The air at Potter Manor always smelled faintly of cut grass and warm stone in June, softened by sunlight, muffled by old trees.
When Sirius had asked if his brother could come stay for a few weeks, and Jamesā mum had said yes without hesitation, James had nearly knocked over a lamp in his excitement.
Heād been nursing a quiet, stubborn crush on Regulus Black for two years.
Gods, he wasnāt entirely sure when it had started.
Maybe it was the way Regulus always stood slightly apart from the rest of Slytherin, observing instead of preening. Maybe it was the way he spokeāmeasured and dry, like heād already thought three steps ahead of everyone else. Or maybe it was simply that Regulus was beautiful in a way that caught you off guard.
Whatever the reason, James had always noticed him.
Always made a point to say hello when their paths crossed at school. Always lingered a second too long in conversations that were technically Siriusā.
So when Regulus arrived at Potter Manor the day after term endedāstepping out of the floo with a small suitcase and an expression carefully schooled into neutralityāJames knew this was it.
His chance.
They were sprawled across the back lawn that afternoon, the sun high and lazy overhead. Sirius was draped across a lawn chair, animatedly retelling some story about a disastrous Transfiguration exam. Regulus lay beside him, sunglasses shielding his eyes, looking far more composed.
āIām gonna grab something to eat, yeah?ā Sirius said suddenly, pushing himself upright and stretching dramatically. āMum made something ridiculously delicious with strawberries.ā
He disappeared toward the house without waiting for an answer.
James didnāt think.
He scrambled over to Siriusā abandoned chair so quickly he nearly tripped over it, then perched on the very edge like it might eject him at any moment.
āHey, Reg,ā James said, aiming for casual and landing somewhere closer to breathless.
Regulus tilted his head slightly, peeking at him over the rim of his dark sunglasses.
āPotter.ā
Jamesā stomach flipped.
Regulus was wearing blue swim shorts and absolutely no shirt. Sunlight traced clean lines across his shoulders and collarbones. There was a faint constellation of freckles across his nose that James had never noticed before.
Gods.
āIāā James cleared his throat. āI know youāre here to spend time with your brother, but I was wonderingā¦ā
Regulus sighed and pushed himself upright, sliding his sunglasses off entirely.
āNo,ā he said flatly, āI donāt want to play Quidditch.ā
James blinked. āQuidditch? No, Iāā
Out with it, Potter.
He inhaled.
āI want to know if youād like to go out with me.ā
Regulus stilled.
āGo out?ā he echoed.
āYeah.ā James forged ahead before he could lose his nerve. āGrab coffee. Or ice cream. Maybe the cinema in town. Justā something.ā
Regulus stared at him like heād started speaking a foreign language.
āJust you and me,ā James added quickly, glancing toward the house to make sure Sirius wasnāt materializing behind them.
āLikeā¦ā Regulus looked down at the sunglasses in his hands, turning them over slowly. āAs a date?ā
James swallowed.
āYes. A date.ā
For a long moment, Regulus said nothing.
James could hear his own pulse in his ears. He was suddenly acutely aware of the way he was sittingātoo stiff, too eager, too much.
Finally, the smallest curve appeared at the corner of Regulusā mouth.
āI think,ā Regulus said carefully, āIād like that.ā
James beamed so hard his face hurt.
There had, of course, been a semi-stern lecture from Sirius.
James endured it with admirable patience.
āIf you so much as think about corrupting my baby brotherāā
āHeās sixteen, not six.ā
āJames.ā
āI wonāt,ā James promised, hands raised in surrender.
Sirius narrowed his eyes, then pulled him into a rib-crushing hug anyway.
āBring him back in one piece.ā
āAlways.ā
They chose ice cream. It felt safe. Neutral territory.
The shop in town had little metal tables out front, painted a peeling white. The bell above the door chimed cheerfully as they stepped out into the late afternoon sun.
James had a cone that was already beginning to drip down his fingers.
Regulus had opted for a small paper cup, held delicately between both hands.
āYou like pistachio?ā James asked, watching him take a careful spoonful.
āI do,ā Regulus said simply.
James smiled. āGood choice.ā
Regulus arched a brow. āItās underrated.ā
āSo are you,ā James replied before he could stop himself.
Regulus paused mid-motion.
The faintest pink crept up his neck.
āYouāre very bold today,ā he observed.
āI asked you out,ā James said. āI feel like Iāve earned bold.ā
A quiet laugh escaped Regulus before he seemed to realize heād made it.
They sat there in the warmth of the summer evening, knees almost brushing beneath the small table. People passed by on the pavement, paying them no mind.
For the first time in two years, James wasnāt watching Regulus from across a corridor.
He was here.
Across from him.
On a date.
And when Regulusā foot nudged lightly against his under the table, James knew this was only the beginning.
Later that afternoon, the sun had begun its slow descent, turning the long stretch of dirt driveway to Potter Manor gold.
They walked side by side in that almost-touching way teenagers do when neither is brave enough to close the distance fully. Their shoulders brushed once. Then again. Neither commented.
James slowed near the end of the drive.
āRegulus,ā he said.
Regulus stopped after a step or two and turned back. āHm?ā
The light caught in his dark hair, softened the sharp lines of his face. He still held the little wooden spoon from his ice cream cup, turning it absently between his fingers.
James swallowed.
āCan I kiss you?ā
He hadnāt planned to say it so plainly. It just⦠came out.
Regulus straightened slightly, surprise flickering across his face. Not offended. Not alarmed. Just thoughtful.
He considered it.
Jamesā heart thudded so loudly he was certain it was audible.
āAlright,ā Regulus said at last.
Alright.
Not dramatic. Not flustered. Just⦠yes.
James stepped closer, suddenly hyperaware of everythingāthe warmth of the air, the faint scent of sugar still lingering from the ice cream shop, the way Regulusā lashes cast shadows on his cheeks.
He had never kissed anyone before.
What if he did it wrong? What if he knocked noses? What if Regulus pulled away and decided this had all been a mistake?
He reached up carefully, giving Regulus enough time to move if he wanted to.
He didnāt.
James leaned in and pressed their lips together gently. Soft. Closed-mouth. A tentative brush more than anything else, something heād seen Sirius and Remus do in passing, like it was the easiest thing in the world.
For half a heartbeat, there was nothing.
Then Regulus kissed him back.
Not stiff. Not startled.
He leaned in just slightly, like heād made a decision and committed to it.
The world narrowed to warmth and breath and the barely-there pressure of lips meeting lips.
It wasnāt dramatic.
It wasnāt fireworks.
It was soft and uncertain and real.
When they pulled apart, James blinked like someone waking from a dream.
Regulusā hand was lightly gripping the front of Jamesā shirt, as if heād done it without thinking.
James couldnāt stop smiling.
He reached for Regulusā hands instead, lacing their fingers together impulsively.
āWanna be my boyfriend?ā he asked, the words tumbling out in a rush before doubt could catch up.
Regulus looked at him. The corner of his mouth quirked.
āOkay,ā he said.
Just... okay.
But his fingers tightened around Jamesā.
ā
āJames.ā
Regulusā voice pulled him sharply back to the present.
āHm? āsorry.ā James blinked up at him.
Regulus stood near the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, irritation creasing his brow.
āIāve been asking you a question for nearly five minutes,ā Regulus said. āWhere is your head?ā
James scrubbed a hand over his face. āSorry.ā
āDo you want to make dinner,ā Regulus continued, exasperated but controlled, āor order something?ā
There was a beat.
āWhy did we break up?ā James asked suddenly.
Regulus stilled.
āThe... camping trip,ā he said after a moment.
James frowned faintly. āYouāll have to narrow that down.ā
āYou set the tent on fire.ā
James waved that off. āIt was after that.ā
Regulusā expression shifted. The irritation faded, replaced with something more guarded.
āWe argued,ā he said carefully.
āAbout what?ā James pressed.
Regulus hesitated.
āJames, why are youāā
āI canāt remember the actual reason,ā James said, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. āI remember the fire. I remember you being quiet. I remember you sleeping practically on the edge of the sleeping bag like Iād offended you beyond repair. But I donāt remember what I said.ā
Regulus went very still.
āYou really donāt remember?ā Regulus said softly.
James shook his head.
A long silence followed.
Regulus began slowly. "You asked me, if I loved you.ā
The words landed between them.
Jamesā posture shifted slightly. Something in him recognized this.
āYou wouldnāt say it,ā James murmured.
āNo,ā Regulus said evenly. āI wouldnāt.ā
āWhy?ā James asked, the question sounding younger than he intended.
āBecause it had been three months,ā Regulus replied, sharper now. āThree. Months.ā
Jamesā jaw tightened.
āWe were together constantly that summer,ā he said. āI loved you. Weāā
He stopped, but the implication lingered.
Regulusā gaze didnāt waver.
āYou said,ā Regulus continued, voice tightening, āthat since weād had sex, that clearly it meant something. That people donāt do that unless theyāre in love.ā
James flinched faintly.
āYou werenāt wrong about it meaning something. But that doesnāt mean I was ready to say it. I was sixteen.ā
āYou told me you'd tell me someday,ā James said, memory surfacing in fragments.
āYes,ā Regulus said. āI did.ā
James let out a hollow breath. āThat felt like a placeholder.ā
āIt wasnāt,ā Regulus shot back. āIt was honest.ā
Silence fell heavy again.
Regulus continued, more controlled now. āYou wanted it named. Defined. Locked in.ā
āAnd you didnāt?ā James asked.
āI did,ā Regulus said. āJust not on a deadline.ā
James looked at him like that hurt.
āIt felt like you were holding something back,ā he admitted. āLike I was⦠more invested.ā
āI wasnāt less invested,ā Regulus said, frustration bleeding through. āI just donāt say things until Iām sure. And at three months in, and at sixteen years old, I wasnāt sure.ā
James stared at the floor.
āI thought if we wereāā He stopped, swallowed. āIf we were sleeping together. If we were choosing each other for our first... Then it had to be love.ā
Regulusā expression softened just slightly.
āYou equated intimacy with permanence,ā he said quietly.
āAnd you didnāt?ā
āNo,ā Regulus replied.
The words hung between them.
āYou said,ā Regulus continued more gently, āthat if I couldnāt say it, maybe I didnāt feel it. And if I didnāt feel it, then what were we doing?ā
James shut his eyes briefly.
āAnd I said it wasnāt fair to demand something I wasnāt ready to give,ā Regulus finished.
James leaned back slowly.
Another quiet stretched between them.
āSo,ā Regulus said at last, composure returning like a coat he was putting back on, āare we cooking. Or ordering?ā
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*6 months later*
Regulus sat on the bus to his final appointment with McGonagall, staring out the window and wishing he had his brother with him.Ā
Two months after his breakdown, and subsequent additional sessions with McGonagall, Regulus had finally managed to convince Sirius and Remus that it was time for them to get back to work and finally go on tour.Ā
The guilt of them having postponed the tour because of him was making Regulus feel worse than he already did. So, after many, many hours of cajoling, The Marauders had finally gone back on tour. Much to the delight of the internet, as Lily and Pandora kept informing him.Ā
āOi,ā Lily punched him in the arm.Ā
āOw! What the fuck, Lil?!ā Regulus exclaimed.Ā
āI asked you a question, dolly daydream.ā Lily rolled her eyes as she dropped down into the seat next to him.Ā
āOh, sorry.āĀ
āI thought Iād just check in and see how you were feeling?āĀ
āIām fine, Lils.ā Regulus shrugged and then when he saw that she wasnāt going to let him get away with that answer, he continued. āEugh, I guess, Iām a little worried, but if McGonagall thinks I donāt need her anymore, then I guess I donāt.āĀ
āReg, from what both you and Sirius have said about her, McGonagall doesnāt seem to be the kind of person that would just discharge you if you werenāt ready.ā Lily took his hand and gave it a squeeze.Ā
āYeah, I suppose.ā Regulus sighed.
It was at that moment that Lilyās phone pinged and Regulus saw Jamesā name flash up on her screen.Ā
He swallowed and looked away. āSorry,ā he mumbled. Releasing Lilyās hand so she could reply.
Lily said nothing but opened the message and Regulus heard her chuckle softly.Ā
āWhat?ā Regulus asked before he could stop himself.Ā
āHere.ā Lily held her phone out to him, but he couldnāt take it from her. Instead, he shook his head, almost giving himself whiplash. āRegulus, please take the phone.āĀ
Regulus couldnāt say what it was he heard in Lilyās voice. Something like a mix of love, happiness and frustration. Begrudgingly, he took the phone and, with shaking hands, looked down at the messages on the screen.Ā
JPš¤: Prague is great, yeah, but sooooo ready to be home! Missing everyone more than I thought I would!
You: Everyone, or a specific someone? š
JPš¤: Yeahā¦alrightā¦maybe a specific someone š«£š
JPš¤: But I miss all of you too!Ā
You: Sure ya do, lover boy š
JPš¤: How is he?Ā
You: Says heās fine, but you know our Reggie. Always, putting on a brave face.
JPš¤: Do me a favour? Keep an eye on him today, yeah?
You: Donāt worry, Iāve got him and Dora has a whole relaxing afternoon planned for when we get home lol
Regulus stared wide eyed at the screen and his jaw dropped as another message came through.Ā
JPš¤: Thanks Lils. Maybeā¦can you maybe like, find a way to hug him but, like, from me? ā„ļø
Lilyās arm snaked around his shoulders and Regulus nearly dropped the phone as she spoke softly into his ear.
āTold you it wasnāt over yet.ā
-----------------------------------
Tag list: @daydreamer131313, @spitefulwizard, @allaroundstar, @marauders-my-love-for-life, @m0xie27, @slytherinnbitch, @huntressofartemis3, @riri-shark-in-perpetual-motion, @nessawritess, @rosecoloredpage and @534beesinatrenchcoat
Hey, Girlie ā” So idk if you're taking requests rn, but I saw on your rules that you like writing angst, and I was wondering if you'd be able to write an angst Soulmate AU with Sirius x fem!reader. The reader's a pureblood Slytherin in an arranged marriage situation. Ig in this AU, pureblood supremacists ignore the whole soulmate thing and still force the children to marry for the sake of the family. Whether the reader and Sirius have a happy ending is up to you <3
with our hands tied | s.black
note : Thank you so much for sending me this request! I admit I was going to make this short and brief since it's requested and could not possibly cut it up into parts. But the angst potential was too great and I ended up expanding on the story like always so here's 5.1k words worth <3 Much love to you!
warnings : Soulmate AU, typical pure-blood prejudice, themes of abuse, the purebloods being amazing parents (hint of sarcasm), lots of pathetic yearning from Sirius, angst and angst and angst, doomed by the narrative couple
You found your soulmate on the night of your birthday but unlike the fairytale, reality is much more grim. Your bond was but an anchor tying you down, keeping you from fulfilling your duties as a pure noble daughter.
The ballroom of your familyās estate shimmered under hundreds of floating, magically enchanted candles. It was your sixteenth birthday banquet, and the air was thick with the suffocating perfume of wealth and expectation. Your mother had arranged this event not as a celebration of your birth, but as a grand political exhibition, a demonstration of your familyās continued prestige among the Sacred Twenty-Eight.
You were paraded like a trophy, shifting from one tedious conversation with a dull, ambitious aristocrat to the next. Every compliment on your expensive robes, every inquiry about your future plans, felt like another link in the chain tightening around your throat.
This was not a party; it was a political chessboard, and you were the queen being positioned for a high-stakes trade.
Finally, after enduring a particularly long and boring speech from your father about the purity of your bloodline, you made your escape. You slipped out a side door, navigating through a less-trafficked corridor until you found the doors leading to the western balcony.
The blast of cool night air hit your skin like a shock, chasing away the feverish heat of the ballroom. You leaned against the intricate wrought-iron railing, inhaling deeply, trying to clear the haze of wine and false politeness from your mind.
You pulled your velvet shawl tighter around your shoulders, your gaze sweeping over the vast, formal gardens below, illuminated by moonlight.
It was then you realized you were not alone.
Tucked away in the deepest shadow of the balcony, leaning against the cold stone wall, was a solitary figure. He was tall, dressed in impeccably tailored, traditional black dress robes, but the silver buckle of his belt was slightly undone, and the perfect cut of his hair was betrayed by a few strands falling rebelliously over his forehead.
Sirius Black.
He was here because he had to beāthe disgraced heir of the House of Black, forced to attend his a political function by his mother, Walburga, as a desperate attempt to get him to āact like a true Black.ā You knew his presence was a source of endless torment to him, and an endless embarrassment to his mother.
He had a thin, elegantly rolled cigaretteāa Muggle one, you noted with a surprised mental scoff at his brazennessāclamped between his lips. The tip glowed orange as he drew on it, his eyes fixed on the distant, inky blackness of the garden beyond the manicured hedge mazes.
You froze. Too late to pretend you hadnāt seen him. You settled yourself a respectable distance away, near the corner of the railing. You had shared classes, common rooms, and countless meals with him at Hogwarts, but the tension between your housesāSlytherin duty and Gryffindor rebellionāhad always kept a chasm between you.
āBlack,ā you greeted hesitantly, your voice barely above a whisper.
He turned his head slowly, exhaling a plume of smoke that drifted toward the stars. His eyes were empty, grey, and vast, holding a look of deep, profound boredom that made him seem far older than fifteen.
ā_____,ā he returned, his tone flat, barely acknowledging your presence before turning back to the gardens.
The air immediately thickened with awkwardness. You felt compelled to break the silence, driven by an unusual sympathy for his visible misery.
āAre you finding the evening enjoyable?ā you asked, a polite, stupid question that instantly sounded ridiculous against the backdrop of his despair.
He let out a short, hollow laugh that held no humor. āEnjoyable? No. Iām finding the pureblood shit disgusting, honestly.ā He took another drag, his eyes narrowing slightly. āLook at them. Every single person in there is a performance. Weāre all playing stupid, assigned rolesāand who even decides these roles? The ghosts of our ancestors and their ridiculous notions of blood purity?ā
He stopped, his rant surprisingly heated, and you found yourself laughing. It was a genuine, surprised burst of sound that you hadnāt realized you were holding back.
The laugh disarmed him instantly. He blinked, turning his head fully to you, the empty look in his eyes dissolving into a flash of surprise. He lowered the cigarette, suddenly aware of your presence as a person, not just a distant fixture of the Slytherin house or this ridiculous banquet.
āMerlin. IāI apologize,ā he muttered, his tone instantly shifting to the practiced, formal apology of a well-bred pureblood. āThat was rude. Itās hardly nice for a guest to insult the birthday girlās party.ā
You shrugged, the movement fluid and disdainful. āI assure you, Black, it is hardly a party. Itās a political chessboard where everyone is moving to gain something. My birthday is the convenient excuse for the transaction.ā
Your honesty, sharp and cynical, wiped the last of the aristocratic pretence from his face. His expression softened with a flicker of genuine sadness and respect. He finally saw you.
āIām sorry,ā he said, this time without the sarcasm or the forced manners. He offered you a kind, genuine smile that reached his eyes and made him look like the boy who played pranks, not the shamed heir. āHappy birthday, _____.ā
The simple, unadorned sincerity of it hit you with a wave of warmth and unexpected appreciation. It felt like the first real thing you had been given all evening. The use of your first name shocked you as well, but it was not unwelcomed.
āThank you, Sirius.ā
He stared at the cigarette for a moment, then, with a mischievous lift of his eyebrow, he offered the pack to you. āWant one? It helps with the existential dread.ā
You hesitated for only a second. Your mother would have a fit. But you were celebrating your birthday and no one has even noticed you were gone yet. What did a cigarette matter?
āWhy not,ā you murmured, reaching out.
His fingers brushed against yoursāskin on skin. The contact was brief, accidental, yet cataclysmic.
A lightning-fast, excruciating joltālike pure, raw magic collidingāshot up your arm and exploded behind your ribs. It was a searing heat followed by an ecstatic chill that stole your breath. The world around you, the cold stone, the distant music, the smell of smoke and lilies, all dissolved into a single, crystalline point of awareness: Sirius.
You gasped, dropping the cigarette, which rolled harmlessly under the railing. Your left hand flew to your right inner wrist.
Sirius was breathing heavily, his eyes squeezed shut. He was gripping his own left wrist with his right hand, his knuckles white. The pack of cigarettes slipped from his numb fingers.
āWhatāwhat was that?ā he choked out, his voice raw.
You didnāt answer. You slowly pulled back the cuff of your robes, fear and disbelief swirling in your stomach. There, precisely where your pulse beat strongest, was an intricate, pulsing silver design: a delicate spiral of interlocking lines that shimmered with an undeniable, fierce magic. It was the soul-mark.
You looked up. Sirius, his eyes now open, was staring at his own wrist, where an identical mark was rapidly solidifying into place, etched onto his skin like frozen starlight.
You were soulmates.
The irony was a cruel, sickening twist of the knife. Of all the people in the world, the boy who represented everything your family condemned, the future blood-traitor, was your destined counterpart.
Sirius lifted his head, his grey eyes wide, the empty look replaced by a torrent of raw, overwhelming emotionāpure, unadulterated joy instantly warring with absolute, stark terror.
āItās you,ā he whispered, the sound thick with wonder. He took a hesitant step closer, drawn by a gravity you both suddenly understood. āI knew⦠I always knew you were out there. I waited my whole life for this.ā
A painful, impossible warmth flooded your chest, mirroring the sudden elation in his gaze. āMe too,ā you confessed, the words tasting like forbidden honey. āI never truly believed it was real. I thought it was just a romantic myth for the pureblood idealists to cling to.ā
āItās not a myth,ā he said, his voice husky. He lifted his hand, hesitantly reaching for your face. āItās real. Itās us. Weāre meant to be.ā
The bond, now fully locked, was already a relentless, demanding presence. You could feel the frantic joy bubbling off him, the sudden, overwhelming certainty that his life had purpose, that his fight was finally worth it.
But before he could touch you, before the conversation could take another syllable toward impossible freedom, a clear, authoritative voice cut through the silence.
āThere you are, _____! Your presence is required immediately.ā
It was your mother. Standing in the doorway, her smile razor-sharp, her eyes cold with impatience. She looked past you, seeing the outline of Sirius, and her expression immediately soured.
āBlack. Get back to your corner, if you please. The guests are about to be formally introduced to the man of the hour.ā
Your world, which had just expanded into infinite possibility, snapped back into the tight, suffocating confines of the manor.
You had no choice. Your fatherās eyes, visible behind your mother, were already narrowed in suspicion.
You gave Sirius a desperate, terrified look. He understood instantly. He swallowed hard, his hand dropping back to his side, his thumb unconsciously rubbing the fresh silver mark on his wrist.
āI have to go,ā you breathed.
āIām coming with you,ā Sirius stated, his Gryffindor defiance resurfacing.Ā
He followed you back into the ballroom. You moved with automaton grace, but inside, your heart was pounding against your ribs like a trapped bird. You had to get to your parents first. You had to tell them about the mark, about the truth, before the nightās political game could continue.
You approached the central platform where your parents stood, their backs to you. Theodore Nottās father was also there, standing next to a severe-looking, gaunt man you recognized as Lord Lestrange.
You opened your mouth, the word āMotherā already forming.
āDarling, perfect timing,ā your mother interrupted, not even looking at you. She gave a flawless, practiced smile to the room. āWe are so pleased you have returned. Now, without further ado, we are thrilled to announce the betrothal of our daughter, _____, to a man of equally ancient and pure blood, who shares our commitment to the Sacred Twenty-Eight and the future of our world.ā
Your father stepped forward, his hand resting proudly on the shoulder of the gaunt man.
āIt is our distinct honour,ā your father boomed, his voice resonating across the silent ballroom, āto announce that our daughter, _____, is formally engaged to Rabastan Lestrange.ā
The polite applause returned. Rabastan Lestrange, the younger son of the revered family, a man notorious for his ruthless loyalty to the darkest aspects of the pureblood cause, turned to you. His eyes were cold, possessive, and utterly devoid of warmth.
Your world, already shattered by the political game, fractured into a thousand pieces.
Behind you, you heard a sharp, intake of breath. The air went cold, and the joyous, vibrant energy of the soul-mark connecting you to Sirius evaporated, replaced by a devastating, raw wound.
Rabastan Lestrange was your jailor. And Sirius Black, your soulmate, was now officially and irrevocably forbidden.
The two weeks of the summer holiday were the longest, loneliest weeks of your life. Confined to your estate, you were constantly shadowed by your mother and frequently visited by Rabastan Lestrange, who treated your impending marriage as a contractual agreement to be meticulously reviewed.
You ignored Siriusās letters. You burned the first one, sent via owl with the Black crest, without opening it. You burned the second, the third, and the fourth. The thought of reading his frantic, desperate pleasāand the inevitable, crushing truth of the markāwas unbearable.
Returning to Hogwarts for the spring term felt less like returning to school and more like walking into a carefully constructed cage.
You found Sirius waiting for you.
You were alone, collecting your trunk from the luggage rack of the Hogwarts Express, when he appeared, slamming the sliding compartment door shut behind him. He looked terrible. His skin was pale, his eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep, and his hair, usually magnificent, was messy in a way that spoke of genuine neglect, not just rebellion.
āWhy arenāt you answering my owls?ā he demanded, his voice low and furious. He was radiating coiled, desperate energy.
You kept your back to him, focusing on dragging the heavy trunk down. āThe mail is sorted through before it reaches my room, Black. And if it wasnāt, I wouldnāt read it. We have nothing to discuss.ā
He rounded the trunk, forcing you to look at him. His eyes fell immediately to your right wrist, where you had hastily secured the Slytherin common room wristband to cover the mark.
āDonāt insult my intelligence, _____! Your father wouldnāt have let Lestrange near your mail until the contract was ironclad. Tell me what is going on. Tell me why you didnāt tell them. You saw the mark! We felt it! Itās the truth!ā
You finally met his gaze, anger coiling in your own chestāa defensive, fearful anger.
āThe truth is irrelevant,ā you snapped, your voice sharp. āRabastan Lestrange is my betrothed now. I am bound by my duties to my house. The contract is signed. My life is no longer mine to decide.ā
āThatās complete bullshit!ā he roared, slamming his fist against the compartment wall, making the glass rattle. āRabastan Lestrange is a snake! A follower! Youāre choosing duty over the most powerful magic in the world? Over us?ā
āYou think I chose this? You think I want to be tied to a man who smells of stale ambition and dark rituals?ā You shoved past him, your rage boiling over. āIt is easy for you to stand there, Sirius, in your red and gold robes, espousing freedom! You are a man! You can rebel! You can run away to the Potters and theyāll welcome you! I canāt just parade in Gryffindor robes and be free of consequences!ā
Your words were a brutal, ugly truth, and they hit him hard. He recoiled as if struck. His eyes flashed with pain, not just from the shock of your denial, but from the searing honesty of your observation.
He desperately wanted to argue, to tell you the truth of his own strugglesāthe abuse, the pressure, the cost of his rebellionābut your words, accusing him of an easy path, silenced him. He was too proud to beg, and too devastated by your rejection to expose his own vulnerability.
He took a slow, deep breath, his entire body trembling.
āWhat do you plan to do?ā he asked, his voice now dangerously low, utterly devoid of the earlier warmth or fury.
You raised your chin, meeting his stare with icy resolve. You had to kill the hope in him, or he would destroy himself fighting for you.
You carefully reached up, slowly pulling back the cuff of your robes, exposing the delicate, shimmering silver spiral on your wrist. Your gaze fell on the mark, which felt heavy and cold, a brand of what you could never have.
āIāll ignore it,ā you said, your fingers lightly tracing the etching. āI will be a dutiful daughter and a dutiful wife to the House of Lestrange. I will forget about the soulmate thing. It was a cosmic mistake. A tragic, badly timed joke.ā
He stared at you, his eyes wide and unbelieving. āYou canāt,ā he choked out. āYouāre talking madness. You know what this means, _____? Every inch of your being is magically wired to crave every inch of mine. You wonāt just be ignoring me; youāll be ignoring your own soul.ā
You pulled the cuff down, hiding the mark as if putting away a painful secret. You refused to look at him as he pleaded, the sheer desperation in his voice almost enough to break your composure.
āIt is done,ā you stated, turning toward the compartment door. āMy mind is made up. I will not betray my house, my blood, or my name. The consequences of freedom are too high for both of us. Go back to your friends, Sirius. Forget me.ā
He was silent, devastated. You walked out of the compartment and into the crowded corridor, leaving him standing there alone, his soul torn to shreds, clutching a betrayal that would haunt him for the rest of his life.
The ensuing school year is proving to be a masterclass in controlled torture. You had chosen a path of self-denial, and Hogwarts became the arena for your prolonged, mutual suffering.
You were relentless in your escape. You moved through the castle with the precise, practiced elegance of a ship under full sail, always with a wake of loyal Slytherins around you, creating a human shield of distance and indifference.
You never made eye contact with him in the Great Hall. You changed your class routes. You studied exclusively in the dungeons, far from the library and the Maraudersā usual haunts.
But the magical bond, though denied and rejected, was a relentless phantom.
You felt it in the pit of your stomach when he was too close, a sickening, dizzying tug that you learned to suppress with sheer willpower, channelling the pain into focus on your O.W.L.s studies.
You felt it most acutely in the quiet moments. Lying in bed in the common room, you would feel a sudden, agonizing jolt of lonelinessāhis loneliness. A desperate surge of affectionāhis affection. You taught yourself to interpret these feelings as intrusive noise, a flaw in the glamour charm on your mark, rather than the voice of your soul.
Sirius, however, was in a far worse state.
His denial had been the denial of his entire self. You had given him an impossible choice, and by choosing duty, you had destroyed his belief in the inherent goodness of his rebellion. He had poured every ounce of his defiance, his hope, and his desire for a true life into the idea of a soulmate who would choose him.
Now, he was pathetically, visibly deteriorating.
He became obsessed, in a quiet, aching, yearning way that was almost sad to witness. He didn't try to corner you again, respecting your final word in the carriage, but he couldnāt look away.
You would catch him watching you in the Great Hall. He wouldnāt be staring maliciously or angrily, but with an open, wounded expressionāas if he were trying to memorize every contour of your face before you vanished entirely. His eyes would follow you from the Slytherin table as you politely discussed blood purity with Rabastan Lestrange, the look in his gaze a torrent of anguish and confusion.
He tried to communicate through gestures, desperate, subtle moves that only you, with the silver thread connecting you, would recognize.
Once, in a shared Transfiguration class, you were tasked with turning a bird into a functioning quill. When your bird transformed into a beautiful green and silver quill, you felt a surge of quiet pride. Immediately, you felt a corresponding, powerful wave of admiration and pride through the soul-bond, quickly followed by a heartbreaking sense of separation. When you glanced across the room, Sirius was staring, his jaw tight, his own bird forgotten.
He started leaving things for you. Not lettersāhe knew you would burn thoseābut small, meaningless objects left where you couldn't avoid them. A perfect, polished river stone resting on your favourite book in the library. A single, perfectly folded parchment crane on the arm of your unused chair in the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom. A small, wild, white lily left on the step leading up to the Slytherin dungeon entrance.
You always accepted the gifts, your chest aching with guilt, and immediately disposed of them. The stone was thrown into the lake. The crane was tossed into the fireplace. The lily was quickly vanished. You couldnāt afford sentimentality; sentimentality was a deadly weakness.
His academic focus suffered catastrophically. The other MaraudersāJames, Remus, and Peterāwere worried sick. James would often intercept his searching gaze in the hallways, pulling Sirius away, whispering fiercely in his ear. Sirius would resist, turning back for one last, painful look at your retreating figure before allowing himself to be dragged off, his shoulders slumped in defeat.
The contrast between your outward presentation and your inward reality was a horrifying chasm.
The term settled into a pattern of agonizing avoidance and escalating repression. You became the perfect Prefect, your uniform immaculate, your demeanor glacial. You knew where he would be and meticulously avoided those locations.
Sirius, however, seemed to seek the forbidden touch of your attention.
One cold Tuesday evening, you were on patrol near the abandoned North Wing classrooms. You rounded a corner and stopped dead.
Sirius was there, lingering outside a classroom, well after curfew.
āBlack! You know the rules. Detention is mandatory for being out this late.ā You had perfected the tone of cold, official disappointment.
He smiled, a heartbreaking, empty grin. āI know, Miss Prefect. I was hoping Iād find you here. I wanted to see if the uniform makes you feel any less like a prisoner.ā
āGet your act together, Sirius,ā you scolded, walking towards him, your wand raised, your heart hammering the frantic rhythm of the bond. āI will overlook this one violation tonight. Go straight back to your dorm. And do not let me catch you like this again.ā
He moved quickly, faster than you expected, crossing the distance and grabbing your hand, ignoring the wand entirely.
The contact was a violent, electrifying shock. The glamour charm on your mark seemed to momentarily fail. The bond, which had been a dull ache, suddenly became a vibrant, searing furnace.
His touch, warm and certain, felt more real, more right, than anything you had felt since your seventeenth birthday. You could feel his desperation, his longing, his absolute conviction pouring through your fingertips.
āYou feel that,ā he whispered fiercely, his eyes blazing, searching yours. āDonāt you dare lie to me now. That is real. It is undeniable. Stop running. Please.ā
You knew he was right. Every cell in your body screamed to collapse into his embrace, to pull him close and never let go. But that simple, life-changing truth was the one thing you could not afford.
With a gasp, you ripped your hand free. The loss of contact left your arm tingling and cold, the bond instantly retreating to its painful, muffled throb.
āThere is nothing to talk about, Black,ā you insisted, your voice shaking. āDo not touch me again. Do not challenge my duty. Go.ā
He watched you walk away, defeat replacing the fleeting triumph in his eyes.
During the Winter holiday, you were subjected to a relentless series of lectures and lessons on "Wifely Duties" and "The Future of the House of Lestrange." You learned about managing accounts, navigating political treaties, and the importance of producing a pristine heir. As your mother droned on, you found yourself staring out the window, every learned piece of duty clashing with the constant, distant feeling of Siriusās rebellious despair. The contrast made you question the very foundations of your life.
When you returned to Hogwarts, the conflict escalated quickly.
Sirius was waiting, again, in the deserted carriage, having clearly timed his move.
You didn't fight him this time. You simply stood facing him, your eyes full of tears you refused to shed. āStop, Sirius. Please. For both our sakes. Donāt do this to us.ā
He didn't listen. He looked at you, and the years of guarded politeness and forced animosity melted away, leaving behind only the raw, wounded boy who had just foundāand lostāhis other half.
āI love you,ā he said, the words heavy and real, falling into the silent carriage with the weight of a monumental confession.
You were stunned. āYou donāt know what that word means,ā you whispered, tears finally streaming down your face. āYouāwe are young. Too young to know what that means.ā
āIt means this,ā he argued, gesturing to the painful space between you. āItās the agony I feel when I see Lestrange touch you. Itās the furious relief I feel when you scold me. Itās knowing that you are the only person who can truly see me. Thatās what being soulmates is. Thatās love, _____.ā
He closed the distance, his eyes searching yours for permission, for one final moment of truth. He leaned down slowly, giving you every chance to pull away.
You couldn't.
His lips met yours, and the kiss was heartbreakingly sad. It wasnāt defiant or passionate; it was a desperate confirmation of the inevitable bond, a silent acknowledgment of the tragedy of your timing. Your response was immediate, tears mixing with the taste of him, the magic of the bond momentarily silencing the despair of your mind.
But the kiss was a lie to the world, and you were too much a creature of duty to sustain it.
You broke away, pushing hard against his chest. āNo!ā you gasped, scrambling for the door, your mind a whirlwind of fear and regret.Ā
You ran out, leaving him utterly devastated in the cold, silent carriage.
The school year accelerated, becoming a relentless, agonizing blur of duty and yearning. Rabastan Lestrange, emboldened by the finality of the contract, began to openly treat you as his property.
The next significant hurdle was the Hogsmeade trip. Rabastan, now in his seventh year, invited you, and you were obligated to agree.
The village was bustling and warm, filled with happy students. You walked beside Rabastan, your arm tucked rigidly into his, enduring his tedious monologue about the importance of loyalty.
Then, you saw him.
Sirius was outside the Three Broomsticks, huddled with James and Remus. He was laughing at something James had said, but the laughter was too sharp, too forced, even through the distance you could tell that much. He was joking with his friends like usual, but his eyes were fixed, scanning the crowd.
When his gaze finally landed on you, walking formally beside Lestrange, the transformation was instantaneous and brutal. The laughter died in his throat. The light vanished from his eyes. His face collapsed into an expression of such raw, broken misery that your heart seized in your chest.
You didn't look away. You stared straight ahead, a cold, perfect mask of indifference. You squeezed Rabastanās arm, pulling him onward, pretending the most important person in your life did not exist.
The bond screamed at you, a soundless, violent torrent of pain and rejection. You ignored it.
Weeks later, the pressure of maintaining your composure finally broke you. You sought a moment of true solitude, the only place you knew where you might find silence: the Astronomy Tower.
You climbed the winding staircase, the chill air promising relief. But when you reached the top, you found Sirius already there, huddled by the railing, staring out at the grounds.
He heard you and immediately stood up. His robes were messy, and he swayed slightly. The smell of Firewhisky was strong.
He attempted to hurry past you, but you reached out and caught his sleeve. You smelled the alcohol then, it hit your senses like a jinx. āSirius, wait. Youāve been drinking. You could fall.ā
He stopped, his resistance melting into exhausted surrender. He was utterly drunk.
āI was hoping I would fall,ā he mumbled, his voice thick.
Alarm seized you. You grabbed his arm and began steering him back toward the stairs. āDonāt say that. Donāt be an idiot. Come on, Iām walking you back to the Gryffindor common room.ā
He let you lead him, his head resting against your shoulder as you navigated the dark, silent corridors. The feeling of him, heavy and warm and vulnerable, was an exquisite torture. The bond was agonizingly loud, demanding you protect him, love him, and take him home.
āWhy do you do this?ā he pleaded, his breath warm against your ear. āYou care. You know you care. We could run away right now. We could be happy. We could be us.ā
You held him tighter, but your resolve remained granite-hard. āI canāt. I wonāt. I will never be happy knowing I betrayed my family, my name, the only identity I have ever known. Defying them does not give me satisfaction, Sirius. It gives me panic. I am not you. I will honour my duty.ā
āYour duty will kill you,ā he countered, his voice catching.
āMy duty saves you,ā you whispered back.
You finally reached the entrance to the Gryffindor common room. You stopped, gently pushing him upright, looking up at his devastated face.
āGo to your friends, Sirius. They love you. They will keep you safe. Live the life of freedom I cannot afford.ā
You looked at the silver thread hidden beneath your cuff, and then at his mark, exposed by his careless robes. It was a perfect match, a tragic certainty.
You gave him one last, long look, memorizing the shape of his broken hope, and turned and walked away.
The rest of the school year was a period of silence. Sirius no longer tried to corner you, no longer left symbolic gifts. He carried the visible weight of your final rejection, burying himself in his friends and his rebellion, a constant presence that was now just a dull, persistent ache in the soul-bond.
You were flawless. You finished your exams with flying colours. You accepted your final political assignments from Rabastan. You were the perfect student, the perfect Prefect, the perfect bride.
The summer holidays arrived, and you returned home to the cold, suffocating embrace of your family, your motherās preparations for the wedding beginning in earnest.
Two weeks into the summer, during a stiff, formal dinner with your some of the sacred pureblood families, the news came, delivered by a furious, flustered Walburga Black.Ā
Sirius Orion Black had run away.
He had left the ancestral house, taken only the bare minimum, and vanished, disowned and utterly free. He had chosen the Potters, chosen his friends, chosen his defiance, and chosen his life.
The news was a scandal, a source of profound embarrassment for the Houses of Black, but for you, it was a silent, agonizing relief.
That night, lying alone in your cold, vast bed, you lifted your sleeve and stared at the silver mark beneath the glamour charm. It was no longer a symbol of hope or a demand for confrontation. It was a silent, steady thrum. It was the feeling of distant, uncomplicated joy.
You had sacrificed your own soulmate to ensure his freedom. He was out there, finally alive and entirely himself.
And that, you realized, was the only happy ending you could ever have. You were trapped in your perfect, cold life, but the knowledge of his wild, beautiful freedom was your painful, secret victory.
some writers are addicted to the oxford comma. some writers ā they love an em dash. and some writers are obsessed with semicolons; i, personally, am not. my vice? itās italics. stressed phrases. iām too dramatic.
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āREGULUS ARCTURUS BLACK! OPEN THIS DAMN DOOR RIGHT NOW BEFORE I KICK IT DOWN!āĀ
Jamesā voice caused Regulus to slip in the bath with the shock and he swallowed some of the water and started choking on it.Ā
āREGULUS!ā
Regulus pulled himself out of the bath and wrapped himself in a towel as he raced to open the door.Ā
As he unlocked it, it swung open and James all but fell through the door.
āJames?ā Regulus spluttered.Ā
āWhat the FUCK did I tell you about the bathroom door?ā James was raging. Regulus could see the anger in his eyes and it was startling.Ā Ā
Or at least, it was for a bit. The longer James stood in the bathroom shouting at Regulus, the more his glasses steamed up and Regulus accidentally let out a little chuckle at the site.Ā
He caught himself when James glared at him.Ā
āSorry, the steam,ā Regulus mumbled and pointed at Jamesā glasses.
James moved out of the bathroom and Regulus followed. Moving back to his bedroom to get dry and put on clean pyjamas.Ā
James hovered outside the bedroom door and Regulus felt himself getting angry at James now too.Ā
He stormed to the door and stepped into the corridor. Staring James in the eye he opened and closed his door a few times.Ā
āSee, perfectly safe, itās just a door and it doesnāt even have a lock.ā Regulus rolled his eyes and stalked away downstairs and into the kitchen.Ā
His anger was making him hungry.Ā
James was following him.Ā
āWhat do you want, Potter?ā Regulus threw Jamesā surname in his face, as he let his features settle into a pissed off look.Ā
āPotter? Oh, is that how it is?ā James asked with a small sneer.Ā
āWeāre not friends. We both know that, so maybe we should just go back to surnames.ā Regulus shrugged.
Then he turned around and started making himself some toast.Ā
āWow, okay. So, youāre just like, gonna be a dick now?ā Regulus didnāt respond. āIs this because I didnāt want you to kiss me back at the hospital?āĀ
Regulus spun around and there was fire in his veins.Ā
āYes, because Iām just that pathetic.ā Regulus drawled. āPoor, sad little Reggie, gets rejected by his ex boyfriend and so becomes a big meany about it.āĀ
āWell then where the hell has this attitude come from?āĀ
āWhy donāt you tell me, eh?ā James raised an eyebrow. āAfter all, you were the one who said you never really knew me. That Iām not the good guy you thought I was.āĀ
Regulus could feel tears welling up in his eyes, but he refused to cry in front of James.Ā
James just stared at him and Regulus couldnāt read his features.Ā
Tide is a skin I made for myself. Because I need the absolute void of nothingness to feel somewhat content. idk. Less elements the better for me or I get antsy.
and it has pretty gradients!Ā
But itās somewhat elegant, and more modern than the actual default ao3 skin so it might be of interest to someone else! Hence Iāll publish it. It is available in both light and dark mode because I know people likes dark modes. (Iām definitely not a dark mode kind of girl, it gives me so much headache, idk)
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Iām seeing a lot of people saying this post changed their brain chemistry, and as a neuroscientist I wanted to say yes!!! Yes it does!
Wanting something requires dopamine signaling, but liking something doesnāt.
If you have a mental illness/disorder that affects dopamine, you might feel that you donāt want to do the things that you like. You do still like them. You will appreciate having done them.
Let your likes guide you.
(If you want to read more, hereās one experimental paper about it. https://pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/articles/PMC5171207/ This theory called the incentive-sensitization theory was originally created to explain behaviors in addiction but can be applied elsewhere as well)
Rewards are both ālikedā and āwantedā, and those two words seem almost interchangeable. However, the brain circuitry that mediates the psych
dude omegaverse AUs are lowkey insanely sex positive because 90% of everything revolves around sex and everyone is completely fine with it like imagine taking a week off work to get railed to hell and back and your coworkers being 100% okay with it there's no gossip or drama or anything just mark from HR getting his guts rearranged nonstop tuesday through saturday and coming back to work on monday with a fresh bitemark on his neck and meeting his colleagues for lunch like nothing happened what a LIFE
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