- ophelia !

BOOK 2 - RIDERS OF BERK : CHAPTER 5

You stood at the edge of the village plaza with Hiccup, Astrid, the twins, Snotlout, Fishlegs, and a cluster of other Vikings, their dragons milling restlessly nearby. A palpable unease rippled through you all, your faces a mix of defiance, defeat and resignation, as Hiccup rallied the rest with a dramatic flourish, his voice tinged with a theatrical despair that bordered on poetic.

“This may or may not be our last chance to fly with them before they’re locked away, maybe, I don’t know, forever. So, let’s just spend the most with them,” he says depressed, while his arms sweep toward the dragons as if addressing a doomed battalion.

Hiccups green eyes glinted with a mix of less determination and heavy heartbreak that matched the crowd who sided with him, their murmurs rising in reluctant agreement to take to the air as soon as possible.

You felt a pang in your chest, your own Menace nestled against your shoulder, her tiny form trembling as if sensing the gravity of the moment, but while you were worried about her, your thoughts also lingered on Siftwing, your hidden companion. Thanking the heavens he was safe and remained far from this turmoil.

Hiccup turned to you, his expression softening as he gestured toward Toothless, who bounded eagerly at his side, tail swishing with anticipation, not fully understanding what’s going to happen.

“Come on, you can ride with me. Toothless has room, and it’ll be like old times, right?”

His offer was earnest, almost pleading, but it struck a nerve in you, the weight of weeks spent dodging his orbit, finally boiling over. You shook your head, your voice borderline irritated than intended as you stepped back, Menace chirping softly in confusion.

“No, Hiccup! Don’t you get it yet? Things aren’t like they used to be, and you need to stop pretending they are.”

The words spilled out, heavy with the frustration you’d bottled up, your hands clenching at your sides as you met his startled gaze, the plaza’s quiet hum fading into the background as the moment stretched taut between you. And you felt embarrassed then, thanking the gang wasn’t around to hear it.

He blinked, his brow furrowing as he fell into step beside you, the two of you drifting away from the plaza and toward the arena’s looming silhouette, the others already mounting their dragons there for the farewell flight.

“Why not?” he asked, his voice a mix of confusion and hurt, his hands gesturing vaguely as if grasping for answers in the air. “What’s changed? I mean, it’s just a ride, not a marriage proposal.”

The attempt at humor fell flat, despite the soaring leap your heart did, and you stopped walking, turning to face him, your exasperation spilling over as you crossed your arms, Menace shifting to your arm with a concerned trill as she and Toothless stared at you both in worry.

“Hiccup, for someone who can outsmart a dragon—or even all these Vikings, you’re being incredibly dense right now. I can’t just hop on Toothless with you or do things like that anymore. Not when Astrid’s your girlfriend. It’s not fair to her, or to me, and honestly, the whole village sees you two together, so don’t act like it’s nothing.”

His face flushed a deep crimson, his eyes darting away as he rubbed the back of his neck, his voice stumbling over itself in protest. “She’s—she’s not my girlfriend, okay? I mean, not officially or anything!”

The words sounded defensive, almost desperate, and you frowned, your heart sinking further, the ache of your lingering feelings for him—a quiet, persistent hum you’d tried to silence for weeks.

“Of course the point flew over your head . . . Oh, come on, Hiccup,” you countered, your voice softer but edged with disbelief, your hands dropping to your sides as you stepped closer.

“Astrid clearly thinks otherwise, and the whole village talks about you two. Do I need to spell it out to you? Like you’re a child? I can’t do certain things we did as friends otherwise it’ll make all three of us look bad? Do you get it?”

He fell silent, his gaze dropping to the dirt as you resumed walking, the arena’s stone walls rising ahead like a monument to past present dilemmas, his mind clearly racing as he processed your words, his steps slowing as if weighed down by realization.

You sighed, the sound heavy with resignation, your voice gentling as you tried to explain, the words tasting bitter but necessary. “Look, Astrid likes you—a lot. And even if things between you are moving slowly, there’s something there. You kissed her back, Hiccup. That means something, whether you’re ready to admit it or not. So yeah, it’d be weird if she, or anyone, saw me riding behind you on Toothless, laughing like we’re the ones together. It’s not fair to her, and it’s . . . it’s not fair to me either.”

The admission slipped out, your feelings for him flickering beneath the surface like embers you couldn’t quite douse, and you quickened your pace to hide the embarrassment creeping up your face.

Before Hiccup could respond, Ruffnut and Tuffnut’s voices cut through, their wild gestures beckoning you from the arena’s entrance, their dragons’ heads bobbing behind them. “Yo, come on, slowpoke! You gonna stand there moping or join the chaos?” Tuffnut called, his grin wide and oblivious.

You jogged toward them, grateful for the escape, leaving Hiccup rooted to the spot, his expression a tangle of dawning realization and quiet regret. As he watched you go, Menace tucked in your arms, he finally understood—your distance wasn’t just about the dragons or village pressures; it was personal, a shield you’d raised to protect your heart, partly because you thought he and Astrid were an item, a belief not entirely unfounded.

He did like Astrid, more than he’d admitted to himself, their budding connection growing despite his hesitance, his failure to match her effort now glaringly obvious in the wake of your words.

The realization that you could no longer share those small, carefree moments, like soaring together on Toothless, hit him like a physical blow, a piece of your shared past slipping away, leaving a hollow ache in its place.

“Well, this kinda sucks. . .” he whispered to himself, his voice barely audible as he kicked at a pebble, his shoulders slumping before he steeled himself and followed you toward the arena, Toothless trailing with a sympathetic nudge.

Inside the arena, the group was already preparing for the flight, dragons snorting and riders bantering, but Hiccup’s mind lingered on your words, the truth of them settling like a stone in his chest.

Astrid, mounting Stormfly nearby, caught his distracted glance and offered a small, encouraging smile, unaware of the conversation but sensing a weight in his subdued demeanor. You joined the twins, your laughter at their antics a deliberate distraction from the ache in your heart, Menace chirping happily as you scratched her snout.

The afternoon’s somber pallor lingered over Berk, the sky a canvas of brooding clouds that seemed to cast the weight of Stoick’s decree to cage the dragons. The others soared overhead, their dragons’ wings painting fleeting arcs against the clouds.

You turned toward the woods, Menace perched comfortably on your head, her tiny claws gripping your hair as you spoke softly to her, your voice a mix of determination and great relief.

“Well, Menace, now that we’re finally alone, there’s someone I want you to meet. It’ll take a few hours to get there, but if it goes well, I bet he’d let you stay with him for a while, keep you safe and free.”

Menace chirped, her massive yellow eyes blinking with wonder, her oversized head tilting comically as she nestled closer, sensing your resolve. You retrieved a small burlap sack of goods you’d hidden the day before, packed with essentials for the journey, and slung it over your shoulder, the weight comforting, as you set off.

“I’d rather you be free like him than ever see you caged again because of that nasty old fart Mildew,” you scoffed, your voice sharp with disdain. “His name fits him—moldy and miserable.”

Menace snuggled closer, her purr soothing as you trekked through the woods, your path familiar but fraught with new urgency. The last time you were together, you had moved to bring Siftwing closer to Berk, a three-hour journey instead of two days. Which really eased your steps, though you did good to avoid Toothless’ old cove, wary of Hiccup and his Night Fury stumbling upon Siftwing.

Your thoughts churned as you walked, the forest’s whispers of rustling leaves and distant bird calls a backdrop to your unease. Toothless had likely caught Siftwing’s scent on you after every visit, his keen nose twitching with curiosity, but so far, he hadn’t pursued it—a small mercy that kept your secret safe.

Though the thought of Stoick’s threat against the “mystery dragonrider” gnawed at you. What would he, Hiccup, or the village think when they learned it was you, that you’d nearly led Hiccup into danger during that chased flight?

After time to think about Mildew’s schemes, and as infuriating as they were, they had bought you time, keeping Siftwing hidden, but you knew you’d have to confess eventually, a plan forming in the back of your mind as you quickened your pace, thorns snagging at your clothes, tearing small rips in your tunic that you ignored in your haste to reach the new sandy shore where Siftwing waited.

When you finally emerged onto the wide, pristine beach, the sand gleaming like pale gold under the fading light, you sighed in relief, setting the burlap down as Menace chirped curiously.

“We’re here, Menace,” you said, scanning the empty shore, the gentle lap of waves a soothing contrast to your racing thoughts.

“Siftwing!” you called, your voice echoing over the water, but no answer came.

Frowning, you kicked off your boots, your bare feet sinking into the cool sand as you poked around, searching for the telltale ripples of a buried Sand Wraith, but the beach remained still.

“Maybe he’s fishing,” you murmured, settling with Menace to build a small fire, its crackling warmth chasing off the evening chill as you waited, the half-hour stretching your nerves until a sudden burst from the shallow ocean startled you both.

Menace growling in a comically fierce stance as a cascade of sparkling droplets spun through the air, revealing Siftwing’s golden form leaping skyward, his scales shimmering with charred edges, a mouthful of fish gleaming in his jaws.

“Siftwing!” you cried, your grin wide as he swooped down, dropping his catch to tackle you with a barrage of slobbery licks, his massive wet frame knocking you into the sand with playful affection.

“Ah! Siftwing, really?!” you laughed, his warmth enveloping you as he rumbled happily, leaning into your embrace as if returning a hug.

Menace, momentarily forgotten, eyed the fish pile with a sly glint, sneaking over to gorge herself unnoticed, her tiny form disappearing into the heap.

“How’ve you been, boy? I’ve missed you so, so much, it feels like forever,” you said, hugging his massive snout, his golden eyes softening with a wisdom that seemed to see right through you.

Perking up, you pulled back, excitement bubbling. “Siftwing, there’s someone I want you to meet!”

But as you glanced around, Menace was gone, and a loud burp echoed from the fish pile, revealing her sprawled atop it, her belly swollen to comical proportions, her lidded eyes radiating smug satisfaction as she lay on her back, utterly content.

You and Siftwing froze, exchanging a stunned look before you snorted, laughter spilling out as you scooped up the groaning Terrible Terror, her protests muffled by her overstuffed state.

“Way to make a first impression, Menace . . . stealing your new big brother’s food already?” you teased, shaking your head as Siftwing huffed, his amusement evident in the slight curl of his mouth.

“Well then, Siftwing, meet Menace—Menace, Siftwing. You two mean the world to me, so we’re gonna be a family, okay?”

Siftwing settled onto the sand, his gaze shifting from you to Menace with a calm, almost sage-like appraisal, while she blinked up at him with her oversized eyes, undaunted by his towering presence. Slowly, she hopped from your arms, crawling toward him with cautious steps, her gaze locked on his as he stared down, his slit eyes narrowing in a deadpan assessment.

Then, with a sudden purr, she rubbed her head against his sturdy foreleg, claiming him as kin, and his expression softened, a low rumble of acceptance vibrating through him as he glanced at you, his eyes closing briefly as you hugged his snout again.

“Now you won’t be alone when I’m gone, and she won’t be scared, because she has you. Can she stay with you for now, Sift?”

He huffed, leaning into you as if nodding, his warmth a quiet promise that eased your heart. “Thanks, Sift,” you whispered, stroking his snout.

The moment wrapped you all in a blanket of peace . . . until Menace’s second, thunderous burp shattered it. Her smug sprawl drawing another laugh from you as Siftwing snorted, the absurdity of your new family sealing your resolve to protect them, no matter what Berk’s grumpy old men might bring.

As the sun dipped more toward the horizon, painting the Berk sky in hues of smoldering amber and bruised violet, you trudged back into the village from your clandestine visit to Siftwing’s shore. Menace had been tucked securely beside him, her overstuffed belly making her purrs sluggish but content. Luckily, Siftwing hadn’t minded one bit and even offered her more.

The village was eerily quiet when you had got back, the usual clamor of dragons and Vikings replaced by a tense hush, and you noted with a sly smirk that the other riders hadn’t yet returned from their farewell flight.

It was a stroke of luck that spared you their questions about your absence, the secret of Siftwing’s hideout safe for another day. The air carried the faint tang of smoke from the earlier storehouse disaster, mingling with the earthy scent of cooling stone as you made your way to the Great Hall then.

The aroma of simmering stew and fresh-baked bread enveloped you, a comforting hug amid the day’s turmoil you thought. You joined Martha in the bustling kitchen, your hands deftly chopping herbs and stirring pots as you helped prepare the nightly feast for Berk.

As food was the communal ritual that held the village together even in its darkest hours, the clatter of wooden spoons and the low hum of conversation grounding you as you worked beside the others to bring even the slightly joy to hungry-stressed Vikings.

As the hall filled with weary Vikings, their faces etched with the day’s frustrations, you spotted the gang at a corner table, their slumped postures and downcast eyes a stark contrast to their usual boisterous energy.

Balancing a tray in each hand laden with steaming bowls of stew and crusty breads with cheese, you approached, setting it down with a gentle clink that drew their attention, their mumbled thanks barely audible over the hall’s murmurs, their depression palpable as they poked at their food.

You slid into a seat beside Ruffnut, deliberately avoiding your usual spot next to Hiccup, the choice a quiet decision made by your earlier confrontation, the memory of his obliviousness still stinging like a fresh bruise as always.

Hiccup, across the table, felt the absence keenly, his heart sinking as Astrid took the seat beside him instead, her presence a comfort he tried to lean into, though his eyes lingered on you, masking his sadness with a forced focus on his bowl, the flicker of firelight from the hall’s torches casting shadows across his furrowed brow.

Trying to lighten the mood, you leaned forward, your voice bright as you addressed the group with warmth in this small solace. “So, how was the flight? Any grand adventures up there in the clouds?”

The question hung in the air, met with half-hearted shrugs and frowns, the silence long and heavy with the weight of their impending loss. Snotlout broke it first, his voice uncharacteristically subdued, his usual bravado dulled as he stared into his stew, the steam curling upward like his faded dreams.

“I just . . . I can’t believe we’re supposed to send them away! As if they’re nothing but trouble.”

Astrid, stirring her now-cold stew with a wooden spoon, her blonde braid swaying slightly as she leaned forward, added softly, her voice thick with emotion, “It’s gonna be so strange, you know? Stormfly’s face is the first thing I see every morning . . . her squawking, her nudging me awake. What’s it gonna be like without that?”

You nodded, your fingers tracing the crust of the bread, as you spoke over your cup of water in grief at not having Menace near you. “Yeah, I get it. I’m gonna miss Menace chewing my toes at dawn like they’re her personal breakfast buffet, or chaotically performing zoom-zooms around the hut when dinner’s ready, knocking over everything in her excitement.”

Fishlegs, his head resting on his folded arms atop the table, let out a mournful groan, his voice muffled but heartbroken. “Every night, Meatlug would lick my feet before we slept. Who’s gonna do that now?”

Ruffnut, managing a half-hearted snicker, glanced at her brother with a weak attempt at her usual mischief. “I volunteer Tuffnut as tribute for foot-licking duty.”

Tuffnut, lost in his own melancholy, merely shrugged, his dreadlocks drooping as he muttered, “Whatever, just tell me what time to show up.”

Astrid sighed, pushing her untouched bowl away and rising, her voice resolute despite the sadness in her eyes. “Come on, guys, let’s just . . . get this over with. No use dragging it out.”

Fishlegs’s head shot up, his voice cracking with despair as he wailed, “This is the worst day of my life—maybe ever! We’re never gonna see our dragons again!”

The outburst drew sympathetic glances from nearby Vikings, their own conversations hushed by the shared weight of the moment. You remained seated, your gaze drifting across the hall until it landed on Mildew, his scrawny frame weaving through the crowd with a deliberate slowness, his staff tapping rhythmically as he approached, a smirk curling his lips that set your blood boiling.

Rising as if ready to lunge, your hand tightened around your bowl of steaming stew, the heat searing your palm as you imagined dousing him with it, his smugness a spark to your barely contained fury.

Hiccup’s voice broke through all serious, Toothless at his side with a low, protective rumble. “We can’t let that happen, guys. Toothless is the best friend I’ve ever had.”

His eyes met yoursa split second after saying that, and you froze still like a pole, your expression flattening into a blank, deadpan, squinting stare that made him pale, a nervous chuckle escaping as he backtracked, his hands flailing in a panic.

“I mean—after you, obviously! You’re, uh, right up there too!”

The fumble was painfully awkward, a clumsy attempt to save his hide of your earlier argument, and you could almost see him wishing for a hole to swallow him whole, his face burning as he recalled your words about you both, Astrid and the village’s assumptions.

Mildew, seizing the moment, leaned closer, his voice dripping with mock sympathy as he cooed at Toothless, “Aww, Toofless, gonna miss ye so much, ye overgrown lizard.”

Toothless growled, baring his teeth, and Hiccup patted his snout, his own glare fixed on Mildew as you stepped beside him, your eyes narrowing into slits of barely restrained anger.

Mildew sipped his stew, his voice low and taunting. “Y’know what yer mistake was? Thinkin’ dragons could ever be tamed. They do what they want—always will. And my, does nature always win in the end. . .” His gaze locking onto yours with a pointed malice.

The words were a barb, aimed not just at the dragons but at the ghosts of your parents the day nature did claim them, their memory a wound he prodded with deliberate cruelty, his smirk widening as he turned away, leaving you trembling with rage.

Your jaw slackened, fury burning in your eyes as you surged forward, stew bowl raised like a weapon, ready to let it fly, until Hiccup’s hand caught the hem of your tunic, yanking you back with a gentle but firm grip, his voice urgent and low.

“Don’t—he’s baiting you, trying to get you in trouble. You know how he is.”

His anger matched yours, directed at Mildew’s cruelty, but your frustration flared, misinterpreting his tone as aimed at you.

“He was talking about my parents, Hiccup!” you snapped, shrugging off his hold with a harsh jerk, your voice trembling with hurt. “He deserves to shut up for once!”

“I know!” Hiccup shot back, his own voice rising, not at you but at the situation, his hands gesturing wildly as he tried to bridge the gap. “That’s exactly why he said it—he wants you to lose it, to give him more ammunition!”

But the words landed wrong, your emotions too messy to parse his intent, and with a final glare, you stormed out of the Great Hall, the heavy doors slamming behind you. The cool night air hit you like a slap, the distant roars of dragons and the hall’s fading warmth a stark contrast to the fire in your eyes.

Your steps carrying you toward the arena once again as you wrestled with the urge to confront Mildew, to protect your dragons. Hiccup remained in the hall, his gaze lingering on the doors you’d stormed through.

But in that moment the doors to the great hall opened again and in came a chilling breeze that put all the hearths and pits fires out with ease. The fire was restarted thanks to Toothless for casting his spark.

And even though Hiccups mind raced to the thought of you—he pushed you aside for a moment as an idea came up. “You know what? Mildews’ absolutely right. Come on bud.” Hiccup waved for Toothless to run after him.

The Great Hall’s warmth lingered faintly on your skin from your earlier storm-out, but the sting of Mildew’s words that aimed at your parents’ memory still burned, barbed and jabbed in your chest, further fueling your restless pacing near the arena’s open gates, where the dragons milled uneasily, their scales glinting under the fading torchlight.

The gang had gathered nearby, their faces etched with a shared grief that mirrored your own, the impending loss of their caged dragons a wound that bled through their usual banter. Snotlout, slouched against a wooden post, broke the heavy silence with a frustrated growl, his voice rough with an emotion he rarely showed.

“It’s like . . . like big, sharp teeth are just tearing at this weird thing in my chest, ripping it apart.” His hands gestured vaguely toward his heart, his usual bravado replaced by vulnerability that startled you.

You and Astrid spoke in unison, a rare moment of harmony cutting through the tension. “That’s what it feels like when your heart is breaking.”

Astrid’s eyes met yours, a nod passing between you, an unspoken acknowledgment of the pain you all shared, though her words meant something entirely different from yours you thought. Considering the swelling pain your own heart has had to deal with.

Snotlout’s head snapped up, his face twisting in mock offense as he crossed his arms, his voice rising in a defensive huff. “Heart? Pfft, I don’t have one of those—I’m not a girl!”

The protest drew a faint chuckle from Ruffnut, but the levity faded quickly, swallowed by the group’s collective sorrow, the dragons’ restless snorts and shifting claws a reminder of the stakes at hand.

You stood close to Tuffnut, your arms folded tightly, your anger at Mildew’s cruelty still simmering like a banked fire, your jaw clenched as you stared into the dark corner, lost in the tangle of your thoughts.

Tuffnut, stroking Belch’s head as the Zippleback purred under his touch, glanced at you, his usual manic energy softened by a rare concern that caught you off guard. “Hey, you holding up okay?” he asked, his voice low, his dreadlocks swaying slightly as he tilted his head, his eyes lingering on your tense expression.

The question pierced your defenses, and your head shot up, meeting his worried gaze, a wave of relief washing over you that someone had noticed your turmoil amidst the chaos and for once asked if you were okay.

“No, I’m most definitely not okay,” you admitted, your voice softer than you intended, gratitude threading through the words as you let out a shaky breath. “Thanks for asking, though—it means something.”

Tuffnut sighed, his hand gently taking yours and guiding it to rest above Belch’s eyes, the dragon’s scales warm and smooth under your palm. “He likes it when you place your hand just like this, kinda weird, but it calms him down,” he said.

Tuffnuts’ tone was light but earnest, and then a small smile tuged at his lips as Belch leaned into your touch, his rumbling purr vibrating through you. The moment was nice, and it eased the knot in your chest, and finally smiled a little, while his own grin widened as he watched you bond with his dragon, a quiet warmth in his eyes that went unnoticed in your distraction.

The spell broke with a sudden shout from the skies, Hiccup’s voice ringing out as he and Toothless swooped down in a graceful arc, landing beside the arena gates with a thud that scattered dust.

“Don’t close it!” he called, leaping from Toothless’s saddle to wrench the gates open wider, the dragons inside visibly relaxing, their tails flicking with relief as the threat of confinement receded.

Hiccup turned to the group, his expression a mix of defiance and determination, his hands gesturing animatedly as he addressed the puzzled riders. “We’re not locking them up, not tonight, not ever.”

Astrid stepped forward, her initial spark of hope dimming into suspicion as she crossed her arms, her voice sharp with caution. “What’s the deal, Hiccup? Did you actually change your dad’s mind, or are we sneaking around behind his back again?”

Her words carried a pointed edge, and Hiccup paled under the scrutiny, his hands flailing as he tried to deflect. “Uh . . . let’s just say it’s one of those options, okay? Look, the dragons are gonna do what they do—it’s their nature, right? We just have to figure out how to work with it, not against it.”

You closed your eyes, pinching the bridge of your nose, the echo of Mildew’s taunting words, “nature always wins,” ringing in your ears, your annoyance flaring at Hiccup’s unwitting repetition, the sting of his obliviousness cutting deeper after your earlier clash.

The idiot, you thought, shaking your head in disbelief that he still didn’t grasp the weight of those words, especially after Mildew’s jab at your parents. Hiccup pressed on, his voice gaining conviction as he faced the group, their eyes locked on him with a mix of skepticism and hope.

“We need to learn how to use their instincts, channel them into something that works for Berk, not cages, not banishment, but real harmony.”

You sighed, your frustration giving way to reluctant curiosity as you placed your hands on your hips, your voice dry but expectant. “Alright, Hiccup, what’s your big plan this time? Dazzle us.”

He smirked, a glint of his old mischief sparking in his eyes as he nodded, his confidence growing. “I’ll go over the full plan. Just stick with me.” A/N: (this chapter was originally apart of chapter 4 and has been split into several parts, so if it felt like a filler, it wasn't originally) Thank you for reading ♡

This is chapter 5 of book 2 to this Hiccup series -> M.list here -> 1 & 2 Previous Chapter : Next Chapter

gifs/edits, dividers + template credit to sili (@black-dread). And a huge thank you to Sili and Kristen my co-writers + beta readers ♡

Lovely tag list ~ @kikikittykis | @icantcryicantstopcrying | @teeesthings | @ph4nt0m19 | @sammypotato | @cultish-corner | @ken-zah | @edynmeyer1 | @hopeladybug | @nisarelle | @planeofexistence | @sugarrush-blush | @animegamerfox | @kitty-kei | @baguettebread27 | @lexeevee | @annoyingpessimist | @txtsoobean | @george-alii | @im-depresseds-blog | @slimysillysnail | @shellsarepretty | @artfulthoughtsblog | @viasuki | @angzls | @mariana-selene

Sirius gave it a second, basking in it. Not out of arrogance—well, maybe a little—but because he’d worked his arse off for this. From the dingy pub stages in East London to this: a sunset slot on the main stage, a crowd 10,000 strong, and the press already calling them the “next big thing in alt rock.” He deserved this moment.

He reached for the mic, fingers adorned in silver rings, and grinned beneath the curtain of sweat-dampened hair falling over his face.

“Alright,” he said, voice cracking from overuse, low and melodic with that accent that made interviewers go stupid. “This one’s a bit different,”

The crowd stilled just enough for his voice to carry, a ripple of anticipation moving through it.

“Normally we’d end on Lily’s Lullaby or something with a filthy breakdown—”

A cheer from the crowd.

“—but I’m gonna be selfish, yeah?”

He shifted his guitar strap slightly, fingers brushing the strings absently.

“This next one—it’s not on any of our albums. Never played it live before,”

More noise, wilder this time. The crowd lived for unreleased content. That, and the enigma of Sirius Black doing anything unpredictable. He was the heartbreaker, the rebel, the beautiful bastard who wrote anthems about one-night stands and sleepless nights.

“This one’s not for the radio,” Sirius continued, a little softer now. “Wrote it back in uni. About a girl,”

He pauses.

“Someone I’ve never really stopped thinking about,”

The scream that tore through the crowd was feral. Phones shot into the air like missiles, filming, snapping, documenting. It was like someone had dropped a match in petrol.

Because Sirius Black—Mr. I-don’t-do-feelings, Mr. Probably-shagged-your-favourite-actress, Mr. Writes-a-new-love-song-every-week—was standing in front of thousands, half-smiling, admitting to being hung up on someone from his past.

A million TikTok theories were born on the spot.

Sirius just laughed, a bit self-conscious, scratching the back of his neck. “Anyway,” he said. “This one’s called English Love Affair. Hope she’s listening,”

He looked out across the crowd—not really expecting to find who he was looking for, of course, but somehow hoping the universe might oblige. Then, fingers deft on the strings, he struck the first chord.

It started on a weekend in May

I was looking for attention

Needed intervention

Felt somebody looking at me

The library at Hogwarts University smelled like stress, highlighters, and the slow decay of hope. It was the last few weeks before final exams, and the building was packed wall to wall with students muttering formulas under their breath and flipping through textbooks like salvation could be found between the pages of Financial Accounting and Corporate Strategy: Vol. II.

Sirius was not one of them.

He sat in a corner near the back, long legs stretched under the table, black hoodie rucked up to his elbows, a biro tucked behind his ear. His textbook lay open in front of him, unread and unhighlighted, the margins empty, the pages pristine—unlike everyone else’s, which were cluttered with notes, frantic underlines, and colour-coded tabs.

He hadn’t turned a page in half an hour.

Not because he was clever enough not to need to revise—although he could bullshit his way through most subjects if he had to—but because, frankly, he just did not care.

Finance. Fucking finance.

He hated the word. Hated the suits, hated the spreadsheets, hated the suffocating inevitability of it all. He only chose this degree because his mother nearly had an aneurysm when he said he wanted to study music. Now here he was, slogging through a degree in numbers and company law, just so she could parade him around at family dinners like some stock option.

And still, none of it meant anything to him.

The only reason he was even in the library was because James had confiscated his guitar that morning and told him to “go fail somewhere quiet,”

So he was here. Not failing exactly, but definitely not succeeding.

He sighed and let his head drop forward, forehead thunking softly against the open page.

“Kill me,” he muttered into the textbook. “Just… kill me and tell my parents I died doing something noble,”

He sat there a moment longer, pretending to care, then lifted his head.

And that’s when he saw you.

You were sitting two tables over. Hair pulled back, earbuds in, laptop open. You looked like the sort of person who had colour-coded tabs and knew how to use them. The sort of person who had probably made a revision schedule and stuck to it. The sort of person Sirius’ mother would call “sensible,” which, in Sirius’ world, meant “soulless.”

But you didn’t look soulless. You looked… distracted.

Because you’d just glanced at him. And then, when you thought he hadn’t noticed, you glanced again.

He smirked, straightening slightly. A distraction. Just what the day needed.

He watched you for a second—long enough to realise you were pretending to type while your eyes flicked back to him every few sentences. Something about it made his stomach twist, in a way that was more exciting than it should have been.

He gave it two more seconds.

Then he stood.

You saw him coming out of the corner of your eye and quickly looked back at your screen, like the spreadsheet on your screen had suddenly become the most fascinating thing on earth.

“Alright?” he said, stopping by your table. Voice low. Lazy.

You pulled out one earbud and looked up at him.

“Hi,” you replied cautiously. He was standing very close.

Sirius smiled. “You keep looking at me,”

You blinked. “Do I?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Not that I blame you. I’m devastatingly handsome and tragically bored,”

You snorted. “Bit full of yourself, aren’t you?”

“Just self-aware,” He grinned, and you hated that it made him even more attractive. You looked back at your screen, but the smirk tugging at your lips gave you away.

“Well, if you’re so bored, shouldn’t you be studying?”

He leaned one elbow on the table, peering at your notes.

“I’ve been staring at the same page for an hour. Thought I might die from the lack of stimulation. Then you started looking over,”

You raised a brow. “And that was enough stimulation?”

“Debatable,” he said, “but worth investigating. What’s your name?”

You tilted your head. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

He frowned. “Should I?”

You closed your laptop with a little snap and turned to face him properly. “We’ve been in the same lecture for Corporate Markets and Investment Policy all year.”

There was a long pause. Sirius blinked, visibly scrambling to remember. “...Seriously?”

You nodded. “Seriously,”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, shit. In my defence, I don’t actually attend most of those. I just... exist in proximity,”

You laughed, properly this time. “Yeah, I know,”

His hand dropped to his side, and he gave you a sheepish smile. “Alright, that was rude of me. Let’s try again,” He held out a hand. “Hi. I’m Sirius Black. Chronic underachiever and part-time nuisance,”

You raised an eyebrow but shook his hand anyway. “Yeah, I know who you are.”

He grinned, pleased. “Reputation precedes me?”

“Something like that,” you said.

He laughed—loud enough that someone nearby glared over their textbook.

You didn’t apologise.

Sirius sat down in the chair across from you without asking, stretching out like he belonged there.

“So,” he said. “You clearly know everything about me, and I’ve got absolutely nothing on you,” he muttered, leaning forward to rest his arms on the table. “Give me something to work with,”

You looked at him, considering. You didn’t really have time for this—you had an entire section on financial derivatives to memorise—but the prospect of watching Sirius self-destruct over economic theory was weirdly entertaining.

And maybe... a bit flattering. The hottest boy in your course—maybe in the whole uni—had noticed you. And now he was sitting across from you, eyes warm, grin easy, pretending like this wasn’t completely out of the blue.

You introduce yourself, and he smiles.

“Suits you, your name,” he tosses you a wink and you roll your eyes.

“Charming,” You leaned back slightly. “Alright. Lets get revising,”

Sirius blinked. “What?”

You gestured at your notes. “Revising? For the exams? I’ll help you,”

He blinked again, visibly confused. “You will?”

You nodded. “On one condition,”

A pause.

“You buy me a drink after,”

Sirius stared. Then laughed, a little too loud. “That’s it? Just a drink?”

You shrugged. “My standards are low. Plus, it’ll be fun to watch you fail in real-time,”

He clutched his chest dramatically. “Ruthless,”

“You love it,”

“I do,” he agreed, leaning in again. “You’ve got this terrifying no-nonsense thing going. It’s very—” His eyes flicked to your collar, then back to your face. “—compelling,”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t quite stop the smile creeping across your face. “Eyes on the prize, Black.” You tap the textbook on the table with your finger. “This is your last chance to not flunk out,”

He sighed. “Fine. But I reserve the right to flirt with you shamelessly through every single concept,”

“Deal,” you said. “But if you ask me what ‘liquidity ratio’ means, I will hit you,”

Sirius smiled like he’d just won something. “Bring it on, sweetheart,”

—

Over the next hour, the two of you settled into a rhythm. You explained things with more patience than you thought you had, and Sirius surprised you by actually listening. He wasn’t as clueless as he made out—he just hadn’t bothered to try. But with you, he leaned forward, asked questions, made jokes that were half-clever and half-chaotic.

And every time you laughed, he looked pleased with himself.

The library didn’t feel as heavy anymore. The air around your little corner was warmer, brighter, tangled up in whispered banter and the scratch of your pens.

At one point, you reached over to show him something in his notes, and your hands brushed. It was stupid. Brief. But it sent a flicker of something down your spine.

Sirius glanced up at you, and you knew he felt it too.

He didn’t say anything. Neither did you.

But when he caught you watching him a few minutes later, he didn’t look away.

—

By the time the clock ticked past five, your brain was fried, your stomach was grumbling, and Sirius looked genuinely shocked to have filled an entire page with actual revision.

“Well,” he said, stretching, arms over his head. “That was productive,”

You nodded, packing your things away. “Told you I’m good,”

“You are. Absolutely,”

He stood with you, grabbing his bag, then hesitated.

“So. That drink?”

You slung your backpack over your shoulder. “You buying?”

“Obviously,” he said, throwing you a grin. “Consider it payment for saving my academic life,”

You paused, then leaned in, voice low. “If you actually pass, I might let you buy me a second one,”

He looked delighted. “Motivation. I like it,”

You nudged his shoulder. “See you at nine,”

Every single step had me waiting for the next

Before I knew it, it was serious

Dragged me out of the bar

To the backseat of her car

The bar was packed, noisy, and swimming in neon. It smelled like vodka, cheap perfume, and the burnt citrus of a bad cocktail. A proper student haunt—threadbare booths, sticky tables, and drinks so discounted they might as well have been charity. It was the kind of place people ended up when deadlines were done and mistakes were begging to be made.

And tonight, you were absolutely here for the mistake.

You walked in just before nine, wearing a dress that left little to the imagination and a lipstick shade that promised trouble. You didn’t do it for him—not entirely—but you did want to look good.

You spotted him before he saw you. Slouched at the end of the bar, drink in hand, legs stretched out like he owned the place. He’d dressed up, sort of—fitted black shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, rings flashing on his fingers, and a ridiculous silk tie hanging loose around his neck. Burgundy, patterned, completely unnecessary.

He looked infuriatingly good.

When his eyes finally met yours, it was immediate—like a live wire connecting across the room. His mouth tugged into a slow, deliberate grin. And then he stood.

“Bloody hell,” he said when you reached him, voice low in your ear. “You clean up terrifyingly well,”

You gave him a smirk. “So do you. What’s with the tie?”

“Statement piece,” he said, tugging it dramatically. “Makes me look respectable. Like I haven’t just failed two modules,”

You laughed, and he motioned to the bar. “What’s your poison?”

“What’s the most expensive drink on the menu?” you asked sarcastically, leaning on the counter.

He raised a brow. “Brutal. I like it,”

And then the night began.

He bought you drinks. You made fun of his posh voice and the fact he’d never once brought a pen to class. He pretended to be offended when you called him a trust fund degenerate, and you pretended not to notice the way his eyes kept dropping to your mouth when you sipped your drink.

You talked for nearly two hours, and not a single thing either of you said truly mattered. It was all smoke and mirrors, banter and bravado. He told you about some summer internship he was meant to be doing in London. You told him about your part-time job at a bookshop, about your roommate who kept hogging the shower.

He laughed at everything you said. You rolled your eyes at everything he said. And yet—your knees brushed. His hand lingered too long when he passed you your drink. And the air between you got heavier with every sip.

By the third round, you were tipsy. Loose-limbed. Bolder.

“You’ve got a tell, you know,” you said, swirling your drink.

Sirius leaned in. “Oh?”

“You stare,” you said, eyes meeting his. “Like, a lot,”

He didn’t flinch. “So what?”

The silence after that was thick and deliberate. He looked at you like he knew what you were thinking. Like he’d been waiting for the moment you stopped pretending.

So you stood. Downed the last of your gin.

And said, very casually, “Come with me,”

He blinked. “What?”

You reached down, grabbed the end of that ridiculous tie, and gave it a tug. Not hard. Just enough.

He stumbled forward, grin spreading.

And then you dragged him out the back entrance of the bar.

—

The car park was half-empty, dark but not quite silent. Your little hatchback was parked in a corner, under a flickering lamp. You fumbled with your keys, laughing under your breath, and Sirius followed like a moth to flame.

The second the doors were shut, it was chaos.

You were in the backseat, lips on his, hands everywhere—his hair, his jaw, his shoulders. He was kissing you like he’d been waiting all term, like the world might end if he didn’t get another taste. His hands were on your waist, under your dress, against your thighs, and his mouth was hot and hungry against yours.

It was rushed. Clumsy. Perfect.

Clothes were pulled aside, not off. Your dress rucked up. His belt undone. Breathless laughter between kisses. The car fogged up quick, your back pressed to the front seat, knees hitched around his hips. The phone in his pocket dug into your thigh. Neither of you cared.

You moaned into his mouth, fingers tangled in his stupid hair, and he groaned like it physically hurt to hold back.

—

He thought about that night.

A lot more than he meant to.

It was supposed to be a one-time thing. A stress relief. An impulsive decision wrapped in gin and flirtation. You’d both gone home that night in your separate directions—him to his flat, you to yours. No promises made. No numbers exchanged.

But Sirius didn’t stop thinking about you.

He tried to laugh it off, at first. Made a joke to James the next morning about the perils of student bars and the danger of sharp women with sharper tongues. But then he couldn’t stop hearing your voice. Couldn’t stop remembering the exact shade of your lipstick or the way you’d yanked him by his tie like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And when he couldn’t sleep, which was often, he played his guitar.

Loudly.

At three in the morning.

“Mate,” James groaned one night, pillow over his head. “You are killing me.”

“I’m expressing my feelings,” Sirius muttered.

Remus poked his head in from the hall. “Can you express them a bit quieter? Some of us have dissertations.”

Peter mumbled something incoherent from the other room, which sounded vaguely like “murder” and “strangle.”

But Sirius just kept playing. Over and over again. New chords. Snatches of melodies. Half-formed lyrics that always started in May and ended with a car seat and a laugh he couldn’t get out of his head.

James, one bleary-eyed morning, said, “You’re obsessed.”

Sirius didn’t argue. Because it was true, you haunted him.

Not in a spooky, ethereal way. In a maddening, brain-eating way. You were a thought that scratched at the back of his skull. A loop he couldn’t escape. And the worst part? He hadn’t seen you since that night. No sightings. Nothing.

He looked around in lectures. Couldn’t see you.

He went back to the bar once, under the pretence of meeting someone else. You weren’t there.

He even almost asked around.

But something held him back. Pride, maybe. Fear that you’d already moved on and that it had just been one night for you. No regrets. No repeats.

Still, when he lay in bed at night, staring at the ceiling, guitar across his lap, he could still hear your laugh. Still remember the exact pitch of your voice when you’d said, “Come with me.”

And every time he closed his eyes, he was back in that car.

When the lights go out, She's all I ever think about

The picture burning in my brain

The lyrics came easily after that.

Sirius had written songs before—some good, most chaotic—but this one poured out of him. Every line was sharp-edged, vivid. He remembered your fingers in his hair, the way your perfume clung to his hoodie. The rush of it. The rawness. The feeling that something had tilted in the universe that night and hadn’t corrected since.

James found the scribbled lyrics one afternoon and raised an eyebrow.

“This about the library girl?”

Sirius didn’t look up from the guitar. “What library girl?”

“Oh come on,” James said. “The one you ditched us on a friday night for?”

Sirius strummed a chord, nonchalant. “Maybe,”

The movie playing in my head

Of her king sized bed

Means I can't forget my English love affair

You weren’t expecting him to approach you again.

You’d told yourself it had been one night

—a spectacular, toe-curling, sanity-erasing night, sure—but still, just one night. And Sirius Black didn’t strike you as the type to chase anything other than a bottle of whiskey or a reckless thrill.

So when you heard your name called across the quad, three days later, you were surprised enough to turn around.

And there he was. Strolling toward you with his bag slung over one shoulder and a grin already forming—the sort that suggested either mischief or flirtation, probably both. He looked slightly dishevelled in a way that was too intentional to be accidental. Button-up undone at the collar, necklace peeking out. That same stupid leather jacket strewn over his shoulder.

“Alright?” he asked casually, falling into step beside you.

You arched a brow. “Back for round two?”

“Actually, yes,” he said, and the shamelessness of it made you laugh. “But not the kind you’re thinking. I need help with business economics.”

You blinked. “You need help… from me?”

“You’re the only one who can talk about GDP without sounding like a dementor,” he said, matter-of-fact. “Also, I won’t lie—the button-up’s distracting in a way that makes learning bearable.”

You looked down at your shirt, then back at him. “So you’re bribing yourself into revision by ogling me?”

“Exactly,” he said brightly.

“Charming,”

“I try,”

He gave you a look then—not intense, not over-the-top, just curious. A bit hopeful around the edges. You didn’t have to say yes. But you were already smiling. You were already shifting your books and mentally clearing your schedule.

“Fine,” you said. “But if I’m going to babysit you through fiscal policy, you’re buying the coffee,”

He gave a dramatic bow. “I’m a man of honour,”

“And of short attention span,”

“That too,”

—

You studied together later that day in a quiet alcove of the library—you with your notes, him with his tongue between his teeth as he tried to understand elasticity graphs. Every time you leaned over to explain something, he stared. Not subtly. Not even a little.

“Eyes up, Black,” you muttered.

“Can’t help it,” he said without shame.

But you could tell he was trying. He asked questions. Made actual notes. Repeated terms back to you with enough confusion that you knew he was listening, even if he was wildly out of his depth.

At one point, you looked up to find him watching you with a strange sort of intensity.

“What?” you asked.

“Nothing,” he said, too quickly. Then added, “Just wondering how the hell I didn’t notice you before this term,”

You smiled, trying to ignore the warmth that crept up your neck. “Maybe because you only come to half the lectures,”

He chuckled. “Maybe,”

—

Two nights later, he was at your flat.

You’d invited him this time.

“You sure?” he’d asked, leaning against the kitchen counter when he arrived. “You could’ve dragged me to the library again,”

You handed him a glass of cheap vodka. “And let your eye-line drift all over the place in public? Absolutely not,”

He grinned. “Fair point,”

He looked around your flat—small but tidy, the kind of space that felt lived in, comfortable. A few mugs on the table, textbooks stacked under the telly, a random scarf hung by the door even though it’s almost June.

“Flatmates?” he asked, sipping.

“They’re out,” you replied.

He raised a brow.

You added, very smoothly, “I told you to come over today for a reason,”

That made him pause.

He didn’t reply right away. Just looked at you like he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or lunge.

Instead, he sat on the sofa, stretched out like he owned the place, and said, “Alright then. Teach me things, professor,”

You groaned, grabbing your laptop and books. “If you call me that again, I’ll throw you off the balcony,”

“Wouldn’t be the first time a woman tried to kill me for being too charming,”

“Gods, you’re exhausting,”

“Yet here I am. On your couch, with you. Alone,”

You tried to study. You really did.

But between the flirting and the alcohol and the way he kept leaning in to comment on the terrible formatting in your notes, it was a lost cause. The vodka burned. The music you put on (mostly as a distraction) didn’t help. By the third drink, you were both a bit giggly, a bit warm, sprawled sideways on your couch with your legs tangled together.

He was fiddling with your highlighter, spinning it in his fingers. You reached over to steal it back, and he caught your hand.

“What’s your deal then?” you asked, half-curious, half-buzzed.

“My deal?”

“You dress like you mugged a punk band,” you said, gesturing at his worn boots and tattered denim, “but you sound like you came out of a Jane Austen novel,”

He snorted. “It’s the trauma,”

“Oh, obviously,”

He sighed, let his head fall back on the arm of the sofa. “My family’s a nightmare. Old money. Very proper. Think they invented the stock market,”

You watched him for a moment. He looked tired—the sort of tired that sits in your bones. The kind you don’t fix with sleep.

“So why are you here?” you asked quietly.

He shrugged. “They paid my tuition. All of it. That was the deal—get the degree, then ‘join the family legacy’ or whatever. Be a good Black,”

“You don’t want to?”

“Not even slightly,” he said, voice dry. “I hate it. I hate the lectures, I hate the people, I hate the smug twats who think balance sheets are sexy,”

You laughed. “So what do you like?”

He hesitated, then looked at you sideways. “Writing music. Playing. Screwing around with the band.”

“You’re in a band?”

He grinned. “We’re called the Marauders. James, Remus, Pete and me. Mostly just gigs around campus and dive bars. We’ve got maybe one good song and three that sound like drunken karaoke.”

“So, what? You write songs about getting high and having sex?”

The words came out before you could stop them—a joke, half-serious, mostly cheeky. You were smiling.

“Pretty much,” Sirius shrugged lightly. “You’ve been quite the inspiration lately,”

You stared at him. For a full beat. “You’re taking the piss.”

“I’m really not.”

You started to laugh. “Are you serious?”

He gave you a wink. “That’s my name,”

You threw a cushion at his face. “That’s such a bad joke.”

He pulled the cushion off his lap and said, “I’m not kidding. It just sort of happened. Couldn’t stop thinking about it,”

You paused.

“You’re serious,”

He nodded.

“Why?”

He shrugged. “It was good. You were good. And I don’t know — I kept seeing it in my head. The windows fogged up, that stupid tie, the way you looked at me,”

You weren’t sure what to say.

Part of you wanted to laugh again—it was absurd, wasn’t it? The campus heartbreaker, Sirius bloody Black, writing actual music about an actual one-night stand. Another part of you… didn’t quite want to make a joke.

You looked at him, really looked at him.

He wasn’t smirking now. Wasn’t leaning into the charm.

He looked oddly nervous.

“You said you couldn’t stop thinking about it,” you said.

“Yeah.”

“And now what?”

He tilted his head. “Now I’m on your couch, half-drunk, trying to pass my finance exam so my mum won’t disown me,”

You smiled.

He smiled back.

—

Later that night, you kissed again—slower this time, more sure. Your hands in his hair, his on your waist. His lips soft and searching, like he was learning the shape of your mouth by heart.

You pulled back at one point, breathless, and said, “You’re not just here for the notes, are you?”

He laughed, low in his throat. “Not even slightly,”

And then he kissed you again.

You were the one who pulled back first.

Not because you wanted to stop. Just because the weight of what you were doing—the feel of his hands on your waist, the heat building behind his lips—had finally caught up with the moment. The couch was small, the flat was quiet, and Sirius Black was looking at you like you were already halfway into a dream he hadn’t realised he was having.

You gave him a look. One eyebrow arched, all faux-detachment and teasing heat.

“So,” you said casually, brushing a finger along the collar of his shirt. “What you’re saying is… I’m the best lay you’ve ever had?”

He didn’t even hesitate.

“Absolutely.”

You blinked, caught off guard by how quick—and how serious—he was. “That was fast,”

“I’m decisive,”

“You’re drunk,”

“And still right,”

You laughed, trying not to feel flustered, but your heart gave a weird little thud in your chest. “Sirius—”

“I mean it,” he said, sitting back just enough to meet your eyes fully. “Do you want the whole list? Cos I can’t even remember anyone else’s name when you’re looking at me like that,”

That shut you up.

He was smiling, yes—that usual grin, all teeth and trouble—but something in his voice felt weighted. Not a joke. Not really.

You searched his face, waiting for the punchline, the wink, the smug little shrug.

But he just looked at you.

Earnest.

Soft, even.

And your brain, already muddled by the vodka, the warmth of him, the whole surreal magic of the night, completely short-circuited.

“Right,” you said eventually, standing up too quickly. “Bedroom. Now. Before I change my mind and make you sleep on the sofa,”

He grinned, leaping up after you. “You love me,”

“Shut up,”

“You want to marry me and have my terrible punk babies,”

“Oh my God,”

“Gonna name one after James, obviously—”

You smacked him with a pillow before dragging him by the hem of his shirt toward the hallway.

You tried, genuinely, to be patient, but you were both far too drunk to have anything resembling grace. You got halfway down the corridor before Sirius managed to tangle one foot under the other and slam into the wall with a bark of laughter.

You wheezed trying to pull his shirt off and he ended up getting both his arms stuck through one sleeve.

He tripped over your shoes and nearly brought you down with him.

Your elbow went into a doorframe. His jeans got stuck on his ankle.

By the time you finally collapsed onto the bed, you were both half-dressed, breathless with laughter, and absolutely gone — the sort of drunk where everything is funny and your hands don’t quite do what you tell them to.

And still, somehow, your mouths found each other.

It was messy. Clumsy. Loud. Rushed in some places, slow in others. There was a lot of giggling. Some frustrated huffing. His necklace got caught in your bra strap and you ended up yanking it off entirely and throwing it across the room.

“Gentle,” you hissed at one point, when he tugged your hair a little too roughly.

“Sorry,” he mumbled against your collarbone, voice already hoarse. “Just—fuck, you smell good,”

“You’re really drunk, huh?”

“Drunk on you.” He throws you a wink.

You smacked his shoulder. “Gag, that’s such a cliche line,”

“You won’t remember it anyway,”

You didn’t speak after the initial teasing. There was no need for words when his hands were on your thighs and your mouth was tracing the shell of his ear and the whole world had shrunk to your mattress, your body, him.

And then it was over—or it wasn’t, you weren’t sure. The minutes blurred. The vodka didn’t help. You were sweaty, tangled together under your duvet, his arm flung lazily across your waist, your leg hooked over his hip like it had always belonged there.

You stared at the ceiling.

“You’re quiet,” he murmured after a while.

“Thinking,” you whispered.

“About?”

You turned your head to look at him.

Sirius Black. Shirtless. Sleepy-eyed. Absolutely ridiculous. And completely still.

You didn’t answer.

—

You woke up before him.

The sunlight coming through the blinds was far too bright for your hangover, but you didn’t move. Not immediately. You were too aware of the weight beside you, the arm still draped across your stomach, the soft sounds of his breathing as he dozed.

He looked younger when he slept.

Less arrogant. Less sharp around the edges.

And fuck, you thought, staring at the ceiling again. What the hell are you doing?

This wasn’t supposed to mean anything.

It was supposed to be hot, chaotic, meaningless fun. A distraction. A break from your assignments and your own mess and the looming terror of the post-uni void. He was supposed to be a good shag—nothing more.

But you’d seen the look on his face last night.

He meant it.

And, worse—some traitorous, pathetic, unguarded part of you wanted to believe it.

You let out a long breath.

Sirius stirred beside you, groaning as he blinked against the morning light.

“M’head,” he mumbled.

“That’s the vodka,” you said softly.

“Betrayed by my own choices again,”

You smiled despite yourself.

He looked over at you and smiled too, all sleepy and unfiltered, the kind that made something in your chest flutter before you could stop it.

“Morning,” he said.

“Morning,”

He stretched—limbs long and tangled in your sheets—and then rolled onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow.

“Do you always look this fit in the morning?” he asked.

“Do you always flirt through hangovers?”

“Only with people who’ve ruined me sexually,”

You laughed. “You’re so full of it,”

“And yet,” he said, leaning in to kiss your shoulder, “you keep inviting me back,”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re tolerable when asleep,”

“I’m irresistible always,”

“I think the word you’re looking for is insufferable,”

“No, no,” Sirius shakes his head carefully, trying not to worsen the impending headache. “Definitely irresistible,”

—

He left mid-morning.

You offered him toast. He accepted. Ate it half-standing in your kitchen like he’d done it a hundred times before. Then he grabbed his shirt, kissed your temple without thinking, and promised to see you later.

And then he was gone.

You stood there in the quiet.

Trying not to feel the loss in the room.

When I got out I knew

That nobody I knew would be believing me

You didn’t hear from him much over the next few weeks.

A couple waves, a few hellos, but nothing proper.

You were too busy. Exams swallowed your brain like quicksand. You crammed until your fingers cramped, drank enough energy drinks to probably cause a coronary, and watched the sunrise from your desk too many mornings in a row.

Your social life dwindled to caffeine-fuelled library whispers and the occasional flatmate making sure you’d eaten something other than toast.

When the final exam finished—the bastard of a quantitative finance paper—you nearly cried walking out of the lecture hall. Someone popped champagne in the quad. You high-fived your study group. You stood on the steps and screamed into the sky.

And in July, you passed. Somehow.

Everything felt lighter.

And then, just as you were heading to your car with your results in hand—sun out, heels clicking against the pavement, wind tugging at your open shirt collar—you saw him.

Sirius.

Leaning against the railing with his hair tied back and his leather jacket slung lazily over his shoulder. Like no time had passed at all. Like this wasn’t the first time you’d seen him properly in weeks.

“Hey, stranger,” you said, grinning.

He looked up, and smiled—not the usual smirk, but the softer one. The one you always had to pretend didn’t get to you.

You crossed the last few steps and launched into your news without hesitation. “I passed. All of them. Barely—and I mean barely—scraped through quantitative, but I did it. No resits. No crying. Well, I cried a bit, but not during any of the exams—”

He caught you mid-ramble with a laugh, pulling you into a hug before you could finish.

You sank into him automatically.

He smelled like cigarette smoke and warm leather. Your heart did that stupid little dance again.

“I’m proud of you,” he said, voice low against your temple. “Knew you’d smash it,”

You pulled back slightly, looking up at him with a grin. “You owe me dinner. Or celebratory sex. Your choice,”

He laughed, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Both?” he offered, light-hearted but off-kilter.

You narrowed your eyes, teasing but watchful. “Why do you look like someone’s kicked your puppy?”

He didn’t answer straight away.

That was the first clue.

The second was the way his hand stayed on your hip longer than necessary—like he was anchoring himself. Like he didn’t trust his legs not to bolt.

You stepped back fully.

“Sirius.”

“Alright,” he said, voice carefully casual. “Don’t get mad,”

You crossed your arms. “Why would I get mad?”

“Because I’m about to say something stupid,” he replied, then ran a hand through his hair. “And possibly ruin the vibes,”

You waited.

He sighed.

“I’m leaving,”

You blinked. “...What?”

He gave a weak laugh. “I failed. Most of my exams, anyway. Except the one you helped me with— so really, you’re the reason I’ve got any academic credibility at all,”

You opened your mouth, then shut it again.

“I got the notice yesterday,” he said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Uni’s not letting me back next year. They were… diplomatic about it. Said I could reapply after a break, provided I prove academic discipline, blah blah. But I’m not going to,”

“Oh,” you said quietly.

He shifted. “The band— the Marauders— we’ve been getting attention. Played a couple gigs in Camden, some scout liked us. Said we’ve got a sound. He’s offered to get us into a studio. Independent label, nothing big, but… it’s something,”

You were quiet.

“I’m moving out next week,” he added. “Might end up up north for a bit. Or Manchester. Depends where the recording space is. Everything’s still up in the air,”

He glanced at you, then away.

“But I wanted you to know,”

You nodded.

He watched you, a flicker of worry behind his lashes. “You alright?”

You let out a soft breath. “Yeah,” you said, and meant it. “I’m happy for you,”

“You sure?”

You gave him a small smile. “I mean… I’ll miss you. Obviously. Even if it was just a friends-with-benefits situation, or whatever the hell this was. But this is what you’ve wanted, right?”

He nodded. “Yeah,”

“Then I’m proud of you too,”

Something in his jaw tightened.

You tilted your head, half-grinning. “Besides, what kind of monster gets mad at a guy for chasing his dreams?”

He smiled—properly this time, though a bit bittersweet.

You nudged his shoulder. “So, one more round before you go?”

He blinked.

“Sex, genius,”

His eyebrows shot up. “You serious?”

“Call it a send-off. My treat,”

He stared for a beat longer than necessary, then grabbed your hand and pulled you towards your car.

You were both half-laughing, half-running — high off adrenaline and the electric sort of sadness that feels like holding fireworks too close to your chest. The air smelt like summer pavement and exam dust, and Sirius looked at you like he couldn’t quite believe you were real. You didn’t let yourself read too far into it.

You knew better than that.

Still, when he pressed you against the passenger door and kissed you with every ounce of tension he’d held in since telling you he was leaving, you let him.

And when you got back to your flat and climbed the stairs two at a time, limbs tangled and mouths chasing the next inhale, you let yourself want him.

Because why not?

What were you saving yourself for?

It felt like a dream, the way you stumbled into your room. His hands on your waist. Yours in his hair. The low clatter of keys falling to the floor. Clothes tugged off, discarded without aim. Your jumper. His shirt. The way he looked under the dim light of your lamp, mouth red and eyes blown wide.

When the lights go out

She's all I ever think about

Except… you didn’t even have sex.

You wanted to. So badly you could’ve screamed.

But something about it—something about the way he looked at you, or the silence between your heartbeats—shifted.

Maybe you both knew that this wasn’t going to be another carefree romp. That if you went any further, it would mean something. Something you weren’t sure either of you could walk away from.

So instead, you just… sat.

You climbed into his lap, straddling him where he’d dropped onto your bed. Your bare legs wrapped around his hips, your lips brushing his jaw—and instead of unbuckling his jeans, you let yourself settle there. Let yourself exhale.

Dusk painted the walls violet and blue. There was a breeze through the open window, and the smell of distant cigarettes from someone smoking below.

And you talked.

He told you about the producing deal in more detail—how the scout was a friend of someone’s cousin, and how it wasn’t official yet, but they’d been invited to record a demo. They’d booked a session in a dingy little place near Camden, and the label guy said if the sound was tight, he’d see what he could do.

“I mean, we’re still technically a uni bar band,” Sirius admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “But we’ve got followers. And if it goes well, it’s a foot in the door. A real one,”

“That’s brilliant,” You nodded, tracing the edge of his collarbone absentmindedly. “And terrifying,”

“Oh, it’s horrendously terrifying. I haven’t told my family yet,”

You quirked a brow. “Why not?”

He gave a bitter little laugh. “Because they’ll cut me off. Or worse — be disappointed,”

You leaned your cheek against his shoulder. “Do they even know about the band?”

“Not really. They think it’s a phase,”

“They’re in for a surprise, then,”

He snorted. “They think music’s fine as a hobby — as long as I’m also taking over Black & Co. eventually,”

You hummed. “I’ll take your place,”

He paused. “What?”

You pulled back just enough to grin. “Once I graduate. I’ll apply to be the heir to your family’s cold, corporate throne. Could do with the cash,”

“Don’t even joke about that. You’ll be wearing grey slacks and developing caffeine dependency within weeks,”

You poked him in the chest. “Better than moving in with my mum,”

“Debatable,”

You mock-pouted. “You don’t think I’d make a great junior partner?”

“No offence,” Sirius said, lips twitching, “but my family are absolute twats, and I wouldn’t wish them on you,”

“None taken,” you replied. “They do sound like twats,”

He laughed, and you kissed the corner of his mouth. His hands slid along your thighs in a way that felt instinctive, not lustful—like he was memorising you.

You stayed like that for ages.

Talking. Drifting. Laughing into each other’s skin. The vodka stayed unopened on your desk. The city hummed around you. And every time you looked at him, something soft bloomed in your chest that you didn’t have a name for.

The picture burning in my brain

Kissing in the rain

He stayed the night.

You didn’t ask—just curled under the covers with him once the sky turned navy and the streets below went quiet. He didn’t object. Just pulled you close, his arm around your waist, your head tucked under his chin.

You both slept badly, but neither of you cared.

It was enough to be near.

To exist in the same breath, if only for a few more hours.

—

The morning came too soon.

You dragged yourself out of bed in an oversized hoodie while Sirius rifled through your room looking for his jeans. He finally found them behind your desk chair, tangled in the blanket he’d somehow pulled down during the night.

You tried not to stare at his back as he dressed. Tried not to think about how quiet it felt.

He pulled on his jacket, fingers catching the zip, and you reached out before you could stop yourself—smoothed it for him. He blinked, just once, then smiled that same smile you’d seen on the steps outside campus.

Like he was trying not to let something show.

The clouds outside were thick and heavy, grey like wet concrete. You walked him to the door anyway.

Neither of you said much. Until you opened it—and found the rain waiting on the other side like a punch to the face.

Sirius blinked, stunned by it, before laughing. “Bloody hell,”

It was *pouring—*sheets of rain, bouncing off the pavement, flooding the drains. The kind of rain that soaked you through in seconds. That made umbrellas feel pointless.

You reached for the car keys beside your door, but he stopped you.

“I’ll be alright,” he said, pulling his hood out from where it was shoved inside the back of his jacket, but not putting it up.

You stared at him. “You’re going to walk to your flat in this?”

“It’s only fifteen minutes,”

“In that?” You gestured to his torn jeans and thin cotton tee beneath the jacket.

“I’ll dry off,”

“You’ll drown,”

He chuckled, then hesitated—that same beat-too-long pause he always did before saying something real.

“I’ll be alright,” he said again, more softly.

You didn’t argue this time.

You just watched him step into the doorway and reached for the pen on the side table, scribbling his number on a crumpled receipt.

“Just in case,” He said, holding it out. “In case we get lucky,”

You took it with a grin. “Unlikely,”

“Still. Now you’ve got no excuse,” His eyes met yours, storm-dark and unreadable.

And then he kissed you, with feathered lips and hands gentle enough that they don’t even leave fingerprints on your cheeks.

You barely had time to kiss him back before he stepped into the rain.

Let himself get soaked.

Didn’t even pull up the hood.

He just glanced over his shoulder one last time, gave you a two-fingered salute, and vanished down the street, hair already dripping, receipt crumpled in his hand.

You stood in the doorway until he was gone.

And then longer still.

The movie playing in my head

Of her king sized bed

Means I can't forget my English love affair

The song ends, but the crowd doesn’t.

They’re still screaming—still throwing themselves toward the stage like they could grab onto the final chords and keep them going, as if their voices might convince the band to stay just a little longer. The lights pulse overhead, hot and gold and dizzying. The air tastes like sweat and smoke and bassline, like summer caught in a bottle and shaken until it fizzes over.

Sirius stands at the mic, breathless, his shirt clinging to his back. Hair damp, jaw sharp beneath the spotlight. He looks… elated. Wrecked in the best way. The kind of tired that feels like triumph.

You’re somewhere in the crowd, but he can’t see you.

Doesn’t know you’re there.

Not yet.

Because you hadn’t planned to come. Not until the very last minute—until your best mate shoved a last-minute ticket in your hand and said “Come on, it’ll be funny. Isn’t that your uni crush? The one who played guitar instead of going to lectures?”

You’d laughed.

And then you’d come.

Because somewhere after the goodbye, Sirius Black had turned into someone people recognised. Someone who got played on indie radio stations and reviewed in music blogs. Someone with tattoos and a fandom and a press schedule. The kind of person who said things in lyrics that made strangers cry.

“Holy shit,” James says, breathless as he steps offstage, clapping Remus on the back. “That crowd was insane,”

“Insane,” Remus agrees, wiping sweat from his brow and reaching for a bottle of water. “I thought we were going to lose the speakers during Track Six,”

“We might’ve,” Peter adds, looking mildly terrified and thrilled in equal measure. “I saw security taping one of the subs mid-song,”

James lets out a bark of laughter. “I didn’t notice. Too busy watching Sirius dry-hump his mic stand again,”

“Not my fault the crowd’s thirsty,” Sirius replies, dropping onto a crate near the back of the tent and fanning himself with a setlist. “I’m simply giving them what they came for

“That’s what she said,” Peter grins.

“I’ll leave you all to form your own relationships with your microphones, thank you,” Remus mutters, shaking his head.

Sirius just smirks.

He should be riding the high. The set went better than they’d hoped—no technical issues, the crowd was electric, and the reaction to the unreleased song was mental. He’d watched people mouth along to the chorus by the final repeat, like they already knew it. Like they felt it.

And maybe they did.

Maybe everyone has someone they can’t forget. Even the people who pretend not to care.

“You’re getting softer by the year,” James says as he flops onto the crate beside Sirius, elbowing him lightly. “Soon you’ll be writing acoustic shit about holding hands,”

“Don’t tempt him,” Remus says, snorting. “We’ll get a ballad about library desks and crosswords next,”

“Finance Girl,” Peter says dramatically, holding an invisible microphone. “Track one off the next album,”

Sirius doesn’t respond immediately.

He’s smiling—the kind of half-amused, half-resigned smile that means yeah, alright, fair enough. He tosses his towel over his shoulder, grabs a water bottle to throw in James’ direction, and watches as he raises it in mock salute.

“To Finance Girl,” James says, voice dry. “The unofficial fifth member of the band,”

“Oh, don’t say that,” Remus groans. “You’ll jinx it. She’ll turn up in a dramatic twist of fate and demand royalties,”

“She’s probably a CFO somewhere now,” Peter adds. “Drinking oat milk lattes and marrying some bloke named Quentin,”

James leans in conspiratorially. “So, remind us again. Why did you never go back for her?”

Sirius pauses. The air buzzes with leftover feedback and adrenaline. Somewhere outside, the next band is warming up.

He shrugs. “Dunno. Life got loud,”

“Bet she’s still fit,” Peter says with a dreamy grin. “Imagine the sexual tension if she did show up now,”

“She’s always in your head anyway,” James says. “You write more songs about her than I have about Lily, and we’re married,”

“That’s because you two are boringly vanilla,” Sirius replies without missing a beat, unlocking his phone.

Dozens of notifications. Mentions on Twitter. Clips of the performance already circulating. A missed call from their PR. A text from a number he doesn’t recognise.

And it’s that one that makes him freeze.

still writing songs about how good our sex was? count me honoured

The room falls away.

The noise fades.

He stares at the screen like it might combust in his hand.

Because no one else would know to send that.

No one else could make him feel like a second-year uni student again with just one sentence.

No one else ever dragged him into the backseat of their car by his tie.

Then a second message.

I really hope you haven’t changed your number otherwise whoever is getting this text is gonna be really confused

James notices first. “You alright?”

Sirius doesn’t look up. Just stares at his phone like he’s forgotten what it’s for.

“Mate?”

Sirius finally speaks. “I think she’s here,”

“Who?” Peter asks, still giggling at something Remus said.

You hum along at the right places, nodding as if you’re paying attention, but you’re mostly distracted—scanning the crowd ahead, watching as students laugh and jostle their way toward the carriages. You can already see the back of Sirius’ head, black hair tied back with a ribbon someone must have dared him to wear, and James beside him—his usual mess of curls half-tamed under a Gryffindor scarf, even though it's hardly cold enough for it yet.

They’re not causing trouble.

And that’s… strange.

You don’t realise you’ve slowed down until Lily stops too, blinking at you.

“You alright?”

You shake your head, smiling faintly. “Yeah, yeah. Just… forgot how much taller everyone’s gotten. They look like seventh years,”

She snorts. “Speak for yourself. Potter still looks like a fifteen-year-old with too much energy and not enough shame,”

You glance back at the group of boys as they vanish into one of the thestral-drawn carriages. The usual suspects: James, Sirius, Remus, Peter. The ‘Marauders’—still the stupidest name you’ve ever heard. Though you have to admit (not aloud, obviously) that it suits them. Or… used to.

Because something’s changed.

It started at the end of last year, when James had pulled you and Lily aside—separately, mind you, in an unusual display of emotional intelligence—and apologised. Properly. Not with a joke, not with a smug smirk, but with sincerity so unsettling that it had rendered you both speechless for a good few moments. You’d shared looks with Lily afterward, both trying to decide if it was a prank, some elaborate ruse meant to throw you off-guard.

It wasn’t.

And he hasn’t gone back on it either.

Which is why you’re currently standing in the entrance hall of the castle, shoulder to shoulder with your friends, and you feel a little… off.

Because things are peaceful. For the first time in years, things are actually peaceful.

The Marauders aren’t hanging hexed signs on people’s backs, they aren’t enchanting staircases to flatten when someone climbs them, they haven’t even thrown water balloons from the Astronomy Tower. And sure, they’re still winding up Severus at every opportunity—but even that’s been reduced from full-scale ambushes to petty jibes and muttered comments in the corridors.

It’s quieter.

Less… annoying.

And that should be a good thing.

It is a good thing. Probably.

—

You settle into sixth year like slipping on an old jumper. The classes are harder, of course—double Potions is hell on earth, and Charms seems to have tripled its expectations overnight—but there’s a rhythm to it.

You get up, you go to class, you spend time in the common room with the girls, laughing and playing Exploding Snap or braiding Dorcas’ hair while Marlene does impressions of the professors.

There’s no chaos. No Marauder-related distractions. And no James Potter, appearing behind you to tug on your robes or ask if you’re sure you didn’t drop your dignity in the corridor somewhere.

It’s… peaceful.

But peace, you realise after the third week, is a little boring.

No one’s called out your name in a loud, humiliating spectacle at dinner. No one’s nicked your favourite quill only to return it days later enchanted to sing show tunes. No one’s bewitched your name onto the Prefect noticeboard with the title “Most Likely to Hex You for Breathing Too Loudly.”

And no one’s watching you anymore.

Not in that way.

Because even when it was annoying—especially when it was annoying—there was something almost flattering about it. That attention. That sense of being seen, even if it was by someone like James Bloody Potter. It made you feel... well, not special exactly. But noticed.

You’d never admit it out loud. Not to Lily, not to Marlene, not even to yourself if you could help it. But in the quiet moments—when the library’s too silent, or the common room too tame—you find yourself missing the noise.

It’s deeply inconvenient.

—

The girls are thriving, though. Lily’s top of every class (no surprise there), Marlene’s got half the Hufflepuff Quidditch team vying for her attention, and Dorcas has taken to sketching everyone in increasingly dramatic poses. She caught Sirius with his eyes closed in History of Magic and drew him like a fallen angel; he signed it and stuck it to the back of Peter’s chair.

Even that felt nostalgic.

Because back in the day—not even that long ago—Sirius and James would’ve been howling with laughter, probably doing impressions of Binns until the man floated out in exasperation. Now, they seem more subdued. Not boring exactly, but... more grown up. As if they’re slowly starting to realise the world doesn’t revolve around them.

Well. Not entirely.

You still catch James showing off in the corridors sometimes—trying to balance a stack of books on his head while walking backwards or charming Remus’ tie to change colours during class. But it’s gentler now. Less abrasive. Like he’s finally learning the difference between being funny and being cruel.

And the strange thing is: you think you might actually like this new version of him.

You’re not sure what to do with that.

—

You’re sitting by the window in the common room, watching the storm pelt against the glass, your Transfiguration notes spread across your lap and a blanket tucked round your legs. The others are upstairs—Lily’s doing prefect rounds, Dorcas is in the bath, and Marlene’s probably flirting with the Ravenclaw Beaters again.

It’s quiet.

Too quiet.

You stare at your notes, then out the window. Somewhere down by the greenhouses, you think you can see Sirius running through the rain, jacket over his head. You squint, and sure enough, James follows a moment later, slipping slightly in the mud but catching himself with a laugh you can’t hear.

They’re soaked.

They’re laughing.

And they didn’t come bother you once today.

You look back at your notes. Your quill sits idle in your hand.

You’re being ridiculous. Pathetic, even. You hated when they bothered you. They drove you mad, especially James. The constant attention, the teasing, the half-jokes that toed the line between affection and annoyance—it was exhausting.

But it also made you feel like someone had your name in their mouth. Like someone saw you.

You press your lips together.

No. You’re being selfish.

You wanted peace, didn’t you? You got peace.

And now you’re here, sulking because a boy hasn’t thrown a dungbomb near you in three weeks.

Brilliant.

—

Lily finds you later, your notes long forgotten, the storm still raging outside.

“You look like someone drowned your owl,” she says lightly, collapsing onto the sofa beside you.

You blink. “Just tired,”

“Mm,” She eyes you. “You’ve been a bit… quiet lately,”

You shrug. “Just getting used to the workload,”

“You sure it’s not something else?”

You hesitate. Then: “Do you think James actually changed?”

She tilts her head. “Honestly? Yeah. I do,”

You weren’t expecting that. “Really?”

“Yeah,” She picks at a thread on the blanket. “He’s still a prat, obviously. Still immature and annoying and thinks the sun shines out of his arse, but… he’s not mean anymore. Not like he was,”

You nod slowly.

“And he apologised,” she adds. “That meant something to me. To you too, I think,”

It did. It still does.

You think back to that moment at the end of fifth year—James, red-faced and stammering, looking more like a boy than he ever had before. You remember how he wouldn’t meet your eyes at first, how he said your name like it mattered. And how for the first time, he didn’t laugh at the end. Didn’t wink. Just waited.

You’d told him it was fine. It wasn’t, but it was getting there.

Now, it might actually be.

But still.

“I kind of miss it,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper.

Lily looks at you, confused. “Miss what?”

You shake your head. “Nothing. Just… never mind,”

She doesn’t press.

But later, when she goes upstairs and you’re alone again, you look back out the window. The rain’s slowed to a drizzle, the sky dark and drowsy. You think about James—how he used to be, how he is now. You think about how, somewhere in that strange in-between space, you stopped dreading his presence and started noticing his absence.

And the worst part is?

You’re not even sure when it happened.

—

It’s a dull, grey Thursday in early December, the kind that makes you want to burrow into your scarf and pretend the rest of the term doesn’t exist. You’re in the Great Hall for breakfast, half-asleep, cradling a mug of tea between your hands and trying to pretend that the mere idea of double Potions doesn’t make you want to fling yourself into the Black Lake.

Around you, the usual morning chaos unfolds: first-years bickering over toast, owls swooping in with letters and parcels, and Marlene arguing with Dorcas over who used the last of the strawberry jam. Lily’s scanning the Daily Prophet with her usual “this world is doomed” expression, and you’re debating whether or not to try and eat a banana when—

A piece of parchment glides gently through the air in front of you and lands, neatly, on your plate.

You blink. Then stare. Then blink again.

It’s folded perfectly, sealed with a little silver charm in the shape of a star, and it is absolutely not yours.

The table goes very still around you. Lily sets her paper down. Marlene pauses mid-swipe at the jam pot. Dorcas leans in with her eyebrows already raised.

You glance upward, half-expecting someone to shout “surprise!” or for Peeves to come crashing down from the ceiling, cackling. But there’s no sign of trickery. Just a few owls flapping overhead and a Ravenclaw table full of students minding their own business—or appearing to.

“Open it,” Dorcas hisses, eyes wide.

“I—what if it explodes?” you whisper back, only half-joking.

“It won’t,” Lily says. “Look at the charm. It’s a standard animation seal. Whoever sent it used proper magic,”

“That just makes it more suspicious,” you mutter, but your curiosity’s already gotten the better of you.

You peel the charm off and unfold the parchment.

The handwriting is careful, slanted slightly to the right, and clearly someone’s taken their time with it. The ink is deep blue and slightly shimmering at the edges—someone’s fancied this up a bit.

You begin to read.

Hi, sorry to send this in such a dramatic way, but I figured a floating letter was better than stammering at you in person and making a complete idiot of myself. I know this is kind of out of nowhere, but I’ve… well, I’ve noticed you. And I was wondering if you’d maybe want to write to me over the holidays? Just letters, nothing weird. Or, you know, more, if you’re up for that. No pressure though. I just think you’re kind, and funny, and I’d like to get to know you. From, Nick (Ravenclaw, sixth year, dark blond hair, sits near the windows in Charms—just so you can place me, if you want to).

You stare at the letter.

Then read it again.

And a third time, just to be sure it says what you think it says.

It does.

You make a noise somewhere between a squeak and a choke, and immediately try to stuff the letter under your plate, but Lily’s already yanking it out of your hand.

“Oh my god,” she breathes, skimming it with wide eyes. “This is the cutest thing I’ve ever read,”

“Wait, wait, let me see—” Marlene leans across the table, grabbing the other side. “‘Just letters, nothing weird’—what does that even mean? Is he worried about sounding like a creep? Oh, this is brilliant,”

Dorcas is fanning herself dramatically with her napkin. “Do you think he wrote a rough draft? This is totally a rehearsed letter,”

You hide your face in your hands, the heat of your cheeks threatening to set fire to your fringe. “Stop. Please stop,”

“I will not stop,” Lily grins. “You’ve got an admirer. An actual, charming, respectful admirer who wants to write to you like it’s the 1800s. That’s romantic,”

“It’s embarrassing,” you groan.

“It’s amazing,” Marlene corrects. “And you have to write back,”

“I don’t even know him!”

“That’s the point!” Dorcas says. “He wants to get to know you. He gave you a perfect way out, he’s not assuming anything, he’s just interested. That’s rare,”

They’re all smiling now, all leaning in, and you can’t help it—you laugh, a little helpless and a lot flattered.

Because it’s sweet. It is. And no matter how much your face is burning, there’s a fizzy, fluttery sort of feeling in your stomach you can’t quite ignore. You glance up again, eyes scanning the Ravenclaw table.

You spot him almost instantly.

Nick: dark blond hair, just as described, pale eyes, face mostly hidden behind a book, though he’s clearly not reading. He looks up. You look down. He looks away quickly, ears going pink.

You smile without meaning to.

“Right,” Lily says, dragging her bag into her lap. “We need paper. A quill. What colour ink should we use?”

“I’m not writing him back in the middle of breakfast,” you hiss.

“Why not?” Marlene’s already pulling a little bottle of silver ink from her satchel. “Strike while the iron’s hot! He’s probably dying of anxiety over there,”

You hesitate for a moment too long, and then the decision’s made for you—because Dorcas finds a clean piece of parchment, Lily’s already got your hand in hers, and Marlene is dictating a reply out loud while you splutter about how this isn’t how people normally handle these things.

You’re still trying to snatch the quill back when a voice drawls from behind you:

“What’s all the noise about, then? Secret girls-only plot to overthrow the Ministry?”

Sirius.

Of course.

You twist in your seat and find him lounging half on the bench, half on the table a few seats down, chin in hand, eyes glinting with nosy curiosity. He’s got toast in one hand and mischief in the other.

Lily lifts her chin and says, very primly, “None of your business,”

“Oh, now I have to know,” he says, kicking his legs up beside you.

You glance to your side—and there he is.

James.

Sitting quietly at the Gryffindor table, a few seats down, half a piece of toast hanging forgotten in his hand as he watches the scene with a blank expression.

It’s only a second, but you see it. That flicker of something behind his eyes.

Recognition.

Understanding.

And something sharp that he swallows before it can show too clearly.

Because James Potter knows what giggling girls and secret letters mean. He knows.

And it shouldn’t matter—it really shouldn’t. You’re barely even friends. Civil, maybe. Tentatively polite. But whatever it is between you now, it’s not enough to warrant the sudden, stiff way he turns back to his plate.

It shouldn’t sting.

But it does.

—

You finish the letter with the girls' help. It’s nothing dramatic—just a polite reply saying you’d be happy to exchange letters over the holidays, and that you appreciate his kindness. You keep it short and friendly and completely avoid saying anything that might sound too enthusiastic.

(Which is a lie. You’re a bit enthusiastic. But you don’t need them knowing that.)

Dorcas folds the reply with military precision, Lily reattaches the little star charm, and Marlene volunteers to deliver it on your behalf—“to spare you the embarrassment,” she says sweetly, already halfway across the hall.

You look down at your plate, appetite long forgotten.

“Alright?” Lily asks, nudging your shoulder.

You nod. “Yeah. I think so,”

“You’re allowed to be excited, you know,”

“I am excited. I’m just… surprised,”

She smiles. “It’s nice though, isn’t it?”

You glance again toward the Ravenclaw table. Nick’s looking at Marlene like she’s an incoming Howler, his whole face red to the ears as he takes the letter from her hand.

You smile again.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “It is,”

—

Across the table, James doesn’t look up.

He doesn’t need to.

Because he saw the whole thing. The letter, the blushing, the girls all but bouncing in their seats. He saw Marlene walk across the hall with that parchment and Nick take it with shaking hands.

And it’s stupid. Petty.

But it hurts.

Because it’s been nearly two years since he realised he might actually like you—properly, not just in the annoying-you-is-fun way, but in the way that meant he started watching you when you weren’t looking. Noticing when you got a haircut. Learning the way your nose scrunches when you’re trying not to laugh.

He apologised. He grew up. He’s trying.

And it still wasn’t enough.

You’ve got someone now. Or the beginnings of someone.

And he’s just James Potter, watching from afar with jam on his toast and something bitter on his tongue.

He shoves the toast in his mouth and doesn’t say another word for the rest of breakfast.

—

You don’t expect the first letter from Nick to come so quickly. It arrives the morning after you get home for the holidays, hand-delivered by a glossy, silver-feathered owl you don’t recognise. Your name is written in the same neat, slanting script, and it still makes your stomach flip just a bit.

The note is folded crisply, the parchment thick and expensive-feeling. You hesitate before opening it, standing by the kitchen window with snow dusting the garden outside, everything quiet.

First off, thank you for not laughing at me. I thought I’d regret sending that letter the second I did it, and I very nearly snatched it out the air mid-flight to get it back. But you were so... kind. I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t kindness. So thank you. It feels a bit odd writing like this, doesn’t it? But I also kind of like it. There’s no pressure when it’s just words. I don’t trip over them this way. So, here’s me: I like Charms best. I once accidentally set my robes on fire in Herbology (don’t ask), I’m allergic to pineapple, and I think people who can fall asleep on trains are borderline magical. Tell me something about you? Anything. Something silly, or secret, or both. Yours (nervously), Nick

You smile like an idiot for a full five minutes before you even think about writing back.

And so it begins.

The letters come every few days, sometimes short and scrawled in rushed excitement, sometimes long and meandering with little sketches in the margins. He tells you about his mum’s failed attempt at decorating the tree with actual enchanted snow, and how it flooded the sitting room. You send back a drawing of a dog dressed in a Father Christmas hat (badly drawn, but Nick says it’s ‘profoundly moving’). He tells you he’s rereading Hogwarts: A History just for fun, and you reply with a list of reasons why that’s definitely unhinged behaviour.

Sometimes he signs off with ‘Yours, Nick.’

Sometimes with ‘Yours (hopefully).’

Once—‘Yours (unless the owl’s eaten this and you never see it).’

You find yourself checking the sky for owls more often than you care to admit.

It’s not dramatic. Not whirlwind, heart-racing, can’t-breathe kind of love. But it’s nice.

And after the year you’ve had, ‘nice’ feels revolutionary.

—

You return to Hogwarts with a small box of letters tucked at the bottom of your trunk, tied neatly with a silver ribbon courtesy of Dorcas, who insisted they deserved to be “presented like the delicate artefacts of flirtation they are,”.

The minute you’re back in the dorm, you’re swarmed.

“Show us everything,” Marlene demands, already bouncing on the edge of your bed.

“Yes, come on, let’s see what your secret Ravenclaw Casanova had to say for himself,” Lily adds, mock-prim, though she’s clearly grinning.

You hesitate only a moment before reaching into your trunk. The box feels warmer than it should, like it’s soaked up some of the good from the past few weeks.

You hand it over, and the girls descend like a pack of curious Kneazles.

“Oooh, look at this one—‘Yours (unless the owl eats it)’—alright, he’s cute,” Dorcas says approvingly, flopping onto her stomach with the letter held aloft.

“Is this a little sketch of a Thestral wearing a party hat?” Lily giggles. “He’s got your sense of humour. That’s weirdly adorable,”

Marlene sniffs, mock-serious. “I give it two weeks before they’re holding hands by the lake,”

“Two? You’re being generous,” Dorcas snorts. “I give it until Sunday,”

You hide your face in a pillow. “You’re all horrible,”

“Don’t change the subject,” Lily grins. “Have you written him since we got back?”

You nod, biting your lip. “Told him I’d meet him after lunch. Figured we could, I don’t know… actually talk in person,”

They cheer like you’ve just won the bloody House Cup.

—

You find Nick leaning awkwardly by the courtyard archway, his hands stuffed deep into his robe pockets, and his scarf trailing loosely over one shoulder. He looks up at the sound of your footsteps—and immediately fumbles to straighten up.

“Hi,”

“Hi,” you smile.

It’s quiet for a moment, but not the awkward kind. Just the sort of quiet where snow mutes everything, and your breath fogs the air between you, and the castle feels suspended in time.

“It’s nice to see your face,” Nick says finally. Then pauses. “I mean—obviously I’ve seen your face before. Loads. I’m not, like, suddenly surprised you have a face,”

You laugh.

“I know what you meant,”

He exhales, relieved. “Good. I wasn’t sure I’d manage to string two sentences together without turning purple,”

“You’re only a bit pink,” you tease. “That’s manageable,”

You end up walking the long way around the courtyard, snow crunching underfoot. It’s a bit stiff, at first—he trips over his words, you don’t know where to put your hands—but something about it feels... promising. Like maybe the letters weren’t just a fluke.

He makes you laugh. You make him stammer in a way that’s far too endearing. It’s not dramatic, and it’s not sweeping—but it feels nice.

And when he says, quietly, “I’m really glad I wrote to you,” you don’t hesitate before replying, “Me too.”

—

From then on, you start seeing him more often. You meet by the greenhouses for walks after Herbology. You sit beside each other in the library, sometimes talking, sometimes just reading in companionable silence. You laugh when he fumbles his words or stutters a bit too quickly, and he blushes when you compliment his handwriting.

It’s soft. Sweet. Easy.

And that ease is what James hates most.

He doesn’t mean to. Really, he doesn’t. But every time he sees you and Nick tucked away in a corner, talking with your heads bent close, something in his chest twists too tightly.

He tries not to look. He tries.

But he always does.

He catches glimpses of you in between lessons, notices the way your smile tilts differently when you’re with Nick, the way you lean in without thinking. He sees the way you laugh, just slightly quieter than with the girls, more private.

He sees all of it.

And it kills him.

Because Nick doesn’t look nervous anymore. Not like he did in December. He looks like he belongs next to you now, like he’s settled into a space James never even realised was open.

And James?

James is still stuck in the same place, staring from a distance and pretending he doesn’t feel like his lungs collapse a bit every time your eyes skim past him without stopping.

The worst part is that Nick’s not even unlikeable. He’s polite. Respectful. He doesn’t show off or brag. He’s never hexed someone. He’s the kind of boy you should be with.

Which makes James feel like even more of a twat for hating him.

But he can’t help it.

Because you’re slipping further away with every shared smile and hushed conversation, and James Potter—Golden Boy, Quidditch Captain, supposed heartthrob—is left standing on the sidelines, too late and too cowardly to do anything about it.

Not that he deserves to.

Not really.

Not after everything he used to be.

—

There’s a quiet little path just past the edge of the Forbidden Forest, winding between thickets of tall grass and old stone walls from Merlin-knows-when. It’s not quite on the Marauder’s Map because it’s not technically a shortcut or a secret passage — it’s just peaceful. Removed. The kind of place couples start to frequent when they want to be left alone.

You and Nick have discovered it recently.

It’s become something of a habit, heading out there after classes with a thermos of tea or stolen pastries from the kitchens, bundled up in scarves and gloves, talking about everything and nothing as the winter wind rushes through the trees. It’s your space now, and it’s lovely. Safe. Uncomplicated.

You don’t notice the stag at first.

He’s standing far off at the treeline, half-hidden behind some low-hanging branches. Massive antlers, golden-brown fur, eyes sharp even from this distance. He looks almost surreal — like he belongs in some enchanted forest painting, too noble and elegant to be real.

Nick notices your distraction. “What is it?”

You tug his sleeve and point. “Look!”

His head turns, eyes following your finger. When he spots the stag, he startles slightly. “Blimey,”

“Don’t be dramatic,” you say, smiling. “It’s just a deer,”

“That’s not just a deer, that thing’s the size of a carriage,”

You laugh. “Don’t scare him off,”

You take a slow step forward, fascinated. The stag doesn’t move. Just watches you, eerily still.

There’s something oddly… familiar about him.

And James — because yes, of course it’s James — is having what could only be described as a full-scale emotional breakdown inside his stupid stag body.

He hadn’t meant for this to happen. Not exactly.

It had started out harmless enough — a little sulking, a bit of brooding, the usual staring-longingly-across-the-classroom-at-your-empty-chair sort of behaviour. And then Sirius had made some off-hand joke about how you and Nick probably had a “special little spot” by now, and James had laughed like he wasn’t actively dying inside.

Cue: terrible decisions.

Because obviously the most reasonable response to your blossoming teenage romance was to follow you in his Animagus form. Spy on you. Lurk.

Real mature.

But he couldn’t help himself.

There you were, sitting beside Nick, cheeks pink with cold, smiling in that soft way James remembered from last year when he made that ridiculous fireworks spell in Charms just to make you laugh. And Nick — bloody Nick — looked like he’d won the lottery.

It should’ve been him. He should be the one making you smile like that.

And then you turned, eyes catching the movement in the trees. James froze. For one horrible second he thought you recognised him, that somehow you could see straight through the fur and hooves and spot him for who he really was — awkward, lovesick, completely out of his depth.

But instead, you grinned.

Properly grinned. That wide, sparkly-eyed smile that had always made something in James’ chest flutter.

“You know stags are a sign of good luck,” he said, smiling softly at you.

You tilted your head. “Are they?”

“In some places, yeah. Seeing a stag’s supposed to mean… well, something sacred. Or new beginnings,”

James, still very much standing there like a massive idiot, nearly snorted.

New beginnings, his arse.

You took a step closer to Nick, hands fiddling with your scarf. “How fitting,”

Nick’s cheeks flushed red, even under the pale winter sun. “Yeah,” he said quietly.

James felt the moment before it happened.

There was a hush in the air, the kind that hangs between two people right before something changes. A kind of invisible pull. You leaned in—just slightly—and Nick moved at the same time, closing the space with a nervous sort of determination.

And then you were kissing.

It wasn’t a dramatic, spin-you-around kind of kiss. It was tentative. Careful. Sweet.

But it wrecked James all the same.

He wanted to close his eyes, but he felt as though he physically couldn’t. He wanted to disappear, but he was literally a giant animal. Instead, he stood there, paralysed, watching the girl he loved kiss another boy while he pretended to be a woodland creature.

You pulled away first.

Nick, ever the gentleman, looked nervous again.

“Sorry,” He muttered, hands fumbling. “I didn’t mean to— I mean, I did, obviously, but I didn’t want to make it weird. Was that… alright?”

You stared at him for a moment, lips parted. “It was,”

Nick smiled, visibly relieved.

And James—full of repressed feelings and bad decisions—bolted.

He galloped full-tilt back through the trees, hooves skidding over frosty ground, lungs burning with the kind of emotion that didn’t make sense in this form.

When he finally transformed back, he nearly punched the wall.

—

He storms into the dormitory, robes askew, hair windswept and damp from snow.

Remus looks up from his book. “Alright there?”

“No.”

“Did you fall in the lake again?” Sirius asks from his bed, chewing a Sugar Quill and looking thoroughly unconcerned.

“No,” James grinds out, pacing the room. “Worse.”

Peter sits up. “Worse than the lake?”

“I watched her kiss him.”

There’s a pause.

Sirius, now mildly interested, swings his legs over the side of the bed. “You what?”

“In the forest,” James says, throwing his arms up. “I was— I don’t know—just following—walking—I didn’t mean to stay that long, but then I saw them and I couldn’t move, and then he kissed her.”

He collapses into the armchair with the weight of a man who’s just seen war.

“Mate,” Remus says gently, closing his book, “you followed her?”

James groans. “Don’t say it like that.”

“In Animagus form?”

“Don’t say it like that!”

Sirius is cackling now. “James, my boy, you absolute idiot,”

James throws a cushion at him. “Do you want me to cry?”

Peter’s eyebrows are high on his forehead. “So… you watched them snog and then what? Ran off crying in your stag form?”

“Yes, Pete, that’s exactly what happened, thank you for summing it up so eloquently,”

Remus sighs. “Look. I know this is hard. But what did you expect to happen? You’ve been watching them from afar for weeks, acting like you don’t care, and now you’re surprised that she’s moved on?”

James sulks deeper into the chair. “I didn’t think it would hurt like this,”

Sirius tosses a Bertie Bott’s bean at his head. “Then do something, mate,”

James blinks. “What?”

“Tell her,”

“I can’t,”

“Why?”

“Because!” James flails his arms. “She hates me,”

“She doesn’t hate you,” Remus says calmly. “She was just… wary. And to be fair, you earned that. But you’ve changed. She sees that,”

“Lily’s talking to you again,” Peter adds. “That’s a massive shift from last year,”

“She’s dating Nick,” James mutters.

“So?” Sirius shrugs. “Relationships end all the time. Especially school ones,”

Remus shoots him a look. “Not exactly the message we want to send right now Pads,”

“Sorry, Moony, but it’s true. James has been pining for her like a tragic protagonist in a bad romance novel for years. If he doesn’t say something soon, he’ll combust. Or do something even stupider than stalking her through the forest,”

James groans. “You’re making it sound so much worse,”

“You made it worse, mate. You literally watched her kiss another boy from the bushes,”

He buries his face in his hands. “What do I even say? ‘Hi, sorry I was a git to you for years, but now I fancy you and have no idea how to act like a person anymore’?”

“Honestly,” Remus says, “not a terrible start

James peeks up between his fingers. “I can’t just tell her,”

“Then write,” Peter suggests, surprisingly earnest. “You’re always better in writing,”

The room falls quiet.

James slowly lifts his head.

“…Do I have to sign it?”

Remus frowns. “You want to send it anonymously?”

Sirius leans forward, interested. “Like a secret admirer?”

“No, like… a vent. I get it all out with no risks,”

“You think she’d read it?” Peter asks.

James shrugs. “She might,”

Sirius leans back, chewing on his quill now. “Alright. An anonymous letter. Bit dramatic, but very you,”

“You think it’s stupid,”

“I think,” Sirius says, “it’s better than sitting here moping while she falls in love with someone else,”

James doesn’t reply.

Instead, he stands, walks to his trunk, and pulls out a piece of parchment.

And a very fancy quill.

Because if he’s going to tell you the truth—even secretly—he’s going to do it properly.

—

It arrives one cloudy morning at breakfast, right between a plate of toast and a half-soggy letter from your mum asking if you’ve remembered to send your Nan a Christmas thank-you.

You barely register it at first—the slip of parchment settling onto your plate with an elegant little flutter, the ink shimmering faintly as if kissed by starlight. You glance up, expecting to see an owl flapping off, but the air above the Gryffindor table is clear.

Weird.

You look down again. It’s not a scroll, not a Howler, not a folded scrap from Lily asking about Herbology notes. It’s stationery. Thick, cream-coloured parchment that feels almost too nice for Hogwarts post. The edges are trimmed with delicate gold foil. The writing, when you unfold it, gleams like the surface of the Black Lake at midnight.

And it is… a lot.

You don’t know me. Not properly, anyway. Maybe you think you do, and maybe that’s my fault, maybe I’ve made sure you didn’t want to. Maybe I got too used to being the kind of boy people only like in theory. I can be a bit of a twat, but if I’d ever had the courage to actually be honest with you, this is what I would’ve said: I notice everything. I notice the way you chew your lip when you're thinking. The way your handwriting changes when you’re writing something personal. I notice that you give away half your dessert even when you complain you’re starving, that you always carry extra hair ties in case your friends need one, that you hum when you’re nervous. I’ve noticed that you like thunderstorms more than sunshine, and that you pretend not to care when people don’t listen to you, but it bothers you. I wish it didn’t. You’re not just pretty, you’re brilliant. You’re clever in ways people overlook, and kind in ways that make them assume you’ve never been angry. But I’ve seen it. I’ve seen your temper flare and your spine straighten and I’ve wanted to be someone who could stand beside that, not against it. I used to think if I just waited long enough, you’d look at me the way you look at the pages of a good book — like something worth opening. But I don’t think you ever will. And I’m tired of pretending I’m fine with that. So this is me. Being honest. Finally. I hope you’re happy. Even if it’s not with me.

You read it three times before you even breathe.

It is—quite literally—the most intense thing anyone’s ever said to you. And they didn’t even say it. They wrote it. Anonymously. No name. No initials. Just… left it here like a bloody emotional bomb.

“Oh my God,” Marlene breathes, peering over your shoulder. “Who wrote that?”

You blink, still dazed. “I don’t know,”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?” Dorcas is already reaching for the paper. “Let me see,”

Lily sets down her tea. “That’s not Nick’s handwriting,”

You snatch the letter back instinctively, folding it like a guilty thing. “It’s not from Nick,”

“Oh hell no,” Marlene says, loud enough to turn heads from the other end of the table. “What kind of coward doesn’t sign their name to something like that?”

You flush, tucking the letter under your plate. “Can we not do this here?”

“No, sorry, we’re absolutely doing this,” she says, hands in her hair. “You just got the Hogwarts equivalent of a bloody sonnet and we’re supposed to ignore it?”

You shrug, trying for breezy but failing miserably. “It’s probably a joke,”

“It’s not a joke,” Lily says, eyebrows furrowed. “No one puts that much effort into a joke. That was… honest. Painfully so,”

Dorcas whistles low. “I can’t believe someone’s been carrying all that around. And didn’t even sign it,”

“They should’ve,” Marlene says. “You don’t get to say all that and then disappear. It’s manipulative,”

“It’s anonymous,” you say quietly. “Not manipulative,”

“They want something from you without saying who they are,”

You shrug. “I don’t care who they are,”

Which is, of course, an outright lie.

Because for the next two weeks, you read the letter every single night after the others have gone to sleep.

You tell yourself you’re just curious. That it’s like solving a puzzle, trying to piece together who might’ve written it based on the phrasing, the details. You go through every male voice in your head like a bloody index file: is it someone from your year? Another House? Is it someone who sees you more than you realised?

And worse: is it someone you’ve hurt without knowing?

Because how long has this boy—whoever he is—been noticing you? Caring about you from some hidden distance? How long has he been watching you laugh, cry, argue, love your friends… and stayed silent?

Because now that someone has said those things to you—someone who wants your laugh, your bad handwriting, your bloody spare hair ties—you’ve started comparing. And Nick, for all his sweetness and quiet charm, hasn’t said anything remotely like that.

Nick likes you. He likes your face, your smile, your laugh. He likes sitting next to you at lunch and holding your hand when you walk to class. He likes being liked.

But whoever wrote that letter doesn’t just like you. They see you. In this terrifying, intense, specific way that makes your stomach twist every time you reread it.

And that’s the problem, really.

Because now every interaction feels dimmer by comparison.

When Nick compliments you, it feels too rehearsed. When he kisses you, you wonder if he’s noticed the freckles on your shoulders, or if he’s just decided that kissing you is nice. You still like him. You do.

But you also can’t stop thinking about the letter.

—

Meanwhile, in the boys’ dormitory, James is slowly unraveling.

He hadn’t meant for the letter to actually get to you.

Well, he had, obviously. That was the plan. Fold it all up, pour his heart onto the page, let the Marauders deliver it like some weird emotional owl service. But he hadn’t expected it to work. He thought maybe you’d read it once and toss it in the bin.

But you didn’t.

You read it. And then you kept reading it.

James knows because he keeps watching you. Not stalking—definitely not stalking—just… observing. From across the common room. Or the Great Hall. Or occasionally (and he hates himself for this) while pretending to tie his shoelaces in corridors you happen to be walking through.

You’re thinking about it. He can tell.

You’ve gone quieter, more introspective. You still hang out with Nick, still smile when he tugs you along to some late lunch in the courtyard. But the spark in your eyes when you look at him doesn’t quite reach the edges like it did before. Not like it does when you’re reading.

James sees you in the library with it tucked into a Transfiguration book.

He sees you smiling at it in Charms when Flitwick isn’t looking.

And every time, it hurts.

Not because you know it’s from him—but because you don’t.

You’re holding a piece of his soul and you don’t even know it’s his.

The Marauders are no help.

“Just tell her,” Sirius keeps saying. “It’s not going to kill you,”

“Yes it will,” James mutters into his pillow. “Instant death. Right there. You’ll have to plan my funeral,”

“Moony can write the eulogy,” Peter suggests. “Something tragic,”

“I’m not writing him a eulogy,” Remus says dryly. “I’m writing him a howler if he doesn’t grow up,”

But James doesn’t want to grow up. He wants to hide.

Because this is worse than being rejected. This is watching you choose someone else while still holding onto the most vulnerable thing he’s ever written and having no idea it’s from the boy who used to trip over his words around you.

He thought writing it would help.

It hasn’t.

If anything, it’s made everything worse.

Because now he knows how close he got. And how far away he still is.

And you— well, you’ve got a letter folded fourteen times and stashed in your pillowcase like some embarrassing secret. You’ve got Nick waiting for you after class and your friends teasing you about mystery boys and you’ve got no idea that the person who sees you best is someone you’d written off two years ago.

But you’re starting to wonder.

Because whoever wrote that letter knew things even you hadn’t noticed about yourself.

They knew how you listen harder when people talk about books, how you write longer sentences when you're nervous, how you care more deeply than you let on. That kind of observation doesn’t happen overnight.

That kind of thing takes years.

—

There are times in relationships when it feels like the edges of your life blur together, and the lines that once separated who you were from who you are in someone else’s eyes start to fade. It’s a strange and subtle thing. At first, it feels like you’re merely adjusting — slipping a little to fit more comfortably into someone else’s world. But gradually, as time passes, the edges of that world begin to shape you. And in the process, you start to lose sight of where you end and they begin.

That’s what happened with Nick.

At first, you thought it was something gentle — a sweet, budding connection. After all, the letters had been lovely, hadn’t they? The way he wrote about things you’d never noticed, the way his words seemed to speak to you in places where you hadn’t realised you were waiting for someone to. He was kind, he was funny in his own way, and he tried his best to get close to you. Really close.

But the truth is— he tried too hard.

You hadn’t noticed it at first, or if you had, you dismissed it. After all, it was sweet, wasn’t it? The way he wanted to take you to Hogsmeade every weekend, the way he seemed to try to do all the right things, say all the right words. He’d bring you flowers—small, simple ones from the Greenhouse, wrapped in brown paper. You’d smile, thank him, and tuck them into a glass jar on your windowsill.

But soon it wasn’t just flowers. It was sudden plans to study together for hours, even when you weren’t sure if you really needed to. It was long conversations about everything and nothing, always turning into late-night talks that kept you tethered to him, even when your mind wandered to other things—or to other people.

You hadn’t meant for it to happen, but the truth crept in. Little by little, things started to change. At first, it was just the fact that when you sat with Nick, it was easy to forget. You didn’t think about the boy who’d written you that anonymous letter, you thought maybe this was enough—that Nick was enough. But after a while, something started to feel… off.

It wasn’t his fault, not exactly. Nick was a genuinely good person. But somewhere along the way, he began to push harder than you could keep up with. And rather than reassuring you, that energy felt suffocating. The careful gestures, the predictability, the pressure to move things forward.

You began to realise that you weren’t sure if you wanted to move forward. Not with him. Not like this.

The shift became obvious one cold afternoon in the library, when Nick tried again—really tried—to kiss you. His hand brushed yours as he leaned in, but instead of feeling that warm flutter you’d always read about in romance novels, you felt yourself stiffen.

It wasn’t that you didn’t like him. You did. But with each moment that passed, the picture you’d once thought was perfect started to crumble. In that space between the kiss and the hesitation, you saw what was missing. It was like the world suddenly tilted. You realised you’d been holding on to something that wasn’t quite real, a dream of what could be, rather than what was.

You pulled away.

“I think…” you started, the words heavy in your throat. “Maybe we need to talk,”

Nick paused, his expression flickering with concern. “Talk about what?”

“I think I’m not really sure what I want anymore,” you said quietly. It wasn’t easy. It never is. “I think I’ve been… confused. I don’t want to lead you on,”

He blinked, his lips parted as though he was about to speak but couldn’t quite find the words. “You’re saying this now?”

“I know. I’m sorry. I should’ve said something sooner,” You looked at him, trying to make it hurt less. “But I think maybe we both rushed into this, and now… I don’t know. I don’t think I’m ready for this. For us,”

There was a long silence, his face softening, eyes full of something like defeat. And then he spoke, his voice quiet but steady.

“I think I knew, somewhere in the back of my head,” he admitted. “I wanted to be the one to make you forget. To make you forget the other person. The one who… knows you. Like that letter,”

You froze at his words, staring at him. “What do you mean?”

Nick shifted uneasily, rubbing his neck, looking around as if he wanted to find some kind of answer in the shelves of books. “I mean…” he said slowly, “You were never really mine, were you? Not in the way I wanted. Not in the way I needed,”

A knot tightened in your chest. He was right, but it hurt to hear it. “You’re not wrong,” you murmured, your heart sinking. “I don’t know what I was looking for. But I don’t think it was this,”

Nick gave a soft, resigned chuckle. “Yeah, I think I figured that out a little too late,” He paused. “I tried. You know? I tried to make it work, tried to be what you needed. But I guess… you’re right. I couldn’t compete with someone who really knows you,”

“I’m sorry, Nick.” You said the words because they were true, because you did care about him, but you also knew that this wasn’t right anymore. You couldn’t force it to be something it wasn’t.

He nodded, his jaw tightening slightly. “I just… I don’t think I can keep pretending I’m okay with the idea of you still thinking about someone else. I’m not him, am I?”

You shook your head, swallowing hard. “No. You’re not,”

For a moment, you both sat there in the quiet of the library, the sounds of students working, the soft scratch of quills on parchment. It was a peaceful kind of sadness, though. Not dramatic or explosive — just two people who had tried, who had cared, and who were now realising that they had reached the end of the road.

Nick exhaled softly, meeting your eyes. “I just want you to be happy, even if it’s not with me,” he said quietly. “I think you need to find the person who really gets you. The person who sees all of you, like that bloody letter,”

You felt something tighten in your chest at his words. “I want you to be happy too. I’m sorry,”

He smiled faintly, his eyes soft. “Don’t be. It’s just… I think we both knew this wasn’t going to last, not like this. I care about you. I always will. But I can’t be the person who’s always second best. I can’t compete with someone who sees you the way you deserve to be seen,”

You nodded, your throat tight. “I get it,”

“Good luck,” Nick stood up, dusting off his robes. “I hope you find what you’re looking for. Even if it’s not me,”

And with that, he walked away.

—

It took a few weeks for the aftermath to settle in. You weren’t sure if you’d done the right thing. But as time passed, you started to understand. You’d never been in love with Nick. You’d never been in love with the idea of him, either. And even if you hadn’t fully understood what that letter meant—the one you’d read so many times, the one you’d kept hidden under your pillow—you were starting to.

You’d tried. You’d tried to make it work, to make Nick fit, to make everything make sense. But in the end, you couldn’t ignore the cracks that had formed the moment you started comparing his kindness to the depth of someone else’s words.

You hadn’t found it yet, whatever it was that you were looking for. But you knew you would. It wasn’t about finding someone who could match Nick’s sweetness, or someone who could take his place.

It was about finding someone who saw you.

—

The Marauders had a plan. A very misguided, very well-meaning plan. And, naturally, that plan revolved around James.

They were determined to fix him, to make him move on, to help him forget about the girl who had (without him knowing) already managed to ruin him. But, as usual, they hadn’t bothered to take into account the very real fact that James didn’t want to move on. At least, not in the way they thought he should.

Ever since his brief but very real heartbreak — the one that no one, especially you, knew anything about—James had been moody. His attempts at pretending he was fine fell flat. He acted like he was fine, smiled like he was fine, but everyone who knew him could see it in his eyes. He wasn’t fine. He was not fine.

But the Marauders, being the Marauders, had an answer. They were going to find him someone to kiss, someone to distract him from you.

James had tried to shrug it off. He had told his friends, repeatedly, that he wasn’t interested in anyone else. He didn’t want to be fixed, and he certainly didn’t want to forget you, not when he couldn’t forget that letter, not when every little thing about you still echoed in his head.

But the Marauders were insistent.

“Mate, you’ve got to move on,” Sirius said one evening, sprawled across the couch in the Gryffindor common room. He was half-teasing, but there was a seriousness to his voice that James couldn’t ignore. “You’ve never kissed anyone else. Never shagged anyone. How do you know you don’t like it, huh?”

James shot Sirius a dry look. “I don’t need to shag anyone to know I’m not interested in anyone else,” he muttered. He had been hoping to avoid the topic altogether, but Sirius, as always, was relentless.

“You don’t know that until you try, Prongs,” Sirius said, winking as he nudged James in the side. “Besides, you can’t just pine over her forever. You’ll drive yourself mad,”

James clenched his jaw, his fingers curling into fists. “I’m not pining,” he growled. “I’m just… not interested in anyone else. It’s that simple,”

Sirius raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “If you say so,” He flashed a grin. “But you’re coming to the Quidditch after-party tonight, right? I’ve got a plan to fix this. You need to at least try,”

And that was how James ended up, several hours later, at the Gryffindor Quidditch after-party, reluctantly swept into the chaos of his friends’ scheming. There was no getting out of it. Sirius had insisted. Remus had given him a knowing look. Peter had simply nodded along, looking vaguely terrified of being left out of the plan.

James had been forced to accept that the Marauders weren’t going to leave him alone until he did something. So, with as much reluctance as he could muster, he gave in.

The party was rowdy, with a thrumming energy that could only come from a Gryffindor Quidditch victory. It didn’t take long before Sirius had dragged James into a conversation with a fifth-year Gryffindor girl, a girl James vaguely recognised from the common room. She was nice enough, but James wasn’t interested. Still, he followed through because, well, Sirius had already set it all up.

"Just give it a try, mate," Sirius whispered, giving him an enthusiastic thumbs-up from across the room. “You might actually enjoy it,”

James barely suppressed a groan. He couldn’t explain it, but the thought of kissing anyone but you felt wrong. There was a tightness in his chest every time he tried to think about being with someone else.

He didn’t know what it meant, whether it was the letter, or the way you had slipped so easily into his thoughts, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t supposed to be here. That he wasn’t supposed to be kissing someone else.

Nevertheless, after some awkward small talk, the girl leaned in, and there it was. His first real kiss, forced and strange, under the loud cheer of the party around them. It lasted barely ten seconds before he pulled away, completely baffled by the sensation. She smiled at him, clearly pleased with herself, but it didn’t feel right. The kiss, the girl, the situation, none of it.

It wasn’t until Sirius erupted from across the room, clapping and cheering loudly, that the full weight of the absurdity of the situation hit James. Sirius, always the showman, made it a scene—announcing loudly that James had officially kissed his first girl, and proudly pointing at James with a triumphant grin as if it was some massive accomplishment. It was a joke, sure, but it made James cringe.

You were standing near the punch bowl with Marlene and Dorcas at that very moment, and you couldn’t help but roll your eyes as the whole situation unfolded in front of you.

There was something about the way Sirius made a spectacle of it that rubbed you the wrong way. The obnoxious cheering, the over-the-top comments, the way everyone turned to look at James and the girl like they were stars on a stage.

You couldn’t quite pinpoint why it bothered you so much. Maybe it was the sheer lack of subtlety. Maybe it was the fact that James didn’t seem to care much for the girl at all, or that he was only doing this to prove something. You couldn’t quite place it, but something about it left a bitter taste in your mouth.

You found yourself staring a little too long, a little too intently, at the scene. Maybe it was the stupid party. Maybe it was the fact that James had always been so full of himself. But whatever it was, it didn’t sit right with you.

Your friends noticed. Marlene raised an eyebrow and smirked. “You okay?”

You blinked, startled by the question. “Yeah, of course,” you said quickly, though your voice was a little too sharp to sound convincing. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

She didn’t buy it, but she didn’t push further. Instead, she and Dorcas exchanged a knowing look, and you felt a flush of embarrassment rise up your neck.

You glanced back at James, still awkwardly standing with the girl, still the centre of the attention. You looked away, the feeling in your chest growing uncomfortable. You didn’t like it. You didn’t like the way this felt, or the way it made you feel. And yet, you couldn’t deny the slight tug of something — something more complicated than you were willing to admit.

After the party, James felt it too. The awkwardness. The discomfort. The wrongness. He sat with the Marauders, and despite the fact that they were celebrating his “success,” James couldn’t shake the feeling that it had all been for nothing.

“I don’t know what I expected,” James admitted, dropping his head into his hands as they all sat around in their dorm. “It didn’t feel right. I didn’t… I didn’t enjoy it,”

Sirius raised an eyebrow, an almost sympathetic look crossing his face. “You didn’t enjoy it?”

“No,” James muttered, running a hand through his hair. “It just felt wrong. It wasn’t the same,”

The Marauders exchanged glances, the air thick with unspoken understanding. Of course it wasn’t the same. It couldn’t be the same. Not when his mind was still filled with someone else. Not when James wasn’t ready to let go.

“Well, mate,” Remus said softly, “I think we all know what’s really going on here,”

James shot him a look of frustration. “I’m not interested in anyone else. I don’t want to be with anyone else,”

“Alright,” Sirius said, his voice suddenly serious, “If you’re really not ready then we’ll leave you to it,”

James sighed, rubbing his eyes in defeat. “I don’t want anyone else. I just… I don’t know what to do about it,”

The Marauders fell into a thoughtful silence, each of them looking at James with a mixture of sympathy and exasperation. There was nothing they could do for him, not unless he was ready to confront the real reason he was so stuck.

And, for now, James was content to wallow. He didn’t want to move on, and he wasn’t about to let anyone push him into it.

—

There was a strange sort of silence to James’ heartbreak. It didn’t roar like his laughter or crackle like his temper. It didn’t come out in jokes or pranks or the boisterous chaos that usually followed him around like a second shadow.

No, this was something different. Something quieter. Quieter than anyone had ever expected of him. There was a whiteness to it, an absence, a stillness—a kind of stillness that looked out of place on him.

He didn't speak to anyone about it anymore. The Marauders had tried—Sirius, mostly, with his not-so-subtle nudges and jabs—but James had stopped responding. He didn’t mope, exactly. He just grew more introspective. Not solemn, not angry, just… somewhere in between. And every time someone mentioned your name, something behind his eyes would flicker and then dim again.

It wasn’t until he overheard you, Marlene, and Lily chatting in the corridor near the library that everything shifted again.

You were trying to be quiet—your voice low, tone calm, your words slightly hesitant. But James had always been good at picking you out from a crowd. It was something he hadn’t even realised he’d trained himself to do until recently. So when he passed by that corridor and caught your voice, he paused. And then he heard it.

“Well, it wasn’t like Nick did anything wrong. He’s sweet. I just…” You sighed. “I don’t know. It stopped feeling like it was about me, you know? He was chasing something, not necessarily me. And after that letter turned up, it just made it worse,”

James stopped breathing. That letter.

“You still don’t know who it’s from?” Lily asked, a note of intrigue in her voice.

You huffed out a laugh. “No. And it’s driving me mad. I feel like… whoever wrote it knows me better than I know myself. And I don't even know his name,”

Marlene scoffed. “If he knew you that well, he’d grow a spine and tell you who he is,”

“He’s probably scared,” Lily offered gently. “Those letters aren’t just passing notes. They’re—intimate,”

James ducked into an empty classroom before they could spot him, heart pounding. His palms were damp. His whole body felt too hot, too aware. You'd broken up with Nick. Because of him. Not that you knew it was him, but still. His words had changed something.

He had told himself, after that first letter, that it was a one-time thing. A catharsis. An exorcism of all the things he couldn’t say to you out loud. But after his revelation. He found himself itching to write another. And another.

The second letter had come days after he saw you in the courtyard laughing at something Dorcas had said, your head thrown back in a way that made his chest ache. He’d gone back to the dorm, heart full and throat tight, and written about it—how he wished he could be the one making you laugh like that. How he’d never seen anything brighter than the way your eyes crinkled when you smiled.

Then came the third letter, and the fourth. And soon, it had become a habit. A ritual, almost.

When he couldn’t sleep, he wrote.

When he saw you in class and wanted to say something but couldn’t find the nerve, he wrote.

When you passed him in the corridor and gave him a polite, almost friendly smile, he wrote.

And the letters changed. They weren’t just emotional ramblings anymore—they were layered with observations, with memories, with confessions he had never let himself say aloud.

You wore your hair different in Potions today. I liked it. But I think I would’ve liked it even if it looked awful, which is… probably not a great thing to admit, is it? You’ve got this little crease between your brows when you’re concentrating—it only appears when you’re really focused. I don’t think you know you do it. When you walk down the corridor, I can tell what kind of mood you’re in before I even see your face. It’s in the sound of your steps. In the rhythm of it. Happy-you walks different than annoyed-you.

You never responded. You couldn’t. There was never a return address, never any way to send anything back. But James didn’t care. He didn’t need a reply. Just writing to you—being able to express it, even anonymously—felt like enough.

Sort of.

Because the truth was, as much as it helped to write the words down, it also hurt. Every letter was a reminder of everything he wanted and couldn’t have. Everything he’d spent years pretending not to feel—buried beneath jokes and hexes and all the noise of adolescence.

And you? You kept every single one.

You didn’t tell the girls about it. Not really. Not after the second letter. You pretended it was over, that it had been some sweet, silly little mystery. But in truth, you’d hidden them. All of them. In a little shoebox under your bed, wrapped in an old jumper. Some were creased from how often you unfolded and re-folded them. Some had the faintest smudge in the corner from where you’d cried, unexpectedly, at something you hadn’t realised you needed to hear.

You didn’t know what to do with them. You weren’t over Nick—not really. That kind of closeness doesn’t disappear overnight. But it was impossible to keep pretending that he had understood you like this anonymous writer did.

Whoever he was, he had seen you. Not just the version of you that most people acknowledged—the smart, sharp, sometimes-sarcastic girl who was always one step ahead of a comeback. No, this person had paid attention to the margins of you, the unnoticed edges. The things you didn’t even know were there until he wrote them down.

I think I started liking you back in fourth year. You were defending someone in the corridor—some little second-year who’d dropped their books, and some Slytherins were laughing at him. You didn’t even hesitate. You stepped right in like it was the most obvious thing in the world. That’s when I knew. Only I’m not sure if I just like you anymore. It’s something more. Something I don’t know how to name. Is it pathetic to say that I hear your voice before I see you? That I can pick you out of a room before I even look up? I don’t mean to. It’s just—it’s like my ears are tuned to you. Like a frequency I can’t ignore.

You lay awake most nights now, reading the letters again after the others were asleep. You tried to analyse the handwriting. You wondered if it was someone in your year. You made a list of suspects in your head and crossed off half of them, even though it didn’t bring you any closer.

Sometimes, when you caught James looking at you from across the room, you’d wonder. But then you’d scoff at yourself, because James Potter? Really? He was… well, James. All swagger and messy hair and cocky grins. You’d made peace with the fact that he wasn’t half as insufferable anymore, but he was still James.

And yet…

The letters were not the work of someone who didn’t care. They weren’t careless. They were intimate in a way that left you breathless. Each one revealed a little more—each sentence brushing up against truths you hadn’t admitted even to yourself.

They came like clockwork now—one every week, always arriving in the oddest of places. Slipped inside your Arithmancy book. Folded neatly on your dinner plate. Once, even tucked inside your scarf in the common room, which really freaked you out because it meant he was closer than you thought.

It was terrifying and exhilarating. And the worst part? You were beginning to need them. Crave them, even. His words had become a constant, something you looked forward to with equal parts dread and hope.

The box under your bed grew heavier by the week.

And James? He was slowly losing his mind. Every time he saw you reading a letter—head tilted, eyes flicking across the page, your expression soft and unreadable—it hurt in the best and worst way. You liked them. He knew you did. But the longer he went without saying anything, the more impossible it felt to tell you the truth.

Because what if knowing ruined it? What if it stopped being magical the second his name was attached?

He was a coward. Marlene had said so, loudly, and James knew it was true. He could face down a rogue Bludger, duel a seventh-year, prank Filch and escape with a grin—but he couldn’t tell you he was the one who had been writing to you.

And yet, he couldn’t stop.

He poured his soul into those margins. Into those pages that would never carry his name. Because it was the only way he could tell you the truth and survive it.

And maybe that was enough.

Or maybe, eventually, it wouldn’t be.

—

You didn’t mean to tell them. Honestly, you had every intention of keeping the whole thing a secret forever. But Marlene had a sixth sense for drama, and Dorcas had a sharper nose for mystery than a trained bloodhound. So when your bed-curtains had rustled suspiciously in the middle of the night and Marlene had caught a glimpse of shimmering ink through the crack of your open trunk, it was game over.

You’d barely managed to shove the letter beneath your pillow before she pounced.

“Aha!” she whispered in triumph, yanking back your curtains with no regard for your sleep schedule. “I knew you were hiding something!”

“Marlene, go away,” you groaned, but Lily was already sitting up, blinking owlishly, and Dorcas was dragging her own blanket across to your bed.

“Nope,” Dorcas said brightly, sliding in beside you with terrifying ease. “Spill it. Is it more letters?”

You were betrayed by the silence. The way your face didn’t even have time to arrange into a proper lie before the truth fell across your cheeks.

“Oh my god,” Lily whispered. “There’s more?”

“There’s loads more,” Marlene said, shoving aside your blankets and finding the shoebox tucked beneath your bed like a woman possessed. “Holy hell, you’ve got a whole bloody collection.”

You didn’t fight it. Not properly. Not after the fourth letter was unfolded and read aloud in a reverent hush, the girls falling completely silent around you—save for the occasional sniff or soft exhale of disbelief.

“He watched you drop your quill and memorised how you tucked your hair behind your ear,” Dorcas said, practically vibrating. “I thought blokes only noticed when girls breathed near them,”

“It’s beautiful,” Lily whispered. “It’s like something out of a novel,”

“Romantic,” Dorcas agreed.

“Terrifying,” Marlene added. “I mean, what if it’s Mulciber or something?”

You almost choked. “Please don’t even joke about that,”

Thus began the unofficial—and entirely chaotic—formation of The Girls’ Detective Agency. It wasn’t your name for it, obviously, but once Marlene had made badges (from parchment, glitter, and sheer manic determination), you didn’t have much choice in the matter.

The mission was clear: uncover the identity of your mysterious letter-writer.

Their methods, however, were… questionable.

They started with handwriting analysis. Marlene attempted to casually wander through the library, requesting to borrow ink samples from boys “just out of curiosity,” and Lily spent an afternoon in the common room “helping” people with their Transfiguration essays so she could examine their penmanship. Dorcas, who had stolen your Divination notes under the pretext of “astrological clarity,” tried to match the emotional tone of the letters to various star signs.

“I’m telling you,” she said one night with complete certainty, “this is a Cancer Sun, maybe a Pisces Moon. This is water sign poetry,”

You didn't know what a Pisces Moon was meant to mean, but Dorcas said it like gospel, so you just nodded.

Meanwhile, Marlene was not subtle. At all.

“What if it’s Remus?” she hissed once across the common room, loud enough for three people to turn around. “He’s broody. And he reads so much poetry,”

You swore you saw Remus twitch.

But you shook your head. “No. It’s not him,”

You were sure about that. Remus was clever, kind, thoughtful—but the letters didn’t sound like him. His voice was steadier, more deliberate. The person writing to you was something else entirely—someone who struggled with the weight of what he felt, who was reckless with his emotions in a way that wasn’t controlled or clean. Someone who wrote like he was bleeding onto the page.

There were flashes—little things—that made you wonder if maybe, maybe, it could be James.

But every time the thought flitted across your mind, you swatted it away.

James Potter didn’t write letters like this. James Potter was a menace with a Quidditch obsession and a lopsided grin. James Potter, who had only recently evolved into someone tolerable, wasn’t exactly someone you pictured lying awake at night, pouring his soul into parchment.

Sure, he wasn’t as obnoxious as he used to be. And sure, there was something softer in the way he looked at you lately—but you’d chalked that up to the fragile peace you’d made after last year’s chaos. There was no way he was the one leaving notes beneath your scarf.

Besides, if he’d written something this vulnerable, he would’ve shoved it into your hand and dared you to read it aloud just to watch you squirm. Right?

So, no. Not James.

You were wrong, obviously.

But that wasn’t the point.

—

The final week of term came faster than expected. sunlight glittered on the edges of everything—floating house flags outside the Great Hall doors, open windows letting in a soft breeze, a warmth that seeped into your bones. Everything felt a little too warm, a little too bright.

And still, the letters kept coming.

The last one arrived on the morning of the train home.

It was simpler than the others. A small square of parchment, no shimmering ink this time. Just words. Words that didn’t try to be anything other than honest.

I don’t know if I’ll write again. I think I might be running out of ways to say it. I miss things I’ve never had with you, and that’s a strange kind of grief. Have a nice holiday. Try not to overthink things. I know that’s rich coming from me. Yours, always— even if you never know who.

That was it.

You folded the letter carefully, hands trembling, and slid it into the shoebox with the others. And then you stared at it for what felt like hours, until Lily touched your arm gently and said, “We’ll miss the train,”

And that was that.

—

James watched you leave through the frost-smeared train window, his heart quieter than it had been in months. The Marauders were deep into a loud game of Exploding Snap, Sirius laughing at every blast, Peter shouting protests, Remus rolling his eyes fondly.

None of them knew he’d written another one.

James had stopped telling them after the fifth or sixth. It felt private. Sacred, almost. Sharing it would have made it real in a way he wasn’t sure he could handle. So he kept it to himself—his stupid little secret. His confession scrawled across parchment instead of spoken out loud.

He knew he was being a coward. That had become obvious. But he couldn’t bring himself to stop. Not when he saw the way you read them, all curled up with your bottom lip caught between your teeth. Not when he noticed the way your hand trembled slightly on the paper. You felt something. He was sure of it.

But he also knew that eventually, you’d want more. And he couldn’t keep offering faceless intimacy forever. So he wrote the last one. Said goodbye. Sort of.

And then he sat on the train with his forehead pressed to the glass, pretending he didn’t care that you hadn’t figured it out. That you were probably leaving for the summer thinking about someone else entirely. That maybe, despite everything, he’d never actually be enough.

—

Back at home, the days grew longer. The pace slowed. The house was warm, the food good, the sleep long and uninterrupted. And yet every night, without fail, you found yourself at the window.

The box of letters came out the first night you returned. You told yourself it was for closure.

It wasn’t.

You read them again—each one from the beginning. Chronologically. Like chapters in a book. You traced the handwriting with your fingers, letting the words sink into you slowly.

He loved you. That was the truth of it.

Maybe he hadn’t said it directly. Maybe he hadn’t signed his name. But no one wrote like that without meaning it. No one watched you so closely, noticed so many tiny things, remembered throwaway moments from years ago unless they’d been in love with you for a long, long time.

And you were still no closer to knowing who he was.

That was the worst part.

How could someone be so close and still so invisible?

You stared out the window into the night, watching your breath fog up the glass. The snow fell softly outside, blanketing the world in silence. Somewhere out there was someone who had seen all of you—really seen you—and hadn’t asked for anything in return.

And you missed him. Terribly.

Not Nick. Not the quiet comfort of that easy romance.

But him. The one who knew the cadence of your footsteps. Who listened for your voice before he saw your face. Who remembered fourth year like it was yesterday and noticed how your hands trembled when you were angry.

You missed someone you didn’t know. And it felt like the loneliest thing in the world.

—

I know I said I wouldn’t write you anymore, but I’m afraid I can’t help myself. The truth is, I’ve been terrified of saying it out loud, of giving you something you don’t need or want. But I can’t pretend anymore. I’ve loved you for so long, in ways that I can’t even put into words. I’ve watched you, really watched you, every day, and I’ve noticed things about you that no one else ever could. The way you bite your lip when you’re thinking, the way you hum softly to yourself when you’re studying, the way your eyes light up when you talk about something you care about. I’ve memorised the way your voice sounds when you laugh, the way you wrinkle your nose when you’re annoyed, the way you frown when you’re trying to figure something out. And I’ve done all of this because I care about you. So much more than I should. I’ve tried to get over you, to forget you. I’ve tried to date other people, to move on. But none of them were you. None of them could be. I don’t know if you’ll ever read this. I don’t even know if I’ll ever send it. But I need you to know that I’ve been here, always here, loving you in the quietest ways, the most secret ways. Maybe this is selfish. Maybe it’s unfair of me to ask you to care about someone who has never had the guts to say this to your face. But I don’t know what else to do anymore. I can’t keep pretending like this doesn’t matter to me. Because it does. You matter to me, more than I can say. I’ve always been here, waiting, in the margins of your life. Maybe that’s where I belong. But if you ever look up, I’ll be there, still waiting. —James F. Potter

He stopped writing. Blinked down at the words like they might rearrange themselves into something less terrifying.

His hand hovered over the signature. It looked too sharp, too obvious. Too final.

He stared at it for a long time.

Folded the letter in half.

Then unfolded it.

Folded it again.

“Mate, you’re torturing yourself,” came a groggy voice from across the room. Sirius, of course. “Just send it to her already,”

James looked up. “She won’t want it,”

“You don’t know that,”

“She might hate me,”

Sirius yawned and flopped back down onto his pillow. “She definitely won’t hate you. That’s the worst-case scenario you’ve built up in that tragically romantic brain of yours. And even if she did… so what? At least you’d know,”

James looked down at the folded parchment.

He could send it. He could sneak into the Owlery now, under his Invisibility Cloak, and you’d get it tomorrow. And then you’d know. Everything.

But then you’d know.

He imagined your face when you opened it. The surprise. The disbelief. The way you’d go back and read every single letter again, this time with the truth laid bare. Would it be relief? Would it be disappointment?

Or worse—would you already know, and just not want to face it?

James tucked the letter into his pillowcase and lay back down.

His heart was racing.

He didn’t sleep.

He didn’t send the letter, either.

Not yet.

Eventually, you spot one that isn’t completely crammed—just four boys, sprawled across the seats, deep in conversation. You hesitate for only a moment before sliding open the door.

“Mind if I sit here?” you ask, trying to sound casual.

The boys glance at you, then at each other. One of them—messy dark hair, glasses—leans back slightly, clearly considering. Another, with neat brown hair and a slightly more polite expression, opens his mouth as if to say something, but before he can, the smallest of the group pipes up.

“Sorry, no room,” he says quickly.

You blink. There is room. Not loads, but definitely enough for one more. You glance at the seats again, then back at them, raising an eyebrow. They don’t budge. The dark-haired one with the glasses smirks slightly, as if waiting for you to argue.

You don’t bother. Rolling your eyes, you mutter, “Right. Fine,” and slide the door shut with a little more force than necessary.

Typical. First day and already off to a bad start.

Frustrated, you push on down the corridor, peering into compartments as you go. Most are even fuller than before, but finally, you spot a tiny sliver of space in one near the end of the carriage.

There’s a girl with vivid red hair sitting by the window, her nose buried in a thick textbook. The other seats are taken, but there’s just enough room to squeeze in if no one minds.

You knock lightly before sliding the door open. “Alright if I sit here?”

The red-haired girl looks up, blinking as if pulled from deep concentration. She takes in the full compartment, then shifts slightly to make room. “Yeah, go on,” she says, giving you a small smile.

Grateful, you heave your trunk into the overhead rack and drop into the seat beside her. For a moment, neither of you speak—she’s still absorbed in her book, and you take the chance to glance at the title. The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1.

“Bit of light reading?” you say, nodding at it.

She grins. “Something like that. Just wanted to get a head start,”

“Lucky you,” you reply. “I’ve barely even looked at mine,”

The girl laughs, tucking a strand of red hair behind her ear. “I was just curious, really. I’ve been trying some of the wand movements at home, but obviously, nothing happens. My sister—“ She hesitates for half a second before continuing. “She’s not a witch, so she thinks I look ridiculous waving my wand around at empty air,”

You nod. “At least you’ve got the motions down. I still feel like I’m going to snap mine in half by accident,”

She laughs again. “Yeah, I keep checking mine’s still in one piece. I practised holding it so much over the summer I thought I’d wear it out before term even started,”

You smile, settling into your seat. Talking to her already feels easier than trying to force your way into a conversation with anyone else on the train. “So, are you Muggle-born, then?”

She nods. “Yeah. I only found out about all this last year, and it still feels… strange, I guess? But exciting. I just hope I don’t mess everything up,”

“You probably won’t. And if you do, at least you’ll have company. I reckon half the first-years are going to end up turning teapots into frogs by accident or something,”

Lily grins. “At least that would be impressive. I’m more worried about setting something on fire,”

“You and me both,” you say.

The train continues rattling along the tracks, the countryside rolling past the window in a blur of green. The chatter in the compartment swells and fades as conversations shift, but you and Lily keep talking.

It’s mostly about Hogwarts—what subjects you’re most excited for, which house you think you’ll end up in, whether the moving staircases are real or just a myth.

“I don’t really mind which house I’m in,” Lily says after a while, tapping her fingers idly on the cover of her book. “They all sound interesting in different ways,”

You nod. “Yeah. I just hope I don’t end up somewhere awful. Imagine getting stuck in the one house where everyone’s horrible,”

Lily wrinkles her nose. “That’d be the worst,” She pauses. “Do you have family that went to Hogwarts?”

“Yeah, a few,” you admit. “They keep telling me it’ll be the best years of my life, which is a lot of pressure, honestly,”

She grins. “I suppose we’ll find out soon enough,”

Before long, the train begins to slow, and the hum of conversation shifts as people start shuffling into their robes.

The compartment is suddenly full of movement—trunks being pulled down, nervous chatter about the Sorting Ceremony, the occasional lost toad being retrieved from beneath seats. You and Lily exchange a glance, the weight of what’s coming finally sinking in.

“Ready?” she asks.

“Not even slightly,” you admit.

She laughs. “Same. But I suppose it’s too late to turn back now,”

The train pulls to a stop, and the doors slide open. The night air is cool as you step onto the platform, taking in the towering figure of a man calling for first-years to follow him. The castle looms in the distance, its windows glowing against the dark sky.

Whatever happens next, it’s officially begun.

—

The excitement of arriving at Hogwarts is quickly overshadowed by the nerve-wracking experience of the Sorting Ceremony.

The Great Hall is a blur of candlelight, floating above the four long tables where the older students are already seated. The air is thick with anticipation, and the chatter of the first-years falls to a nervous hush. Above, the enchanted ceiling reflects the sky outside, dark and starry.

As the ceremony begins, one by one, students step forward to place the Sorting Hat on their heads.

You watch each person ahead of you, some eager, others visibly trembling. The Hat mutters something as it’s placed on their heads, then announces their house with a flourish.

Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, Slytherin—the names echo in the hall, each one met with cheers and applause from the appropriate table.

Finally, the moment arrives. Your name is called, and your heart skips a beat. You make your way down the aisle, the eyes of hundreds of students on you, each of them silently judging or sizing you up.

You climb the steps to the platform, trying to ignore the way your knees feel like jelly. The Sorting Hat is waiting for you, perched on a stool.

You sit down, and it is placed gently on your head. The cool fabric brushes against your forehead, and for a moment, there’s nothing but silence. Then the Hat speaks, its voice low and murmuring in your ear.

“Ah, I see... courage, certainly. And a desire to prove yourself... but a touch of caution too. You’re not afraid of a challenge, though, are you? I can sense a bit of ambition lurking in there, just under the surface...”

The Hat seems to deliberate, shifting slightly as it considers you. You can feel it probing your thoughts, weighing the choices. It’s as though your very soul is being laid bare, and the pressure of it almost makes you want to squirm.

“Hmm, yes... definitely brave, but with a clever streak. Yes, yes, I know where you belong...”

Please just say it already, you think desperately, trying to steady your breath.

The Sorting Hat finally calls out, “Gryffindor!”

Relief washes over you, and the sudden, overwhelming weight of your nerves lifts. You stand, giving a small smile to the cheers from the Gryffindor table. You know, deep down, that it was the right choice for you. The bravery, the will to stand up for what’s right—it makes sense.

But as you make your way to the table, your eyes flicker over to the group of four boys who had claimed there was no room for you on the train. They’re already sitting together, grinning broadly, clapping each other on the back as they welcome the new arrivals.

You catch their eyes as you sit down, and for a moment, they stare at you like they’re half-sure they’ve seen you before. Then one of them, the one with messy black hair and glasses, smirks and gives a half-hearted wave.

Great. Just my luck.

You roll your eyes, disgruntlement tugging at the corners of your mouth until you’re frowning. The boys are all in Gryffindor too. Of course they are.

The rest of the Sorting Ceremony passes in a blur. You hear the names of other students being called, but your focus is pulled back to the group as they laugh and joke amongst themselves.

Despite your earlier annoyance, you feel a twinge of curiosity about them. You wonder if they’ll always be this rowdy, or if it’s just first-year excitement.

Lily, sitting beside you, is grinning. “Well, we’re in the same house,” she says, nudging you lightly. “At least we’ll be able to stick together,”

You nod, feeling your earlier annoyance about the boys from the train fade. It’s not like you have much choice, anyway. But then again, it’s not the worst thing. Maybe there are worse things than being surrounded by a bunch of rowdy Gryffindors.

When the Sorting is finally over, the Headmaster stands, his voice booming through the hall. “Welcome, students, to another year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Before we begin the feast, a few words—“ But the rest of his speech is drowned out by the mouthwatering smells of the food that suddenly appears on the tables.

The chatter picks up again, the tension from the Sorting easing as everyone eagerly grabs at their plates.

You’re too busy eyeing the vast spread of food before you to hear much of the rest of the speech, but you’re vaguely aware of the boys throwing a few half-hearted jests around the table, already in full swing.

—

The rest of your first year at Hogwarts passes in a blur, the excitement of arrival quickly replaced by the everyday hustle and bustle of student life.

At first, it’s overwhelming—everywhere you turn, something is new, something is strange. The moving staircases seem to change direction just when you think you know where you’re going, and the enchanted ceiling in the Great Hall never stops being fascinating, no matter how many times you see it.

It takes time to get used to the constant hum of magic in the air, the eerie whispers of ghosts, and the strange ticking of clocks that seem to come from nowhere. And don’t even get started on the sheer number of subjects you have to juggle.

In the beginning, it feels like every lesson is a battle—Professor McGonagall’s Transfiguration lessons are a challenge, with all the wand flicking and concentration required, and you can’t seem to make heads or tails of the theory behind Charms. But slowly, everything starts to fall into place. You manage to keep up, and your confidence grows.

Friendships begin to form naturally. Your dorm mates, Marlene and Dorcas (along with Lily), are both easy to get along with, though they couldn’t be more different.

Marlene is loud, confident, and a bit of a daredevil, always getting you into minor trouble when she dares you to climb a tree in the middle of the night or sneak a peek into the Forbidden Forest.

Dorcas, on the other hand, is quieter and more thoughtful. She’s often seen with a book in hand, but she has an infectious laugh and a dry wit that makes you feel at ease around her. Both are easy to talk to, and by the end of the first few weeks, you all fall into a comfortable rhythm.

Your room, though small, is cozy. There’s a large window that overlooks the grounds, and at night, when the stars are visible, it’s easy to feel like you’re part of something bigger. You and Marlene have become particularly close, while Dorcas is often found deep in conversation with Lily, especially when the two of them start discussing spells and charms that they’ve been experimenting with.

The common room becomes a safe space for study sessions, late-night gossip, and the occasional nap.

Unfortunately, you also become all too familiar with the Gryffindor boys. You can’t seem to escape them—whether it’s Sirius Black’s voice echoing through the corridors as he cracks jokes, or James Potter’s comments about other students that walk by, they’re everywhere.

While they’re certainly fun to watch, and you do start to find their antics amusing in the end, you can’t shake the feeling that they’re never really serious about anything.

It’s in your first Potions lesson that you meet Severus Snape.

Professor Slughorn, who is strangely enthusiastic about everything, divides the class into groups of three, and you, Lily, and Severus end up paired together.

At first glance, Severus is a bit odd—he’s quiet, almost brooding, and his sharp, pale face seems like it belongs to someone much older. He doesn’t seem to mind being in the same group as you and Lily, but he also doesn’t offer much in the way of conversation. Instead, he focuses on the task at hand, muttering under his breath as he carefully measures ingredients.

But despite his aloofness, you find that you get along decently well. He’s not rude, just... reserved, and he’s clearly very good at Potions. When you and Lily struggle to get the potion just right, he offers a quiet suggestion or two, and the two of you exchange surprised looks when it works.

“You’re good at this,” you remark as the potion finally takes on the proper colour, a soft greenish hue that bubbles gently.

He looks at you, his dark eyes almost piercing. “I’ve been brewing since I was a kid,”

Lily glances up from her cauldron. “Really? That’s cool,”

He doesn’t answer her question directly but gives a small, almost imperceptible shrug. “I don’t have much else to do,” His tone is distant, and you sense there’s more to the answer, but you don’t press.

Despite his oddities, there’s something in Severus you can relate to—perhaps it’s the feeling of being an outsider, the awkwardness of trying to fit in while everyone else seems so confident. Still, you can’t help but feel that there’s a lot more lurking beneath the surface, and you find yourself wondering what makes him tick.

After that first Potions lesson, you, Lily, and Severus share a few more classes together—though it’s not like you’re all best friends. Severus stays to himself for the most part, but he’s never openly hostile, and you find that you can work together when needed. He has a strange intensity about him, but for the most part, you leave it at that.

As the year goes on, you find that your time at Hogwarts isn’t quite as eventful as you might have imagined. There are no dramatic moments, no life-changing revelations—just the slow, steady pace of school life. Yet, in a way, that’s comforting. There’s a certain rhythm to everything.

James, having been absentmindedly talking with Shane, only hummed a response, not really having any idea as to what the young woman was talking about, his eyes fixed on something, or rather someone, just a few feet away.

It had been a few days after the World Cup, with Britain securing the cup, which resulted in days worth of celebration that lasted up to the very last day, with banners still hung around on each and every tent and music still blasting all across the camp grounds.

“Or maybe an indoor garden?” she spoke again, and James could only give a faint nod of his head— still distracted, “but I think your house could go well with a small bookshelf in the living room.”

No matter how much he wanted to listen to whatever Shane was talking about, he just couldn’t. Not when your small laughter pierced through the crowded room as the young server from behind the counter threw a joke, something James knew was not even funny. There was a sudden feeling that clawed at James’ chest, something that he had been familiar with ever since he was fifteen. He cleared his throat, forcefully pulling his gaze off of your figure and instead granted his attention to Shane, who had been talking his ears off for a few minutes. He gave a tight-lipped smile, the corners of his eyes barely creasing.

“I am sorry,” he murmured, pivoting slowly on his feet to properly face the woman, “Merlin, I sound like an idiot, but could you repeat what you have said?”

He watched as Shane’s face morphed into mild irritation, her usually sweet saccharine smile was subdued—her fiery eyes looking as if the fires had dwindled into remaining embers. Though, despite those noticeable changes, James could not bring himself to care, not when you were just a few feet from him, showering your attention on the young server who looked far too happy to be entertaining a customer in this far too busy bakeshop.

“As I was saying,” Shane let out an exasperated sigh, her eyes no longer looking at James, “what plans do you have for your house?”

“I think I might have to…” he trailed off in his words as the unmistakable sound of your giggles pierced through the cacophony of people once again, and just like steel attracted to a magnet, James absentmindedly wandered his gaze toward your direction—his features pulling into a look of grimace as he saw the young server give you a poorly executed wink.

Merlin, he shouldn’t be flirting with a woman like you if he couldn’t do even the simplest of winks. But you were laughing—and James’ face contorted even more.

“I’m sorry, would you excuse me for a bit?” Shane’s face fell even more—though he barely paid it any mind as he whipped his head back in your direction, his feet already moving of their own accord toward you.

He walked with heaviness hung around his shoulders, his feet seeming to drag on the grassy grounds as he neared your place. There was a pounding in his chest, his large hands had begun gathering precipitation, and his mind seemed to dart elsewhere. Suddenly, James felt stupid.

What was his reason for approaching you anyway?

But to answer his internal question, quite frankly, he didn’t know. But he just couldn’t bring himself to just watch as the young server blatantly flirted with you. But he couldn’t just whisk you away from the counter now, could he? There must be a way, a silver lining that Merlin would endow him to pull himself out of this misery, and maybe, have you for himself, no matter how selfish that sounds.

Stopping mid-step, James looked down at his now empty cup, the body of which he had gripped tightly was now indented, no doubt taking the brunt of his flaring jealousy. He bit his lips, his eyes alight, and with a small smile pulling at his lips, he began walking—strutting towards you with an idea already swimming in his head.

“Darling,” he slipped beside you with ease, his charming smile flashing under the golden glow of the lights. He could feel you tense beside him, though he just brushed it off as he gave you a wink, this one, he knew, is better than the one that the guy gave you.

“I forgot to mention, Harry’s not fond of strawberry milkshakes.” His eyes flickered towards the young man, his smile turning into a smirk as he watched the server duck his head the moment James shifted his attention.

“And he told me to get him chocolate instead,” he leaned on the counter, his muscles protruding beneath the thin material of his sleeves.

He could see the way your eyes were clouded with confusion, your lips pressing into a thin line as you gave him an appraising look.

“He mentioned it to me, twice, actually,” you mumbled, still looking at James with uncertainty. “And this is a bakeshop, James; they don’t sell milkshakes here.”

There was a beat of silence, and James felt himself burn underneath your gaze. The embarrassment that washed over him was burning—scorching the depths of his soul until he was nothing but a flush mess, his eyes blinking as he looked at you. He shifted on his feet, his fingers flexing as if he were summoning any sort of strength—and then, with a clear of his throat, he flashed his smile, his white teeth gleaming like pearls.

He’s grinning like he just didn’t embarrass himself in front of you.

“Uh—actually,” he began, feigned confidence oozing from every word, though you could tell he was still reeling from his punctured ego with the way he was carding through his messy locks, “I just thought I’d remind you, in case you get them drinks.”

Your eyes seemed to squint even more, a crease growing on your forehead as you skimmed your gaze over his features.

“I already did, remember?” you asked, confusion still lingering. “Are you alright?”

It seemed James was rendered speechless once again as he owlishly blinked at you—his golden skin seemed to darken under your eyes. He thickly gulped as a sudden, uncomfortable lump grew inside his throat, his eyes briefly evading yours before he brought them back to look into your questioning hues. It seemed as though the Gods were against him today because not only was his jealousy tested, his pride and usual charm appeared to be not functioning well.

“Why wouldn’t I be alright, love?” he queried softly, the endearment slipping past his lips with the ease of a summer breeze passing through open windows.

He watched with bated breath as you gave him another look, his nervousness ticking like a time bomb.

“I dunno,” you replied just as the young server wrapped up your orders. James had almost forgotten the man’s existence, too focused on the way his mind had seemed to zero in on you the moment he stepped into your orbit.

“You seemed strange,” you softly remarked, and James almost had to stop the defensive scoff that threatened to escape his mouth.

You turned your head to the side, your lips pulling into a smile as you took the offered bag of pastries from the server before turning your gaze back to James.

“By the way, James, this is Louise,” you introduced the man with a faint tilt of your head, and James had to fight himself internally not to roll his eyes.

“He’s a baker near Lily and I’s flower shop.”

It was only then that James noticed the French flag hanging on the fabric wall on the far left corner of the tent—its cloth swaying softly with the wind. He cleared his throat for what felt like the umpteenth time, his cheeks burning hot even more.

He flashed Louise a forced smile, the pull at his lips barely reaching his ears. “James,” he introduced, his voice dropping an octave.

Not only was this man flirting with you—but he was also a known person between you and Lily, and worse, he could have known you for all the years that you had spent living in France. He felt a cold splash inside him at the realization, an icy feeling clawing at his chest, rendering his ability to think.

“You look so much like Harold,” Louise spoke, his French accent dripping in every word.

James gave another smile, hands shoving deep inside his pockets as if he were exuding an air of nonchalance. “Well, that is because I am his father.”

It doesn’t take a genius to notice the bite in his words, and if Louise detected it, then he had an impeccable way of hiding it. But you, however, did, much to James’ dismay.

“Well,” the young man said after a bit, his voice taking on a cheery tone, “don’t let me keep you for long. I am sure he’s waiting for you back in your tent.”

“Thank you, Louise,” you said in a sweet tone with a sweet smile, and James had to reprimand himself for feeling another surge of emotion course through him. “I’ll see you around.”

….

The walk back to your tent was awkward and silent. James had been consistently throwing glances at you, his hand seemingly stuck in his tresses as he kept on running it through them. You were surprised he had not grown a balding spot on his head yet.

Although there was a small tension that lingered in the air, James was adamant about being a gentleman as he took the bags of food from your hand, leaving you empty-handed and your arms swinging limply on the side of your body as you walked side by side together.

You risked a glance at him—the faint movement of your head was enough to be caught in his peripheral view. You could sense him tense, as if your very eyes could set him into stone.

You could tell he was deep in thought as the lines on his forehead were visible, thick brows drawn together, and his lips were puckered out in concentration.

“You’re unusually quiet,” you remarked as you rounded the corner, the path narrowing down, causing you and James’ bodies to be pushed closely against one another.

There was a current of electricity that flowed through you as the heat of his skin landed on your exposed arms—but you weren’t able to dwell on it much as you heard James let out a sigh, and finally, after what felt like a battle with himself, cast his gaze at you, a gentle smile tugging at his lips.

“Do you, um—“ he began as he scratched his nape, “do you like Louise?” He blurted out, suddenly catching you off guard, your mind appeared to stop for a moment as it tried to absorb whatever he could mean by that.

He seemed oblivious to your reaction as he waited for your answer, earnest shining in his eyes. You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, shoulders dropping at the motion.

“You’re acting really odd,” you uttered instead, almost in disbelief, diverting the conversation elsewhere, “but to answer your question, I don’t. He’s a good friend of mine.”

James let out a sigh of relief, and you didn’t know what to make out of that very action. He averted his gaze, a small, almost ghostly smile tugging at his lips.

Your eyes remained locked on the side of his face, your lips curling into a simper smile.

“How about Shane? Do you like her?” You asked, your shoulders bumping against his in a teasing manner.

James glanced at you, his face morphing into a look of mortification as he shook his head, his glasses nearly falling off his face.

“Merlin, no.” He laughed, “she’s just my contractor. It’s completely unprofessional.”

Your brows furrowed at that— Shane surely did not keep things professional between them. No matter how much she tried to keep it down, her flirtatious remarks and overly sweet smile that was only reserved for James, made it so obvious that she harbored feelings that go beyond professionalism for James.

But still, you kept your mouth shut.

“Are you planning to buy a house?” you asked instead, a single brow raised in curiosity.

“Uh, no, actually—I am planning on renovating our house.” He shook his head, his gaze returning to the path ahead, afraid of what he might see on your face.

Your brows were pulled close together; you seemed to be knee-deep in confusion by now. “You haven’t sold it?”

“It’s your house as much as it is mine.” He said with a shrug of his shoulders.

“Your father gave it to you.” You countered, and as much as you wanted to prove yourself right, you couldn’t help but feel a pinprick of pins to your heart.

“To us.” He stated, voice firm and authoritative.

It seemed as though every word in the book had disappeared from your mind—too fogged up with the lingering confusion and the sudden prick of realization. None of you spoke after that, only adding a heavy weight to the lingering tension in the air. Luckily, the sight of your tent came into view, and you almost breathed out a sigh of relief.

…

When you stepped inside the tent, the unusual arrangement of the furniture was the first thing you noticed. The long couch was pushed to the farthest side of the small living room, accompanied by the two loveseats that also ended with the same fate as the couch. In the middle stood a makeshift tent, made up of the blankets which, no doubt, were yours and James’.

You scoured your eyes inside, your mouth pulled to the side, eyes wide in wonder. There was no doubt in this world that this poor attempt at making a tent was done by your twins—not when you could practically see their silhouettes beneath the thick fabric of the blanket.

“I think we might have been gone for too long,” James suddenly spoke, breaking the momentary silence that had settled.

You nodded in response, eyes briefly flitting to his face. “I’m afraid they haven’t gotten your skills in making that.”

James snorted, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Careful, you might offend Harry. Merlin knows he’s far too dramatic for his own good.”

And as if you have summoned him by the mention of his name, Harry emerged from their creation, hair sticking to his sweaty forehead. He beamed a smile, all teeth out, and not even a second after Harry went out of their tent, out came Harold who, to no one’s surprise, was also slick with sweat.

“Mum, guess what!?” he excitedly asked, jumping up and down on the balls of his feet. “Harry and I made a tent!”

“And contrary to what you’ve said, Mum, we are actually skilled at it!” Harry huffed, sending a small glare toward you.

You could only playfully roll your eyes at your son, too amused to even think of something that would entertain his bruised ego. Lifting your eyes from Harry, you met James’ gaze—and as if he had been waiting for you to do just that, he smirked, sending a kaleidoscope of butterflies inside you.

You shrugged your shoulders, completely ignoring the onslaught of those damned butterflies inside your stomach.

“I think me and your dad would be the judge of that, sweetheart,” you returned your attention to your twins, a challenging look taking over your face. “So now, why don’t we eat these foods inside and see if you really are skilled—”

Before you could even finish your words, the twins had already started crawling back to their tent, excitedly giggling over themselves as if they'd created the funniest joke ever. You looked over to James and as if on cue, your eyes collided, and with a small nod toward the flap of their tent, and ever the gentleman, he lifted it, allowing you to enter first.

“Oh my…” you uttered as you looked around the small area, a look of adoration passing over your face. “I think I might have to take back what I have said.”

“Think you’ve outdone yourselves, lads,” James followed as he, too, emerged inside, his glasses slipping off the bridge of his nose.

The tent, however small it may be, was magnificent and cozy. It had paper stars hanging on threads—each swaying gently in rhythm with your movements. There were also toys and throw pillows scattered about, making the tent even warmer and more comfortable.

“We learned from the best,” Harry proudly said, wearing an ear-splitting grin. He leaned over the throw pillows, his hands cushioning his head. “Certainly not from you, Dad.”

“Alright, enough bullying your old father. How about we eat now? You must be knackered from creating this masterpiece.”

…

Even with James’ help of extending the inside of the tent, it still somehow felt cramped, and not to mention…it suddenly felt even hotter, as if autumn had suddenly backpedaled on its onset.

After you’d finished your meals, the twins had suggested that you sleep inside the tent, with them being on either side of you and James. Meaning, you would have to sleep beside each other closely. There’s no issue with it, right? You’ve slept on the same bed for days now, it’s not like you couldn’t handle this. But why were you suddenly feeling like your heart had doubled its beat, as if it had grown its own mini organ inside?

“Mum, can you make stars appear on the ceiling?” Harold asked from beside you, his small hand gently gripping your arm.

You shifted slightly in your position, the skin of your hands faintly grazing James’ arm.

“But there’s already stars, Harold,” James spoke on your behalf, unsure, but still, he reached for his wand.

Harold scooted closer to you—pushing you even closer to James’ heated body. The boy leaned in, and with a small, knowing smile, he said, “Yes, but they don’t twinkle like they do in my room.”

Their father only nodded in understanding before he flicked his wand in the air, and the entire small area was bathed in a golden glow, intensifying the warmth that surrounded the tent. Both Harry and Harold looked around in awe, their eyes, which they had inherited from their father, looked as if they had gold beneath them.

It was as if your entire body was dappled in sunlight as a warm feeling surged through you, their innocence and joyous smile bringing forth such glow that you could only feel whenever you’re around them.

“Mum?” a voice called, pulling you out of your mind.

You blinked— humming a response before flitting your eyes over to Harry who’s looking at you with a smile. “Yes, Haz?”

“I was asking if you could tell us a story.” He said, hands propping up the side of his head as he laid on a lateral position.

“I fear I’m not really a good storyteller,” you replied with an awkward laugh, “but maybe Dad has a good story to tell. We all know he’s far more talented than me.”

It was the truth. Between the two of you, James had a way of creating such lives through spoken words—not that you weren’t talented, but you found it more comfortable to hold a quill than talk animatedly to people.

You and the twins turned to look at James, an expectant and excited look could be seen on all of your faces. He seemed proud of your compliment as he let out a grin, his cheeks darkening under the golden lights.

“Have you ever heard the story of a princess and knight?” James began as he stirred in his place, trying to find a comfortable position.

The three of you shook your heads, prompting James to continue.

“Once upon a time,”

“There was a princess and a knight,” his voice had dropped an octave, and his hands began waving in the air. “She was a beautiful princess, everyone in the kingdom adored her, even the knights of their palace were at the mercy of her beauty.”

“But there’s one particular knight who seemed to be so in love with her beauty. He couldn’t help it! He’s just a man after all.” His voice raised slightly, a tinge of excitement carrying his words. “One day—the princess was tasked by her father to ride a horse. And for the love of everything that’s holy, the princess couldn’t ride one. Not even if it could save a life.”

The twins could barely contain their giggles at James’ words, prompting James to stop himself from continuing and relish the look on their faces.

“She sounds like Mum!” Harry said through his giggles, further making his twin laugh even more.

“I am not really afraid of horses,” you retorted, rising slightly to hover over James’ body to poke at Harry’s nose.

“I beg to disagree, darling. Didn’t I scare you to death when I transformed into a stag?” James asked, his breath coming out labored from the way you were still weighing down on his body.

You looked down at him, your hair cascading down like waterfalls, making you look ethereal above him. You smirked, barely registering the situation you were in.

“In my defense, I didn’t know you were an animagus, and a horse doesn’t have horns.” You rolled your eyes in playful retort, and James, loving the attention you were giving him, snorted and shook his head.

“Same difference,” he smiled, and it melted into a lopsided one.

There it was again, the sudden feeling of butterflies erupting in your stomach. The bolt of electricity that ran through your bloodstream heated up your cheeks and entire body. But before you could even dwell further on those lovesick feelings, a groan sounded from your right side, followed by the sound of someone gagging.

“Dad, get on with it and stop flirting with each other!”

Your cheeks turned hot— and as if scorched, you scrambled to get back into your position, ears and cheeks still set aflame. James cleared his throat, seemingly having the same predicament as you.

“Er—where were we?” he asked, and if it wasn’t for your position right now—you swore this man would be running his hands through his hair again.

“The horse,” you answered, voice small and shy.

“Yeah, well—the princess was so scared of the horse that her father had to call the knight to help her mount the beast,” he continued, his earlier voice returning. “And of course, the knight was happy to assist. The first time they went horse riding—everything went downhill. It was supposed to be a smooth-sailing session, but the princess, scared as ever, had managed to also freak the horse, and so…the animal had gone and galloped in the meadows.”

James continued his made-up story, and the more he went deeper into it, the more it started becoming familiar to you. It was very similar to the very first time you and James met, with you having been scared of mounting a broom and him insisting to Madam Hooch that he’d teach you the basics of flying.

His voice had turned into a lull, and Harold— who was just giggling earlier, had now become pliant beside you, his head resting against your arm, a small puff of breath escaping his slightly agape mouth.

“His fellow knights made fun of him, saying he’s far too deep in love with the princess that he’s teaching her how to horse ride for the sake of spending time with her rather than doing the king a favor.” His voice resurfaced back into your attention, and without meaning to, you craned your neck to look at him, watching as his lips moved into a slow motion as he uttered each and every word.

“It was not long before he asked her to sneak out to the lakes, and the princess, never one to back down from mischievous adventures, agreed.” James continued, and as though there was pull in your gaze, his eyes descended upon your awaiting ones, sending your heart to pummel against your poor ribcage.

Suddenly, your world had stopped revolving, and you were stuck within James’ orbit, pulled by his strong magnetic force. For a moment, everything ceased to exist, and it was you who were the only ones occupying the space. Harold and Harry were both asleep now, their little snores were the only thing you could hear aside from the loud pounding of your heart in your chest.

James looked as if he wanted to say more, his mouth slowly opening and closing, eyes still stuck on you. He swallowed thickly— and without thinking, he leaned in, sending your heart to soar out into the horizon. Your hot breaths mingled with each other until you could no longer decipher which was yours and which was his. From this angle, you could fully appreciate the way his long lashes fluttered above the skin of his lower lids, the way his deep brown eyes looked honeyed under the twinkle of the golden stars.

When you didn’t make a move to pull your face away from his, James leaned forward again, but not too much, as if testing the waters—whether it was too hot to dip himself, too cold, or just enough. You watched with a suspended breath, your mind clouding with a pearly-like haze, and without even meaning to, you leaned in, too weak to resist his yearning gaze.

James’ eyes traveled down to your lips before flickering back towards your eyes— a silent question, that you knew all too well was swirling through his brown ones, but before you could even utter an approval, whether it was a yes or no—a gust of wind came passing by, accompanied by a hooting sound, snapping the haze that you had found yourselves in. A sudden light feeling dropped on your chest, and much to James’ dismay, you looked down, breaking whatever bubble you two had shared.

You plucked the said object off your chest, and with shaky fingers, you brought it into your line of vision, your eyes squinting as you tried to read each stroke of letters on the parchment. It was from Lily, and judging by the way it was written haphazardly, you could tell that it was a matter of importance. You risked a glance back at James and, with a strained smile, got on your feet and went out of the tent.

You didn’t even know why you couldn't sleep. Usually, when you were out of town and away from home, the exhaustion from the day would wear you down, and you wouldn’t have much trouble sleeping. You had tried multiple times to think of what might have caused your predicament, but none of them made sense. It wasn’t the mattress, for it was soft and comfortable. It wasn’t the pillows either. The blankets? No, you had thrown them away in the heat of your annoyance, not because you could not sleep.

And it certainly was not the temperature.

It wasn’t even that hot thanks to the cooling charm that James had placed, yet your forehead was slick with sweat, only intensifying the frustration that had been simmering inside you. You turned once again, now facing James, who was sleeping peacefully on his back, his chest rising and falling calmly. He looked so gentle with his eyes closed, mouth slightly agape as he let out some puffs of airy breaths. There was a pang of envy upon seeing him sleep calmly.

James could not be the reason too, not when he was so kind to let you sleep on the large bed on your own, afraid that he would make you feel uncomfortable—to which you profusely declined, feeling guilty enough that you had taken Sirius’ ticket to the World Cup. He was not entirely not the reason because you knew, deep down, that the cause was more on a personal note.

With an exasperated, loud sigh, you let your eyes close, the gentle breathing of James the only sound you could hear as you silently prayed for the Gods above to grant you a very well-deserved rest.

...

It was already bright when you woke up. Sunlight filtered through the cracks of the blinds, the fabrics of the tent swaying softly as a breeze passed by, the wooden beams that supported your temporary home creaking. Despite it being late summer, the morning seemed to be a bit colder, a telltale sign of the onset of autumn. Shifting from your position, your hands brushed against the space that James occupied. It was cold and empty, a clear giveaway that he had woken up long ago. Swinging your legs off the bed, you let out a hiss as the morning chill nipped at your exposed skin, the feeling of goosebumps littering your legs enough to shake off the remnants of sleep that clung to your body.

Slowly, you began padding towards the flap that served as the door—the smell of bacon, eggs, and pancakes greeting you as you emerged from your room. The walls of the tent shifted lightly as the wind blew by, creating a soft wavy motion. You shuffled on your feet a bit before you encouraged yourself to move again towards the small kitchen area, the sight of your twins, Harry and Harold, happily munching on their breakfast welcoming you.

They hadn’t noticed you yet, too engrossed in whatever they were talking about, but James did—and his smile widened at the sight of you.

He waved his hand in greeting, a cup of steaming coffee in his palm, “You’re up,” he said, stating the obvious.

“Morning, James,” you greeted with a smile, the corners of your eyes crinkling. He tipped his cup in return before turning around, his exposed backside facing you.

The sight of his skin gleaming under the morning sun made you pause, your eyes greedily drinking in his figure. You have always known that James had a nice figure—but this figure? It was like he was sculpted by a famous muggle sculptor, the muscles on the expanse of his broad shoulder protruding with every move he made. Suddenly, the kitchen felt hot and you felt like a sinner in church.

“Good morning, mum,” Harry and Harold’s voices greeted you, their tone lilting with amusement, a teasing edge in their words—and you felt your face heat up.

“Morning, boys,” you greeted in return, willing the heat on your face to cool down as you padded towards them and placed some kisses on top of their heads.

“What’s for breakfast?” you asked with a smile, trying to steer away their attention.

Luckily, the two didn’t press on the fact that you had been ogling their father as they happily showed you the mess they had made on their plates.

“We made pancakes!” Harold exclaimed, the fork he was holding to stab a pancake now stretched towards you, “You should try it, mum, it’s the best!”

“Is it?” You mused before leaning down to take the small piece of pancake that your son had offered you.

The soft hum you let out as the warm, sweet, and buttery flavors burst in your mouth was enough to pull a pair of victorious grins from their faces. They looked like they had won a tournament, their eyes twinkling in happiness.

“Was it good?” Harry asked, his eyes wide in anticipation.

“It was, darling,” you mumbled before pulling a chair to sit on.

“I told you mum would like it,” Harry said smugly as he turned towards his father, who, by the way, was now walking towards you with a plate of food in his hand.

“Remind me not to doubt your suggestions again, Haz,” James replied with a playful roll of his eyes.

“Pancakes and bacon,” he murmured as he placed a plate of two pancakes in front of you. “Do you want tea or coffee?” he questioned with a big smile.

“Coffee, please.”

...

“I welcome you to the incredibly awaited event of the year,” Millicent Bagnold's voice echoed across the pitch, triggering a cacophony of applause and cheers that shook the stands. “Now, to start the event, let me introduce to you the esteemed…”

You were standing on the highest part of the Quidditch stands, your spot offering the best view of the large pitch that seemed to stretch endlessly. From where you stood, you could see Bagnold offering her place to an elderly man with pitch-black hair; his sudden appearance on the podium quieted the crowd into soft whispers.

The man cleared his throat before tipping his tall hat to the ground. “Before we formally begin, we’d like to announce a few reminders,” he began, his voice firm and authoritative. “This tournament’s sole purpose is to unite each country in sportsmanship.”

“As expected, no barbaric behavior will be tolerated during the game. Failure to adhere to such simple rules will lead to disqualification.”

“So, to kick off our tournament,” he continued after a while, his once flat tone now replaced with a cheery one, “let me introduce you to the Sirens of France!”

Just then, a blur of silver and blue zoomed in the air, triggering a wave of cheers and applause that thundered around the stadium. The players made a show of zigzagging in the air, intensifying the sound of the crowd.

There was a sudden tug at your right hand, pulling your eyes away from the players. Looking down, you met Harold’s gleaming eyes, a smile splitting across his face as he pointed at a certain player flying in circles around the pitch. “It’s Reggie!”

Just then, a blur of ebony hair whizzed in your direction. The speed at which the broom was traveling summoned a gust of wind towards you, ruffling your hair in the process.

“Who is that?” Harry asked, his curiosity piqued, eyes following the figure of Regulus.

Harold removed his Omniculars with a gasp, a look of pure offense on his face. “Don’t tell me you don’t know who Regulus is?”

“No?” Harry shrugged his shoulders.

“You’re kidding, right? Siren Prince? Best Seeker? He’s from Britain but plays in France,” his twin pressed on, eyes almost bulging out in disbelief.

“Does he look like Sirius to you?” Harry asked instead, eyes following Regulus’ zooming figure.

“He does,” Harold mumbled as he put his Omniculars back on. “But that’s beside the point,” he turned towards you, a look of smugness flashing across his face. “Mum, I can’t believe Harry doesn’t know Reggie.”

James, having heard what your twins were talking about, shot you a look, a grin beginning to creep up on his face. You shrugged your shoulders in response to whatever on earth he was trying to nonverbally convey. But before you could dwell on it, the British team emerged from their tents, and you quickly turned your attention back to the pitch, hoping to wash away the sudden warmth in your face.

“Please also welcome, the pride of Britain!”

The man continued, and another blur of figures zoomed around the air, amplifying the cheers of the crowds. It seemed the people were more in favor of the British teams as they waved their wands in the air—sparks of the team’s colors shooting up, illuminating the evening sky in a red and blue glow.

Euphoria thrummed in the entire pitch as the rival teams continued soaring around, making a show of displaying their talent in mounting their brooms. Even Harold, who is not very fond of flying but is an enthusiast of the game, clapped along as one of the players from Britain made a high-speed dive towards the ground.

James let out a loud cheer from beside you, clapping his hands. He looked as if he hadn't used to pull such stunts before, his eyes gleaming with childlike wonder.

“That was brilliant!” he said, nudging you lightly as he leaned down, his hot breath brushing against the side of your face.

There was a galloping sound in your heart, your breath staggering as he leaned in closer.

“But you know what’s more brilliant?” he whispered, and even though there were shouts and claps around you, you could still clearly hear his words.

You tilted your head slightly, completely ignoring the fact that your faces were just a breath away from each other, ”What?”

James flashed a smile before leaning back, taking all the warmth with him, “is that we grab some snacks before this game really starts,” he threw a wink, and your heart thrashed wildly against your chest.

Forcing your breath to normalize its pace, you pulled your gaze away from him, your words dying on your lips as the feeling of his warm breath lingered on your skin.

You cleared your throat, “They are not starting yet?”

He shot you a small grin as he dug into his pocket for a few Galleons. “Nope, they still have yet to introduce the mascots,” he replied before shaking the few Galleons he had dug up from his pockets.

“So, anything you like?” he asked with a charming smile, his hips leaning against the banister of the stands. “Or on the other note, maybe you should come with me.” The words escaped him so naturally, completely oblivious to the storm of emotions brewing inside you.

“We can’t really leave the boys on their own,” you murmured, willing yourself to look at him, but as soon as you met his eyes, your courage dwindled, and you were left with no choice but to focus your gaze back on the pitch once again.

James clicked his tongue as if he was mulling over your words, and after a beat of silence, pushed himself off the banister.

“I am sure they would hardly mind, and there are Aurors around. Nothing will ever happen.” he said with an almost pleading tone, and despite the tremor inside you, you found yourself looking him straight in the eye.

For someone who’s supposed to be a grown man, James looked as if he was seventeen, all doe eyes and begging. There was something shining beneath his glasses that gleamed even more as the light caught his irises, and you found yourself pulled within them.

Throwing a glance at your boys, you let out a sigh before playfully rolling your eyes at James.

“Alright, but keep your Galleons, I will be paying.”

The breath he let out was heavy, as if he was begging for forgiveness from Merlin himself. “I will think about it,” he replied as he clapped his hands, a smile still tugging at his lips.

Despite your initial concern, you knew that even at their young age, Harry and Harold could be left alone. They possessed the ability to act responsibly, and you knew deep down that they weren’t the type to misbehave.

James sauntered over to your twins with a hop in his step, knees kissing the floor as he kneeled down to their level. You watched as they conversed with each other, the twins happily indulging James, seemingly not bothered by the fact that you’d be leaving them on their own for the time being. In fact, they looked downright thrilled.

“Your mother and I won’t be gone for long, so no funny business,” he spoke sternly, giving your sons an appraising look. “And yes, I am talking to you, Haz.”

“Yes, dad,” Harry said without sparing James a glance, too absorbed in the parade of mascots below the stands.

Nodding, James stood from his crouched position and sent you a smile once again. His hands stretched to grab yours absentmindedly. Your breath hitched as a flood of warmth washed over you, the feeling of his palm encasing yours so naturally that it sent your heart hammering against your chest. You were glad James didn’t seem to notice the way everything inside you seemed to falter whenever his touch found a patch of your skin. You didn't think you could handle it if he knew what storm of emotions he brought inside you.

“Anything you’d like to try?” He asked as he led you through the stairs of the stands, his other hand landing on the small of your back to guide you.

The fabric of your shirt offered little barrier against James’ palm. His warmth seeped through the cloth, leaving goosebumps in its wake as the heat traveled across your back and onto your face.

Clearing your throat, you turned to face James, a small smile lingering on your lips. “There’s this Chinese stall I passed by earlier.”

He made a low whistling sound, amused, as he turned his eyes on the path ahead. “Let me guess,” he drawled, turning to face you again, a smirk tugging at his lips, “the one with candied fruits on a skewer?”

“Yeah,” you replied with a chuckle.

“We tried making those before,” he recalled, a smile overtaking his face. “Harry almost lost a tooth or two.”

A laugh bubbled out of your chest, and as if there was some kind of pull in your laughter—James’ lips stretched into a grin, his pearly white teeth shining under the pitch’s light. He looked as if he had just won the lottery with the way he’s looking at you, even his eyes were smiling.

“What?” you breathed out, your smile still in place.

There was an intensity in his gaze, and it felt as though the ground beneath you had vanished and you were falling—floating down in a never-ending abyss. Suddenly, the wooden floors had become interesting as you cast your eyes down

The crowd around you erupted into cheers, and you blinked, the momentary haze that took over you dissipating as your reality sank in. With your cheeks flaming hot, you worried your lip in between your teeth and risked a glance at James, only to find that he was still looking (staring) at you, a certain gentleness swirling in his pools.

…

James did not make you pay. Despite your many attempts at handing him your money, your insistence fell on deaf ears as he handed the cashier behind the counter his Galleons, a triumphant smirk stretching across his face.

“James, you can’t be serious, right?” you asked, a small annoyance beginning to color your voice. “We agreed that I would be paying for these.”

“I didn’t really agree, did I?” he replied as he took the plastic bags from your hands. “And Siriu—”

“I swear to Merlin, if you are gonna pull that pun again—”

“Alright, alright,” he relented with a shake of his head. “How about you pay for dinner later?”

“This is not dinner?” you questioned, glancing at the three plastic bags in his hands. “We could feed an entire class with these foods.”

“Well then, I will let you pay for tomorrow’s dinner,” he suggested with a grin.

But before you could even come up with a retort, the girl behind the counter called out your name, the drinks you had ordered now waiting for you on the counter. You squinted your eyes at him, the corners of your mouth raising slightly despite yourself.

“You better promise,” you said as you walked to pick up your drinks.

Just as you were about to turn around, a sudden shadow fell over you, accompanied by a musky scent that invaded your nostrils. Curious to see who it could be, you looked up, only to be met with Felix’s friendly gaze. He smiled at you, his mustache obscuring his teeth from your view.

“My, I didn’t think I’d see you two here,” he said with a hearty laugh, his eyes twinkling beneath his square glasses.

“Hello, Felix,” you greeted, your tone equally friendly. “We were just grabbing some snacks for the kids,” you added with a simple shrug of your shoulders.

“Ah yes,” he said with a sigh, hands shoving deeply into his pockets. “Well, don’t let me keep you for long.”

“Uncle, I swear—” a voice suddenly pierced through, causing the three of you to snap your gaze towards the source. ”Those bloody bands are gonna kill me,“

A woman, who looked barely twenty-five, with blonde hair and red lips, sauntered over, a deep frown settling over her face as she tossed her hair in mild annoyance. “One of these days I am gonna—”

“Shane,” Felix interrupted her rambling, prompting the woman to look up, her gaze landing on James. “I suppose you remember James?”

The young woman, who you now know as Shane, smiled, the once frown that settled over her face vanishing within a millisecond. She ran her finger through her hair, her icy blue eyes raking over James’ face.

“James,” she said, breathless, barely even sparing Felix a glance, “I can’t believe you’re here,” she added once she reached you, her cherry red lips stretching into a sweet saccharine smile. “We’ve never really seen each other ever since that meeting in your house.”

James let out a dry chuckle, his hand, which was not occupied with plastic bags, went to scratch the back of his head. “I’ve been really swamped,”

He shot you a look, to which you returned with an amused quirk of your brow. “You know how it is in the Ministry,”

“Of course,” she let out a smile again before her gaze flitted over you, the tint in her hues darkening. She angled her head to the side, eyes running over your face as if she was assessing something.

“I am afraid we haven’t met before,” she said after a while, her eyes, which seemed to darken even more, looked intently through your eyes. “I am Shane,” she said, hands outstretched for you to shake.

You uttered your name as you accepted her outstretched hand, the long, sharp, manicured nail of her thumb scratching against your knuckles.

“You must be Harry’s nanny, correct?” She questioned with a faint tilt of her head, her blonde waves cascading in motion. “I have not really seen you around the house.”

A surprised laugh almost escaped your mouth, though you held it back. The question sounded innocent, but you knew deep down there was an underlying tone beneath it. There was no bite in her words, but it was certainly intended to hurt at least a little. There was more to her words than polite interest, something green—something you had also tried to conceal before. You weren’t born yesterday, and you could figure out the way she was looking at James so easily.

Shaking your head, you gave Shane your sweet smile before withdrawing your hand. “His mum, actually.”

There was a pause—and Shane almost looked as if she was taken aback, her eyes, which were just squinted earlier, widened a fraction, mouth hanging slightly ajar.

Felix, who was silently watching the exchange between the two of you, cleared his throat, breaking the small tensed atmosphere that fell over.

“Well, I just remembered we will be meeting your father in about a minute,” he glanced at Shane, the subtle way in which he squinted his eyes at the woman did not escape your notice.

“And I am sure your kids are waiting for you,” he gave you a smile, his eyes turning into an apologetic look. “I’ll see you around.”

Nodding your head, you offered Felix a smile as they turned their backs on you. Shane, who looked like she’d want the ground to swallow her whole, immediately swiveled on her feet. You watched as the two disappeared into the crowd, the once tense atmosphere now renewed into something calm. You cast a glance at James, your smile, which had been subdued earlier, now tugging into a genuine, wide one.

He quirked his brow in silent question, the corner of his lips lifting into a smirk.

“I didn’t realize you’d turn into a silver fox and start attracting younger women,” you teasingly said as you bumped his shoulder.

He let out a scoff, eyes rolling to the back of his head, as his hands shot for the bag of drinks you were holding. “I’ll have you know that I am content enough being a stag.”

You didn’t even know why you couldn't sleep. Usually, when you were out of town and away from home, the exhaustion from the day would wear you down, and you wouldn’t have much trouble sleeping. You had tried multiple times to think of what might have caused your predicament, but none of them made sense. It wasn’t the mattress, for it was soft and comfortable. It wasn’t the pillows either. The blankets? No, you had thrown them away in the heat of your annoyance, not because you could not sleep.

And it certainly was not the temperature.

It wasn’t even that hot thanks to the cooling charm that James had placed, yet your forehead was slick with sweat, only intensifying the frustration that had been simmering inside you. You turned once again, now facing James, who was sleeping peacefully on his back, his chest rising and falling calmly. He looked so gentle with his eyes closed, mouth slightly agape as he let out some puffs of airy breaths. There was a pang of envy upon seeing him sleep calmly.

James could not be the reason too, not when he was so kind to let you sleep on the large bed on your own, afraid that he would make you feel uncomfortable—to which you profusely declined, feeling guilty enough that you had taken Sirius’ ticket to the World Cup. He was not entirely not the reason because you knew, deep down, that the cause was more on a personal note.

With an exasperated, loud sigh, you let your eyes close, the gentle breathing of James the only sound you could hear as you silently prayed for the Gods above to grant you a very well-deserved rest.

...

It was already bright when you woke up. Sunlight filtered through the cracks of the blinds, the fabrics of the tent swaying softly as a breeze passed by, the wooden beams that supported your temporary home creaking. Despite it being late summer, the morning seemed to be a bit colder, a telltale sign of the onset of autumn. Shifting from your position, your hands brushed against the space that James occupied. It was cold and empty, a clear giveaway that he had woken up long ago. Swinging your legs off the bed, you let out a hiss as the morning chill nipped at your exposed skin, the feeling of goosebumps littering your legs enough to shake off the remnants of sleep that clung to your body.

Slowly, you began padding towards the flap that served as the door—the smell of bacon, eggs, and pancakes greeting you as you emerged from your room. The walls of the tent shifted lightly as the wind blew by, creating a soft wavy motion. You shuffled on your feet a bit before you encouraged yourself to move again towards the small kitchen area, the sight of your twins, Harry and Harold, happily munching on their breakfast welcoming you.

They hadn’t noticed you yet, too engrossed in whatever they were talking about, but James did—and his smile widened at the sight of you.

He waved his hand in greeting, a cup of steaming coffee in his palm, “You’re up,” he said, stating the obvious.

“Morning, James,” you greeted with a smile, the corners of your eyes crinkling. He tipped his cup in return before turning around, his exposed backside facing you.

The sight of his skin gleaming under the morning sun made you pause, your eyes greedily drinking in his figure. You have always known that James had a nice figure—but this figure? It was like he was sculpted by a famous muggle sculptor, the muscles on the expanse of his broad shoulder protruding with every move he made. Suddenly, the kitchen felt hot and you felt like a sinner in church.

“Good morning, mum,” Harry and Harold’s voices greeted you, their tone lilting with amusement, a teasing edge in their words—and you felt your face heat up.

“Morning, boys,” you greeted in return, willing the heat on your face to cool down as you padded towards them and placed some kisses on top of their heads.

“What’s for breakfast?” you asked with a smile, trying to steer away their attention.

Luckily, the two didn’t press on the fact that you had been ogling their father as they happily showed you the mess they had made on their plates.

“We made pancakes!” Harold exclaimed, the fork he was holding to stab a pancake now stretched towards you, “You should try it, mum, it’s the best!”

“Is it?” You mused before leaning down to take the small piece of pancake that your son had offered you.

The soft hum you let out as the warm, sweet, and buttery flavors burst in your mouth was enough to pull a pair of victorious grins from their faces. They looked like they had won a tournament, their eyes twinkling in happiness.

“Was it good?” Harry asked, his eyes wide in anticipation.

“It was, darling,” you mumbled before pulling a chair to sit on.

“I told you mum would like it,” Harry said smugly as he turned towards his father, who, by the way, was now walking towards you with a plate of food in his hand.

“Remind me not to doubt your suggestions again, Haz,” James replied with a playful roll of his eyes.

“Pancakes and bacon,” he murmured as he placed a plate of two pancakes in front of you. “Do you want tea or coffee?” he questioned with a big smile.

“Coffee, please.”

...

“I welcome you to the incredibly awaited event of the year,” Millicent Bagnold's voice echoed across the pitch, triggering a cacophony of applause and cheers that shook the stands. “Now, to start the event, let me introduce to you the esteemed…”

You were standing on the highest part of the Quidditch stands, your spot offering the best view of the large pitch that seemed to stretch endlessly. From where you stood, you could see Bagnold offering her place to an elderly man with pitch-black hair; his sudden appearance on the podium quieted the crowd into soft whispers.

The man cleared his throat before tipping his tall hat to the ground. “Before we formally begin, we’d like to announce a few reminders,” he began, his voice firm and authoritative. “This tournament’s sole purpose is to unite each country in sportsmanship.”

“As expected, no barbaric behavior will be tolerated during the game. Failure to adhere to such simple rules will lead to disqualification.”

“So, to kick off our tournament,” he continued after a while, his once flat tone now replaced with a cheery one, “let me introduce you to the Sirens of France!”

Just then, a blur of silver and blue zoomed in the air, triggering a wave of cheers and applause that thundered around the stadium. The players made a show of zigzagging in the air, intensifying the sound of the crowd.

There was a sudden tug at your right hand, pulling your eyes away from the players. Looking down, you met Harold’s gleaming eyes, a smile splitting across his face as he pointed at a certain player flying in circles around the pitch. “It’s Reggie!”

Just then, a blur of ebony hair whizzed in your direction. The speed at which the broom was traveling summoned a gust of wind towards you, ruffling your hair in the process.

“Who is that?” Harry asked, his curiosity piqued, eyes following the figure of Regulus.

Harold removed his Omniculars with a gasp, a look of pure offense on his face. “Don’t tell me you don’t know who Regulus is?”

“No?” Harry shrugged his shoulders.

“You’re kidding, right? Siren Prince? Best Seeker? He’s from Britain but plays in France,” his twin pressed on, eyes almost bulging out in disbelief.

“Does he look like Sirius to you?” Harry asked instead, eyes following Regulus’ zooming figure.

“He does,” Harold mumbled as he put his Omniculars back on. “But that’s beside the point,” he turned towards you, a look of smugness flashing across his face. “Mum, I can’t believe Harry doesn’t know Reggie.”

James, having heard what your twins were talking about, shot you a look, a grin beginning to creep up on his face. You shrugged your shoulders in response to whatever on earth he was trying to nonverbally convey. But before you could dwell on it, the British team emerged from their tents, and you quickly turned your attention back to the pitch, hoping to wash away the sudden warmth in your face.

“Please also welcome, the pride of Britain!”

The man continued, and another blur of figures zoomed around the air, amplifying the cheers of the crowds. It seemed the people were more in favor of the British teams as they waved their wands in the air—sparks of the team’s colors shooting up, illuminating the evening sky in a red and blue glow.

Euphoria thrummed in the entire pitch as the rival teams continued soaring around, making a show of displaying their talent in mounting their brooms. Even Harold, who is not very fond of flying but is an enthusiast of the game, clapped along as one of the players from Britain made a high-speed dive towards the ground.

James let out a loud cheer from beside you, clapping his hands. He looked as if he hadn't used to pull such stunts before, his eyes gleaming with childlike wonder.

“That was brilliant!” he said, nudging you lightly as he leaned down, his hot breath brushing against the side of your face.

There was a galloping sound in your heart, your breath staggering as he leaned in closer.

“But you know what’s more brilliant?” he whispered, and even though there were shouts and claps around you, you could still clearly hear his words.

You tilted your head slightly, completely ignoring the fact that your faces were just a breath away from each other, ”What?”

James flashed a smile before leaning back, taking all the warmth with him, “is that we grab some snacks before this game really starts,” he threw a wink, and your heart thrashed wildly against your chest.

Forcing your breath to normalize its pace, you pulled your gaze away from him, your words dying on your lips as the feeling of his warm breath lingered on your skin.

You cleared your throat, “They are not starting yet?”

He shot you a small grin as he dug into his pocket for a few Galleons. “Nope, they still have yet to introduce the mascots,” he replied before shaking the few Galleons he had dug up from his pockets.

“So, anything you like?” he asked with a charming smile, his hips leaning against the banister of the stands. “Or on the other note, maybe you should come with me.” The words escaped him so naturally, completely oblivious to the storm of emotions brewing inside you.

“We can’t really leave the boys on their own,” you murmured, willing yourself to look at him, but as soon as you met his eyes, your courage dwindled, and you were left with no choice but to focus your gaze back on the pitch once again.

James clicked his tongue as if he was mulling over your words, and after a beat of silence, pushed himself off the banister.

“I am sure they would hardly mind, and there are Aurors around. Nothing will ever happen.” he said with an almost pleading tone, and despite the tremor inside you, you found yourself looking him straight in the eye.

For someone who’s supposed to be a grown man, James looked as if he was seventeen, all doe eyes and begging. There was something shining beneath his glasses that gleamed even more as the light caught his irises, and you found yourself pulled within them.

Throwing a glance at your boys, you let out a sigh before playfully rolling your eyes at James.

“Alright, but keep your Galleons, I will be paying.”

The breath he let out was heavy, as if he was begging for forgiveness from Merlin himself. “I will think about it,” he replied as he clapped his hands, a smile still tugging at his lips.

Despite your initial concern, you knew that even at their young age, Harry and Harold could be left alone. They possessed the ability to act responsibly, and you knew deep down that they weren’t the type to misbehave.

James sauntered over to your twins with a hop in his step, knees kissing the floor as he kneeled down to their level. You watched as they conversed with each other, the twins happily indulging James, seemingly not bothered by the fact that you’d be leaving them on their own for the time being. In fact, they looked downright thrilled.

“Your mother and I won’t be gone for long, so no funny business,” he spoke sternly, giving your sons an appraising look. “And yes, I am talking to you, Haz.”

“Yes, dad,” Harry said without sparing James a glance, too absorbed in the parade of mascots below the stands.

Nodding, James stood from his crouched position and sent you a smile once again. His hands stretched to grab yours absentmindedly. Your breath hitched as a flood of warmth washed over you, the feeling of his palm encasing yours so naturally that it sent your heart hammering against your chest. You were glad James didn’t seem to notice the way everything inside you seemed to falter whenever his touch found a patch of your skin. You didn't think you could handle it if he knew what storm of emotions he brought inside you.

“Anything you’d like to try?” He asked as he led you through the stairs of the stands, his other hand landing on the small of your back to guide you.

The fabric of your shirt offered little barrier against James’ palm. His warmth seeped through the cloth, leaving goosebumps in its wake as the heat traveled across your back and onto your face.

Clearing your throat, you turned to face James, a small smile lingering on your lips. “There’s this Chinese stall I passed by earlier.”

He made a low whistling sound, amused, as he turned his eyes on the path ahead. “Let me guess,” he drawled, turning to face you again, a smirk tugging at his lips, “the one with candied fruits on a skewer?”

“Yeah,” you replied with a chuckle.

“We tried making those before,” he recalled, a smile overtaking his face. “Harry almost lost a tooth or two.”

A laugh bubbled out of your chest, and as if there was some kind of pull in your laughter—James’ lips stretched into a grin, his pearly white teeth shining under the pitch’s light. He looked as if he had just won the lottery with the way he’s looking at you, even his eyes were smiling.

“What?” you breathed out, your smile still in place.

There was an intensity in his gaze, and it felt as though the ground beneath you had vanished and you were falling—floating down in a never-ending abyss. Suddenly, the wooden floors had become interesting as you cast your eyes down

The crowd around you erupted into cheers, and you blinked, the momentary haze that took over you dissipating as your reality sank in. With your cheeks flaming hot, you worried your lip in between your teeth and risked a glance at James, only to find that he was still looking (staring) at you, a certain gentleness swirling in his pools.

…

James did not make you pay. Despite your many attempts at handing him your money, your insistence fell on deaf ears as he handed the cashier behind the counter his Galleons, a triumphant smirk stretching across his face.

“James, you can’t be serious, right?” you asked, a small annoyance beginning to color your voice. “We agreed that I would be paying for these.”

“I didn’t really agree, did I?” he replied as he took the plastic bags from your hands. “And Siriu—”

“I swear to Merlin, if you are gonna pull that pun again—”

“Alright, alright,” he relented with a shake of his head. “How about you pay for dinner later?”

“This is not dinner?” you questioned, glancing at the three plastic bags in his hands. “We could feed an entire class with these foods.”

“Well then, I will let you pay for tomorrow’s dinner,” he suggested with a grin.

But before you could even come up with a retort, the girl behind the counter called out your name, the drinks you had ordered now waiting for you on the counter. You squinted your eyes at him, the corners of your mouth raising slightly despite yourself.

“You better promise,” you said as you walked to pick up your drinks.

Just as you were about to turn around, a sudden shadow fell over you, accompanied by a musky scent that invaded your nostrils. Curious to see who it could be, you looked up, only to be met with Felix’s friendly gaze. He smiled at you, his mustache obscuring his teeth from your view.

“My, I didn’t think I’d see you two here,” he said with a hearty laugh, his eyes twinkling beneath his square glasses.

“Hello, Felix,” you greeted, your tone equally friendly. “We were just grabbing some snacks for the kids,” you added with a simple shrug of your shoulders.

“Ah yes,” he said with a sigh, hands shoving deeply into his pockets. “Well, don’t let me keep you for long.”

“Uncle, I swear—” a voice suddenly pierced through, causing the three of you to snap your gaze towards the source. ”Those bloody bands are gonna kill me,“

A woman, who looked barely twenty-five, with blonde hair and red lips, sauntered over, a deep frown settling over her face as she tossed her hair in mild annoyance. “One of these days I am gonna—”

“Shane,” Felix interrupted her rambling, prompting the woman to look up, her gaze landing on James. “I suppose you remember James?”

The young woman, who you now know as Shane, smiled, the once frown that settled over her face vanishing within a millisecond. She ran her finger through her hair, her icy blue eyes raking over James’ face.

“James,” she said, breathless, barely even sparing Felix a glance, “I can’t believe you’re here,” she added once she reached you, her cherry red lips stretching into a sweet saccharine smile. “We’ve never really seen each other ever since that meeting in your house.”

James let out a dry chuckle, his hand, which was not occupied with plastic bags, went to scratch the back of his head. “I’ve been really swamped,”

He shot you a look, to which you returned with an amused quirk of your brow. “You know how it is in the Ministry,”

“Of course,” she let out a smile again before her gaze flitted over you, the tint in her hues darkening. She angled her head to the side, eyes running over your face as if she was assessing something.

“I am afraid we haven’t met before,” she said after a while, her eyes, which seemed to darken even more, looked intently through your eyes. “I am Shane,” she said, hands outstretched for you to shake.

You uttered your name as you accepted her outstretched hand, the long, sharp, manicured nail of her thumb scratching against your knuckles.

“You must be Harry’s nanny, correct?” She questioned with a faint tilt of her head, her blonde waves cascading in motion. “I have not really seen you around the house.”

A surprised laugh almost escaped your mouth, though you held it back. The question sounded innocent, but you knew deep down there was an underlying tone beneath it. There was no bite in her words, but it was certainly intended to hurt at least a little. There was more to her words than polite interest, something green—something you had also tried to conceal before. You weren’t born yesterday, and you could figure out the way she was looking at James so easily.

Shaking your head, you gave Shane your sweet smile before withdrawing your hand. “His mum, actually.”

There was a pause—and Shane almost looked as if she was taken aback, her eyes, which were just squinted earlier, widened a fraction, mouth hanging slightly ajar.

Felix, who was silently watching the exchange between the two of you, cleared his throat, breaking the small tensed atmosphere that fell over.

“Well, I just remembered we will be meeting your father in about a minute,” he glanced at Shane, the subtle way in which he squinted his eyes at the woman did not escape your notice.

“And I am sure your kids are waiting for you,” he gave you a smile, his eyes turning into an apologetic look. “I’ll see you around.”

Nodding your head, you offered Felix a smile as they turned their backs on you. Shane, who looked like she’d want the ground to swallow her whole, immediately swiveled on her feet. You watched as the two disappeared into the crowd, the once tense atmosphere now renewed into something calm. You cast a glance at James, your smile, which had been subdued earlier, now tugging into a genuine, wide one.

He quirked his brow in silent question, the corner of his lips lifting into a smirk.

“I didn’t realize you’d turn into a silver fox and start attracting younger women,” you teasingly said as you bumped his shoulder.

He let out a scoff, eyes rolling to the back of his head, as his hands shot for the bag of drinks you were holding. “I’ll have you know that I am content enough being a stag.”