marauders - we are infinite

James Potter was watching the clock.

12:28 pm.

Two more minutes.

All across the office, keyboards clacked and phones rang in cubicles, and Marlene McKinnon’s voice floated from reception as she transferred a call to one of the agents in the back. James, however, was laser-focused on the digital numbers glowing at the bottom corner of his monitor.

12:29 pm.

Sirius Black leaned back in his chair across the aisle and spun once, slow and dramatic. “You know,” he drawled, “If the building were on fire, you’d still wait until 12:30.”

James didn’t look at him. “Correct.”

12:30 pm.

James stood up so abruptly that his chair bumped the cubicle wall behind him.

“There he goes,” Marlene called without looking up from her own work. “Like clockwork,” she sounded half-teasing, half-annoyed.

“Predictable,” Sirius muttered, but there was a hint of a smirk there. James had covered for at least three of Sirius’s “smoke breaks” this week alone. Which really just meant that Sirius was actually lying on the roof of the building, doing absolutely nothing.

James grabbed his coat and was halfway to the stairs before anyone else could ask him for anything.

Marlene McKinnon, the receptionist at the office, called it a “routine.” Several of his coworkers at the company called it “inconvenient” because, regardless of the rest of the agenda for the day, or how overworked they were, or understaffed, James always went to lunch at exactly 12:30 pm.

The truth was a little more complicated than people thought. Everyone assumed that James Potter took his lunches at the same time every day because he was obsessive and self-centered, which was sort of true. He could be self-centered at times, but this wasn’t really a selfish decision, he reasoned to himself more than once.

It actually had to do with a girl, which sounded a bit dumb.

There was this little cafe on the corner, two blocks down from the office, called Edmund’s. It was a quaint little red brick building that served coffee and a variety of teas, as well as a daily special of sandwiches and bagels, all of which were made in-house.

That wasn’t the reason he chose that cafe, though.

There was this pretty redhead girl. To be clear, she was not one of the baristas, he wasn’t that cliche.

She was a fellow customer who showed up every day around the same time as him, as long as he took his lunch at 12:30 pm. It took James about three minutes to get from his work cubicle in the office down the two flights of stairs and then down the two blocks to the cafe every day. Five minutes if the crosswalk took longer or if someone tried to stop and chat with him on the way out of the building.

He had even talked to the girl before. Sometimes he held the door open for her if he got to the cafe at the same time as her, and she would say “Thank you,” and he would reply with the appropriate “You’re welcome.”

One time, he got to the cafe as she was leaving, and they did that awkward dance people do when trying to get through the doorway at the same time. He collided with her in what had been the most humiliating thirty seconds of his adult life. He had gone left, and she had gone right, then they had corrected at the same time twice before he’d just frozen and waved her through like an idiot.

He had meant to say something clever that day. Instead, what had come out was, “Sorry.” Groundbreaking. Truly.

Excerpt from Chapter 1: The Train

A boy with long dark curls and silver eyes walked silently behind his mother and father. His father looked bored already, in that silent aristocratic way that Sirius was supposed to imitate. The false, polite interest that made him look as though standing on the platform was far beneath him. At his side, Walburga Black had dressed in robes of tasteful deep emerald with silver fastenings.

Beside the boy trotted his younger brother who was slightly shorter, with wide silver eyes as he tugged on his brother’s sleeve anxiously.

Walburga reached out and spun her oldest son to face her, inspecting him quickly with her cold gaze. She brushed out a crease on his sleeve and straightened his collar with a sharp tsking noise.

Sirius grimaced and tried to lean away from her, scowling. “Mother,” he complained to her in annoyance at her fussing.

She huffed. “You want to look presentable, don’t you?” she asked as she fixed his hair and glanced at her younger son.

Sirius resisted the urge to roll his eyes and he didn’t bother with an answer. The truth was, he didn’t particularly care about looking presentable. He was going off to school, not to a gala.

His mother and father had both lectured him about expectations already. Before they arrived to the station, Orion had talked about appropriate companions in Slytherin, none of that questionable sort.

His mother had reminded him that his older cousins were already in Slytherin, Narcissa Black and Andromeda Black, and they would help him with his studies and connect him to suitable students in his year. She paused to take a breath in her rant and Sirius seized his chance before she could go on for another solid ten minutes and delay him further.

“Mother,” Sirius cast another glance toward the train, “I really should get on the train now.”

Walburga glanced at the clock and stopped fussing over him. “All right then.”

Regulus ran forward then and threw his arms around his brother and Sirius heard him say, “I want to go, too!”

“You’ll go next year,” Sirius replied reasonably.

“I want to go now,” Regulus protested, sounding very much like a despondent child, reminding Sirius of when they were little. But now Sirius was just shy of twelve years old and Regulus would have to wait a whole year to go to Hogwarts with him.

Sirius heard a sharp exhale from his mother and then she scolded, “Now, really, Regulus. You’re making a scene.” Walburga pried her younger son off with a scowl of disapproval.

“I’ll write,” Sirius promised, gesturing to his brand new owl Callisto (named after Jupiter’s largest moon and his parents’ present for him going off to Hogwarts).

Orion tilted his chin to his son finally. “Remember what we’ve taught you.”

“I will.” When it came to the Black family, that was about as close as they ever got to a teary-eyed farewell.

“I’ll see you at Christmas then,” Sirius nodded to his parents.

“Come along, Regulus,” he heard his mother’s sharp commanding voice behind him. Sirius risked one glance back, enough to see his brother being shuffled along behind his parents obediently.

THE BODY LANGUAGE OF FEVER & NAUSEA

Skin & Temperature

Skin alternates between clammy and burning

Deep internal warmth

Sudden chills while sweating

Clothes feel wrong, either too heavy, too tight, too warm, not warm enough, etc.

Goosebumps even in a warm room

Face flushed, ears hot, neck damp

Head & Senses

Head feels pressurized or stuffed with cotton

Eyes ache when moving

Nose stuffed (on either one side, or both)

Ears ringing or deaf on one side

Lights are too bright/sharp

Sounds blur together

Food smells gross

Room feels tilted or surreal

Focus slips mid-thought

Food/water has an aftertaste

Stomach & Core

Nausea that comes in waves

Swallowing feels deliberate, effortful

Dry swallowing, dry throat—dry everything

Saliva thickens or pools suddenly

Abdomen tightens

Hunger exists but is nauseating at the same time

Body curls inward without thinking

Mouth & Throat

Tongue feels coated

Taste turns metallic, bitter, or flat

Lips dry; licking them doesn’t help

Gag reflex hair-trigger sensitive

Breathing through the mouth makes it worse

Movement & Posture

Barely any movement

Sitting becomes slouching, then curling

Standing too fast triggers instant nausea/dizziness

Hands brace on thighs, counters, walls

Feet shuffle; balance checked constantly

Body seeks cold surfaces or firm pressure

Voice & Speech

Voice dulls or drops in volume (due to plugged nose and raspy throat)

Words come slower

Sentences trail off unfinished

Irritation spikes easily (even if people are being nice)

Delayed responses

Apologies come out automatically (“Sorry. Sorry.”)

NOT ALL “SICK” FEELS THE SAME

Fever (infection-based):

Comes with chills + heat

Mental fog, slowed reaction time

Body aches feel deep, joint-based

Thirst increases, appetite drops

Sleep is restless, sweaty, unrefreshing

Colds / Flu:

More head pressure, sinus heaviness

Heavy cough, sore throat

Heavy fatigue

Fever may be mild or absent (especially colds)

Chronic Illness Flares:

Pain is familiar but still intense

Less panic, more resigned

Symptoms stack (fatigue + nausea + pain)

Character may ration movement and speech

Recovery expectations are lower

Menstrual Cramps:

Pain pulses rhythmically

Heat helps

Nausea tied to motion and smell

Sensitive emotions (more prone to snapping, saying things they regret)

Body feels heavy

Stress-Induced Nausea:

No fever, no chills

Jaw tension, shallow breathing

Nausea spikes during stillness

Relief when distracted or moving

These differences matter. They change how a character reacts, not just how they feel.

So yeah, hope that helps. You don't need vomiting on the page every time. Sometimes being sick is feeling off-key, or sometimes it's quiet recovery. It varies. The symptoms are one part of your story, the rest is up to characterization and plot. Why is illness relevant to your story? Why is this character sick, and how is it different from another character? You can have a lot of fun with this.

The Savior

Makes others dependent by always “rescuing” them. If you can’t survive without them, they’ve already won.

“What would you do without me?”

The Gaslighter

Twists reality until the victim doubts their own memory and emotions. They don’t argue facts — they rewrite them.

“That never happened.” “You’re being dramatic.”

The Guilt-Dealer

Weaponizes kindness and sacrifice. Everything they do comes with invisible strings.

“After everything I’ve done for you…”

The Puppet Master

Rarely acts directly. Moves people into conflict, then watches from a safe distance.

They don’t need power — they create it.

The Victim

Uses vulnerability as a shield. Any confrontation becomes cruelty.

“I guess I’m just a terrible person then.”

The Charmer

Wins loyalty through affection, humor, and attention. By the time people notice the manipulation, they’re already emotionally attached.

The Moral Authority

Frames control as “what’s right.” Disagreeing with them feels like being unethical or selfish.

“I’m just doing what’s best for everyone.”

Final Tip . ˖ ꒰𑁬 ♡ ໒꒱ ˖ .

Manipulators don’t think they’re villains. They think they’re necessary.

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