You watched it wriggle into the base of a hollowed out tree, hand reaching in and dragging it out, it squirmed and squealed in your hold.

The saliva was building, pooling in your mouth, your chest shuddered with each breath, and swallowing thickly—you pulled out your wand, holding it firmly to the stomach of the creature.

“Episkey.”

It calmed, less frantic, less afraid.

And you placed it down, gently with a few tender stokes to the head, back into the safety of the cavern.

Hours has passed, trailing aimlessly up and down the outskirts of the forest, you crouched low by a river, staring at the distorted reflection staring back at you. The veins by your eyes bloomed over the curve of your cheekbones, a prominent dark-red, pulsing under your fingertips, the dark edge of your iris adoping a black hue and expanding, consuming almost all of the white.

A thing of nightmares.

You tilted your head back, admiring the moon, full and captivating—alone and understanding, like that of an old friend.

A branch snapped in the distance.

You stiffened, every muscle locking in place, every instinct screaming prey.

An itch beneath your skin. A sickness in your bones.

You squeezed your eyes shut, teeth digging into your bottom lip—

Then it rung, echoed, ricochetted off of every nearby surface, breaking the stillness of the water you stood over.

A howl.

One too close for comfort, the skin at the back of your neck prickled, you refused to take another breath. You should have paid more attention to your surroundings, should have a path ready, an escape route. It was too late now, it was too close, you could smell it now.

You’d wasted time.

There wasn’t much else to do, you didn’t know where to run next, each second of the chase to valuable to get lost. Taking the large rock that sat snuggly against the water’s edge, you blindly tossed it behind you, using every ounce of strength in your body. Before submerging yourself.

The water was freezing, so much so it made your eyes burn, you forced yourself to relax—to sink, avoid detection all costs.

Your mother had warned you about wolves, vicious, savage and beastly creatures—that killed for the sake of killing, for the thrill of the hunt.

It was ironic in your opinion, the way she spoke about them with such disgust and distain, like your kind of monster was any better than the next. At least werewolves could escape it, only spending 12 nights of the year a slave to their nature, able to blend in with the rest of the world, almost normal—they’d live and die in timely fashion, naturally or of disease.

The priviliege possibility.

You were the real vicious, beastly creatures. A parasite—feeding off the life of innocents, beautiful and magnetic to draw in the naive and weak, taking life, all that is good and disgracing it.

The ultimate perversion of nature, the condemned.

The pressure of the water above you had made your chest burn, ears filling with water, and as much as you tried to tune your hearing to the surface level, everything was dulled by the gurgling, whoosing the bounced back and forth between your ears.

You had to take the chance, you had to surface, you’d already been under too long.

Forcing yourself up, clothes weighing you down, making the ascent that bit more burdensome on your muscles, your fingers gripped the lip pond, tugging yourself free from the water’s embrace. You layed there for a moment, eyes still squeezed shut, half submerged, drinking in heaping gulps of oxygen.

You could feel it, the warm hum of the sun against your back, the life of the forest clear in the quite churps the swam across the air. The time under the water had passed so quick, peacefully, all thoughts subdued by the lulling sway, the push and pull of the current.

The rest of your body hit the ground with an uncomfortable splat, completely and thoroughly drenched, and yet you couldnt’t complain. Despite not having slept a wink, you felt less lost, thoughts a bit clearer, mind less polluted.

Still, you utterly were exhausted, trudging back to the castle—leaving a wet and dripping trail behind you.

It was just early enough that you’d been able to walk in through the main entrance unseen, but before you could turn the corner down to the girls’ toilets, it hit you, harsh, defeaning and impossible to ignore.

You doubled over, the roaring incessant pull, making your gums ache and vision blur. Stumbling forward, you tried to rest your back on the stone, but it whafted in again, stronger. Forcing you to screw your eyes shut, all but collapsing on the floor—clutching your stomach.

It was exactly what you hoped it wouldn’t be.

The sweet, sickly coppery smell, had your head spinning, and even after all the endless nights you’d spent in the hospital wing, sometimes dripping in the stuff, you’d still never smelt blood so compelling.

You could barely breathe, each inhale felt like an iron rod was being shoved down your throat, curled into a ball, writhing as you fought every cell in your body to not chase.

All you could hear was an awful shrilling sound, and you wanted to gag, a retch building in your chest.

You’ve learnt that fate is twisted, and sadistic—cruel in nature.

Because despite all your efforts, your struggle and labour to stay away.

It was coming to you.

There were three, you could hear them, all three heartbeats—one significantly faster than the others, though only one approached you. You groaned a pained sound in protest, they shouldn’t come closer, really.

Padding footsteps stopped by you, breath hitching as you shook with the effort, taking what little you had left in you—you pushed yourself as far away as possible. And when your head hit the wall, you just sobbed. Frantically shaking you head, whispering over and over to yourself—

“Please, no, Gods, no-”

They’d heard the impact first, and when James looked up, the small dark figure at the bottom of the hall thudding to the ground, he looked over at Sirius, who he’d been supporting Remus’ weight. That knowing look, the one that said, we need to help.

He was only inches away, his fingertips gently lifting away you robes, they were heavy and soaked, the splattering connection that sounded made Remus wince, ears still so hypersensitive.

James’ expression was grave, wordlessly, picking you up, carrying you with careful, measured movements.

Your body was stiff against him, trembling—not from the cold, but from the unbearable restraint you were forcing upon yourself. Hands locked into tight fists against your chest, as your jaw clenched so tight it sent sharp pangs down your skull.

You could smell him, so much closer now, just behind you.

The fresh wound. The slow, sluggish trickle of blood. The way it called to you like a siren song, wrapping invisible hands around your throat, pulling, pulling—

And then a voice.

"She’s absolutely freezing."

It was so distant, like layers and layers, gallons and gallons of water seperated you.

You wanted to scream at him, No, no I’m hot, its so hot. it burns— but your lips wouldn’t move, your body wouldn’t listen.

And then, another voice.

Deep, rough, hoarse from exhaustion.

Remus.

“Take her with us.”

A sharp, breathy whimper rattled in your throat. You can’t. Not when your willpower was teetering to close to the edge. Not when you could barely contain the way your fingers twitched toward him, the way your tongue pressed hungrily against your teeth.

Not when the taste of him still lingered in the air between you.

The scent had been overwhelming before—but now? Now it was unbearable.

Because he was so close.

Because you could hear it now—his and only his heartbeat, as if made just for your ears. His blood buzzing and pumping around his body, seeping through clothes, slipping through cracks—

You sobbed, twisting violently in James’ arms, thrashing, desperate to get away.

"Hold her still!" Sirius hissed, as he stumbled back against Remus.

"I am!" James snapped, struggling to keep you from writhing out of his grasp.

You shook your head violently, the world spinning, tilting—every inch of you screaming in protest.

"I can’t—" your voice was barely there, more breath than sound. "Please—"

But no one was listening.

Because they didn’t understand.

They didn’t know what you were.

And they didn’t realize the real danger wasn’t whatever had lead you collapsed in that hallway.

The danger was you.

Edges of your vision began to cloud, head lolling, a rolling with each step James’ took, tears drying on you cheek and body falling limp as the last fight you has in you dwindled away.

Madam Pomfrey was quick to aiding Remus, discretely as always, cornering off a large enough section for him, James and Sirius. Agonising groans as she healed the gashes across his chest, tending to the bruises and aching muscles with quick efficiency—falling into the routine she’d become so unfortunatley accustom to.

James and Sirius help, dabbing the sweat off of him, changing the bandages as they soaked again and again—disgarding them into a bucket nearby.

Now, her next mission was you.

She knew well of your affiction, thankfully, as did a few other select members of the faculty, hiding your true nature from the students, the parents, the papers. It pained her to see you in your condition, knowing you were a sweet girl, not an bad bone in your body. Trying so hard to be better, counter the instincts that clawed at you from the inside out.

Pomfrey had always been gentle with you, but now, her touch was laced with urgency. She pressed the back of her hand against your forehead, feeling the unnatural chill of your skin.

"Oh, my dear," she murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

You flinched, shifting away even in your half-conscious state.

"No—" your voice was hoarse, faint. "Don’t—"

But she shushed you, soft but firm, her fingers brushing over your pulse point, it was always slow, just barely there, but now—it was weak, a beat a minute. Not suprising, you hadn’t visited for your potion in some time, for whatever reason, denying yourself.

Forcing yourself to endure it, torturing and punishing yourself—while walking around with the biggest smile, nursing others back to health.

Remus was just coming to, the hair at the base of his scalp stuck to his neck, head pounding, jaw aching—when his eyes finally opened, he noticed his friends’ attention locked elsewhere—necks arched into a straining crane.

Transfixed on you, your poor shaking figure, fighting fever and something else.

By this time, Pomfrey had called for assistance in keeping you in place, keeping you running—hell bent on leaving the room.

Eyes raising heavily, following theirs, exerting his body into an upright position. He knew it was you, only from the familiar intrusive way his body shivered, hairs raising and skin prickling down is spine—because that wasn’t your voice,

No, your voice was always light, jarringly composed, sickly melodic. Not this, what filled is ears was hard to listen to, he wanted to shy away from the injured cries. Invasively loud, inescapable—and they didn’t seem to be stopping.

Becoming more urgent, more distressed, adopting a particularly harrowing edge when Pomfrey rushed back to you with a small green vial, attached to a concerningly large needle.

It felt disturbingly familiar, he saw himself in you—the futile struggle, the panic, the pain.

They all instictively turned away with a sharp intake of breath as Pomfrey pushed the needle deep into the dip where your neck meets your shoulder. It took a few more long moments before you calmed down—your head lolled again, body burning with exhaustion. Your head felt so far away, you didn’t want to sleep, but it was tempting—reminding you of the peace you’d found in the river earlier.

Eyes slipping away into the back of your head, before fluttering open just a sliver—just enough to see him.

Remus.

Still wincing, still covered in bandages, but his head was turned toward you.

Watching.

Brows furrowed.

Sighing as the sleep fully washed over your body.

Remus left the hospital wing that same day, still ridden with the usual post-moon aches, and he knew his own bed would be a better remedy.

The trio walked in silence, heads hanging as they slipped passed the closed curtain of your bay.

Barely out of earshot, it was Sirius who broke the silence first.

“D’you think she’s okay?” it was low and sincere, what they’d all been thinking.

No one answered for a moment, the memories still so fresh, too fresh for them to find the words. Remus couldn’t ignore the tight feeling in his chest—not the one cause by the night’s tearing, distorting and reassembling, but one of sympathy. Like he’d been forced to watch a wounded animal.

James’ voice was strained, struggling to capture the optimism his words clearly wished to convey, “I’m sure Pomfrey will take good care of her,” nodding to convince himself more than the others.

Whatever was wrong with you, you didn’t deserve it.

Remus chose not to say anything, because despite even her greatest efforts, she struggled to heal him—magic only going so far. And what he saw, what made you like that, he knew had to be a much worse problem than his.

The rest of the weekend passed with little commotion, though—Remus opted to collect his potion himself on both days, intending to catch a small glimpse of you, maybe you were fine—resting in the bed with your usual charming smile, surrounded by your friends—

On the saturday, your curtains were still close, no visitors, just silence around the wing. He was quick to leave, feet padding softly away as he shook off the gut-wrenching pinch he felt as he walked passed. But by sunday’s early evening, the wing was mostly clear, no sign of your presence, no signs of anything—just gone.

Of course, he attended classes as normal, when the first breakfast rolled around he only spared one glace at the entrance when Pandora walked in alone, by dinner his lips were sealed shut in confusion.

You weren’t in the hospital, you weren’t in classes, you weren’t at dinner.

The third day in a row of no-show. Remus’ body had the same tell-tale signs, as though you’d glided into the room, Pandora by your side—smile bright, lips reddened from your lolly. There was still no nothing though, halls feeling emptier, no smiles, no lollies, no you. He only pushed around the food on his plate, legs bouncing beneath the table, teeth grinding under the tension.

You’d think he’d be relieved to be rid of you.

Presence having always caused him such discomfort, such unjust agitation. But in spite of all that, you still plagued every inch of his thought, moments still flashing vividly behind his eyes of how he last saw you. He just needed to know.

That whatever sickness, whatever ailed you no longer did.

You still didn’t appear for another two days.

And when you’d finally walked into the Great Hall, practically clinging onto Pandora’s arm for support, Dorcas and Narcissa stuck to your sides, like bodyguards.

Still no smiles, still no lolly, still no you.

Because, that wasn’t the same girl who made his blood boil just by the way people were drawn to you, that wasn’t the girl who made his world tint red, body tensed and irritated, no. You were drained of all colour, eyes dull and trained to the ground—teeth knawing roughly at your lips.

Your sickness had left stripped everything away from you, a hollowed out husk of the girl you were before, and it made it hard for Remus to swallow the lump in his throat—made it hard for him to tear his gaze away from you.

So fragile.

The grip he had on his glass made his knuckles turn white, surely this wasn’t normal, surely there was someone doing something, Pomfrey—anyone.

Lily’s hand clapped over her mouth at the sight of you. Wasting no time rushing to your side, and Remus could hear her voice, the hushed concerned questions tumbling out, “Y/N, are you okay? Where have you been? Do you need anything?”

You were barely able push out a smile, in attempts to quell her worries, but your face was uncharacteristically stiff. Lips stretching and trying to curve up at the corners, but it was no use—it looked like a sort of twisted grimace.

Her hand ghosted over yours, cold to the touch, brows knitting tightly into a furrow—your whole body tensed under her touch, and as much as you wanted to pull away, you struggled to find the energy.

It was so clear that she meant well, but you had hardly taken in one breath, Remus was still watching you, and you felt his critical gaze on you as always.

“I’m fine, Lily, thank you though, just a bit poorly,” moving you hand away from hers to rest lightly in your lap.

Lily could see how every word was a strain on you, energy depleting as the interaction stretch beyond what you’d imagined. With a nod and a few more kind words, she sat back at the table.

Everyone’s eyes were on her expecting—waiting to her to detail the what she’d said, how you were doing.

She relayed, keeping it short and simple—but reinforcing one specific detail, you were still so cold.

You’d dismissed yourself early from dinner, a poor excuse of ‘rest’.

Remus still listening.

As everyone tried to offer you company, some support, an escort. “At least just to the common room?” Narcissa insisted, but you’d already stood and hushed her pleas—the same words, you’d become a record player, stuck on repeat.

“I’m fine, Cis—really.” Your smile didn’t meet your eyes.

He was so distracted that evening, always looking over to your table. No-one commented on it. Just allowing him to sit in his own state of disarray, internal conflict.

It would be inappropriate to pry, to check in on you. You weren’t friends, barely even associates—and he hadn’t been kind to you once in all your years as classmates.

Tolerating you with unfiltered scorn and hostility, never once considering how it would feel—to be on the receiving end of his indiscriminate contempt.

And finally, he felt it. What he’d been ignoring, allowing anger to push it down, letting the searing vex settle in the forefront of his mind—but it still lingered, waiting patiently to be acknowledged.

The guilt.

Abrupt and blunt were his words as he stood up from the bench, “going bed early.” And he didn’t wait for the responses or the goodnights, pace quick out of the hall.

He did go to bed, he just didn’t stay there. Reaching under his pillow and pulling out the map. Hesitating, as his fingertips ran over the rough, dry surface of the parchment. He shouldn’t.

That did little to stop him though.

He told himself, if you were in your common room, actually resting, he’d leave it alone. It wasn’t his place anyway.

But his eyes scanned for your name in the small circle of the dungeon.

Empty.

Brows pinched high on his forehead, frantically unfolding the pages, flicking back and forth for your name. Dread was settling in, what ifs—you could be in that same condition as the other night.

Scared, in pain, alone.

The sigh of relief when he found your name, heartbeat unusually fast and echoing in his ears. His feet moving faster than they should have, instinctively.

He wasn’t even sure why he was doing this. He doesn’t care, he doesn’t. Legs carrying him far as his strides picked up, walking, jogging, running, sprinting to you.

You were too weak to go where you really wanted, the walk to the black pond just too tasking. The next best thing was the Observatory.

The sky was dark, storming—violent claps of thunder and lightning clapping breaking the clouds. Wind whipping and forcing the rain onto the balcony. Your legs hung over the edge, robes dripping, forming a puddle around you.

Face resting on the bar in the middle of the railing—it was nice, the rain on your skin, the pitter patter on the stone left little room for your thoughts.

You were thankful.

Moments of peace so few and far between as of recently.

You knew he was coming, could smell him from a mile away, there was no point in running anymore. Growing accustomed to the cruel and bitter fates the Gods kept throwing at you.

And quite frankly, you had nothing left to fight with.

His heaving breaths sounded behind you, arms holding the door frame for a moment before he took a step towards you. He saw visibly the way your spine straightened and became taut, breath halting.

You weren’t as easily swayed by his scent this time, for one he wasn’t bleeding. And you’d already braced yourself for his presence—teeth biting harshly into your tongue, burning at the painful sting, drawing blood.

There was time for you to leave, but you had a feeling he wouldn’t give up. Sure his arrival wasn’t a coincidence. Either he knew or he was coming to find out.

Both inevitable realities with unfortunate ends.

He was still paused behind you, having stopped a few meters away—not exactly sure what to say, not sure why he was here.

Couldn’t even tell if the way his skin prickled and itched was because of you or the rain’s harsh assault on the surface of his skin.

All words failing to reach his lips, instead, he took a seat a few inches away from you, on the other side of bar you’d been resting against.

Legs joining yours, in their dangle and sway over the stone’s edge, robes darkening as the rain soaked further into the fabric.

For a long while, you both sat in silence.

Remus didn’t know you knew, it had barely been a week since your discovery. Your second day out of the hospital wing, you connected the dots—the howl you’d heard that night, the way he’d been so severely wounded, the cabinets in the hospital filled with small vials adorned with his name, his aversion to you, why his scent was so disturbingly alluring.

Even now, he sat mere inches away and your mouth was filling with saliva—jaw clenching in efforts to reject the lure.

You were almost shocked at your ignorance to him, his nature, suddenly seeming so obvious—wanting to scoff, both monsters that can’t recognise each other—the irony.

His first words tempted you to laugh.

“Cold?”, he asked, rain dripping off the tip of his nose as he turned to look at you.

It took a few more long drawn out seconds before you turned to meet his gaze. And his heart ached at the sight of you, so utterly defeated, eyes vacant.

You reply was so matter of fact—

“You know I am, Lupin,” maintaining eye contact, it had a layer of something he didn’t quite understand.

Breaking the stare, you turned and looked out longingly at the clouds, letting your words settle into the crisp air between you. His body heat radiated off him so far, it would have warmed your cold body—if that were possible.

He wanted to ask what you mean, and why you said it like that, wanted to ask what was wrong, and why you looks so..so—he couldn’t even put his finger on the word—so not you.

Mouth opening and closing once, twice before blurting out, “Are you okay?” as it left, he felt it was a rather stupid choice of question—considering the situation, but it was too late now.

“You’ve really come all this way to ask how I am? Still you kept your eyes looking out into the distance, admiring the deep hues of the clouds that rolled over the horizon.

He was still looking at you, your body against the pillar, as if the weight of the world rest on your shoulders. “Well?”

You felt yourself fiddling with the edge of your sleeves, the lump that’d been forming in your throat for the last few minutes felt impossibly larger. You didn’t want to look at him, knowing it would break you, the exhaustion rolling over you in waves—and you couldn’t bear it much longer.

When you did look to him, your eyes pricked with tears, lips twisting into a deep frown.

“I’m tired, Remus.”

You were, so so tired, in pain, hungry.

He didn’t know what to do, completely helpless, it’d made him feel ill, the dejected look on your face, there were so many words swirling in his mind. So much he wanted to say, none of it fitting, none of it enough. Instead, he reached an arm around you, pulling you in, taking the weight you’d been pressing on the bar between you—your head on his shoulders.

He had no idea why he felt comfortable enough to do that, maybe it was the way you said his name—soft, fragile, or maybe it was the way you looked at him—lost. If it wasn’t that, maybe it was the reason why he was even in here in the first place—he cared.

The idea of telling you that it would be okay, seemed ill-fitting, he still didn’t know what was wrong. The rain was coming down slower now, less aggressive and the thunder sounded further away—drifting.

You pressed your lips together, questioning whether to say anything at all. But you were already here, it was already in motion.

“Remus, do you know why you hate me so?”

He looked at you, confused, ready to protest, he doesn’t hate you, he really didn’t. It was the knowing look on your face that stopped him, reflecting on his treatment towards you—he stayed quiet.

You nodded, at nothing, turning away from him.

“Do you know why you’re here?”

The question seemed silly, of course he knew why he was here, he came to check on you, see if you were okay. Find out what was wrong—

“Why?”

Your body was still rigid against his, there was no soft rise and fall, still holding your breath—waiting.

His lips parted when he found the right words to start his sentence, “Your condition-“

Your interruption was simple, yet vague—

“If you have to ask, you’re not ready to know.”

He gaze was on you, perplexed but he listened as you continued, “I wouldn’t be able to tell you anyway.”

There were rules, restrictions against sharing about your condition, not just for the safety of others, but your own—the hysteria, the uproar, an undoing.

His breath hitched as your eyes met his, drained, understanding—kind. The air seemed to still around his when the words fell from you lips.

“Does it hurt you greatly?—each moon?”

You knew, his mouth was dry, eyes searching your face, expecting rejection, contempt, fear. But there was none, you weren’t scared of him, and though your eyes lacked their usual spark, there was still a subtle warmth, accepting. The smallest smile, twitched at your lips, hoping to give him some comfort.

Neither of you moved from your position, his body burned hot despite the rain, harsh wind, and your presence—yours was still cold, as always, a stark contrast to his heat.

“How long have you known?”

…

“A few days.”

It was obvious to him what made you realise, his condition that morning when you saw him, he wasn’t surprised—you were smart.

He would have asked you if you’d told anyone, but he was sure for some reason, that you hadn’t—that you wouldn’t. He chose to answer your initial question instead, grimacing as his body recollected the way his bones would break, his muscles would tear and his own screams of agony were alien in his ears.

“It hurts. A lot, more than I can say,” confession honest and clear.

You hummed in acknowledgment, but still waiting.

Waiting for the dots to connect in his mind, he was thinking—it was clear in the expression on his face, blinks slow, brows furrowed.

Like he was running through every possible piece of information he’d cataloged about you. You couldn’t tell him, and he couldn’t ask—his brain felt muddled.

Just as the skies cleared with time, so did his expression—looking at you with wide, shocked eyes. Always cold, unnaturally so, brilliant reflexes, alluring and captivating to all—people flocked to you effortlessly, and now that he was thinking about it—he rarely saw you eat, at every meal time, lips tinted red from your lolly.

A honeyduke’s classic.

A bloodsucker.

He still didn’t understand, you were nothing like what he’d read about—presented as ugly, ghoulish creatures that burned in the sun.

He was stuttering, puzzled, “But-but the *textbooks—*your—nothing like that”

Nodding, staring down into your lap.

“live long enough, and you can change history.”

His breath was caught in his throat—that’s why. He felt so blind, it should have figured it out soon, or at least suspected, from the way his skin crawled in your presence.

There were signs, so many, but it still seemed impossible, unfathomable.

“Show me.”

Head whipping towards him, shocked. He didn’t even know what he asked of you, eyes on his face, an incredulous look on yours—still contemplating.

“It’s…it’s not—uh, pretty.”

You felt silly at your remark. Of course it wasn’t pretty, he couldn’t be expecting something pretty.

He watched, face unchanging, not flinching away at the sight of your face distorting—whites of your eyes vanishing and the veins, they bulged, stretching out from your waterline and further down your face—protruding thickly out on your neck. You parted your lips, allowing the four sharp canines into his views, still he was neutral.

Just looking.

Cogs turning slowly.

“That morning—you were, in pain…was it—“

His insinuations were clear, the words dying on his lips when you nodded, trying to turn away from him.

“I don’t understand.”

It just didn’t make sense to him, after all these years, he’d never seen you like that, and the cause?

You weren’t even sure if you could tell him, if you should, even wording seemed hard. It didn’t seem right just say it—

Because I was hungry, because it was you.

It was clear to Remus how you were pondering your next words. It would be letting him in, allowing him to see through the cracks, the flaws, the unfortunate reality of you, the real you.

“Well, I hadn’t eaten—in a while, so it was just…”

He probably shouldn’t have asked, but it seemed the words were already in the air—

“Are you hungry now?”

Remus didn’t even know what he wanted you to say, he guessed that you were, still mild discomfort in your face, your body language. Not once did you breath in deep enough for your chest to even rise, back still straight and constantly fidgeting.

And if you weren’t—his mind couldn’t help but wonder.

The question wasn’t hard to answer, yes, every cell in your body screaming, deprived, angry. Your stomach twisted at the thought of eating, it had been so long, weeks—you’d even avoided the potion to keep the cramps at bay. You didn’t deserve the relief, because as much as it stopped the physical pain—your thoughts repulsed you.

But the shame, it never got any better, as much as your tried to push it the very back of your mind—ignore the suffocation of it, the nauseating pressure the clawed from the bottom of your spine and punched right through your chest every time your mouth-watered.

That same feeling stopped you from answering directly, mumbling, faintly above a whisper, as if saying it quieter would make it less difficult—

“It’s not something I enjoy—“

He was quick to intrude, sharp and direct.

“That’s not what I asked.”

It was even difficult to be near him now, insides lurching, in need of sustenance—and his heart was beating so strong, blood warm and intoxicating—appetising.

Your leg twitched with the effort it took to not move away from him, gaze transfixed on edge of stone you at on. Chewing relentlessly at your lip, it was unavoidable, so painstakingly aware of every pump of blood in his veins—

“Y/N,”

“Yes! Yes, Remus! Is that want you want me to say?! That i’m starving and haven’t eaten in weeks—That my throat feels like it’s closing in?!”

There was no need for you to be so harsh with your words, but you snapped—frustrated at yourself, frustrated at him for asking; for making you have to say it out loud.

And yet, he was seeming unaffected by your outburst, eyes sweeping over your figure—this whole time you’d been so composed, each sentence well-thought and calculated. It wasn’t his intention to strike a nerve, he could see the way you shrunk into yourself after, regret in your eyes—

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to shou-“

“—Weeks?”

He cut you off again, echoing your words from before, your finger came up to pick at the lifted skin on your lips, only answering with a small nod. He couldn’t imagine it, having to walking around hungry for days, let alone weeks—the restraint you must have, working with the bloody and injured almost everyday.

“How?”

It seemed like such an incomprehensible task.

“How what?”

Right, he’d just blurted out the word random, as though you’d have access to his internal monologue.

“How do you do it—with Pomfrey, all the blood? Doesn’t it make you…I don’t know—uncomfortable?”

You hummed lightly at his explanation, thinking for a second, and for a while your face relaxed—as you thought back to the times you’d spent in the wing.

“It wasn’t easy, at first. But I wanted to help people, lessen their pain—so it doesn’t bother me anymore.”

You continued, confessing with a small scoff—

“It’s the least I can do in the life, something good, my soul maybe be *damned—*but at least i’ve found purpose.”

When you looked back at him, a deep frown was etched onto his face, eyes swimming with something you could quite read—looking at you as if your last words were blasphemous.

“You don’t really believe that do you? what you said—about your soul?”

Thinking back to your words, they did seem rather harsh, but you just pulled your lips into thinly lined smile, it stopped there just past the corners of your mouth, not travelling further up your face, as if should have. Sighing deeply through your nose—resigning with another nod.

“It’s a curse, Remus—what I am. A crime against nature.”

You weren’t bothered by your words at all, having come to terms with your reality many years ago, it made sense to you that he didn’t agree—he wouldn’t understand.

“Do you think that about me—and my soul? My curse?”

Brows stretched up and froze high in your forehead, frown now matching his—resting deep on your lips. Placing a hand on his—as if to make your words more sincere.

“I—Of course not. It’s different—you could never be damned Remus, you’re kind. And besides, you can’t help what you become, it’s just different.”

His eyes narrowed as he ran his other hand through his hair, you’d been sitting together so long it was almost dry. He was so confused, you contradicted yourself so plainly—

“You say it like you’ve got a choice in the matter, you didn’t ask to become what you are, Y/N. It’s not different at all.”

Your head was already shaking in dispute, he didn’t get it, yes you didn’t get a choice but there was no doubt in your mind about your fate. It just made sense to you that way, you were a different kind of monster.

Chest huffing in mild frustration, shifting your entire body to face him.

“You really don’t get it, do you?”

Your words were harsher than you’d expected—too much of the contempt you held to yourself seeping in, taking a deep breath and correcting your tone.

“You don’t have a choice, Remus. You can’t fight against the moon—But you also don’t take life to sustain your own, you live and die—from old age or disease, the same why everyone else does.

We’re different.

You don’t leave death and destruction in your wake because of your selfish desires—taking advantage of the weak.

That’s my nature—That’s what I am.”

You pointed to yourself, finger poking hard and frantic in the middle of your chest—sick revolt burning in your eyes, wet with unshed tears.

He could see it, and it was so achingly familiar, the unadulterated distain for yourself. Too close to home, too much like his own—

Voice low and gentle, taking the hand that’d been accusing you so harshly in both of his.

“You’re nothing like that,”

It was true, to him at least, you were nothing like what you’d described—he wished so badly to be able to change your mind. Almost offended at how you could be so casually unkind to yourself—and he knew you meant it, that you truly did believe the things you said.

His touch was so hot against yours, and yours so cold against his—you wanted to tear your hand away, in fear of making him uncomfortable—so accustom the the sharp hiss that would leave everyone that made contact with you.

But he held your hand so tightly, with such earnestness, you couldn’t help but accept the warmth of his touch.

And for once, when holding your hand in his, there was no strange twisting in stomach, no hair standing on the back of his neck—no underlying loathing, no sickly feeling bubbling in this chest, no secrets.

Just you and him.

Understanding and solidarity.

“Is that why you do this—starve and deny yourself? Because of what you think about your soul?”

He saw through you, completely.

A single tear slid down your face, you couldn’t bring yourself to lie, deny it.

“I just don’t want to hurt anyone.”

The moon was barely visible now, resigning under the bright light that the sun had just barely begun to shine—

“And you won’t, you couldn’t even if you tried, Y/N.”

You frowned again, still so stubborn and untrusting of yourself—“You don’t know that, Remus.”

His words were immediate, explicit and absolute.

“Yes I do,” gaze so intense you had to tear your eyes away, “No, look at me—I do know that. I saw you—you passed out trying to get away from me that day.

So you wouldn’t hurt me.

You’ve already done so much good, you don’t need to suffer like this anymore.”

By his final sentence he already had you standing, dragging you out of the Observatory—hand in yours pulling you down the stairs.

“Remus, slow down! Where are we going?”

“A walk.”

“I—A walk?! it’s 5am?”

He didn’t bother answering, he knew his words weren’t enough to make you believe him, to change your twisted perception of yourself. And as you found your way out of the main entrance towards the forest—he spoke to you in a quiet soft voice.

You weren’t trailing behind him anymore, falling into step with your shorter, still exhausted stride. He spoke about the pain of his first transformation and as you passed the Whomping Willow—he revealed how it’d been placed by Dumbledore, for him.

When you reached the black pond, the sun was fully up, gracing the sky with warm rays and radiance. He’d been holding your hand the entire time—you began to wonder why he hadn’t let go.

Surely, it’d become uncomfortable for him, surely the surface of his skin burned from the cold. He must have noticed the skepticism in your gaze, asking, “Shall I let go?”

You shook your head, but pulled you both to a stop, opening his hand, and inspecting it—expecting it to be cold to the touch from the prolonged contact. But it wasn’t even flushed, just warm, too warm—considering.

He let out a breathy chuckle at your examination, rubbing his palm in confusion in confusion; the sound made your eyes snap to his face—lips stretched slightly across his face into crooked smile.

Simply taking your hand back in his grasp and continuing your walk, now back towards the castle.

In an almost smug tone—“I tend to run a bit hot, so don’t worry,”

How ironic.

Unprompted, as the exit to the forest became clear, he detailed how he got his condition—a cruel and vile act of revenge on an innocent.

He struggled to talk about it even after all these years, and you could hear how his heart rate quickened as though he’d been transported back to that moment—the little boy hiding in his wardrobe.

“If it’s too much, you don’t have to say,” voice gentle and comforting.

“I know i don’t have to, I want to.”

And your thumbs found themselves instinctively ghosting over his knuckles, tracing the skin of each scar—as if trying to sooth him, heal the wounds that still linger in more than a physical sense.

“What i’m trying to say, is that, there are twisted and sadistic people of all natures, that doesn’t mean you’re as bad as the worst of your kind—I promise.”

You hummed back to him, with a nod.

“Will you do one thing for me?” he asked when you slipped through the door in the West Hall. He was looking at you, with an unexpectedly fond eye.

“What is it?”

“You have to say you’ll do it first,”

A smile cracked onto your face, the first he’d seen in weeks, the one that reached your eyes—making them crinkle at the corners, the same smile he’d found irritating for all these years.

“How can I just agree—“

“Please?”

Rolling your eyes as you relented, not protesting when he walked you both down the hall, but after two left turns, it dawned on you.

He’s taking to you the Pomfrey.

You froze, a few meters from the door—mouth suddenly dry. He squeezed your hand, turning to you with a pleading look, “You said you’d—“

“I can’t.”

His chest lurched at the fear in your eyes, the way your shoulder inched up tighter, closer to your ears—shaking you head frantically.

Stepping forward, he released your hand but wasted no time wrapping his arms around you and pulling you into him, on palm gently running over your back, the other instinctively holding your head against him—stroking over your hair.

You felt the vibrations of his voice in rumble his chest, a hushed tone.

“You know you can’t go on like this—you—this isn’t how you fix things.”

You padded in softly hand in hand, Remus still leading you in—and when Pomfrey turned to the door. She paused, looking between the two of you—fingers interlocked, the smallest of smiles twitched onto face.

“Here for your potion, my dear?”

But she wasn’t talking to Remus—back already turning to the cabinets, you mumbled a small, yes.

You’d sat down on a bed, he hadn’t let you, and you were grateful—his warmth distracting you from the swirling pits of your stomach as she approached you with one small yellow and a larger red vial.

Pouring them carefully into a small metal cup, she patted a hand onto your shoulder—encouraging, the hesitation in your eyes clear to her.

One deep breath, flicking looks between her, Remus and the cup. It was slid down your throat with ease but the taste—coppery and sickly sweet—made you struggle to disguise the heave the pushed through your stomach.

You hated it.

Placing the cup down, a grimace still on your face—you body thanked you for it. The cramps fazing away slowing, mind instantly less foggy. Remus could see the colour coming back to your face and his shoulders relaxed as though he’d let out the biggest sighs.

Pomfrey came back, she handed you you lolly and sent you on your way. You didn’t wait to leave before you unravelled it—looking at it as if it was the best thing in the entire world, a soft smile on Remus’ face when you popped it into you mouth with a small hum.

As the doors closed behind you both, Pomfrey let a knowing smile split onto her face as she cleaned up.