~ Cora ~

he immediately got up to great you.

“hey,” he breathed out , taking you in.

your hair was done beautiful and despite being in boring old uniform you’d never looked better.

“i missed you,”

his arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you in for a hug.

“same,” he laughed softly.

“could this school get any worse? first coach hedge and now i barely see you?”

“the worst!”

you pecked his lips quickly.

which only left him wanting another.

so obviously he did.

a few more actually.

“okay! okay! stop!” you giggled as he landed another on the tip of your nose.

you were now laying on the ground.

an adorable quilt you had (somewhat) crafted was sat under you, providing cushion.

his head lay on your chest as your eyes gazed at the stars.

the dark sky was a sea of sparkles , they reminded you of his eyes.

his dazzling eyes that had pulled you in from the first moment you met.

“im so happy to have met you,” he turns on his side to face you.

the sun was almost completely set but the remaining light made you look like the closest thing leo had ever seen to angel.

maybe you were.

maybe you were his darling angel and he would gladly spend his life on his knees doing your every word.

“the day…” he began , cheeks flushed.

“on the bus,” you added too, smiling at the loving memory.

“you tripped,” he pointed to you in a teasing manner.

“i was falling for you actually!”

“cheesy lines are my thing!”

“looks like i rubbed off on you,” he had an amused grin on his face now.

“ehem!”

you both turned around quickly.

shit.

a hall monitor.

“to your rooms, now!”

leo scratched the back of his neck awkwardly.

the two of you waited until she was long gone before unfortunately making your way back to your quarters.

at the entrance of your shared room with piper you stopped.

he handed you the quilt that he was carrying for you , what a gentleman (bare minimum actually)

“sooo worth it,”

his hands were on your hips , pulling you in.

“definitely,” you snorted.

“but maybe next time choose a better spot,”

that set off another chuckle.

he placed a soft lingering kiss on your lips before pulling away with his stupid lovestruck smile jason was always teasing him for having.

“night,”

“night mi amor, love ya.”

fluff! hope you guys like it 🦄🦄

“good night, draco.”

“night,” he mumbles against your jaw.

“love.” you stir, draco’s gruff morning voice waking you up. “hm? i was asleep,” you mumble, rubbing your eyes once you noticed he wasn’t laying on you anymore.

“i saw that.” he chuckled, pushing your hair out of your face. “i love you,” he says. you blink.

“well? something to say to me after that?”

“huh? oh. i love you, too.” draco rolls his eyes,

“yet you needed to be reminded to say it back?”

you knew he was just joking, but your stomach made that weird feeling—the bad, guilty kind. “just woke up, baby. sorry,” you mumble, squeezing his wrist.

he grins, “i know. im kidding,” he stands up, “gonna shower. in my own bathroom, ive pestered you enough.” he chuckles at his own joke, unlocking and locking the door behind him.

you lean back, mind rushing. what could you do to make it up to him? these past couple of days, he’s been remarkably sweet and clingy with you, both emotionally and especially physically.

you sighed, reaching for your wand on your bedside drawer, blinking when you grasp your quill instead. you blink again, a slow realization coming in.

a couple hours and lessons later, around nine pm, you hear three familiar knocks on your bedroom door. you smile, getting the long, folded piece of parchment from your bedside table drawer and putting it inside your robes’ pocket before opening the door.

“you havent changed yet?” draco frowns. “mm, just put my robes back on. was cold,” he raises a brow, taking the robe off of your shoulders, actions smooth.

the letter falls to the ground, he picks it up. “a love letter, hm?” he fails to bite back a smile as you hang your robes, revealing your short pyjama shorts and his shirt underneath.

“read it, come on.”

he does, opening the parchment, guiding you onto his lap once he sits down on the edge of your bed, eyes traveling and stopping on the page.

dear draco,

i love you, you know that, right? in case you don’t, i’m writing this letter to remind you. i love it when you smirk after making me flustered. i love it when you bite your lip whilst concentrating in potions. i love it when your chuckle turns raspy for no reason.

i love it when you’re tired sometimes, not because i like seeing you suffer but because of the way your breath feels on my skin, like im all you need to feel better. i love it when you whisper praises in my ear at night, i love it when you kiss the one part of my neck that makes me squirm.

i love it when you pretend you can’t find something just so you can ask me for help, and shrug when i complain once finding it in plain sight. i love it when your eyes look like they physically soften when you’re around me or looking at me.

i love it when your hair turns fluffy and soft after a good quiddditch practice. i love it when you enthusiastically talk about quidditch with me, even if i don’t understand half the terms you’re using. i love it when you explain things to me for the umpteenth time and never get bored or annoyed with it.

i love it when you can practically sense when somethings wrong, even if I dont say it outright or even show it. i love it when you sigh while im playing and fidgeting around with your hair. i love it when you say you love me out loud. i love it when you listen to my talks about utter nonsense.

i love it. i love you; always, in all ways.

he finally looks at you, folding the paper with care. he kisses you fervently, pulling away only when your eyes start to flutter.

you catch your breath, arms wrapping around his neck as he kisses you all over.

His love language is definitely physical affection, he constantly wants to be touching some part of you. Which leads to quite a bit of kissing. Expect to find his mouth all over you 24/7

He will never admit it, but he loves it when you touch his scars. No matter where he got them from, it feels comforting. Like your fingers are soothing any bad memories.

On the same note, you're presence soothes anything negative within him. Whether he's frozen, convinced he's going to become just as awful as his father, or if he just had a bad day- when you're there, he can relax.

Now, he can sleep on his own, of course he can, but he very much prefers if you're there. He doesn't care how many rules he has to break and how many of his mates he annoys, he wants you in his bed. His arms are always tight around you, as if you might want to leave him while he sleeps. He also can't fall asleep without saying 'I love you'. Because he wants to remind you, but sometimes he needs to hear you say it back and assure him you still want him.

He could give you a quick kiss, but it takes self restraint. Because why would he only kiss you for less than three seconds when he could have you pressed against him, or a wall, or his bed, his mouth on yours?

He adores your name, and loves the feeling of saying it. But he will often call you by a petname. Angel, Love, and Pretty are his favorites.

In his free time, he likes to smoke, or drink if his friends manage to procure a bottle of something decent. It's not a life threatening habit, but he still does it often enough it's become part of his scent. But he would never consider forcing you to partake. He's glad you're healthier than him. But he'd be lying if he didn't say it wasn't sexy as hell if you ever did smoke with him.

It took him so long to become vulnerable with you, small steps and cracks in his mask that surmounted to him trusting you more than anyone.

He would do anything to protect you. Sometimes you think he would've made a fine Gryffindor with his loyalty and chivalry and bravery. He's fought Deatheaters and defended your name without being asked or expected to.

Honestly though, he's quite private about how obsessed he is with you. Some people might notice with how often he'd look at you. But the only person who really knew was Theo. And he doesn't often show it in public with grand words or makeouts in the corridor. Instead, he'll keep his knee pressed against yours, or an arm on the back of your chair. And if someone mentions you, he stops zoning out to listen. If it's an insult, he won't hesitant to make it clear that he does NOT play when it comes to you.

Personality -

Many, many people see him as an asshole. They think of him similar to Draco-just a dickhead who has a soft spot for y/n. I've always thought of him as a genuine person. He's brooding, moody, and can often act like an asshole. But underneath that, he has the loyalty and bravery of a gryffindor. He would stop at nothing to protect his closest friends and loved ones. He presents himself as closed off and uninterested as a mechanism to root out those who aren't worth his time. But once he develops a relationship with someone and respect towards them, there are cracks in the cold mask. I do agree with the fact he would have violent issues. He's distrustful, he has an evil father and everyone immediately assumes he's a monster. He holds grudges and isn't afraid to fight people with fists, words, or magic.

Romance -

Once again, contrary to popular opinion, he's not a fuckboy. Yes, he's not at all a virgin inexperienced and he's not against making out with someone he finds fit. But I don't see him being super interested in hook ups, he doesn't see the appeal. (i'm not saying it won't happen at all in something i write) He finds it hard to actually open up towards a person, especially when love is involved. He doesn't trust them. And he doesn't trust himself to treat them properly His love language is for sure quality time and physical touch. He's also not ashamed when it comes to PDA. (but it's not like he's gonna go stake his claim when his partner is mid conversation by kissing them)

His family -

He is not a Deatheater.

Considering I've watched Deadly Class and I adore Marcus, I can't see a character with his face being a Deatheater. He thinks it's all despicable.

On this note the only character I 100% see being a Deatheater is Draco and that's because it's canon. Maybe Theo if it fits the fic, but not really.He despises his father. He refuses to have anything to do with him and will deny any invite to being a Deatheater or a relationship. But the biggest thing is that he doesn't go shouting about this. People have no problem in calling him a monster, killer, and psycho. They assume he's his father's first pick. And he does nothing to stop the rumors. He doesn't encourage them of course, but he doesn't tell people to shut up. He can't find the energy in convincing everyone. Besides, it gives an opportunity for people to avoid him and he prefers being left alone.

there you were, running up to him all excited and bubbly. very on brand for you.

‘i got a new lipgloss!’ you panted out through a smile as you finally reached him and his friends.

at this, enzo sniggered into his cigarette. draco paid no attention to your presence, blaise merely quirked his brow and theo craned his neck around blaise to watch the interaction at hand.

‘ah, is that so angel?’ mattheo asked tucking a strand of hair behind your ear as you blinked up at him.

‘mmhm! they finally stocked a new brand in hogsmeade.’

‘that means all new flavours then, no?’ he asked, making you nod your head excitedly.

‘guess what one i’m wearing now!’ you asked, grabbing mattheo’s arm and leaning on your tip toes so he could get closer to your face to examine your gloss.

‘hmm,’ mattheo hummed, snaking an arm around your waist and crashing his lips to yours making you giggle. quick and easy, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

the other slytherin boys wished they could say they were surprised by this act, but you and mattheo being this comfortable with each other was a common occurrence. it wasn’t unusual for you two to be touching each other in some kind of way: would it be him feeding you something, you sitting on his lap, taking a nap together, anything goes really. that’s what best friends are for, right?

mattheo pulled away from the kiss just enough to look at you and tapped his chin mockingly with his free hand. ‘orange?’

you shook your head ‘no’ and mattheo went in again, this kiss longer than the first making you snake your arms around his neck. when he pulled away he thought for another moment then guessed. ‘apple?’

‘nooo,’ you giggled ‘matty, you’re miles off!’ he grinned at this, moving to wrap both of his arms around your waist inevitably pulling you flush against him.

‘okay, okay. how about one more try, angel?.’ and he kissed you again. the longest out of the three kisses. once you broke apart you were panting slightly.

‘was it… cherry flavour, gorgeous?’

‘yes!’ you gasped smiling brightly. ‘i’m surprised you didn’t get it sooner, don’t you love cherry flavour?’

‘is she fucking thick?’ enzo muttered behind you, only to be met with an elbow in the ribs from Draco.

‘i do, well remembered. what class do you have next?’

your brows furrowed in thought before you answered. ‘herbology, why?’

‘let me walk you.’ it was only then did mattheo release your waist, swiftly swinging his bag over his shoulder and taking your hand in his, not even bothering to bid farewell to his friends.

‘they’re revolting.’ enzo commented, his face twisted into disgust as he put his own cigarette out on the side of the bridge.

‘there’s no way he hasn’t fucked her.’

‘don’t be stupid nott, of course he’s fucked her.’ blaise replied as he watched you and mattheo walk slowly down the bridge, mattheo’s hand holding your own swinging it slightly.

‘but they’re best friends,’ draco quipped in mockingly.

But Sirius—ever the optimist—believes it every time. This time, though, there's a difference: the festival is in a park. Open spaces, easier to navigate. Not some dingy bar with narrow doors, steps leading to nowhere, and bathrooms that haven't been updated since the '70s.

"Do they even have paths?" you ask, trying not to let hope creep into your voice. "I'm not going to spend three hours rolling through mud."

His grin only widens at your question. "They've got paths, I made sure. Mostly gravel. A bit uneven in places, but nothing you can't handle." He leans forward, as if sharing a secret. "And there's this punk-folk band that looks like actual goblins. Come on, just this once. If it's awful, we'll leave. No arguments, no sulking, no drama—well, maybe a little drama."

You consider his offer, watching him bounce on the balls of his feet with an energy that would put a house-elf to shame. The sun catches on his rings as he rubs his hands together, and for a moment, you're struck by the infectious enthusiasm in his grey eyes. Despite everything, part of you wants to see this—the wild colours, the unapologetic individuality, the chaotic mess that Sirius seems to revel in.

"Alright," you say, already regretting the words even as they leave your mouth. "But if I end up covered in mud, I'm levitating you into the nearest pond."

The festival is chaos. Beautiful, vibrant, pulsing chaos.

The park has transformed into a riotous sea of color and movement—torn fishnets, jackets studded with defiance, hair that burns bright against the summer sky. Boots stamped with symbols march across the grass, their wearers adorned with piercings that glint in unexpected places. Booths line the paths, their covers flapping like flags in the warm breeze, peddling small zines, vegan tacos, handmade patches emblazoned with slogans like "Cripples Against Capitalism" and "Disabled Not Disposable."

Sirius is beside you, his eyes alight with excitement. He lets out a low whistle, nodding towards a figure that towers above the crowd, shoulder pads crafted from traffic cones asserting their space amid the throng.

On a nearby stage, a band is setting up, the metallic twang of strings being tuned cutting through the cacophony. A vocalist tests their mic with a guttural scream that earns a cheer from the onlookers. The air itself seems to thrum with anticipation, vibrating with the energy of a thousand voices yearning to be heard. It's as if you've stepped through a portal into another world, one where volume is currency and audacity is queen.

Music blares from different stages, the bass vibrating in your chest as guitar solos and fast drums compete for attention. People move freely, their bodies swaying, jumping, headbanging—unconcerned about judgement, lost in the rhythm.

At first, you're on edge, your lips pressed into a tight line as you take it all in. You notice every look, every step, every tiny bump in the gravel under your wheels.

Then something shifts.

It's not that people aren't looking at you; they are. But not in the way you expect. They glance at you, then away—just like they do with Sirius's wild hair and safety-pin earrings. It's not a stare that lingers too long, not a gaze heavy with pity or curiosity. It's a quick acknowledgement, a nod to your presence before they return to their own world.

"Love the jacket," someone calls out, and another points at the spikes on your wheels with an appreciative whistle. There's a thumbs-up from a stranger who smiles before launching himself back into the mosh pit.

And just like that, you feel it—the hardness in your chest beginning to loosen, the edges of your world softening as you realise: you belong.

Sirius watches the change come over you, his eyes flickering with a spark of satisfaction. He nudges your shoulder, leans in close so his voice can be heard above the pounding music. "See? This is your place."

Your laughter mingles with his, infectious and freeing. You find yourself drawn in, the worries that usually knot your brow unfurling.

Sirius never walks ahead but stays by your side, matching your pace. Whenever the path becomes uneven, he's there—not to help, unless you ask, but simply to accompany you. He understands that you can navigate this world just fine; you've been doing it longer than he has, after all.

He holds your drink when you need both hands for your wheelchair, and his eyes sparkle with mischief as the first band takes the stage. Sirius dances with abandon, unashamed and utterly alive. His movements are wild, a physical manifestation of the music that pulses through the air.

"That guitarist is mad!" he shouts in your ear, grinning like a child who's just discovered a new toy. "Sounds like he's trying to blend a storm—it's brilliant!"

His enthusiasm is a tangible force, sweeping you up and carrying you along. It's not about the music or the energy of the crowd; it's about this moment—being here, being seen, being part of something bigger than yourself.

You find yourself nodding along, then tapping your foot, until all at once your fingers are drumming out a rhythm on the armrest of your seat. Your head starts to bob, and Sirius is laughing next to you, reaching over to grab your hand and twirl you around in an impromptu dance. He doesn't care who sees—rather, he makes it feel like everyone should be sharing in the joy.

"Careful," you say, but the laughter bubbles up, making your cheeks ache with the force of your smile. "You'll knock someone over."

"Let them fall," Sirius says, spinning you one more time—too fast—and ending up on one knee with a flourish. It's all so dramatic, so utterly him, that you can't help but shake your head. "I'll catch them. Unless it's you. You I'd never let fall."

"Sure, sure," you reply, rolling your eyes even as you toss a popcorn kernel at him. "Get up before you cause a scene."

The afternoon unfolds with a rhythm of its own, punctuated by the thrum of distant music and the murmur of voices raised in discussion. You move from tent to tent, each a microcosm of rebellion offering a different facet of punk culture. There are patches hand-sewn with anarchist slogans, sticker packs celebrating disabled punk icons, even a tarot reader whose cards foretell a revolution sparked by people like you.

Food stalls line one edge of the park, their wares strange and intriguing. Cactus chips crunch between your teeth, releasing an unexpected sweetness that lingers on your tongue. Spicy jackfruit skewers sizzle over open fires, their aroma wafting through the air and mingling with the scent of fresh ink and paper from the zines spread out on makeshift tables.

Sirius is there beside you every step of the way. He talks a tattoo artist into sketching a temporary bat design onto his forearm, laughing as he explains, "It just feels right, y'know?"

You end up at a table manned by twins in matching outfits who tell you they're running a zine-making workshop. They introduce themselves as Crash and Burn, names chosen not just for their propensity for chaos but also for the fiery passion that fuels their activism. They point to a stack of papers, scissors, and markers, encouraging you to create something—anything—that speaks your truth.

"Your voice matters," says Crash—or maybe it's Burn; they've already switched places twice since you sat down. "And this is punk as fuck."

So you pick up a marker and let your thoughts flow onto the page. The words come slowly at first, then faster, forming a rough essay you title Rolling Riot. It's a call to arms, a demand for recognition and respect, spiced with your own brand of defiance. You sketch crude stick figures in wheelchairs toppling a police van, turning the violence of oppression into a symbol of empowerment.

Sirius watches over your shoulder, silent but attentive. His eyes shine with an intensity that suggests he sees more than just the words and images taking shape on the page. He sees you—not just the outer shell of scars and wheels, but the spirit within, fierce and unyielding.

When you're done, he takes the zine from your hands, careful not to smudge the still-wet ink. He folds it neatly, tucking it into the pocket of his jacket where it will stay safe, close to his heart.

At one point, a fire-juggler's flame comes too close to their mohawk, and Sirius whoops like this is the greatest victory of the day. You're out of breath from laughing.

Later, you find yourself in front of the merchandise tent, looking through patches and enamel pins when a small child toddles over. Their eyes are round and wide, fingers sticky with cotton candy. They look up at Sirius, then point at you.

"Are you their helper?" The words tumble out of the kid's mouth, straightforward as only children can be.

Sirius doesn't miss a beat. "Nope," he says, grinning down at the child. Then, with a playful wink, "They're my boss."

You burst out laughing, and the kid looks at you, confusion flickering across their face before they decide it must be a joke. With a shrug, they scamper off after a bubble wand, leaving behind the trail of their innocent curiosity. The vendor across the table chuckles, sliding you a discount on a patch that reads: Rolling With Rage.

You nudge Sirius with your footrest, the metal cool against your shoe. "Boss, huh?"

He inclines his head, a teasing glint in his eyes. "At your service. Always."

For the next hour, you find yourself parked under the shade of a towering oak, sharing a paper tray of greasy fries and watching the crowd. Attempts at a dance circle keep breaking apart amidst laughter, but it doesn't deter them. Someone in a tutu and combat boots throws themselves into an impromptu split, applause echoing around them. Nearby, a person with neon green hair meticulously paints slogans onto recycled cardboard, stencils and spray paint spread out before them like sacred tools. A few curious souls wander over to admire your chair, asking about the make, whether you added the skull decals yourself, where they can get one just like it.

A punk in a wheelchair with a service dog wearing small sunglasses rolls up beside you, and the dog's tongue laps at your hand. The two of you end up talking for twenty minutes about modified wheelchairs, obscure riot grrrl records, and the unspoken rules of mosh pits. For the first time in hours, you stop worrying about how your body is moving, stop checking to see if people are watching you.

Eventually, a drum circle forms nearby, and Sirius insists that you both join. Someone hands him a tambourine, which he shakes with gusto, while you get a pair of egg shakers. You're both off-beat, laughing too much to care, and your cheeks start to ache from the unfamiliar sensation of constant smiling. As the sun dips low, painting the sky with hues of pink and orange, you realize hours have passed without you noticing.

You're tired, sure. Your back and shoulders throb from the strain of movement. But there's still a smile on your face that refuses to fade even as the music continues to play, the crowd swaying, shouting, living in this space where bodies are just bodies and everyone belongs. There's a rhythm to it all, natural and inviting, like maybe you've been searching for this kind of crowd your whole life.

Sirius stands behind you, his arms looped around your waist and his chin resting on your shoulder. His breath warms your ear as he hums along to the song of a girl with inked skin and a ripped tutu. You lean back into him, feeling his steady heartbeat against you. Despite the cacophony, there's a sense of peace here—a sense of belonging that seeps into your bones and roots you to the spot.

"Next year," Sirius murmurs, his lips brushing against your temple, "we should bring our own zine table. And a speaker. Start our own act."

You can't help but laugh, picturing the two of you busking on the fringes of this chaos. "Only if we get matching jackets that say 'Boss' and 'Minion.'"

"Deal," he says, and the word is a promise sealed with a kiss to your forehead.

Sirius's gaze drifts to the edge of the firelight, where the cabins loom in the dark like secret. You slipped inside an hour ago, your steps slower after the long hike, your smiles not reaching your eyes as they usually do. "Just tired," you'd said, brushing off concern with a wave of your hand. But he knows better.

You're always just tired.

His stomach twists, not with hunger but with worry. The image of your worn expression competes with the sight of golden marshmallows turning over the flames, and it's no contest which one gnaws at him more.

The marshmallow catches, turning black before he can react. He mutters a curse under his breath, tossing the charred remains into the fire pit and spearing another mallow onto the stick.

This time, the marshmallow browns perfectly—soft and golden, just like you told him you liked them when he asked you during the walk earlier. You'd given him that playful roll of your eyes and said, "I like the middle all gooey, but not too crispy on the outside." He remembers. He always remembers what you say.

Sirius sandwiches the now molten marshmallow between a square of chocolate and two graham crackers. It squishes out the sides as he presses down, creating the perfect, messy treat. He wraps it in a napkin and sets it aside before starting on another. And another.

"Are you planning to eat all of those yourself?" James's voice breaks through the quiet, a grin audible even in his words. He nudges Sirius with a stick, eyebrows raised in question.

Sirius shrugs, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Nope."

He straightens, dusting off his trousers with more force than necessary. Averting his gaze from the knowing looks of Remus and James, he picks up the napkin, his fingers brushing against the warm marshmallow.

Sirius has never been one to shy away from a flirtatious encounter, but this—approaching your cabin alone under the veil of darkness, armed only with the peace offering of s'mores—feels different. More vulnerable somehow.

The clamour of the campfire fades as he steps onto the gravel path leading towards the cabins. His boots crunch softly against the stones, the sound unnaturally loud in the stillness. The fire's glow is a distant beacon now, its light barely reaching the edges of the girls' side.

He ascends the wooden steps, each creak a testament to his presence. Above him, the porch light buzzes faintly, casting an eerie halo around the cabin door. He glances over his shoulder, half expecting to see a figure emerge from the shadows, ready to chastise him for crossing an invisible line.

There are rules, after all. Boys aren't allowed in the girls' rooms, not even Sirius Black with his devil-may-care attitude. But there's no rule against knocking, is there?

His knuckles rap against the door softly, twice.

"Leave me alone, I'm tired," you grumble, your voice muffled and weak through the thick oak door.

"It's Sirius," he replies, his voice barely above a whisper, yet it carries the unmistakable timbre that commands attention.

A pause, then the soft click of a lock being turned. The door creaks open just wide enough for one eye to peer out at him.

You're standing there in a loose-fitting pajama set, hair in disarray, with one bare foot peeking out from behind the other. You lean heavily on your crutches, your expression wary but curious. Seeing you like this—unguarded and vulnerable—it tugs at something within him, awakening a protective instinct he didn't know he had.

"I brought you something," he says, extending the napkin as if it holds the most precious treasure.

Your eyebrow quirks up, a silent question hanging in the air between you. "Is that...?"

"Three," he confirms, his grey eyes twinkling with mischief. "Because you said one is never enough, and two is too predictable."

The corners of your mouth twitch, fighting the smile that threatens to break through your guarded facade.

"You're such a flirt," you accuse, but your tone lacks conviction.

His own smile broadens, unapologetic and endearing. "And yet, you haven't told me to stop."

Your fingers brush against the napkin as you take it from him, careful not to make contact with his skin. Even so, he’s close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him, a living, breathing reminder of the world outside your door. You sit heavily on the edge of your bed, legs stretched out before you, every muscle aching as if they had borne the weight of the world.

He stays in the doorway, one hand still resting on the frame, as if anchoring himself there will prevent him from doing something stupid. Like stepping inside and closing the distance between you two.

You take a bite, savouring the flavours that burst on your tongue. The sandwich is simple but well-made, each ingredient chosen with care. Your eyes flutter closed as you chew, momentarily forgetting the conversation, forgetting him.

"Okay, fine," you admit after swallowing, your voice muffled by the food still in your mouth. "This earns you... like, five points."

"Out of ten?"

"Out of a hundred."

A soft laugh escapes him, more breath than sound. "Tough crowd."

You glance at him then, allowing a slow, deliberate smile to tug at the corners of your lips. "You didn't have to come up here."

"I know."

There's a pause in the conversation, a moment where neither of you say anything. The silence stretches, taut like a string about to snap. Then, finally, he breaks it.

"But I wanted to."

Your gaze lingers on Sirius, studying him, as if looking past the charming exterior that so often masks his true emotions. You see beyond the crooked grins and careless bravado, and something in your expression softens.

"Thank you, Sirius," you murmur, almost too softly for him to hear.

He nods, his own walls crumbling just a bit at your quiet gratitude. Stepping back, he squares his shoulders and tries to regain his composure.

"Goodnight, Y/n."

The nickname slips from his lips without thought, and you pause, but don't correct him. Something about it feels right, even if it shouldn't.

You swallow hard, eyes stinging as they dart away from his gaze. "I just... I wanted to get it right. The routine. I was so close. If I could've just—"

"Y/N." Sirius's voice is a soft plea, filled with an ache that mirrors your own. He leans forward, resting his forehead on your knee, his breath warm through the thin fabric of your pyjamas. "You don't have to prove anything to anyone, least of all me. You're already the most incredible person I know, and you're trying so damn hard. That's more than enough."

Your chest tightens, and you take in a shaky breath, not trusting yourself to speak. He lifts his gaze to meet yours, his eyes reflecting an unshakeable belief in you that both warms and breaks your heart. Because how can he see someone worthy when you often only see what's broken? But there he is, looking at you like you're everything he could ever hope for.

"I know it's hard," Sirius continues, his words falling gently between you, "that your body doesn't always cooperate. That the fatigue comes out of nowhere and flattens you, that just climbing the stairs can feel like summiting a mountain. That you wake up tired, and sometimes existing takes more energy than you have. But that doesn't make you any less. You're still you. You're still mine. And I love you—even when you're curled up in bed with heating pads and a scowl that could rival Snape's. Especially then. Honestly, you're absurdly cute when you're grumpy."

A small laugh escapes your lips, genuine despite the heaviness in your heart. "You think everything I do is cute."

"Obviously," he replies with a grin, both cocky and achingly fond. He reaches up to brush a stray lock of hair from your face, his touch lingering as if imprinting the moment into memory. "But especially when you're letting me be here for you. Loving you means loving all of this, too. Even the hard days. Maybe especially the hard days."

You lean into Sirius, your body finally surrendering to his embrace. His arms are strong and sure around you, and the warmth that radiates from him is like a beacon cutting through the cold fog of your exhaustion. There's a gentle sway as he shifts his weight, an unconscious mimicry of a dance, slow and soothing. The rhythm aligns with your breaths, in and out, until they mirror each other—a silent symphony lulling you deeper into this moment.

Your cheek rests against his shoulder, and you turn your face towards his neck, inhaling deeply. There's a familiarity to his scent that tugs at a memory buried deep within you—wood and warmth, a hint of leather and mint, and something else that you can't quite place but feels like home. It's comforting, grounding, and for the first time in what feels like an eternity, you allow yourself to relax fully into the man you love.

"Okay," you murmur, your voice so quiet it's barely more than a thought carried on a breath.

"Okay what?" His voice is a soft rumble, vibrating through his chest and into your ear.

"Okay... you can take care of me. Just for a little while."

His lips brush the top of your head, cool and comforting, as a smile curves against your hair. "That's all I ever wanted," he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. His arms tighten around you, solid and sure. "Let's stay here as long as you need. Or forever. I'm okay with forever."

For the first time today—maybe all week—you let yourself believe it's enough. That you are enough. That he loves you not despite your illness, but with it. Through it. Fully.

In Sirius's arms, the world feels less chaotic, the edges of your worries blunted by his unyielding presence. The tension in your muscles begins to ebb, replaced by a sense of calm you've forgotten how to feel. He hums a familiar tune against your head, each note vibrating with promise, with understanding, with love.