Long may she reign

You let yourself wander through the castle, the stone corridors humming with the same old magic you’ve always known. Sunlight spills through tall windows, catching on dust motes that drift like stars. The staircases creak and shift, portraits murmur as you pass, and for a moment you almost forget you’re misplaced in time. Hogwarts is beautiful, timeless—you could almost believe nothing has changed.

“Willow!”

The name jolts you. For a heartbeat you nearly forget to react, but you catch yourself just in time, turning sharply.

Frank Longbottom is jogging toward you, tall and broad-shouldered, his smile open and earnest. Alice trails beside him, her steps light, her eyes bright with curiosity. You already know who they are—of course you do—but seeing them like this, young and alive, is something else entirely. And Merlin, Frank looks so much like his son Neville it’s almost unsettling.

“New Gryffindor, right?” Alice says warmly, brushing her hair back as she falls into step beside you. “We wanted to say hello.”

You manage a polite nod, the mask of composure slipping easily into place. “Yes. Willow.”

Frank grins, his energy almost overwhelming. “Well, you picked a good time to arrive. Hogwarts has this tradition—whenever someone joins mid-term, we throw a party.”

You blink, incredulous. “A party? For me?”

Alice laughs, her voice bubbling with excitement. “And Harry. It’s weird, I know. But it’s tradition. Everyone gets one. And now it’s your turn.”

You can’t help the small, incredulous laugh that escapes you. A party. For you. You might be stuck in the past, tangled in history, but apparently you’re about to have a celebration thrown in your honor.

Frank claps you on the shoulder, his grin wide. “Trust me, it’ll be fun. Gryffindor knows how to make someone feel welcome.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s a flicker of warmth in your chest despite yourself. A party. For you (tho you'd have to share with Harry). In the past.

The library is hushed, candlelight flickering across rows of ancient tomes. You’re curled into your chair, nose buried in a book on Animagus transformations, the diagrams so intricate they almost breathe. Lupin would’ve been proud of you for this curiosity, you think—then wince, remembering you’re stuck in his timeline, and the thought feels like a knife twisting.

You’re so lost in the words that you don’t notice the shadow until it falls across your page. When you look up, it’s him—Regulus Black. Dark hair perfectly combed, grey eyes sharp as steel, posture dripping with entitlement. You recall the facts: Sirius’ younger brother, the quiet prodigy of Slytherin House, brilliant in charms and potions, loyal to the Black name, and—though history will never let him rest—destined to die defying Voldemort.

He doesn’t bother with pleasantries. “You’re in my seat,” he says, voice clipped, arrogance dripping from every syllable.

You scowl, snapping the book shut with deliberate slowness. “Funny,” you retort, tone sharp as glass, “I didn’t see your name carved into the wood. Or should I check under the cushion for a crown?”

His lips twitch, not quite a smile, more like a challenge. “You Gryffindors never know your place.”

You lean back, eyes narrowing. “And you Slytherins never stop reminding everyone of yours. Tiresome, really.”

The tension crackles between you, sharp and electric, until footsteps break it. A brunette with green streaks in his hair, tattoos curling across his arms, saunters up with a grin. Beside him, a blond covered in metal rings that glint under the candlelight smirks.

The brunette whistles low, eyes gleaming. “Damn. I like this one.”

The blond chuckles, gaze flicking between you and Regulus. “Finally, someone who doesn’t fold under Black’s glare.”

Regulus scoffs, but you catch the faintest flicker of interest in his eyes.

Evan Rosier tilts his head, smirk widening. “Sure they didn’t put you in the wrong house?”

You let out a sharp laugh, scoffing as you roll your eyes. “Please. With the den of lions? I’d rather hex myself. But apparently fate has a sense of humor.”

The three of them exchange glances, and for the first time, you see it—the spark of recognition. You’re not just another Gryffindor to them. You’re something sharper, something that matches their own disdain for the lion’s pride. And that realization leaves them… mesmerized.

Dinner looms, the castle humming with that restless energy that always precedes the evening feast. Your day has been… something. Seeing Lucius and Narcissa so young, so in love, had carved a hollow ache in your chest. Their laughter, their warmth—it was almost unbearable, because you know what they become. What happened to them? The question gnaws at you still.

You haven’t seen Harry since breakfast—not that you minded. He would only distract you from the impossible task of finding a way back into your own timeline. The last you heard, whispered by a group of students passing in the corridor, was that he’d been swept up by the Marauders—James, Sirius, Remus, Peter—and the Valkyries—Lily, Mary, Marlene.

You pause at the thought, leaning against the cool stone wall. It must be hard on him. Seeing his parents for the first time, so young, so alive. James laughing with Sirius, Lily radiant with her friends—it’s everything Harry was denied, everything he’s dreamed of. And now it’s here, in front of him, in a way that must feel like both salvation and torture.

You exhale, pushing yourself off the wall, robes swishing as you head toward the Great Hall. The day has been heavy, tangled in revelations and ghosts of futures not yet written. Dinner will be loud, golden, suffocating—but you’ll endure it. You always do.

The Great Hall glows with candlelight, the enchanted ceiling mirroring the dusky sky outside. You slip in early, robes brushing against the stone floor, and claim a quiet corner seat—safe, tucked away, where you can breathe without the roar of Gryffindor chatter pressing in. For a moment, it feels like sanctuary.

Two more arrive—Fabian and Gideon Prewett, twins with matching mischievous smiles, their banter bouncing back and forth like a practiced game. “Fabian,” one says, tipping his head. “Gideon,” the other adds, smirking. “You’ll learn to tell us apart eventually. Or not. We don’t mind confusing people.”

Finally, Benjy Fenwick slides into the seat across from you, his demeanor calmer, his voice thoughtful. “Benjy,” he says simply, but his eyes are kind, steady, the sort that make you feel seen without being scrutinized.

The conversation begins easily, flowing like water. Arthur talks about his fascination with Muggle inventions, his words tumbling over each other in excitement. “Did you know they have these little boxes that can keep food cold without magic? Electricity, they call it. Brilliant stuff.” Molly rolls her eyes fondly, but her smile betrays affection. “He’ll talk your ear off about plugs and batteries if you let him.”

Fabian and Gideon lean in, their voices conspiratorial. “So, Willow, what’s your story? Beauxbatons, right? Bet you’ve got tales of elegance and charm. Don’t worry, we won’t hold it against you if you prefer French wine over butterbeer.”

You scoff lightly, the rhythm of their teasing easy to fall into. “Butterbeer has its charms. Besides, I’m not here to compare beverages.”

Benjy chuckles softly, his tone more measured. “Ignore them. They thrive on mischief. But it’s good to have you here. Hogwarts can be… overwhelming. Better with friends.”

And just like that, you settle into the rhythm. Their kindness is effortless, their warmth genuine. They talk to you as though you’ve always been part of their circle, weaving you into their stories without hesitation. Molly asks about your favorite subjects, Arthur wonders if you’ve ever seen a Muggle car up close, Fabian and Gideon joke about sneaking you into one of their pranks, and Benjy listens, offering quiet encouragement.

It’s not loud or obnoxious—not the suffocating roar of the Marauders—but something gentler, steadier. A corner of belonging carved out for you in the chaos of time.

The dormitory feels suffocating the moment you step inside. Lily Evans, Marlene McKinnon, and Mary Macdonald—your roommates. Just great. Spending time with Harry’s mother? Could this day get any worse. You toss your books onto the bed with a sharp sigh, trying not to let the weight of it all crush you.

At least Dumbledore had thought ahead. A suitcase sits at the foot of your bed, filled with clothes. You’ve never much liked the old man—too many secrets, too much manipulation—but tonight, you’re honestly grateful. Without him, you’d have nothing to wear to this ridiculous “welcome party.”

You sift through the fabrics, fingers brushing silks, velvets, and embroidered hems. After much deciding, you finally settle on an outfit that feels like armor.

The dress is a layered teal-blue, short but flowing, with intricate silver embellishments stitched into the bodice. The embroidery catches the candlelight, shimmering like constellations scattered across the fabric. A sheer overlay drapes over the skirt, scalloped at the hem, giving the illusion of movement even when you’re still. The neckline dips just enough to frame the layered necklaces you clasp around your throat—one with a delicate heart pendant, another with a circular charm that glints like a coin.

Your hair you twist into a loose, messy bun, strands falling deliberately to frame your face. Small braids weave through the curls, adding texture, rebellion, a touch of wildness.

When you catch your reflection in the mirror, you almost don’t recognize yourself. You look like someone who belongs in this era, someone who could walk into a party and command attention without saying a word. For the first time today, you feel steady.

The chatter of your roommates hums in the background—Lily’s voice bright, Marlene’s laughter sharp, Mary’s excitement bubbling. You ignore them, focusing on the rhythm of your own heartbeat. Tonight, the party will be thrown for you. Tonight, you step into the spotlight.

The corridors hum with anticipation as you descend, leaving Lily, Marlene, and Mary behind in the dorm. You’ve already decided you’ll spend as little time as possible up there—sharing space with Harry’s mother feels like some cruel twist of fate. Better to lose yourself in the castle’s endless halls than suffocate in that room.

The Great Hall is transformed, hazy with candlelight and chatter. Long tables are crowded, laughter spilling from every corner. Almost every house is represented—Hufflepuffs clustered together, Ravenclaws debating in animated tones, Gryffindors roaring with their usual golden pride. But no Slytherins. Figures.

You slip into the crowd, the noise pressing in from all sides. The Gryffindors are suffocating, their energy too loud, too bright, too much. You wouldn’t have minded seeing your parents again—Lucius’ sharp grace, Narcissa’s quiet elegance—or even Regulus, Barty, and Evan. Anything to cut through the endless Gryffindor noise.

The corridors hum with noise spilling from the Great Hall, laughter echoing like thunder. You slip inside just in time to see James Potter—of course—standing on top of a table, his hands wrapped around Harry’s. The crowd roars, Gryffindors eating up the spectacle.

You mutter under your breath, sharp and disdainful: “Classic Potter. Such an attention seeker.” Your eyes flick to Harry, the words meant for him, but before you can sink back into the shadows, someone beside you scoffs.

“You’re absolutely right,” the voice says, crisp and certain. “He’s such a try-hard.”

You turn—and freeze. Lily Evans stands there, her green eyes gleaming with amusement, her auburn hair catching the candlelight. For a moment, you’re struck by the irony: Harry’s mother, alive, radiant, standing beside you as though fate itself is mocking you.

But Lily isn’t looking at Harry. She’s looking at James.

Her lips curve into a wry smile as she tilts her head toward the boy on the table. “Not even a day here, and you’ve already figured out his reputation. James Potter thrives on attention—loud, reckless, always trying to impress. It’s exhausting.”

She pauses, studying you with a spark of recognition, as though she’s found someone who sees through the same façade. Then, softer, almost conspiratorial, she adds: “I think we might get along just fine.”

The words hang between you, unexpected and sharp. For the first time tonight, you feel the suffocating Gryffindor haze shift—just a little.

You laugh inwardly at the irony—Harry, standing beside James, watching his mother and the girl he hates side by side. Fate has a cruel sense of humor.

James waves across the hall, calling out with a grin, “My sweet Lily-pad!” His voice is loud, shameless, the kind of declaration that makes the Gryffindors howl with laughter. Lily rolls her eyes, lips curving into a wry smile.

Before James can approach, Lily slips away into the crowd, her robes swishing, her smile lingering like a secret. James jumps down from the table, chasing after her, leaving you and Harry alone in the haze of candlelight and noise.

The silence between you is sharp, heavy, charged. Harry’s jaw tightens, his eyes flicking from where Lily disappeared to you, the rival he can’t stand. And you—cool, composed—meet his gaze without flinching.

You smirk, folding your arms. “What’s the matter, Rivers? Not used to sharing the spotlight? Your dad’s got enough of it for both of you.”

Harry’s lips press into a thin line. “Don’t call him that.” His voice is low, sharp, but there’s a tremor beneath it.

You tilt your head, feigning innocence. “Oh, right. Potter. Classic Potter. Loud, reckless, desperate for attention. Funny how it runs in the family.”

His glare sharpens, but you catch the flicker of pain in his eyes. Seeing James—alive, young, golden—must be tearing him apart. You laugh inwardly, because fate really does have a cruel sense of humor.

Harry steps closer, his voice tight. “You think this is funny? Watching him? Watching her?” His eyes burn, green and furious. “You don’t get it. You don’t know what it’s like.”

You break it first, voice low but firm. “We need to talk about the important part. About going back. If we stay here too long, we’ll cause disturbances—ripples in this timeline we can’t control.”

Harry’s head snaps toward you, his green eyes flashing. “You don’t know that.”

You scoff, folding your arms. “Of course I do. History isn’t meant to be rewritten. Us being here—it’s dangerous. Every second we spend in this time risks changing something that shouldn’t be changed.”

Harry hesitates, his jaw tightening. “Maybe… maybe that’s not such a bad thing.”

The words hit you like a slap. You blink, incredulous. “Not a bad thing? Harry, are you listening to yourself? This isn’t some game. If we alter even one detail, the future could collapse. People could die—or live—who weren’t meant to. You could erase yourself.”

His voice rises, sharp with emotion. “You don’t get it! You don’t know what it’s like to grow up without them. To never hear their voices, never see their faces. And now they’re here—my parents, alive, young, laughing. You think I want to go back to a world where they’re gone?”

You stare at him, the raw pain in his words cutting deeper than you expected. But you force yourself to stay logical, steady. “Harry, I do get it. I saw them too. I saw the love in their eyes, the warmth. And it broke me. But that’s exactly why we can’t stay. They’re not ours to keep. They belong to this time, not us. If you cling to them, you’ll destroy everything.”

He shakes his head, frustration boiling over. “You’re just saying that because you don’t understand what it’s like. You didn’t lose them. You didn’t grow up with nothing.”

Your voice sharpens, cutting through his anger. “And you think I don’t know loss? You think I don’t understand what it means to want something so badly it hurts? But I also know this—logic matters. Time matters. If we stay, we risk unraveling everything. You can’t just choose your parents over the world.”

Harry’s fists clench at his sides, his voice trembling with fury. “Maybe I would. Maybe I’d choose them. Just once, I want to be selfish.”

You stare at Harry, the tension between you snapping tighter with every word.

“You’re delusional if you think staying here won’t ruin everything,” you say, voice sharp, cutting through the noise of the hall.

Harry glares back, his fists clenched at his sides. “And you’re heartless if you think I should just walk away from them. You don’t understand what it’s like.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “No, I understand perfectly. You’re selfish. You’d risk the entire timeline just to play house with people who don’t even know you yet.”

His jaw tightens, green eyes burning. “At least I care about something other than myself. You’re so obsessed with logic you’ve forgotten what it means to feel.”

You step closer, refusing to back down. “Feelings don’t fix history, Potter. They destroy it. And if you can’t see that, then maybe you’re not half as clever as everyone thinks you are.”

Harry’s face twists, frustration boiling over. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re pathetic,” you snap back, the words leaving your mouth before you can stop them.

The silence that follows is heavy, sharp. Neither of you moves, neither of you blinks. Then, almost at the same time, you both turn on your heels and storm off in opposite directions, the fight unresolved, the air between you scorched.

The Black family’s drawing room was a place designed to intimidate. Heavy velvet curtains blocked out the summer light, casting the chamber in a muted gloom. The air smelled faintly of polished wood and smoke from the ever-burning hearth, though the fire was unnecessary in the warmth of the season. Portraits of stern ancestors lined the walls, their painted eyes following every movement with silent judgment.

Regulus sat rigidly in the high-backed chair, posture perfect, hands folded neatly in his lap. He had learned long ago that any sign of restlessness was met with sharp rebuke. His parents—Orion and Walburga—occupied the seats opposite him, their presence commanding, their voices weaving through the silence with the weight of centuries of expectation.

The conversation had begun with pleasantries, the kind of brittle exchanges that masked deeper currents. But inevitably, it drifted toward the subject that always lingered beneath the surface: the family fortune. The Black legacy. The inheritance that had once been Sirius’s birthright, now stripped from him the moment he turned his back on their name.

Regulus listened as his mother spoke of investments, of properties, of the preservation of wealth that had been carefully guarded for generations. Her tone was sharp, precise, every word carrying the authority of someone who believed herself the keeper of tradition. Orion’s voice followed, lower and steadier, but no less commanding. He spoke of responsibility, of duty, of the necessity of maintaining the Black name untarnished.

And Regulus—silent, composed—sat as the heir. The weight of it pressed against his chest, heavier than the ornate rings that gleamed on his parents’ fingers. He was the one expected to carry the fortune forward, to embody the ideals Sirius had rejected. Every glance from Walburga reminded him of that truth. Every pause in Orion’s speech seemed to demand his agreement, his compliance.

Walburga’s voice was the first to cut through the heavy silence, sharp as the edge of a blade. She spoke of lineage, of the Black name, of the fortune that had been preserved through centuries of careful alliances. Her words carried the weight of tradition, each syllable dripping with expectation.

Orion leaned forward, his tone lower, deliberate, as though every phrase was carved into stone. He reminded Regulus of his position—not just as heir to the wealth Sirius had abandoned, but as the one who must ensure the family’s survival in the eyes of the pure-blood elite.

The conversation wound its way, slowly but inevitably, toward the heart of the matter. Walburga’s gaze fixed on her son, unyielding. “The fortune is secure,” she said, “but the name must be upheld.”

Orion’s words followed, steady and cold. “A suitable partner. From a pure-blooded family. That is the expectation.”

The implication hung heavy in the air. Regulus was to court, to present the image of stability and tradition, to prove that the Black legacy was unbroken. The partner was not meant to be cherished, not meant to be loved—merely a formality, a symbol.

Walburga’s lips curled faintly, almost satisfied. “You may discard her once the inheritance is sealed. What matters is appearances. The family name must remain untarnished.”

The fire crackled in the hearth, the only sound in the pause that followed. Regulus sat perfectly still, the words sinking into him like iron chains. He was expected to find a mistress to court, a pure-blooded woman to stand at his side until the fortune was his. Afterward, she could be cast aside.

Your presence in Ravenclaw was always marked by a certain sharpness—an intellect that cut through the noise of Hogwarts like a blade. You weren’t just another pure-blood girl with wealth and a respectable family name; you were known for the way you wielded your mind, for the way professors leaned forward when you spoke, for the way even the most confident students hesitated before challenging you in class.

Among the pure-blood circles, your family’s reputation was untouchable. Old money, old traditions, the kind of lineage that made the Blacks and Rosiers nod in acknowledgment. But unlike them, you refused to bow to the suffocating beliefs that had poisoned generations. You had no patience for the rhetoric that half-bloods and Muggle-borns were lesser, no tolerance for the whispers of superiority that echoed in Slytherin corridors.

That was why you kept your distance from the so-called Slytherin Skittles—Evan Rosier with his smug grin, Barty Crouch Jr. with his sharp tongue, Regulus Black with his quiet intensity, Dorcas Meadows with her sharp wit, and Pandora Rosier with her enigmatic charm. They thrived in their own insular world, bound by ambition and bloodline, while you carved your own path, refusing to be defined by the same narrow ideals.

Still, your name carried weight. In the library, in the classroom, even in the Great Hall, you were recognized. You gave Remus Lupin a run for his money in debates, matched Lily Evans in brilliance, and on occasion, even Regulus himself found his carefully constructed composure tested when you outmaneuvered him in Arithmancy or Charms. You were a Ravenclaw through and through—sharp, strategic, and unafraid to challenge anyone who underestimated you.

It was this reputation, this undeniable presence, that made you both admired and untouchable. You were respected among the pure-blood elite, yet you stood apart from their suffocating beliefs. And in the quiet corners of Hogwarts, whispers followed you: the girl who could rival the brightest minds, the one who might one day dismantle the very traditions she was born into.

The library was hushed, sunlight filtering through tall windows and pooling across the long oak tables where you and your friends had gathered. Sylvia leaned close, her elbow nudging yours, her whisper sharp with disbelief: “He’s coming this way.”

You didn’t even glance up at first. Lizzy was flipping through a Charms textbook, Heather scribbling notes, Mary half-buried in a stack of parchment. You scoffed under your breath, brushing Sylvia off. The Slytherins knew better than to tangle with you—it was an unspoken rule, a mutual understanding. You were Ravenclaw, sharp-tongued, untouchable, and they were the Skittles, a cluster of pure-blood ambition and arrogance.

But then the footsteps stopped at your table. The infamous Regulus Black, heir of the Black fortune, slid into the empty seat across from you. His movements were deliberate, precise, as though he had rehearsed this intrusion. He sat facing you directly, posture immaculate, and when his gaze lifted, it locked onto yours without hesitation.

The chatter of your friends faltered. Lizzy’s quill stilled, Heather’s notes forgotten, Mary’s eyes widened. Sylvia’s whisper turned into a sharp intake of breath. Yet Regulus didn’t spare them a glance. His attention was fixed entirely on you, as though the rest of the library had ceased to exist.

The moment unfolded with a strange inevitability. Regulus’s voice, calm but commanding, cut through the library’s quiet: “May I borrow your friend for a few moments?” His gaze never wavered from you, pinning you in place even as your friends exchanged startled glances.

Sylvia’s nudge turned into a hurried nod, Lizzy and Heather murmured agreement, and Mary shifted awkwardly, all of them conforming far too quickly for your liking. You blinked, confused, caught between scoffing at the absurdity and wondering what game he was playing. The Slytherins didn’t cross into your territory—not like this.

But Regulus didn’t wait for your protest. He rose smoothly, every movement deliberate, and you found yourself following as he led you out of the library. His stride was measured, his silence heavy, until the two of you slipped into a secluded corridor where the shadows stretched long and no curious eyes could follow.

The air felt different here—quieter, charged. The walls muffled the distant hum of Hogwarts life, leaving only the sound of your footsteps and the faint rustle of his robes. He stopped, turning to face you fully, the intensity of his stare sharper now without the buffer of your friends.

You stood there, irritation simmering, arms crossed as you demanded, “Alright, Black. What do you want dragging me out here?”

Regulus’s composure didn’t falter, though his voice carried a quiet tension. “Everything,” he said simply. “My parents have made it clear—the Black fortune, the legacy, it all depends on appearances. They want me to find someone. A partner. Pure-blooded, respectable, untouchable. Someone who can stand beside me until the inheritance is secured.”

Your brows shot up, disbelief sharp in your tone. “You’re telling me this like I should care? Sounds like your problem, not mine.”

You scoffed, incredulous. “So you want me to fake-date you? Pretend to be your partner so you can inherit your fortune, while I get dragged into your family’s mess?”

Regulus’s jaw tightened, but his voice didn’t waver. “Yes. That’s exactly what I’m asking. Not because I want to, but because I have no choice. And you’re the only one who could make it work.”

The silence stretched, heavy, pressing against the stone walls. His confession hung between you, audacious and desperate all at once.

You couldn’t help it—the laugh burst out before you could stop yourself, sharp and incredulous, echoing in the empty corridor. The look on his face only made it worse.

“Regulus Black,” you said, shaking your head, amusement curling at the edges of your voice, “you actually think I’d want to be seen with you?”

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t interrupt. He just stood there, gaze steady, as if waiting for you to soften.

But you didn’t. You straightened, the laughter fading into something colder. “No. Whatever scheme you’re plotting, whatever neat little arrangement you think I’d agree to—it’s not happening. I don’t care about your fortune, your family name, or their ridiculous demands. I won’t play along.”

You turned on your heel, the sound of your footsteps echoing against the stone floor as you strode away. The rejection had been sharp, final, and you didn’t bother to look back.

But you felt it—the weight of his gaze, dark and unyielding, following you down the corridor. Regulus didn’t call after you, didn’t try to stop you. He simply stood where you had left him, silent, his eyes fixed on your retreating figure.

There was something in that stare, something that lingered even as you disappeared around the corner. It wasn’t just annoyance or wounded pride—it was calculation, quiet intensity, the kind of gaze that promised this wasn’t the end.

Dinner in the Great Hall was its usual blur of chatter and clinking cutlery, the long tables buzzing with energy. You sat beside Everett Vale—Evei, as most people called him—half-listening to his easy banter while your mind still lingered on the strange encounter earlier.

The scrape of a bench pulled your attention, and Sylvia slid into the seat beside you. Her expression was sharp, eyes gleaming with curiosity. She didn’t waste time with pleasantries. One word, low and insistent: “Spill.”

Your stomach tightened. This was the first time you’d seen her since Regulus Black had cornered you in the library, and the memory of his dark gaze still clung to you. Your brain raced, flipping through excuses, searching for something that would sound believable without giving away the truth.

Finally, you settled on one. You leaned back, forcing a casual tone. “It wasn’t anything dramatic. He wanted to ask about the Arithmancy assignment—something about the formula Professor Vector gave us. I told him to figure it out himself.”

Sylvia narrowed her eyes, clearly unconvinced, but she didn’t press—at least not yet. The excuse hung between you, flimsy but serviceable, a shield against the truth you weren’t ready to share.

The corridors of Hogwarts were quiet after dinner, the hum of voices fading as students drifted back to their common rooms. You walked alone, the path toward Ravenclaw Tower familiar, your mind still half on Sylvia’s probing questions and the flimsy excuse you’d given her.

Then, suddenly, a hand seized your arm. Before you could react, you were shoved through the door of the Potions classroom, the heavy wood slamming shut behind you. The lock clicked, sealing you inside.

Your protest rose sharp and immediate, but it died on your lips when you saw him. Regulus Black. His expression unreadable, his movements deliberate. He advanced without hesitation, wand raised, the tip pressing lightly under your chin. The cold touch forced your head up, your back hitting the edge of the table behind you.

The room was dim, shadows stretching across shelves lined with jars and vials. Regulus leaned forward, lowering the wand but not the intensity of his stare. His hands gripped the table on either side of you, caging you in, the closeness suffocating.

Your breath caught, irritation and confusion colliding with the undeniable weight of his presence. He didn’t speak yet—just stared, dark eyes fixed on yours, as though daring you to laugh again, daring you to dismiss him.

Regulus’s voice was low, steady, but there was a sharp edge to it as he leaned closer, wand no longer pressing but his presence still suffocating.

“You think this is about me needing you to go forward with my plans?,” he said, eyes locked on yours. “It’s not. It’s about what happens if you don’t play along. You know how these families work—your family included. They’ll push you toward alliances whether you want them or not. They’ll try to tie you to someone worse, someone who won’t give you a choice.”

His grip on the table tightened. “Being linked to me—even if it’s fake—keeps them off your back. It makes you untouchable. No one questions the Black heir’s partner. No one dares interfere. You get the freedom to breathe, to keep control, without committing to anything real.”

He paused, letting the words sink in, his tone quieter now. “I’m not asking you to believe in their traditions. I know you don’t. I’m asking you to use me as a shield. A buffer. Temporary. Nothing more.”

“You’re starting to see it, aren’t you?” Regulus murmured, voice smooth, almost smug. “I’m not saying you want this. But think about it—linked to me, you’re untouchable. No family breathing down your neck, no worse matches forced on you. I’m a buffer. Temporary. Clean. Easy.”

You narrowed your eyes, refusing to let him think he’d won. “That doesn’t mean I’m convinced.”

His smirk deepened, the arrogance sliding into something more teasing. “Oh, come on. I can’t be that bad. Better than half the dreary options your family would throw at you. At least I’m not boring.” He leaned closer, voice dropping. “And I promise, I’d keep you entertained—in more ways than one.”

You scoffed, heat rising despite yourself. “You’re insufferable.”

Regulus chuckled, his tone dipping into suggestive territory. “Maybe. But admit it—you’d rather spar with me than be shackled to some dull pure-blood who thinks a good time is reciting family trees. At least with me, you’d never be bored. And who knows…” His gaze flicked down, deliberately slow, “…you might even enjoy yourself.”

You rolled your eyes, but he pressed on, relentless. “Besides, think about it. You get freedom, I get my parents off my back. Win-win. And if anyone asks, well…” His smirk sharpened. “You can say you settled for the best of bad options. I’ll even let you insult me while you’re at it.”

Your lips parted, half-annoyed, half-amused. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously better than the rest,” he countered smoothly, leaning just close enough that his breath brushed your cheek. “And if you’re worried about appearances, don’t. I look good on your arm. You’d look even better on mine.”

The banter hung heavy, sharp and charged, his arrogance daring you to push back, your irritation tangled with the faintest flicker of intrigue.

The tension in the Potions room was thick, his smug grin still lingering as you finally exhaled, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

“Fine,” you said, voice sharp but steady. “I’ll agree.”

Regulus’s eyes lit with triumph, but before he could move, you pressed a hand against his chest, forcing space between you. “But don’t get ahead of yourself, Black. There are terms and conditions.”

His brow arched, amusement flickering. “Terms and conditions? You make it sound like a contract.”

You held his gaze, unyielding. “It is a contract. If we’re doing this, it’s on my rules. First—kissing only in public. That’s it. No private theatrics, no blurred lines. Second—you don’t get to parade me around like a trophy. We decide together when and where we’re seen. Third—this stays temporary. When your family’s satisfied, it’s over.”

Regulus leaned closer again, hands gripping the table, his smirk deepening. “Kissing only in public? That’s cruel. What if I want to practice?” His tone dipped, teasing, suggestive. “You wouldn’t want me to embarrass you with sloppy technique, would you?”

You rolled your eyes, but the heat in the air was undeniable. “Don’t push your luck.”

He tilted his head, eyes gleaming. “Luck has nothing to do with it, and if you’re setting conditions…” His voice dipped, teasing. “…I’ll enjoy breaking them one by one.”

The heat in the air was undeniable, your irritation tangled with something sharper, something you refused to name.

You lay sprawled on your bed, staring at the ceiling, the weight of it all pressing down on you. Regulus Black. Of all people. A pure-blood supremacist, whispered about in corridors as a future Death Eater. You groaned, burying your face in your pillow—oh my god, it couldn’t get any worse.

But then the thought hit you, sharp and electric. If you’re going to do this—if you’re going to fake-date him—you might as well have your fun. You’re not just going to play along. You’re going to dig. You’re going to peel back every layer of his carefully constructed mask.

Every secret he’s hiding. Every weakness he doesn’t want anyone to see. You’ll find them. You’ll use this arrangement not just to shield yourself from your family’s pressure, but to unravel Regulus Black himself.

And suddenly, the situation didn’t feel quite so suffocating. It felt like a game. Dangerous, yes—but thrilling.

The morning was ordinary enough—you were bent over your Transfiguration homework with Peter and Remus, the three of you muttering about wand movements and formula corrections. Peter was scribbling furiously, Remus calmly pointing out where he’d gone wrong, and you were mid-sentence when warmth brushed your shoulder.

An arm draped gently around you, steady but not forceful. Then—soft, deliberate—a kiss pressed to your cheek.

You froze, quill hovering above parchment, as Peter nearly dropped his notes. “Wait—did he just—?” His voice cracked in disbelief.

Remus’s brow arched, his expression unreadable but his eyes sharp, flicking between you and the boy behind you.

Regulus Black stood there, calm and composed, his touch light, not controlling—just enough to make his presence known. His voice was gentle, teasing, but not mocking. “Morning,” he said, lips curving into a faint smile. “Thought I’d remind you I exist.”

The heat rose in your cheeks, not from embarrassment alone but from the sheer audacity of it. He wasn’t smug in that moment—he was careful, almost tender, though the timing was deliberate enough to leave Peter gaping and Remus quietly studying you both.

By the time the bell rang for the end of third period, Hogwarts was practically vibrating with whispers. It was everywhere—echoing in corridors, spilling across staircases, even drifting through the Great Hall.

Students swarmed around you and Regulus, eyes wide, voices hushed but eager. Some were bold enough to ask outright, “Is it true? Are you two really together?” Others just stared, giggling behind their hands, nudging their friends as if they’d spotted the scandal of the year.

Everywhere you went, heads turned. The rumor had already twisted itself into certainty: you and Regulus Black were dating. And Hogwarts wasn’t just gossiping—they were shipping you two. Hard.

Girls in the common room were already debating your “ship name.” Boys in the courtyard were joking about how Regulus had finally been tamed. Even professors seemed to raise their brows when you passed, though they said nothing.

Regulus, of course, handled it with maddening calm. He didn’t smirk or flaunt it—he simply stayed close, his presence quiet but undeniable. That gentleness only made the whispers louder, the story sweeter in everyone else’s eyes.

Regulus had barely sunk into the green leather armchair in the Slytherin common room when Evan and Barty swooped in, grins sharp and voices loud enough to draw attention.

“Oi, Black,” Evan started, smirking as he sprawled across the couch. “So it’s true then? You and [name] ? Damn, finally. Half the castle’s been waiting for this.”

Barty leaned forward, eyes gleaming with mischief. “You should’ve seen the way people were talking at lunch. Shipping you two like it’s the next great romance. Honestly, I’m impressed—you managed to break Hogwarts without even trying.”

Regulus tried for calm, his usual mask of indifference, but the firelight betrayed him—just the faintest flicker of warmth in his expression. He didn’t snap back, didn’t deny it. He only let their teasing wash over him, quiet, thoughtful.

Because the truth was, they weren’t wrong. He had been harboring feelings since fifth year. Watching her from a distance, keeping it buried beneath duty and expectation, never daring to let it surface. And now, with the rumor blazing through the castle, it felt like the world had caught up to what he’d been hiding all along.

Evan nudged him again, laughing. “You’re not even denying it. Merlin, Reg, you’re gone for her.”

To [Name], I don’t know why I’m writing this, except that something has been weighing on me. You may find it strange, but I thought you should hear it from me. You were… different. When you spent time with us in the Muggle world, you didn’t look down on me for being ordinary. You helped with Dudley’s schoolwork, with chores, even with Vernon’s endless paperwork. Dudley still remembers you fondly—he says you made things easier for him. Vernon is… Vernon. Loud, stubborn, set in his ways. He gives off rude vibes, I know. But he cares for us, in his own way. I suppose you saw that too. Lately, I’ve been thinking about things I tried to forget. About the world I shut out. About Lily. I don’t know why now, but I can’t seem to stop.Don’t mistake this for sentimentality. I don’t know what I want from this, or if I want anything at all. But I thought you should know I haven’t forgotten. Not entirely. —Petunia

The night air was cool, the stars scattered across the sky like spilled diamonds. You leaned against the stone railing of the Astronomy Tower, the letter clutched in your hand. You had read it once, twice, a dozen times, and still the words echoed in your mind.

Petunia hadn’t asked you to do anything. No request, no plea, no instructions. Just clipped sentences, sharp edges softened by something she couldn’t quite hide. But anyone with two wacks of a brain could see it—she regretted what she had done to Lily. She missed her.

You traced the ink with your finger, the lines that spoke of Dudley, of Vernon, of ordinary life. The parts that admitted she hadn’t forgotten. Not entirely.

Cassius’ voice from earlier lingered in your memory: “You’ve given them hope. That’s the most powerful magic of all.” And now here was Petunia, reaching out in her own way, fumbling toward something she couldn’t name.

You exhaled, staring at the stars. What were you supposed to do with this? Respond? Wait? Carry it to Lily? Or keep it tucked away until the time was right?

The owls rustled faintly below, the castle quiet around you. You folded the letter carefully, pressing it against your chest. Petunia hadn’t asked—but her silence spoke louder than words.

She missed her sister. She regretted. And now, the choice of what to do with that regret rested in your hands.

But you shook off the thought. You had bigger things to worry about right now.

The war was coming. You could feel it in the air, in the whispers that passed through the corridors, in the way the professors’ eyes lingered on the students with a weight they couldn’t hide.

You had trained the Slytherins well. Defensive spells, Patronuses, even the courage to laugh in the face of fear. They had grown stronger, braver, more united. But would they really be on Hogwarts’ side when the time came?

Hard to say.

Draco’s smirk, Theo’s teasing, Pansy’s sharp wit—all of it masked something deeper. Fear. Loyalty torn between family and survival. You had given them tools, but tools were nothing without choice. And choice was the one thing you couldn’t make for them.

The prefects’ bathroom was filled with steam, the scent of lavender drifting lazily through the air. Candlelight flickered against the tiled walls, casting soft shadows that made the place feel almost otherworldly. You had decided you needed a warm bath—something to wash away the weight of Petunia’s letter, the war looming, the endless questions clawing at your mind.

Unfortunately, the only place with warm water was already occupied. Cassius.

He glanced up when you entered, his grin easy, unbothered. “Well, well. Couldn’t resist the prefects’ bath either?”

You smirked, shrugging off your robes. “Guess not. Besides, you’re hardly the worst company.”

The water was blissfully warm as you slid in beside him, the tension in your shoulders melting almost instantly. Cassius leaned back, arms stretched along the edge, his expression relaxed. He had that way about him—light, fun, distracting in all the right ways.

“You’ve been carrying too much again,” he said casually, watching the ripples dance across the surface. “I can see it in your face.”

Cassius chuckled, splashing the water lightly. “Good. You deserve it. Even the strongest need a break.”

The steam curled around you both, the warmth seeping into your bones. For the first time in days, you let yourself breathe. No Petunia, no Marauders, no looming battles. Just you, Cassius, and the quiet comfort of stolen peace.

The steam curled around you both, the warmth of the water easing the weight in your chest. Cassius leaned back, his expression softer now, less playful. For a moment, he was quiet, then his voice broke the silence.

“It’s hard,” he admitted, eyes fixed on the ripples. “My husband… he’s a Muggle. He knows about me being a wizard, of course, but it’s still difficult. Especially now, with the war pressing closer every day.”

You turned toward him, listening. His usual grin was gone, replaced by something rawer, more vulnerable.

“He tries,” Cassius continued, voice low. “He tries to understand, to accept. But how can he? He doesn’t know what it feels like to live with this kind of fear. To wonder if tomorrow the world you built together will be torn apart.”

You reached out, resting your hand lightly on his arm. “Cassius… he doesn’t have to understand everything. He just has to stand with you. And from what you’ve told me, he does. That’s what matters.”

Cassius exhaled, closing his eyes briefly. “I know. But sometimes I feel guilty. Like I’ve dragged him into something he never asked for. He deserves peace, not this constant shadow.”

You shook your head firmly. “He deserves you. And you deserve him. War doesn’t erase that. If anything, it makes it more important. Hold onto what you have—because that’s the kind of love that survives.”

Cassius looked at you then, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. “You always know what to say.”

You smirked, leaning back against the edge of the bath. “Not always. But I know this: you’re stronger than you think. And he’s lucky to have you.”

And then, without warning, Cassius moved.

One moment he was leaning back, casual, the next he had shifted forward, trapping you against the edge of the bath. Your back hit the cool tile, the water rippling around you. He leaned in, close enough that the steam blurred the space between you, his eyes fixed on yours.

The playful grin was gone. His expression was sharper now, intent, as though the weight of everything he had confessed had crystallized into this moment.

“A—” slipped from your mouth, startled.

Cassius smirked, voice low, teasing but steady. “Relax, girl. Just follow my lead.”

You blinked, confused. Lead? What lead?

Then you saw them. James and Sirius, standing at the door of the bathroom, frozen in place. Their eyes widened, taking in the scene—the steam, Cassius leaning over you, your back pressed against the edge.

Your gaze flickered back to Cassius, and he whispered, lips curved in a sly grin, “You do wanna make them jealous, don’t you, girl?”

The realization hit, sharp and sudden. From their perspective, it probably looked like the two of you were tangled together, caught in something far more intimate than the truth.

A smirk tugged at your lips. If Cassius wanted to play this game, you weren’t about to back down.

And so you held his gaze, letting the moment stretch, knowing full well what James and Sirius must be thinking as they stood there, watching.

James’ jaw clenched, Sirius’ eyes narrowed, both of them simmering with jealousy they couldn’t hide. They didn’t storm in, didn’t speak. They just stood there for a heartbeat too long, then turned sharply, leaving the doorframe behind them.

The silence that followed was thick, broken only by Cassius’ chuckle. “Well,” he said lightly, leaning back, “that should keep them guessing.”

“Merlin,” Cassius wheezed again , splashing water as he leaned back. “Did you see their faces? Sirius looked like he’d swallowed a lemon whole!”

You wiped at your eyes, still laughing. “And James—oh, his jaw! I thought he was going to grind his teeth into dust.”

Cassius smirked, shaking his head. “Perfect. Absolutely perfect. Let them stew in it.”

You leaned against the edge, catching your breath, the laughter easing into warmth. For a moment, the heaviness of war, of letters, of looming choices—all of it melted away. Just you and Cassius, sharing mischief, sharing relief.

The dungeon was quiet except for the faint bubbling of cauldrons. You had tucked yourself into a corner, book open, indulging in some light reading while everyone else wrestled with ingredients. Potions had always come naturally to you—measure, stir, patience. It was almost soothing.

Then you heard it.

A loud hiss, followed by Ron’s panicked voice: “Bloody hell, Harry, it’s turning black!”

You glanced up. Sure enough, their cauldron was smoking, the liquid inside frothing like it was seconds away from exploding. Hermione was frantically flipping through her notes, muttering instructions, but Harry and Ron looked completely lost.

You sighed, closing your book. “You two are hopeless,” you said, striding over.

Harry looked up, sheepish. “We’re trying. It’s just—everything’s too much right now.”

Ron groaned, stirring wildly. “Snape’s going to murder us.”

You leaned over, eyeing the mess. “You added the valerian root too early. And you’re stirring like you’re trying to beat eggs, not brew a potion.”

Ron blinked. “So… what do we do?”

You took the ladle from him, steady hands guiding the mixture. “Slow, clockwise. Let the heat drop before adding the next ingredient. Watch.”

The potion calmed under your touch, the violent bubbling easing into a soft simmer. The smoke cleared, the color shifting into the pale blue it was supposed to be.

Harry’s eyes widened. “You make it look easy.”

You smirked. “Because it is easy. If you stop panicking long enough to think.”

Harry gave you a grateful look, relief softening his features. He scratched the back of his neck, embarrassed but smiling. “Guess we owe you one.”

And just like that, your breath caught. The grin, the tilt of his head, the spark in his eyes—it was James.

The dungeon blurred, the laughter of Ron and Hermione fading into the background as memory pulled you under.

The Gryffindor common room was alive with noise, firelight flickering against the walls. James Potter leaned over a cauldron someone had dragged in for practice, his grin cocky and impossible to ignore.

“Oi, it’s not that hard,” James laughed, hazel eyes gleaming. “You just have to stop panicking. Potions is about control.”

Sirius barked a laugh, Peter looked bewildered, and Remus shook his head with quiet amusement. James winked at you then, the same grin Harry had just worn—bright, infuriating, magnetic.

You remembered the way your stomach had flipped, the way you’d hated that he could make you feel anything at all.

The dungeon snapped back into focus. Harry was still grinning, Ron was still relieved, Hermione was still muttering about Snape’s unfairness.

But your chest was tight, the echo of James’ grin lingering like a ghost.

You forced a smirk, shaking it off. “Don’t get used to me saving your potion. Next time, you’re on your own.”

Harry laughed again, and it was James all over—alive in the moment, not just memory.

Harry blinked, a little startled, but Hermione leaned in, curious. “What was the Muggle world like for you? I mean, compared to here?”

You smiled, glad for the shift. “Honestly? It’s wonderful in its own way. Electricity, cars, cinemas, ice cream shops on every corner… magic’s incredible, but Muggles have their own kind of brilliance.”

Harry’s eyes lit up. “Ice cream shops. What’s your favorite?”

You thought for a moment. “Chocolate. Always.”

Hermione nodded thoughtfully. “I like strawberry. Simple, but perfect.”

Harry grinned as he looked at you . “Chocolate, no contest.”

Ron frowned, utterly lost. “Wait—what’s a cinema? And why are we talking about ice cream when Snape’s probably plotting our deaths?”

You and Hermione burst into laughter, Harry joining in. Ron’s confusion only made it funnier, his expression caught somewhere between outrage and bewilderment.

The conversation flowed easily after that—classes, favorite flavors, little glimpses of life outside the war. For a moment, it was just the four of you, sharing warmth in the middle of the dungeon, the kind of bond that made Hogwarts feel like home.

Then Harry leaned forward, grin tugging at his lips. “So… the Yule Ball. You’ve heard, right?”

Hermione’s eyes lit up instantly. “Of course! It’s going to be wonderful. The decorations, the music, the dancing—it’s one of the biggest events Hogwarts has ever hosted.”

Ron groaned, though his ears were already turning red. “Yeah, yeah. Everyone’s excited. Except me. I can’t dance.”

You smirked. “That’s what partners are for, Ron. They’ll drag you along whether you like it or not.”

Harry laughed, the sound reckless and bright. “I’m actually looking forward to it. I mean, it’s not every day Hogwarts throws a ball. And… well, it’s a chance to just be normal for once.”

Hermione nodded, her voice softer. “Exactly. A night without worrying about classes or… everything else.”

"So,” she asked, “what are you wearing to the Yule Ball?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Oh—I’m not going.”

The silence that followed was sharp, almost comical. Three pairs of eyes stared at you like you’d just announced you were dropping out of Hogwarts.

Harry’s jaw dropped. “Not going? But—you’re you. You’re cool, you’re fun, you’d make the whole thing better!”

Ron frowned, baffled. “Yeah, exactly. Everyone’s excited, and you’re just… skipping it?”

Hermione shook her head, scandalized. “You can’t be serious. It’s one of the biggest events Hogwarts has ever hosted. You’d look amazing, and besides—it’s about more than dancing. It’s about being part of it.”

You smirked, leaning back. “I don’t know. Balls aren’t really my thing.”

Harry leaned forward, grin tugging at his lips. “Well, they’re ours. And you’re stuck with us, whether you like it or not.”

Ron nodded firmly. “Yeah. If we have to suffer through dress robes, you’re suffering with us.”

Hermione crossed her arms, determined. “You’re going. End of discussion.”

Their shock melted into insistence, their voices overlapping, teasing, pleading. And for the first time, you felt the warmth of it—their excitement wrapping around you, pulling you in.

Maybe you weren’t planning on going. But with the Golden Trio staring at you like that, you weren’t sure you’d have a choice.

Your room was quiet, the soft glow of candlelight flickering against the walls. You sat cross‑legged on your bed, staring at the floor, the weight of the Yule Ball pressing at the edges of your thoughts.

Peter was perched on the chair by your desk, fiddling with a quill. He glanced at you, brow furrowed. “So… you’re really not going?”

You shrugged, trying to sound casual. “I don’t know. It feels… pointless. With everything going on, a ball just seems like a distraction.”

Peter leaned forward, earnest. “That’s exactly why you should go. You’ve been carrying so much lately—worrying about the war, about everyone else. One night of fun won’t erase it, but it’ll give you a break. You deserve that.”

You hesitated, chewing your lip. “But what if it feels fake? Like pretending everything’s fine when it’s not?”

Peter shook his head firmly. “It’s not pretending. It’s living. Even in the middle of all this, you’re allowed to laugh, to dance, to enjoy yourself. That’s what keeps us human.”

You looked at him, surprised by the conviction in his voice. Peter wasn’t always the one to speak so boldly, but tonight he meant it.

He smiled, softer now. “Besides, you’d look amazing. And everyone knows it. You’d light up the whole room.”

A laugh escaped you, small but real. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” Peter said, grinning. “But I’m right. Go to the ball. Let it take your mind off everything, even just for a few hours.”

You leaned back, the thought settling differently now. Maybe he was right. Maybe one night of music and laughter was exactly what you needed.

The shop was warm, lanterns glowing against racks of shimmering gowns. Outside, Hogsmeade buzzed with students rushing to finish last‑minute preparations, laughter spilling into the snowy streets.

You stood alone among the dresses, fingers trailing over velvet, silk, satin. Each one glittered under the light, but none of them felt right.

You pulled a deep emerald gown from the rack, holding it against yourself in the mirror. Too heavy. Too formal. You set it back.

Next, a pale silver dress, delicate and soft. Too fragile. Not you.

You sighed, shuffling through hangers, the fabric whispering as you moved. Every gown seemed to belong to someone else—Hermione’s elegance, Lily’s glow, even Sirius’ flair if he were to wear one for a laugh. But not you.

The thought pressed at your chest: Maybe I shouldn’t go. Maybe Peter was wrong.

You shuffled through the racks, fabric whispering under your fingers. Every gown glittered under the lantern light, but none of them felt right. Too heavy, too delicate, too not you. The longer you stood there, the more the doubt pressed in.

Then a voice broke through. “Having trouble?”

You turned, startled. Cho Chang stood a few feet away, a soft smile on her face. You hadn’t really spoken before, though you’d heard of her—and she, apparently, had heard of you.

You gave a half‑shrug. “Maybe. Nothing seems to fit.”

Cho stepped closer, her tone light, teasing. “Trust me, I’ve been standing here for half an hour doing the same thing. It’s harder than it looks.”

You laughed, the tension easing just a little. “Guess I’m not the only one.”

Cho didn’t linger on it, though—she just smiled, reaching for a gown on the rack. “Here. Try this one. It’s simple, but striking. Sometimes the right dress isn’t about being the fanciest—it’s about feeling like yourself.”

You took the gown from her, fingers brushing the fabric. For the first time all evening, something about it felt… possible.

You stood in front of the mirror, the deep red gown draped over your arms. It shimmered under the lantern light, bold and striking, but your stomach twisted.

Red. Gryffindor red. Marauder red.

You frowned, muttering, “It’ll catch their attention. And I’m mentoring the Slytherins… it feels wrong.”

Cho tilted her head, watching you with a knowing smile. “You’re overthinking it.”

You raised a brow. “Am I? Red screams Gryffindor. I’ll look like I’m trying to make a statement.”

She stepped closer, her voice soft but firm. “Or maybe it screams you. Strong. Confident. Unafraid to stand out. You don’t have to hide behind neutral colors just because of politics or houses. Red is your color—it lights you up.”

You glanced at the mirror again, the gown catching the glow. It did make you look… different. Powerful.

Cho grinned, teasing lightly. “Besides, Remus mentioned you once or twice. Said you had this spark. I think he’d agree—red suits that spark perfectly.”

Your breath caught at the slip, but Cho didn’t linger on it. She just nudged the dress toward you. “Wear it. Not for Gryffindor. Not for anyone else. For you.”

You hesitated, then laughed softly. “You’re persuasive, you know that?”

Cho winked. “I try.”

Your dress

The moment you stepped through the great oak doors, the world shifted.

The Great Hall had been transformed into something out of a dream. Chandeliers floated high above, dripping with golden light. Enchanted snowflakes drifted lazily from the ceiling, vanishing just before they touched the floor. Music swelled, violins weaving through the air, and laughter rippled like magic itself.

Silver trays of champagne glasses floated gracefully between the crowd, carried by invisible enchantments. Students darted forward to snatch them, bubbles fizzing as the glasses refilled themselves mid‑air.

Everywhere you looked, there was movement—robes swirling, gowns glittering, shoes tapping against polished stone. Couples spun across the floor, their laughter mingling with the music. The air was thick with excitement, chitter‑chatter spilling from every corner.

You paused just inside the doorway, the red gown catching the light. For a heartbeat, you felt every eye on you. The color was bold, daring, impossible to ignore. And yet, Cho’s words echoed in your mind: Red is your color. It lights you up.

She had been right.

shimmered in the air, champagne floated, music soared, and for the first time in weeks, you let yourself breathe.

Tonight wasn’t about war or shadows. Tonight was about being alive.

And then you felt it.

Four eyes. Heavy, lingering, drinking you in.

You didn’t need to look to know—they were locked on you, following every step as you crossed the marble floor. The weight of their gaze pressed against your skin, not cruel, not mocking, but sharp, curious, almost hungry.

They had been enjoying themselves—laughing, drinking, letting the music carry them. The Yule Ball was alive with enchantment: floating champagne glasses, snowflakes dissolving mid‑air, gowns glittering as couples spun across the floor.

And then the doors opened.

You stepped inside, the lush red gown catching every flicker of light, every shimmer of magic. For a heartbeat, the room seemed to pause.

Their eyes locked on you instantly. Four of them—James, Sirius, Remus, and Lily—drinking you in, unable to look away.

It was like being pulled backward in time.

Because they remembered. Hogwarts, years ago, their own Yule Ball. You had worn a similar dress then—red, rich, alive with spark. Lily had matched you in her own way, her gown a glowing orange that lit her up like fire. Remus had worn yellow, understated but warm. James and Sirius, of course, had gone bold—red and black, dramatic, impossible to miss.

And you… you had been the center of it all.

Now, seeing you in that gown again, it was as if your old spark had returned. The same confidence, the same glow, the same way you lit up the room without even trying.

James’s chest tightened, Sirius smirked but couldn’t hide the way his eyes lingered, Remus’s gaze softened with quiet recognition, and Lily’s mouth curved into a smile.

The music swelled, laughter rippled, but for them, the moment was frozen—caught between past and present, between memory and reality.

You looked so pretty in that color. So you.

And for the first time in a long time, they felt like they were back at Hogwarts again.

The music swelled, champagne floated, gowns glittered—and then you spotted them. The Slytherin gang clustered near the edge of the dance floor, sharp suits and gowns, laughter spilling like smoke.

Theo was the first to notice you. His eyes widened, then narrowed in mock horror. “Red? Red? Professor, tell me you didn’t.”

Lorenzo clutched his chest dramatically. “Siding with the enemy, are we? Betrayal never looked so sparkly.”

Matteo leaned back, smirking. “Bold choice. Gryffindor red. You’re practically waving a flag at Potter.”

Pansy twirled her raven‑black gown, lips curling. “Honestly, I expected emerald. Or at least something neutral. But no—you had to go full Gryffindor.”

Astoria, ever the swan, tilted her head with a sly smile. “She looks stunning, though. Admit it.”

Theo groaned. “Fine. She looks stunning. But still—red?”

You laughed, shaking your head. “It’s not about houses. It’s about me. And apparently, red is my color.”

Then Cassius slipped into the circle, his grin wicked, eyes flicking from your gown to the far side of the hall where the Marauders stood.

“Well, well,” he said smoothly, voice dripping with amusement. “Bold choice. Almost like you wanted to make sure certain people couldn’t miss you tonight.”

The gang erupted—snickers, gasps, exaggerated “ooohs.”

You rolled your eyes, heat creeping up your neck. “Please. As if I’d dress for them.”

Cassius tilted his head, smirk widening. “Mm. Maybe not. But you can’t deny it’s working. Look at them—they’re practically glued to you.”

“Enjoy yourselves,” you tossed back lightly, before slipping away.

The crowd swallowed you whole—gowns glittering, robes swirling, enchanted champagne glasses floating past. You reached the drinks table, fingers curling around a glass that refilled itself with a fizzing sparkle. The bubbles tickled your nose, the taste crisp and bright.

For a moment, you just stood there, watching the chaos unfold. Laughter, music, chatter—it was alive, intoxicating.

Then the rhythm pulled at you. The violins soared, the beat throbbed through the floor, and suddenly the dance floor didn’t look so daunting.

You set the glass aside, smoothing the red gown as you stepped forward. The lights caught the fabric, making it shimmer like fire.

And then you were there—on the dance floor, the music wrapping around you, the crowd spinning in glittering circles. You moved with it, letting the rhythm take you, letting the night swallow the doubts whole.

The violins softened, the rhythm dissolving into something tender, something meant for couples. The dance floor shifted—pairs drawing closer, hands finding waists, faces leaning in. The air itself seemed to thrum with intimacy, golden light spilling from the chandeliers above, snowflakes melting just before they touched the polished stone.

You exhaled, already stepping back, the red gown brushing against your legs as you prepared to leave. This wasn’t your song—it was theirs. Romantic, slow, too revealing.

But then—warmth. A hand at your wrist, gentle but certain.

Your breath caught as you turned, eyes widening. Sirius.

He was there, close, his arm sliding around you with practiced ease, pulling you into his orbit. The world narrowed—the music, the laughter, the shimmer of gowns—all of it blurred until there was only the press of his hand at your waist, the weight of his gaze.

The red of your gown flared against the black of his robes, the contrast sharp, magnetic. His smirk curved, smug and unshaken, but beneath it was something steadier, something that held you in place.

The violins swelled, and suddenly you were moving. His steps were confident, guiding, the rhythm folding you into him. Your gown shimmered with each turn, catching the light like fire, while his presence anchored you, steady and unyielding.

Around you, couples swayed, laughter softened, the enchantment of the Ball deepened. But you were caught in a different kind of spell—the kind woven by Sirius Black, his arm tangled with yours, his smile cutting through the golden haze.

“Red,” he murmured, voice low, almost slurred with firewhisky but sharpened by intent. “You had to choose red. Bold. Reckless. Perfect.”

His thumb brushed against your waist, deliberate, his gaze never leaving yours. The music swayed around you, couples melting into each other, but Sirius held you like the dance was his alone.

“You know what it does,” he continued, tone groveling‑coded, reverent beneath the teasing. “That color—it burns. It screams. It’s you. Ravishing.”

The word slipped again, softer this time, almost like a confession. His smile curved, smug and aching, as though the sight of you had undone him completely.

Your chest tightened, the ache pressing against your ribs. You swallowed, the tremor in your voice betraying you as you whispered back, “You shouldn’t look at me like that.”

His smirk deepened, eyes dragging over you like he was memorizing every detail. “Can’t help it,” he murmured, voice groveling‑coded, dangerous. “Not when you look like this. Not when you make me remember everything I swore I’d forget.”

The violins swelled, couples melted into each other, but Sirius held you like the dance was his alone. His grip tightened, pulling you closer, his gaze burning with a hunger that felt like confession.

The violins faded, the last notes dissolving into silence. The golden haze of the chandeliers dimmed with the end of the song, couples slowing, breaking apart, laughter returning in soft waves.

But Sirius didn’t let go. His hand lingered at your waist, his storm‑grey eyes glassy with firewhisky, his smile crooked, dangerous, aching. He looked at you like the music hadn’t ended, like the dance was still his.

Your chest tightened, the weight of his words still pressing against your ribs, the ache of his gaze refusing to release you. For a heartbeat, you almost stayed.

Then you shoved him back.

The movement was sharp, decisive—the silk of your gown flaring as you stepped away, breaking the spell. His grip fell, his arm dropped, and the space between you widened like a wound.

You turned, leaving the dance floor, the crowd swallowing you whole. The red gown shimmered as you moved, fire trailing in your wake.

Behind you, Sirius stood frozen. His smirk was gone, replaced by something raw, something broken. His storm‑grey eyes followed you, heavy, unspoken, his drunken smile faltering into silence.

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Sirius Black had once been your world. Him, James, Remus, Peter—you were all one big, reckless, laughing family. The Marauders weren’t just friends; they were the kind of people who stitched themselves into your soul, who made every day at Hogwarts feel like eternity could never touch you. You thought nothing could break that bond.

But eternity did break. It shattered the night James and Lily were murdered. And the one who tore it apart was Sirius.

The betrayal was a wound that never healed. He had sold them out—handed them to the Dark Lord like lambs to slaughter. James, your brother in all but blood. Lily, the heart of your circle. Gone, because Sirius chose treachery.

Now, when you think of him, it isn’t laughter or warmth that rises in your chest. It’s hatred. Raw, deep, unrelenting hatred. You see him not as the boy who once made you feel invincible, but as the man rotting in Azkaban, chained by the weight of his own sins. The world calls him a murderer, a traitor, and you don’t disagree.

The Marauders are no more. The family you once had is ashes. And Sirius Black—the one who destroyed it—is nothing but a ghost in your memory, locked away where he belongs.

The salt spray of the North Sea didn't just cling to your skin; it bit into it, a freezing, abrasive mist that smelled of rotting kelp and ancient, stagnant grief. Azkaban didn't feel like a prison; it felt like a throat, closing slowly around everything living. Every breath you took felt like swallowing shards of ice. You hated the Ministry for allowing this visit, and you hated yourself more for agreeing to it. But the plea had come through the official channels, a desperate, handwritten scrap of parchment that had practically screamed through the paper: Please. Just once. I need you to know.

The guards didn't speak. They didn't need to. The Dementors did the talking, their presence a rhythmic, sucking void that pulled the warmth from your marrow and replaced it with memories of every failure you had ever endured. You walked the corridor of damp stone, your boots clicking a lonely rhythm against the floor.

Then you saw him.

The cell was a concrete box, leaking seawater from the ceiling in a slow, rhythmic drip. Sirius sat on the floor, his back against the freezing wall. He looked less like a man and more like a ruin. He was stripped to the waist, his skin a sickly, translucent pale that made the blood look unnervingly vivid.

Deep, jagged lacerations crisscrossed his chest and shoulders, some fresh and weeping, others scabbed over in ugly, brownish ridges. He was drenched in a mixture of sweat and blood, the liquid clinging to the lean muscles of his torso, making his skin glisten under the dim, flickering light of the corridor.

He was positioned in a way that felt like an invitation and a tragedy all at once. One leg was stretched out straight, the muscle of his thigh taut and trembling. The other was bent, his foot flat against the stone, knee pulled up toward his chest. His head was tilted back against the wall, his throat exposed—a long, vulnerable line of skin that pulsed with every ragged breath.

His hair, once a crown of arrogant, black curls, was now a matted, greasy mane that clung to his forehead and neck. He didn't look at you at first. He just breathed, a wet, rattling sound that echoed in the silence.

"Get up," you whispered, your voice sounding foreign to your own ears, brittle and sharp.

Sirius shifted, a low groan escaping his lips. He winced, his entire body shuddering as the movement pulled at the wounds on his side. He slowly rolled his head to the side, his grey eyes bloodshot and sunken, yet still burning with a feverish intensity that made your heart stutter.

"You came," he rasped. His voice was a ghost of the one you remembered—gone was the melodic arrogance, replaced by a gravelly, broken sandpaper quality.

"I shouldn't have. I should have left you to rot in this hole." Sirius let out a sharp, hacking laugh that turned into a cough, spraying a fine mist of blood onto his chin. He didn't wipe it away. He just looked at you, his gaze roaming over your face with a hunger that felt almost tactile.

"I know you hate me," he whispered. "I can taste it. It's the only thing in this room that isn't cold."

"Hate isn't a strong enough word, Sirius. I look at you and I see the void where James used to be. I see Lily's smile extinguished because you decided you were the only one who mattered."

Sirius flinched as if you had struck him. He tried to move closer, sliding his body along the floor, but his strength failed him. He collapsed back against the wall with a heavy thud, his chest heaving.

"I didn't do it," he gasped, the words tumbling out in a rush. "Listen to me. Please, just... look at me. Do I look like a man who could betray them? Do I look like I could live a single second knowing I had handed them to him?"

You stepped back, the movement instinctive, a physical rejection of his proximity. The sight of him—broken, bloodied, yet still possessing that magnetic, raw masculinity—sent a surge of conflict through you. You wanted to scream at him, to tear the skin from his bones, and yet, a traitorous part of you wanted to kneel in the filth and hold him until the shaking stopped.

"Stop lying," you spat. "Just stop

Sirius tried to lunge forward, his movement sudden and violent. He let out a strangled cry of pain as a wound on his hip reopened, a fresh bloom of crimson soaking into the grey stone beneath him. He slumped forward, his forehead resting against the cold floor, his breath coming in jagged, sobbing gasps.

"Believe me," he moaned, the sound muffled by the stone. "Please. Just... tell me you believe me. I can't stay here if you don't believe me. The Dementors... they take everything, but they can't take the memory of your face. I hold onto that. I hold onto the way you used to laugh. Please... don't let that be a lie too."

You looked down at him, the man who had been your anchor, your protector, your first everything. You saw the blood, the filth, and the sheer, agonizing desperation of his posture. For a moment, the rage flickered, replaced by a hollow, aching grief. But then you remembered the silence of the house after the funeral. You remembered the way the air felt empty.

"You're a very good actor, Sirius. Even now, covered in your own blood, you're trying to play the martyr."

He looked up at you, a single tear carving a clean path through the grime on his cheek. "I'm not acting. I'm dying. I'm dying in here, and the only thing that hurts more than the chains is the fact that you look at me and see a monster."

"I see exactly what you are," you replied, your voice cold and final. You turned your back on him. As you walked away, the sound of your footsteps echoed the closing of a door. Behind you, Sirius began to scream. It wasn't a scream of anger or a plea for mercy; it was a raw, guttural howl of absolute abandonment. It was the sound of a soul finally snapping.

You didn't look back. You walked through the mist, through the Dementors, and out into a world that felt just as empty as the cell you had left behind.

The years that followed were a study in silence. You retreated into a life of curated isolation. You lived in a small cottage on the edge of a village that didn't care for magic and cared even less for the scandals of the Wizarding World. You stopped answering letters. You stopped attending gatherings.

You had cut the last remaining thread of your past: Remus Lupin. Remus had tried, at first. He had sent owls with tentative messages, asking how you were, suggesting that perhaps you could find solace in each other's company.

But you couldn't look at him without seeing the ghost of the Marauders. Remus was a living reminder of the brotherhood that had been slaughtered. Every time you thought of his gentle voice or his tired eyes, you saw Sirius's blood-stained chest in that cell. You saw the betrayal.

You had made an unspoken agreement with the universe: the Marauders were dead. James, Lily, and Sirius were gone. Peter was a mystery you no longer cared to solve.

You existed in a vacuum of your own making, reading the *Daily Prophet* not for news, but to ensure that the world remained as broken as you were.

Then came the morning that shattered the silence. You were sitting at your kitchen table, the steam from a cup of Earl Grey rising in a lazy curl.

The newspaper lay open before you, the ink smudging under your thumb. The headline was printed in bold, screaming letters that seemed to vibrate off the page.

SIRIUS BLACK ESCAPES AZKABAN.

Your heart didn't just beat; it hammered against your ribs like a trapped bird. You stared at the moving photograph of Sirius—haggard, wild-eyed, looking more like a feral animal than a man.

The article spoke of the impossibility of the escape, the danger he posed, the presumed targets of his vengeance.

"You're out," you whispered, the words tasting like ash. "You're actually out."

A cold dread settled in your stomach. You didn't know if you wanted to find him and kill him yourself or hide in the cellar until the world ended. You spent the day pacing the length of your living room, your eyes darting to the windows every time a branch scraped against the glass. The isolation you had cultivated for a decade suddenly felt less like a sanctuary and more like a trap.

The knock came at dusk. It wasn't a loud knock, but it was firm. Deliberate. It echoed through the quiet house, pulling you out of your spiral of panic.

You froze, your breath hitching in your throat. You didn't have visitors. You didn't want visitors. You crept toward the door, your hand trembling as you reached for the handle. You didn't open it. Instead, you leaned in, peering through the small gap of the door-knob's eye.

Your breath left you in a sudden, violent rush. Standing on your porch, bathed in the bruised purple light of the twilight, was Remus.

He looked older, thinner, his clothes frayed and worn, his face etched with a weariness that went deeper than skin. He looked like a man who had walked a thousand miles through a storm.

"Remus?" you breathed, your voice a mixture of shock and instinctive distrust. You unlocked the door and pulled it open just a crack, your body poised to slam it shut the moment something went wrong. "Hello," Remus said. His voice was soft, cautious.

He didn't smile. He looked at you with an expression of profound apology, his eyes searching yours for a sign of welcome that wasn't there.

"I know it's been a long time." "A long time? We haven't spoken in twelve years, Remus. Why are you here? How did you even find me?"

"I always knew where you were," he replied. "I just... I respected your silence. But things have changed. Something has happened that changes everything."

You frowned, your gaze shifting behind him. That was when you saw it. Tucked partially behind Remus's legs was a dog. A massive, shaggy black dog with paws the size of dinner plates and eyes that held an intelligence that was far too human.

The dog was panting, its tongue lolling out, but its gaze was locked onto you with an intensity that made your skin prickle. The realization hit you like a physical blow.

No," you gasped, your hand gripping the edge of the door. "No, no, no. You didn't. Remus, tell me you didn't bring him here." Remus shifted his weight, giving you a look of desperate pleading. "Please. Just listen for one minute. He's not what you think he is. He's not—"

You slammed the door with every ounce of strength in your shoulders. The sound echoed through the house like a gunshot. You leaned your back against the wood, your chest heaving, your eyes squeezed shut. You could feel the panic rising, a tide of old grief and new terror.

Then, there was a sound.

It wasn't a knock. It was a wet, sliding noise, followed by a heavy thud against the door. You opened your eyes just as the door began to creak open. You hadn't locked it. In your panic, you had forgotten to turn the deadbolt.

A hand gripped the edge of the door—a long, pale hand with scarred knuckles. With a slow, deliberate motion, the door was pushed wide. The dog was gone. In its place stood a man.

He was taller than you remembered, his frame leaner but more defined, his presence filling the doorway and blotting out the twilight.

He was wearing rags that barely qualified as clothes, his chest partially exposed through a torn shirt, revealing the remnants of the scars you had seen in Azkaban, though they had faded to silver lines against his skin. But it was his face that stopped your heart.

Twelve years had passed, and the boy you had known was gone. In his place was a man of devastating, rugged beauty. His jawline was sharper, more pronounced, shadowed by a thick, dark beard that clung to his chin and cheeks. His hair was still a chaotic mane of black, falling over his forehead in wild waves, framing eyes that were no longer just grey—they were the color of a storm at sea, swirling with a mixture of agony, longing, and an unbreakable will.

He didn't move. He simply stood there, his body positioned perfectly between you and the exit, effectively blocking the door. He was so close you could smell him—the scent of rain, old leather, and a musk that was purely, undeniably Sirius.

You stared up at him, your mouth slightly open, your breath hitching. The hatred was still there, a cold stone in your gut, but it was suddenly competing with a visceral, electric attraction. He looked dangerous. He looked ruined. He looked like the most beautiful thing you had ever seen.

"Get out," you whispered, though the command lacked the fire it had possessed a moment ago. Sirius didn't flinch. He stepped forward, a single, slow movement that forced you to retreat into your own hallway.

He didn't touch you, but the heat radiating from his body was a physical pressure, a warmth that seemed to melt the ice you had spent a decade freezing around your heart.

"I can't," he said. His voice had deepened, becoming a rich, resonant baritone that vibrated in the small space.

"I can't leave until you look at me. Really look at me." "I've seen enough of you, Sirius. I saw you in that cell. I saw the man who murdered his best friend."

Sirius's expression didn't break, but his eyes darkened. He reached up, his fingers brushing against the doorframe, his knuckles grazing the wood.

"I didn't do it," he said, and this time, there was no pleading in his voice. There was only a hard, crystalline truth. "I didn't do it, and I will spend every second of the rest of my life proving it to you. But I can't do that from the rain."

Remus stepped up behind him, his voice soft. "He's exhausted, and he's starving. Just for tonight. Just give him a place to sit, and tomorrow, if you still want him gone, I'll take him myself. I promise." You looked from Remus to Sirius. Sirius was watching you, his gaze tracing the line of your throat, the curve of your shoulder.

There was a hunger in his eyes that wasn't about food. It was a starving, desperate need for recognition, for forgiveness, for a touch that didn't come from a guard's baton or a Dementor's chill. "Why here?" you asked, your voice trembling.

"Why come to me?" Sirius took another step, his chest now inches from yours. He was so tall you had to tilt your head back to see him. He leaned down, his breath warm against your ear, his voice a low, dangerous murmur.

"Because you're the only thing I had left to lose," he whispered. "And I'm tired of losing." The silence that followed was heavy, thick with the ghosts of the past and the sudden, terrifying presence of the present.

You looked at the man before you—the traitor, the fugitive, the love of your youth—and you realized that the door you had closed twelve years ago had never truly stayed shut. You stepped aside, a slow, reluctant movement. "One night," you said, your voice barely audible.

"Just one night." As Sirius brushed past you to enter the house, his arm grazed yours. It was a fleeting contact, a mere whisper of skin against skin, but it felt like a lightning strike.

You shivered, not from the cold, but from the sudden, violent realization that your sanctuary had just been invaded by the one man who knew exactly how to destroy it.

You couldn’t believe it. After twelve years of silence, after building walls so high even Remus’s owls couldn’t climb them, you had let Sirius Black into your house. The thought gnawed at you as you set plates on the table, the smell of roasted chicken and buttered bread filling the small cottage. You had cooked for two men who belonged to a past you swore you’d buried.

Sirius had disappeared into the bathroom, the sound of running water echoing faintly through the walls. You tried not to imagine him there, shedding the grime of Azkaban, steam curling around his scarred body. Tried, and failed.

When the door creaked open, you caught sight of him—damp hair clinging to his temples, droplets sliding down the sharp line of his jaw. He wasn’t wearing his rags anymore. Instead, he was dressed in a shirt and trousers you recognized instantly. Clothes that didn’t belong to him. Clothes that belonged to someone else.

You froze, listening as Remus handed Sirius the bundle. His voice was quiet, but the words carried. “They were… from someone she used to care for. I thought you’d fit them.”

Sirius’s laugh was low, bitter. “So I’m wearing another man’s ghost. How fitting.”

Your stomach twisted. You hated the way his tone dripped with something possessive, hated the way his eyes flicked toward the kitchen as if he knew you were listening.

Remus sighed. “Don’t start, Sirius. She’s giving you one night. Don’t ruin it.”

But Sirius only smirked, tugging at the collar of the shirt, his voice dropping into that dangerous drawl. “Funny. I don’t feel like a guest. I feel like I’ve come home.”

The words hit you like a blade. Jealousy flared—sharp, irrational, undeniable. You clenched the edge of the table, your knuckles whitening, as the image of Sirius in your ex’s clothes burned into your mind. He looked devastating, ruined and beautiful, and the sight made you want to scream.

When he finally stepped into the kitchen, the candlelight caught on the silver scars across his chest, half‑hidden by the borrowed shirt. He looked at you, not at the food, not at Remus—only at you. And in that gaze was hunger, defiance, and something that made your pulse stumble.

The cottage was quiet, the kind of silence that pressed against your skin. You had retreated to your room, the candlelight flickering against the walls, trying to convince yourself that the day hadn’t happened—that Sirius Black wasn’t sitting in your kitchen, wearing another man’s clothes, breathing the same air as you.

But the knock came anyway. Soft, hesitant. You didn’t answer. The door creaked open regardless.

Sirius stood there, shadows clinging to him like a second skin. His hair was damp, curling against his temples, his shirt loose around his frame. He looked less like a fugitive now and more like the boy you remembered—except older, sharper, broken in ways you couldn’t name.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he said, his voice low, almost reverent. “But I can’t sleep knowing you’re just a wall away.”

You sat rigid on the edge of the bed, your hands clenched in your lap. “You shouldn’t be here at all.”

He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. The room shrank, the air thickening with the weight of everything unsaid. He didn’t touch you, but the space between you felt charged, dangerous.

“I know you hate me,” Sirius whispered, his eyes locked on yours. “But I need you to know—I never stopped loving you. Even in Azkaban, even when the Dementors stripped everything else away, they couldn’t take you from me.”

Your throat tightened. You wanted to scream, to throw the words back at him, but instead you whispered, “You don’t get to say that. You don’t get to love me after what you did.”

Sirius’s jaw clenched, his storm‑grey eyes burning. “Then let me prove it wasn’t me. Let me prove I didn’t betray them. Just give me that chance.”

The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. You looked at him—the scars, the ruin, the desperate hope etched into his face—and for a moment, the ice around your heart cracked.

But only for a moment.

You shook your head, your voice trembling. “One night, Sirius. That’s all I promised. Tomorrow, you leave. And whatever you think we had… it died with James and Lily.”

Sirius’s breath hitched, his shoulders sagging. He nodded once, sharp and final, though his eyes betrayed the storm raging inside him. He turned toward the door, his hand lingering on the knob.

Before he left, he glanced back, his voice breaking. “Then let me have tonight. Just tonight, knowing you’re here. That’s enough.”

And then he was gone, the door closing softly behind him. You sat in the flickering candlelight, your chest aching with a grief that felt both old and new.