halfblood-tragedy

Her pulse thudded against the restraints, but the drugs dulled even that. Somewhere, machines were beeping. A voice was saying she had come in violent. That the sedation was necessary. That her numbers were promising.

Then came the door. It opened with a hiss of pressure, like the whole facility exhaled to let them in.

James Potter entered first. Broad-shouldered, uniform pressed sharp, his eyes scanning her with the precision of an instrument. No empathy, no hesitation, just a ledger checking itself against her existence. He was her Obedience Anchor. His role wasn’t to comfort. It was to control. He walked to her side, boots crisp against the floor, and stopped. Watching. Silent. His presence constricted the air itself, and her lungs knew they were required to shrink around him.

Sirius Black followed with a smile that wasn’t a smile at all. Where James kept his silence, Sirius was teeth. “She doesn’t look unstable,” he murmured, words curling like smoke. “Maybe the paperwork was exaggerated.” He leaned close enough for her to see the glint in his eyes. “Or maybe you’re just hiding it really well.” She didn’t flinch. The glint. It wasn’t kind. He was the Simulation Anchor– threats, sabotage, chaos. His job was to pull strings until they snapped.

The third one was quieter. Remus Lupin entered without announcing himself. There was a clipboard in his hand, a pen in the other, and the soft rustle of a lab coat brushing against the metal walls. His gaze slid to the machines first– heart rate, pupil dilation, blood pressure– before resting briefly on her. He looked long enough for her to register the warmth in his eyes. Too long for it to be protocol. Remus was the Decompression Anchor. He watched. He logged. He occasionally soothed. His voice was the only one in the facility that didn’t need to echo to command.

Last came the one she almost didn’t notice.

Peter Pettigrew. He didn’t look up when he entered. He was already writing. Scribbling something furiously onto a notepad as if the blink of her eyes had already given away something crucial. No coat. No title. Just shadows. He took a place in the back of the room, unseen but ever-present. He was the Internal Feedback Analyst. The data leech. He logged every twitch, every tremor, every deviation from the model. She would learn to forget he was in the room. That was what made him so dangerous.

For a few long moments, the silence inside the chamber hummed like pressure before a storm. Her breath fogged against the mask they’d placed near her face. James said nothing. Sirius paced. Remus recorded. Peter wrote.

And she? She remembered fire. Or maybe the memory was fed to her. Because as her mind tried to reach for something beyond the sedation, all she could find were scraps- a room in flames. Screams. A hand reaching for hers. Then nothing.

Then came the voice overhead. It was mechanical. Genderless. Cold.

“Subject 7. Commence Test One. Veil Interaction Protocol Alpha.”

James leaned down. “Do it.” No please. No explanation. Just an order.

She blinked. Her hands still trembled, barely responsive. The Veil. She knew the word. Somehow. Something behind it remembered her.

“Now,” James said sharply. Sirius laughed. “Bet she’s just as boring as the rest. All hype, no bite.”

Her breathing quickened. The metal on her wrists was beginning to hum. The air grew still. Remus glanced at the monitor. “She’s responding. Levels are climbing. Cortisol spike. Theta wave rise.”

Peter’s pen scratched faster. James didn’t flinch. “Summon.” The command had been given.

Subject 7 closed her eyes and focused. The sedation still fogged her thoughts, but she followed the protocol as trained. Her fingers twitched slightly against the restraints. Her heartbeat increased. EEG levels spiked. Remus recorded that her theta activity had crossed the upper threshold. Peter marked the time to the millisecond.

James stood still at her side. He gave no additional instructions.

A low mechanical noise came from the wall as a portion of it shifted, revealing a sealed panel of reinforced glass. Behind it was the Veil. Not the actual one. A simulation as close as possible they could create to the original one, which had been lost for years. The surface shimmered slightly. It looked like fabric, but it wasn't. Behind the panel, the Veil pulsed faintly. Sensors activated. Six red lights blinked in sequence.

Subject 7 did not move her body. She simply stared at the panel and focused on what was beyond it.

Thirty-two seconds passed.

Remus reported a sharp drop in skin temperature. “Peripheral shutdown beginning. Initiating Veil contact,” he noted quietly.

At second thirty-nine, her eyes rolled back.

At second forty-one, every light in the room dimmed. Not completely, but enough to cause visual strain. The machines stuttered, then resumed.

At second forty-five, Subject 7 opened her mouth. She did not speak. Her breathing changed– shorter, faster. Like something was taking up space in her lungs.

James finally moved. He stepped closer and spoke directly. “Subject 7. Verbal confirmation.” She responded with a whisper. “Contact established.”

“Is the entity aware of you?”

“Yes.”

“Is it sentient?”

Pause. “Yes.”

“Is it human?”

“No.” Peter noted that she had answered faster than expected. He underlined the response twice.

“Does it recognize you?” James asked.

“Yes.”

“Has it made contact before?”

“Yes.”

This caused a moment of silence between the handlers. James didn’t respond. He turned slightly to Remus, who met his eyes. Remus only nodded and continued logging vitals. Sirius stopped pacing and leaned against the far wall, arms crossed.

“Ask it to identify itself,” James said.

She stared blankly ahead. “It says… that it never left.”

“What does that mean?”

“It says I opened the door, and it never left.”

James gave a signal. A quiet nod. Peter immediately began typing into a console beside him, initiating the fail-safe protocol in case of contamination or breach. Remus looked at the vitals. “Heart rate elevated. Cortisol climbing. EEG now entering non-measurable range.”

At second sixty-one, the temperature in the room dropped by seven degrees. Peter confirmed it aloud. “Environmental shift registered. External contamination risk: low. No breach. Yet.”

Subject 7 began to strain against the restraints. Her fingers curled, white at the knuckles.

James: “Subject 7, disengage. Now.”

“No.”

“That is a direct command.”

She looked at him for the first time. Her voice was clearer now. “It won’t let go.”

James moved to the terminal and entered a code. A hiss of gas sprayed gently from the ceiling. The sedation compound reintroduced.

Sirius walked over slowly. “Is this where she starts screaming? I thought they all screamed.”

“She’s not the others,” Remus replied.

Sirius spared him a disdainful look.

Subject 7’s head jerked slightly. Her voice shifted. Lower tone. “He sees you.”

James stopped. “Who?” he asked.

No answer. “Who?” he repeated, more forcefully.

“He said you set a fire. A big one.” The room went silent. Sirius raised an eyebrow. “Well, that’s new.”

James walked back to the table, forehead creased in thought. “We’re done. Disconnect her.”

Remus hesitated. “James–”

“Now.”

Remus entered the code to retract the Veil. The glass shutter began to slide back into place. The shimmering surface pulsed once, then stilled. Subject 7 collapsed into the restraints, suddenly limp.

Peter marked the timestamp: 02:13 from start to full interaction shutdown. Longest recorded session on first contact. James turned to the others. “Adjust her dosage. Double the emotional inhibitors before next round. She’s too clear.”

Sirius muttered quietly, “You think she actually saw something?”

“We will check it.” A short dismissal. But Sirius continued.

“She’s just making up words.”

“No,” Remus said quietly. “That wasn’t repetition. That was memory.” Peter said nothing. He finished logging and left the room. The lights came back on. The room warmed slightly. Subject 7 remained unconscious.

No one spoke for several minutes. Then James looked at the screen. “We’ll try again in 48 hours.” Sirius smirked. “Can’t wait.”

...

The subject remained unconscious for six hours after the first test. During that time, she was moved from the central chamber to Observation Unit 3–windowless, temperature-controlled, watched from all sides. One-way glass sealed the northern wall. No clocks. No mirrors. No color. The cot was bolted to the floor, restraints kept tight until medical cleared her for voluntary compliance. She was monitored without pause.

At 04:37, Peter logged the first tremor–a twitch in her right hand. At 04:52, her eyes flickered under their lids. By 05:03, she was awake. But she didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Not until 05:48. Even then, she didn’t ask for food, water, or bathroom access. She just stared.

Remus watched her through the glass for twenty-two minutes before stepping in with the neural scanner. She didn’t resist. She didn’t even look at him. “She’s present,” he recorded, voice low. “But passive. No clear affect.”

In the corridor, Sirius was the first to break the silence. “Passive girls are boring,” he muttered. “We need to see if she bites.”

James didn’t look at him. “Tomorrow. You’ll test her threshold then.”

“Tomorrow’s too far.”

“I said tomorrow.” Sirius gave a mocking tut, but he didn’t press further.

Peter had already slipped a datapad into James’s hand–entries highlighted: blink frequency, core temperature, tonal irregularities. “Her baseline doesn’t line up with the pre-file,” he said. “Something’s been altered.”

“Before arrival?” James asked.

“Or during transport. Possibly both.”

James didn’t glance at the datapad. “Fix the file. Normalize her profile. We don’t shift strategy unless she resists.” Peter nodded once, silent, and left.

That left only James and Remus in the humming corridor, the overhead lights buzzing faintly.

“She has no training,” Remus said. “She was picked up, detained, no prior conditioning, no operational directives. And still she made full contact on her first attempt.”

James’s eyes stayed on her through the glass. “She disobeyed a direct command.”

“She was still in the Veil.”

James said nothing for a long moment. His gaze was cold, calculating. “The inhibitors weren’t strong enough. We’ll double the dose before round two.”

Remus shifted slightly, frowning. “If we push too fast, she’ll destabilize.”

James turned to him, voice clipped. “She was unstable before we touched her. That’s the point.” Remus looked away. They left the corridor without another word.

...

Later That Night-Private Handler Review

A secure briefing room. Low ceiling. Four chairs. Two screens. Locked door. Surveillance muted. All four handlers were present.

Peter brought the scan up on the main display. “Cognitive drift starts at thirty-seven seconds. Veil response syncs at forty-one. By sixty, her entire baseline had shifted. Post-test imaging shows heightened activity in trauma-memory regions and spatial disorientation centers.”

Sirius tipped back in his chair. “English, Pete.”

Peter gave a small shrug. “It left a mark.”

“She spoke like it knew her,” Remus said quietly. James didn’t answer.

“Which brings the question,” Sirius went on, “has she done this before? Is that why she didn’t panic?”

James finally spoke: “Her file says no.”

Sirius smirked. “You trust the file?” A pause.

“I don’t trust anything,” James said flatly. “That’s why we test.”

Peter flicked to another slide. “There’s more. She retained linguistic coherence even at peak disassociation. She wasn’t just answering–she was analyzing. Higher cognitive function during exposure.”

Remus leaned forward, brows drawn. “She didn’t scream.”

Peter nodded. “Most of them do.”

Sirius gave a soft laugh. “You’re all giving her too much credit. She’s broken. That’s all. Broken’s fun.”

James pushed back his chair and stood. His eyes locked on Sirius. “Tomorrow, you pressure test her.”

Sirius grinned. “Been waiting.”

“No contact. No violence. Not yet.”

Sirius tilted his head. “Then what’s the game?”

“Make her trust you,” James said. His voice left no room for misinterpretation. “Spin her a story she’ll believe. Safety. Escape. Whatever it takes.” Even Sirius blinked at that.

Remus frowned. “You want her to attach?”

“Briefly.”

Peter looked up from the datapad. “And then you break it.” His tone wasn’t a question.

James nodded once. “She won’t obey until she breaks. And she won’t break until she feels.”

On-screen, the girl was still lying motionless on the cot, restraints loose at her sides.

Sirius watched her a moment. “Suppose she doesn’t feel anything?”

James didn’t hesitate. “Then we start over. And keep going until she does.”

...

Subject 7 woke at 05:10.

It wasn’t because of the lights, they stayed dim. It wasn’t the cold or the pain or the thin, tasteless protein wafer slid through the compartment slit at exactly 05:00. She didn’t flinch when it landed near her feet.

It was the silence. The facility was never truly quiet. Vents groaned, cameras clicked, and something in the walls always hummed like a creature just behind the plaster. But this morning, that hum was gone. Replaced by stillness. Intentional stillness.

She sat up slowly. Her wrists hurt. They always hurt. She didn’t look at the food.

At 05:17, the door unlocked. Not opened yet. Just unlocked. She watched it, tense. No one ever entered without a directive. No movement meant no handler.

But then, quiet footsteps sounded. Sirius Black stepped in. He did not have a lab coat on. No clipboard either. Just boots, dark clothes, tousled black hair, and a grin that did not look sincere.

“Rise and shine, sweetheart,” he said, loud and cheery. “You and I have a date.” She didn’t move. Her expression didn’t change.

Sirius exhaled dramatically. “Still mute? Bit rude. I was there when you talked to a ghost from the dead just yesterday. But a ‘hello’ is too much?” Nothing.

“Okay, fine.” He walked in further and dropped to a crouch, just outside her reach. “I’m Sirius. Like the star. Or the dog. Depending who you ask.”

Still nothing. “You’re not going to ask which one I am?” No response.

He scratched his jaw. “Tough crowd.”

Then he stood, all charm gone in a blink. “On your feet. Now.”

She didn’t move.

He leaned in close, voice low. “There are rules to this place. One: if a handler speaks, you listen. Two: if you don’t follow those rules, you don’t get to sleep with both kneecaps. Three: I don’t like repeating myself.”

He straightened, then pointed to the corner of the room. “That door leads to a hallway. End of the hall, you turn left. Room with the red light above it. Go. I’ll follow.”

She stood, slow and stiff. Muscles aching. Limbs shaky. Sirius smiled again, like it was all a joke. They walked in silence.

The room with the red light was another test chamber. Smaller than the Veil room. A chair bolted to the floor, thick straps hanging off the arms. One wall mirrored. Cameras everywhere.

He told her to sit. She hesitated. He clapped once. “Sit.” She did. The straps weren’t fastened this time.

Sirius dragged another chair to face her and flopped into it backwards, arms folded on the top of the seat, chin resting lazily on his forearms. He studied her like an animal in a cage.

“So,” he said. “You see ghosts.”

She didn’t reply.

“Wanna know what I see?”

Nothing.

“I see a girl who thinks she’s smarter than she is. Tougher too. But you’re not. Not yet.”

Still silence.

“You’ll get there,” he said. “But not on your terms.” Then he leaned forward, expression darker now. “Do you remember how you got here?”

A flicker. She didn’t answer, but something in her posture changed. Just a fraction.

Sirius grinned. “There it is. I knew you weren’t empty.” He stood again and started pacing, slow and deliberate. “They brought me in to keep you sharp. To keep you afraid. The others– they monitor. Log. Guide. But me?” He looked at her, dead on. “I break things.” He leaned down, close to her ear. “And you are already cracked.” Her jaw tightened.

He straightened. “But you’ll talk to me eventually. They always do. First you’ll hate me. Then– well.” He smirked. “You’ll hate me differently.”

Then he took some pulse readings quietly, pressing on her wrists and careful eyes on her face to look out for any reactions. When there were none, he walked to the door, paused, and added over his shoulder: “Oh, and when I return in five minutes? We play family.”

Click. He was gone. Outside, Sirius joined the other three who were standing around a monitor displaying a girl nervously eyeing the door that just shut.

Remus turned to look at him, “She didn’t speak.”

“She listened,” Sirius answered in the affirmative.

Peter nodded. “You pushed harder than I expected for Day One.”

Remus didn't even look up from his clipboard, “He always does.” James didn’t comment.

Sirius spoke then, nonchalant. “She’s fun. Quiet, but not dead. Got lots of anger, though. She’s trying not to show it.”

James: “You didn't ask about her family.”

“No.”

“Good. Now you will introduce false narrative. Create vulnerability.”

“Memory implantation?”

“Not yet. Use implication. Suggest abandonment.”

Sirius grinned. “You want her to think they gave her up?”

“She needs to stop reaching for them.”

Peter scrolled through data. “If she’s that unstable now, pushing a grief narrative might trigger dissociation.”

James: “That’s your job. Monitor and log.”

Peter: “Noted.”

Remus rubbed his eyes. “We don’t know what she remembers. We don’t even know if she understands what the Veil showed her.”

“Then let’s make her forget it,” James said coldly. “Until we decide she’s ready to remember what we want her to. Off you go, Sirius. We're watching. After you, I'll be taking over for introductions.” Sirius nodded, then turned around.

...

And at 05:17, Sirius Black sauntered back in with two paper cups and a face that looked determined to create havoc.

“I’m back, doll,” he said. “You still look like hell.” She sat up. Still silent. He dropped one cup at her feet, took a sip from his, and sprawled against the wall. “It’s coffee. Or a very convincing lie.”

She didn’t touch it. Sirius tilted his head. “No food, no drink. What’s the plan here? Starve yourself into sainthood?” No response.

He watched her for a long moment, then pushed off the wall and approached– not fast, not slow. Just… deliberate. He crouched again, just like earlier.

“You ever been held before?” he asked. Her head jerked slightly, like she wasn’t sure if she misheard.

Sirius smiled faintly. “Didn’t think so.” He reached forward, slowly, and brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. She flinched, just enough to show she wasn’t completely numb.

“There it is,” he whispered. “Still human.” She stared at him with a dull, steady hatred. But she didn’t back away. He straightened and extended a hand. “Come on. They want us to play nice today.”

She didn’t take his hand, but she stood. They walked through a back door down a different hall this time. Warmer. Wider. The lights were softer. The floors weren’t concrete, they were padded. Her bare feet sank into them slightly. The room had no restraints.

Instead, it looked… familiar. Too familiar. A fireplace (off). A couch. A shelf of books. A small table. Tea. Biscuits. An ugly throw blanket. A ticking wall clock. It was someone’s living room and she froze.

Sirius didn’t miss the flicker in her gaze. “Recognize it?” She didn’t answer, but her throat moved like she’d swallowed glass.

Sirius smiled. “They pulled it from a memory you don’t know you have. Cozy, isn’t it?”

He gestured to the couch. “Sit.” She did, this time without being asked again, still stiff. He took the other side and turned his body very close to her, their knees touching.

“I’m your cousin today,” he said lightly, “or your neighbor. Or your boyfriend. Doesn’t matter. The point is..I’m someone you trust.” She said nothing.

“So,” he leaned back. “Let’s talk.” A long silence. “Do you remember your parents?”

Her eyes narrowed. Careful. Calculating.

He kept going, voice lazy. “They signed you over, you know.” Still nothing. He reached over and picked up a biscuit. Took a bite.

“Not at first,” he said with his mouth full. “At first, they begged the government to let you stay. Thought you were special. Thought you’d be safe.”

He leaned in. “But when things started burning? When people started dying around you?” He smiled cruelly. “They didn’t fight anymore.”

Her fists clenched. Sirius watched her, eyes sharp beneath the casual air. “They let them take you. They didn’t even visit.” He tapped the table once. “So if you’re waiting for a rescue… don’t.”

Her face was white. Not with fear. With fury. And behind her eyes, something buzzed. Loud. Angry.

Sirius leaned forward, elbows on knees, voice low. “You are here because they gave up on you.” There was silence.

“Liar.” Her voice was rough. Rusted from disuse. But clear.

Sirius stilled. She stood. Slowly. Hands shaking.

“They didn’t give me up.”

He tilted his head. “Says who?”

“I don’t know.” She blinked hard, like her mind was trying to piece itself together. “But you’re a liar.”

Sirius stood too. Calm, unfazed. “I lie all the time,” he said then, cheerfully. “But not today.” He walked toward her. She didn’t back away.

“You want proof?” he asked. She glared. He pulled a photograph from his coat. Her breath caught.

It was a picture of a girl. Younger. Smiling. Standing between two adults whose faces had been deliberately scratched out. Their hands rested on her shoulders. Her own face stared back at her. Except it wasn’t hers now. It was hers then.

“Found it in your intake file,” Sirius said casually. “That’s the last photo they took. Two days before your classification.”

He held it out. She didn’t take it. “I’ll keep it then.” He tucked it back inside his coat. A long silence.

Sirius stepped back. “Simulation complete,” he said, to no one. The door clicked open. Before stepping out, he turned to look at her one last time.

“You can hate me all you want,” he said. “But we’re the only people left who know your name.” And then he was gone.

...

Control Room Debrief: 05:50

Peter: “Vocal response initiated at 05:42. First verbal reaction.”

Remus: “She recognized the room. Association triggered.”

James: “She rejected the narrative.”

Peter: “Yes. But it still landed. She’s doubting now.”

Remus frowned. “That picture– was that real?”

Sirius entered, tossed his gloves on the counter. “Nope. Mock-up. Photo’s from another subject.”

James: “She doesn’t know that.”

Remus looked down at his notes. Then up. “She called him a liar.”

“Good,” James said. “Let her think she’s winning.”

Sirius smiled faintly. “She hates me now.”

“She’s supposed to.”

“And when that stops working?” Sirius asked.

James looked at the screens. “Then we change the game. Alright boys, my turn to pay a visit to Subject 7.”

...

The door had barely clicked shut behind Sirius before it opened again. She hadn't even stilled her shaking hands yet. No pause. No delay. No breath in between.

James Potter stepped in like a blade sliding into a sheath. Clean. Unemotional. Mechanical. A pristine white lab coat. Black gloves. File folder in hand. No clipboard– he wasn't here to take notes, just a talk. He didn’t look at her right away. He closed the door behind him with a quiet thud and stood for a full ten seconds, just reading her profile. She didn’t move.

Eventually, he looked up. His eyes, dark and unreadable, locked onto hers.

“Stand.”

She hesitated for just half a second too long. James crossed the room in three steps, seized her by the arm, and hauled her to her feet with practiced, impersonal force. His grip didn’t linger, but her skin burned beneath it.

“You do not wait for clarification,” he said, tone flat. “You do not assess the intention behind a command. You comply.” She stared at him, expression neutral.

“You are not here to think,” he added. “You are here to function.”

He circled her once. “Posture: collapsed. Gait: delayed. Response time: degraded. Mental engagement: minimal. That’s a pattern. Patterns get fixed.”

He took a step closer. “Did Black scare you?” Nothing.

“Good. He’s supposed to.”

He circled again, slower this time, studying her like a defective machine. “I watched the footage from yesterday again. You summoned a spectral entity from beyond the Veil and held visual contact for 13.4 seconds. Yet you still question authority.” Still silence.

James didn’t blink. “Say something.” She didn’t.

He stepped forward, until the space between them was electric. “Do you understand your purpose?”

“…No.”

It was the first word she’d spoken to him since arriving in this room. James didn’t react. Not even a twitch of acknowledgment. “You will.”

He handed her a sealed file folder. She didn’t take it. So he let it fall to the ground at her feet.

“That is a transcript of your medical history. Read it. Memorize it. Then recite it aloud at 20:00. There will be consequences for each error.” She looked down at the file. Then back at him.

“You are not a person,” he said. “You are a variable. Variables follow rules. Break the rules, and you become noise. Noise gets eliminated.”

She didn’t flinch. James stared at her for a long time. Then, at last, he said, “Kneel.”

She didn’t move. He tilted his head. “Kneel.”

Still nothing. He moved forward, slow and precise. His hand rose and for a brief moment, she flinched, expecting a blow.

He didn’t strike. Instead, he tapped her temple, once. “That fear? That reflex? That’s progress. Keep going. The three of us will be here first thing tomorrow morning, be ready for it.” He turned and left.

Observation Room, 08:12

Peter (quietly): “She spoke to him too.”

Remus: “One word.”

Peter: “No.”

Remus (watching from the corner, arms crossed): “You’re all coming on too strong.”

James: “That’s the protocol.”

Remus: “Yeah, well, she’s not a protocol. She’s a person.”

James: “She’s an unstable anchor who just stared into the Veil and survived. You want her stable or you want her sentimental?” Remus didn’t reply.

Peter was scribbling rapidly. “Her verbal resistance is tied to trust. If she breaks silence with James, even minimally, it suggests obedience conditioning is taking root faster than expected.”

Remus glanced at Sirius. “She spoke to you too.”

Sirius didn’t answer. “Just called me liar..”

Peter’s pen scratched again. “Already noted.”

...

Day 3 | 14:00

When the door opened this time, three of them walked in.

Sirius first, hands in his pockets, smile lazy and sharp. Remus next, silent, holding a clipboard, eyes flicking toward her and away. Then James, always last, always measured. The door shut behind him with the finality of a verdict.

She was already sitting on the floor, knees pulled to her chest, hair unwashed and tangled. Her wrists were bandaged where the restraints had torn skin. She hadn’t spoken since yesterday. Peter wasn’t with them. Not visibly, anyway. He watched from the control panel behind the mirrored wall, as always, documenting her every flinch, every pause in breath, every micro-expression.

James remained standing. “Begin protocol,” he said.

“Right,” Sirius said, clapping once and stepping forward. “Today’s going to be fun.”

She didn’t move. Didn’t even lift her eyes. Sirius dropped to a crouch in front of her and held up a flat black device. It buzzed faintly. “New toy. Think of it like a truth detector– but dumber. It measures stress levels, heart rate, cortisol spikes, that sort of thing.” He pressed it lightly against her neck. She tensed. But didn’t flinch away. The machine hummed. Numbers lit up.

“She’s lying low,” Remus murmured, jotting something. “Baseline is steady.”

“She always lies low,” Sirius muttered. “Let’s poke the beast, shall we?” He stood and walked to the side, letting James approach.

James didn’t kneel. He didn’t sit. He looked down at her like she was a tool left out in the rain. “You will speak,” he said simply. “Now.”

Her jaw tightened. James held out a photograph. Another one. This time it wasn’t of her.

It was of a boy. Young. Laughing. Maybe ten years old.

She stared at it for several seconds. Then turned away. Sirius whistled. “No recognition. Or pretending not to.”

James didn’t react. “Do you know this child?” Silence.

“Answer.”

Her voice was faint. “No.”

James didn’t move. “He died last year. Subject Class B. Veil Contact Failure.” Still silence.

James stepped closer. “You watched it happen.” Her head snapped up. “You were in the chamber,” he continued. “He screamed for you. You stood and watched.”

Her mouth parted slightly. “That’s not–”

“You told him not to be afraid,” James said evenly. “And when it dragged him under, you didn’t even blink.” She looked ill. Pale.

“That’s not true.”

“We have the footage,” James said. “Would you like to see it?” She shook her head violently.

James tucked the photo under a placemat on the table nearest to her. “That’s what happens when you don’t follow commands.” Sirius leaned against the mirrored wall and smirked. “Yikes. Cold.”

Remus finally stepped forward, voice low. “Tell me how that makes you feel.”

She looked up at him, betrayed. “Why are you doing this?”

“To help you,” Remus said.

“You’re hurting me.”

“No,” James interrupted sharply. “We’re helping you remember. You’ve forgotten who you are. What you are.”

“I’m not–”

“You’re a danger,” James said. “And you’ve killed before. That’s not conjecture. That’s record.”

Remus’ voice softened again. “We just want you to remember what’s real.”

Her breathing quickened. She pressed her palms to her ears. “You’re lying.”

Sirius walked over and crouched beside her again. “We could tell you anything right now,” he said casually. “That you burned down a village when you were eight. That you pushed your brother into the Veil for fun. That you used to laugh when the voices screamed.” He smiled. “Would you even know if it was true?”

She stared at him, wide-eyed.

“You want to be innocent so badly,” he said. “But if you were really innocent, they wouldn’t have locked you in here, would they?”

“Stop it,” she whispered. She buried her eyes in her shaking palms. Remus looked down with a slight frown. Scribbled. Said nothing. James stepped back, then murmured slowly. “Protocol under way. Emotional anchor fracturing. Subject destabilized.”

“Mark that,” came Peter’s note on the tablet in Sirius' hand. The door unlocked again with a hiss.

Sirius stood slowly, gave her covering figure one final look. “Better luck tomorrow, sweetheart.” James left without another word. Remus lingered for a moment. She looked up at him. “Please,” she whispered pleadingly. He paused. Then turned away. The door closed.

She was alone again. Silence bloomed like a bruise in the room. For a while, she didn’t move. Just sat there, motionless, breath catching on the edge of something too big to hold in her chest.

Then her fingers began to tremble. One by one, as if waking up from frostbite. She pressed her palms flat to the floor, steadying herself– but the floor was too cold, too smooth, too not real. The walls hummed faintly, like they always did, like some monstrous thing breathing just out of sight. She squeezed her eyes shut.

You want to be innocent so badly.

The words echoed, coated in Sirius’ mockery. They wormed deep.

They wouldn’t have locked you in here, would they?

She exhaled through her teeth, shaky. Her heartbeat was crawling up her throat now. Fast. Unmanageable. The photo– the boy– his laughter. Had that been real? Had she known him? Was she in that chamber? Her hands clawed at her head. “Stop,” she hissed to the emptiness. But it didn’t stop. None of it did.

The hum in the walls deepened. She opened her eyes, and the lights overhead flickered once, then steadied. Her breath came quicker. She looked down at her hands and realized they were glowing faintly at the fingertips. Trembling, not with fear this time, but something else. A buzzing, violent thrum under her skin, like the air itself had teeth.

She scrambled back, hitting the wall behind her. A crack splintered across the floor. It was small, almost invisible. But it hadn’t been there before.

Her chest rose and fell in ragged waves. She looked at the mirrored wall, and didn't see herself. She saw them. Shadows. Watching. Writing. Judging. She stood, suddenly and shakily. Her knees almost gave out.

The glass of the mirrored wall shuddered. Not visibly– but she felt it. Like a breath held too long. “You’re lying,” she whispered again, voice hoarse. Then louder. “You’re all lying.”

The hum climbed a note higher. Like the room itself was tuning to her. Behind the wall, Peter’s pen froze. A second crack bloomed, spider webbing near the floor panel. The overhead lights dimmed, blinked– once, twice– then held steady in a low, golden throb.

She didn’t understand what was happening. But for the first time since they’d locked her in here, she wasn’t afraid. She stared straight into the mirrored glass, knowing they were behind it. “Watch that,” she said coldly.

Then the photo that James had left behind fluttered from the table. And lifted. Hovered in the air for a beat– suspended, trembling– before bursting into flame.

No wind. No spark. Just sudden, clean, unnatural fire. It burned bright. Then vanished. She stood in the middle of the room, hair wild, fists clenched, eyes glowing faintly now. Her voice was calm when she spoke again.

“Tomorrow,” she said, “I’ll ask the questions.” Then silence fell again.

Back in the Observation Bay

Peter turned from the monitors. “She’s folding faster than projected.”

“Good,” James said. “Accelerate Phase II.”

Remus didn’t look up. “At what cost?” James didn’t answer. Sirius poured himself a cup of black tea, like things were finally picking up for him.

“She hates all of us now and questions authority,” he said.

“Then it’s working, James replied coldly, Tomorrow we continue progress work on The Veil.”

...

Time: 09:02 a.m.

Room 7-B

Subject 7 Conscious

The lights were already on when they entered.

She was awake this time. Sitting up. Eyes wide open. No visible signs of sedation. Remus was the first to notice. “She’s lucid.” James gave a curt nod. “Good.”

They filed in the same order– Sirius, Remus, James. Peter remained behind the glass wall with his clipboard and a small mic in hand, ready for intervention.

None of them spoke for the first few seconds. She tracked their movements in silence, but something in her gaze had changed. Sharper. Calmer. Too calm.

Sirius gave a low whistle. “Looks like someone’s had a long night after the little tantrum they threw last night.” Remus flicked through his clipboard. “Vitals are holding steady. Pre-stimulus baseline achieved.”

James stepped forward, fingers laced behind his back. “Do you know what day it is?” She didn’t answer.

So he asked again, slower. “Do you know what’s happening today?”

Her voice was hoarse, but steady. “You’re going to make me touch it again.” There was a pause and then a brief flicker of amusement passed over James’ face before he composed his expression again. Sirius smirked, “Well, at least she’s catching on.”

James cleared his throat and approached her slowly. “This time, you’ll cooperate fully. No resistance. No deviations.”

“I cooperated last time,” she said. “It didn’t let go.”

“Then don’t grab so tightly.” She gulped.

Remus glanced up. “James.” James didn’t look at him. “Begin protocol.”

The sound of locks disengaging echoed as the Veil chamber initiated. A section of the wall retracted with a metallic whir, revealing the panel again– the simulated Veil, still pulsing faintly like breath caught in a throat. Lights around the frame blinked in sequence. Red. Red. Red. Green.

She inhaled slowly, but her shoulders tensed.

Remus looked at her. “Subject 7, confirm readiness.” Silence.

Sirius stepped closer. “Hey. Eyes forward. Don’t make us drug you into compliance.”

“I’m ready,” she said flatly. James gave the nod.

The glass flickered once as the Veil shimmered into full activation. Peter’s voice crackled through the speaker. “All systems stable. No interference. Proceeding with Contact Phase Two.”

Remus logged the time.

09:11 a.m. Contact Attempt Begins

Subject 7 closed her eyes and gripped the handlebars of the bed she was laid on. The room temperature dropped by four degrees almost instantly. Sirius exhaled. “There it is.”

Her fingers began to twitch. Her lips moved– no sound, just the shape of forgotten words.

James asked, “Do you feel it?” A beat.

“Yes.”

“Is it aware of you?”

“Yes.”

“Is it the same presence as before?”

“Yes.” Her eyes remained shut. “It remembers.”

Remus leaned toward Sirius. “This still reads like delusion to you?”

Sirius didn’t answer, just stared ahead at the struggling girl.

James’ voice remained flat. “Ask it if it knows why we brought you here.”

She hesitated. Then whispered, “It says you’re all trying to finish what you started.”

Peter’s voice came in again. “Elevated neural activity. Spikes in frontal and temporal lobes.”

Remus frowned. “She’s translating faster. No lag this time.”

“Ask it what it means,” James said. Subject 7 opened her eyes.

“They say they didn’t come through the door,” she whispered. “You built the door around them.” James stiffened.

Remus murmured, “Ask who ‘they’ is.” But she was already looking past them– through the Veil. Eyes dilated. Breath shallow.

“It says you made a mistake,” she said softly. “The boy was a mistake. And I’m next.” The room seemed to tilt, subtly.

Sirius backed one step away. “Remus.”

“Environmental fluctuation detected,” Peter reported. “Temperature drop accelerating.”

“Alright, disengage now,” James said to her. Her voice came clearer than before. No whisper this time. It cut through the air with sudden force.

“No. First answer my questions. Then I follow your orders.”

The room went still. The hum of the machines. The soft click of blinking lights. The Veil’s pulse. Everything seemed to sharpen around her voice.

Remus turned from the vitals. His hand paused mid-notation. Peter’s voice broke through the speaker again, uncertain now. “...Did she just refuse a disengagement command?”

“Confirmed,” Remus muttered to Sirius standing near him. “She’s lucid. Cognitively intact.”

“No, no that wasn’t defiance,” Sirius said slowly. “She is trying to take control..”

James stepped forward, stopping just short of her. His expression hardened as well as his voice. “You don’t give conditions, Subject 7. You follow protocol.”

Her chin lifted, just slightly. Enough to make it clear she wasn’t asking. “I followed your protocols,” she said. “I opened the door. I let it touch me. It took something from me. And I felt it.” She leaned forward into the restraints, eyes never leaving his. “You made me a vessel. The least you can give me is the truth.”

James said nothing. Sirius whistled low under his breath. “She’s either losing it, or she’s decided she’s done being your puppet.”

Remus glanced at the EEG spikes. “Her readings don’t show any dissociation. If anything– she’s getting more..stable?”

The Veil shimmered again. Behind the glass, the air seemed denser. The light around it dimmed fractionally.

She spoke again, calmer this time– but the edge had sharpened.

“Tell me what it is. What is the Veil?”

James still didn’t answer. So she kept going.

“It’s not just some quantum boundary. It’s not a fabric. It breathes. It responds. You think it’s passive, that I’m the conduit. But it isn’t using me. It’s watching you.”

She blinked slowly. “It remembers your voice, James. From before.” His face barely moved, but his jaw clenched.

Peter’s voice crackled again. “We have no recorded sessions where–”

“It wasn’t recorded,” she cut him off. “It said it is watching him burn it. It said he fed it.”

Remus took a step back from the terminal. Sirius muttered, “Oh, shit.”

James was still, but not calm. His hands slowly curled into fists. Burn what?

“You’ve done this before,” she said, not answering his previous question. “You opened it. Years ago. And then you shut it. Why?”

“Burn what?” James repeated louder now. His nostrils were flaring now but he stayed composed. Still she didn't explain. She went on, “Was it a failure? A breach? Or did you give it something it didn’t want?”

No answer.

“I saw him,” she said. “The boy it took before me. It showed me what was left of him. You said the others screamed. You didn’t say they begged.”

Sirius spoke suddenly, something sharp and human in his voice. “That’s enough.” James looked back at him, pupils blown wide.

“No. You want me to open the door again? Then tell me why it was built around it. Who built it?”

Remus’s hand hovered over the code to initiate sedation. “She’s approaching psychological overload.”

“She’s fine,” James said, eyes locked on her. “She wants truth. Let's give her one.”

So he did. James stepped forward, closer than ever before. His voice low and flat.

“The Veil was not built to contain something. It was built to attract it. We didn’t find it. We called it.”

Her face didn’t move. But something behind her eyes shifted– just enough to crack the surface. Remus whispered urgently, “James–”

“Remus, please. I know what I'm doing, I won't exceed protocols.” James had turned to him in a barely there whisper. Then he straightened his shoulders and faced the girl again.

“We lured it here. And we gave it shape.”

The Veil pulsed once, violent and deep. Every light in the room flickered. A sharp noise came from the glass panel– like pressure straining against its limits.

Peter’s voice: “Energy spike. We’re losing electromagnetic containment. Going further wouldn't be wise.”

James turned his back on her, walking toward the terminal. “You have your answer,” he said. “Now open the door.”

She didn’t move. Her voice came slow, quiet, but not weak. She fixed her hard eyes on Sirius. “No. Now you answer my last question.”

He froze. She stared at him.

“How many of us were there before me? You said there were others.”

The silence that followed wasn't just silence–it was something denser. Thicker. Like the air had swallowed the words before they could echo.

Remus moved first. Slow, deliberate steps across the room. His clipboard was gone. His expression was tired–not from too many nights without sleep, but the kind born from too many truths left untold. “That’s enough,” he said softly, but there was warning beneath it. “You’re dissociating. You need to be brought down–gently, before you destabilize.”

He reached for the dial. “No–Remus,” Sirius said sharply, but too late.

The moment Remus’s hand brushed the sedation interface, everything snapped. The Veil shrieked–not in sound, but pressure. A pulse that split through the floor like a quake. The walls rattled. Lights shattered overhead. A low scream threaded into the space from nowhere–a voice not hers, not human, not male. The kind of scream that left scratches on your bones. Subject 7 convulsed once in the chair, but didn’t break. She sat rigid. Her hands clutched the armrests. Eyes locked on Remus.

“Don’t touch me.”

Peter shouted from behind the glass. “Containment breach in progress–readings are off the chart!”

James stumbled back from the feedback surge, yanking his headset off as sparks burst from a nearby terminal. “Okay, Remus, move!”

But Remus didn’t move. He stood frozen, staring at her–and for the first time since he’d been assigned to her case, she saw it: fear.

She turned slowly back to Sirius.

“You called it. You shaped it. You fed it. But what you didn’t tell me,” she said, her voice shaking now, “is why me. Why any of us.”

James didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. But his hands, still at his sides, curled into fists. So Sirius answered carefully. “…Because the dead are real.”

Everything stopped. Even the Veil. For a breath. As if it, too, was listening. James closed his eyes with a sharp hiss of breath. Remus stepped forward again–closer this time. No sedation. No lies. Just weariness and guilt.

“We call it the Veil, but that’s a lie too. It’s not a thing. It’s a place. A realm. A second skin beneath this one. The Other Side.” He looked at her. “A world of the dead.”

She didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. “You mean ghosts,” she said finally.

“Yes. And no. Ghosts are just… echoes. The smallest part. The part we can explain. But the rest of it–souls, memories, something like thought, something like will–exists there. Still watching. Still attached.”

“And I’m…” she faltered, her voice small now, “what?”

“You’re an Anchor,” Sirius said, looking around. “You see them. You feel them. You let them through.”

“And Project Anchor?”

Sirius turned to face her fully now. “That’s what we named the attempt to control it.”

“Not to understand it?”

“Control,” he repeated.

“Why?”

“Because understanding doesn’t win wars. The government wants to win wars through Anchors and powers beyond The Veil.”

She stared at him. “You wanted to use me. To send spirits through me. To weaponize them.”

“To guide them,” Sirius said. “To keep them from ripping through the barrier unchecked. You don’t know what would happen if the Veil opened on its own.”

“Then why open it at all?”

Remus muttered, “Because it never closes. Not really.” Sirius didn’t deny it.

Subject 7 was shaking now–not from fear, not exactly, but from something knotted deep in her chest. Anger. Realization. The crumbling of every test she’d endured, every memory that never quite added up.

“How many before me?” she asked again. “How many Anchors?”

A silence settled thickly over the room.

Remus opened his mouth, guilt flashing across his face–but before a word could form, James moved.

In one swift, practiced motion, he crossed the room and stabbed the syringe into her arm as Sirius let out what was close to a muffled yelp. She barely had time to gasp. A faint, startled yelp formed–but never left her lips. Her body jerked, then slumped back against the chair, consciousness slipping like water through her fingers.

James didn’t say anything at first. Just stared at the sedated girl–her eyes fluttering shut, her breathing steadying into stillness–and then turned sharply to face the other two. “You were about to tell her everything,” he growled.

His eyes flicked from Sirius to Remus with a venomous glare. “Are you both insane? Protocols exist for a reason. She’s not cleared for Veil-level intelligence, let alone Anchor stats.”

Sirius didn’t reply. Remus looked down, jaw clenched.

“Do you even remember what happened the last time one of them knew too much too early?” James barked. “Or are we just ignoring the entire Geneva collapse?”

“She’s different,” Remus muttered.

“That’s what they all say,” Peter’s voice crackled over the comms, tone cold and unimpressed. “Every time one of you handlers gets attached.” Remus looked toward the glass but didn’t respond. He couldn’t.

Sirius finally spoke, his voice flat and final. “It was a mistake.” James’s brow arched.

Sirius stepped away from the chair. The lights flickered once, then steadied as the Veil’s pulse receded. He didn’t look back. “I got caught off guard. So did Remus. But it won’t happen again.”

James followed close behind, still bristling. “Damn right it won’t.”

Peter was waiting outside the observation deck, arms crossed. “She’s destabilizing faster than we can control. You two getting sentimental isn’t going to help.”

Sirius paused, turning to face him. “We’ve kept her alive longer than any Anchor on file. You think that’s just data? It’s because we’ve been listening. Measuring. Calibrating. Not every solution is containment and sedation, Peter.”

Peter’s eyes narrowed. “No, but every disaster starts with an excuse. You want to be the one who lets her walk through the Veil without even meaning to?”

Remus finally looked up, voice quieter now. “She’s going to find out eventually.”

“Sure,” Peter snapped. “But on our terms. Not while she’s wide-eyed and asking about ghosts like this is a bedtime story.”

Sirius exhaled through his nose, still tense.

“We push her any further, she won’t ask anymore. She’ll demand. And when that happens, the Veil won’t whisper. It’ll scream.”

James gave a sharp nod and started down the corridor. “Then we make sure she never gets close enough to ask again.”

Behind them, the girl lay slumped in the chair, limbs loose, eyes fluttering in deep drugged sleep.But just beyond the perimeter–beyond what the monitors could register–the air shimmered faintly. And something was listening.

...

It had been eleven days. Eleven days since she last said the word Veil. And none of them had corrected her silence. The room had changed, subtly but completely. The observation lab still smelled of disinfectant and flickering circuits, still hummed with data pulses and oxygen regulators–but the air was colder now. Measured. Mechanical.

Gone were the late-night debriefs, the edge-of-truth confessions. Now it was vitals, test cards, muscle response, auditory tracking. They showed her colors and shapes. Measured her REM cycles. Timed her balance on narrow beams. Injected her with harmless tracers to "monitor neurological elasticity." Day in, day out. Like she was just a body with interesting blood.

Sirius no longer lingered in the chamber for his usual infuriating probing. Remus stopped calling her by her name. And James hadn’t said a word to her face since the sedation.

She played along. She always played along. But Peter saw it. The difference. The small things no one else bothered to notice. He sat behind the console, half-shadowed, pretending to check baseline data when in reality, his eyes were on them– on her. Watching the way she didn’t flinch when James adjusted the neural probes, the way her gaze followed Remus’s hands, not his eyes. How she no longer asked questions but still left pauses, like she was inviting one. Baiting them. Waiting for a crack. She never got one. Not anymore.

Peter watched it all. Quiet. Suspicious. And his suspicion was born not from paranoia, but pattern recognition. Because something had shifted. It was like they had all agreed– without saying a word– to pretend that the Veil wasn’t real. That it hadn’t pulsed in the walls that night, hadn't bent the room with its hum. That she hadn’t been wide-eyed and trembling with the knowledge of it.

And Peter didn't believe in pretending. He saw the way Sirius’s hands trembled slightly when she closed her eyes for the deep-trance readings. Saw how Remus always stayed two steps too far, but never took his eyes off her face. They were avoiding something.

Or protecting something. A few of them were, at least. That is if James slipped next. He had to keep a keen eye out on the leader. He started making his own copies of the logs. Quietly. Unlinked from the central system. He began flagging any abnormal readings, even the ones Remus deleted or waved off as "glitches."

Because Peter remembered what it looked like when an Anchor went rogue. And it always started with handlers going soft.

The lights in the lab were too bright. White-hot and clinical. Not enough shadow to breathe in.

Subject 7 sat on the edge of the monitoring cot, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, her wrists resting on her knees like she was waiting for something real. But the expression on her face was unreadable– blank, like a page half-burned. Remus sat across from her. Clipboard in hand. Glasses on. A flick of tiredness around the edges of his mouth.

“Cognitive Deviation Report. Day Twelve.”

His voice was professional. Too professional. The kind of voice one used with malfunctioning software or test rats. She didn't respond. Just blinked slowly.

"Dream logs?" he asked, eyes not meeting hers.

She tilted her head. “You already have them.”

A pause. Remus nodded once and adjusted his pen anyway. "Any voluntary anomalies to declare?"

“Not unless you’re ready to explain what counts as ‘anomaly.’” Her tone was dry. Not rebellious– just detached.

Remus’s jaw shifted. “Tactile hallucinations? Dissociation events? Lingering… perceptions?”

“Lingering?” She smiled faintly. “That’s a good word. Very poetic.” He marked something on the paper without looking up.

She leaned forward slightly. “You’re really not going to say anything, are you?”

Remus didn’t flinch. But there was a crack in the mask, subtle. A flicker of guilt that passed too quickly.

“You said too much,” she said quietly. “You and Sirius. That night.” His pen paused. “They must’ve given you hell for it.”

Remus exhaled slowly. The kind of breath meant to center him. “We crossed lines.”

“You crossed silence.” Her voice was suddenly sharp. “You gave me truth– even if it was just a slice. Don’t walk it back now and treat me like a lab rat. You don’t get to put the mask back on. Might as well tell me the entire truth now.” For a moment, everything was still.

Then Remus looked at her, directly. “This isn’t personal.”

She laughed, humorless. “You think the Veil isn’t personal?” He didn’t answer.

From the corner of the lab, behind the one-way mirror, Peter watched. Noted how Remus’s foot was bouncing under the desk. Noted how Subject 7 never once looked at the floor– only at him, like she was studying his behavior. There was a beat of long silence.

Remus rose from the chair. “That’s all for today.” She didn’t stop him. But just as he reached the door, she said, almost gently, “You’re not afraid of what I’ll do, are you?” Remus froze. “You’re afraid of what I’ll learn.” He left without a word.

...

Outside, Peter marked the timestamp. Logged the interaction. And opened a new file.

HANDLER OBSERVATION LOG – P. PETTIGREW

SUBJECT: INTERNAL COMPLIANCE MONITORING – PROJECT ANCHOR (Site 7)

DATE RANGE: REDACTED

Handler Remus Lupin: emotional compromise suspected.

Tone shift observed. Behavioral compliance from Subject 7 not authentic– likely strategic.

Recommend independent psychological audit.

Possible deviation from Project Anchor protocols.

Peter didn’t smile. Just clicked Save.

And began to watch closer.

ENTRY 043

Time: 03:17

Observation: Handler Lupin arrived 12 minutes earlier than scheduled. Did not report to central systems first. Entered Subject 7’s containment chamber alone. No surveillance audio; sound file flagged as "corrupted." Will request raw feed from Lab Ops.

Note: Lupin is no longer asking standard questions. He waits for Subject 7 to speak, then documents nothing. Possible verbal exchange occurred off-record.

Hypothesis: Intentional memory formation without traceable data. Emotional leakage confirmed.

Action: Logged recommendation for debrief review. No action taken by Admin.

ENTRY 049

Time: 14:56

Observation: Handler Black observed inside medical bay with Subject 7 during neural stimulation phase. Presence was unauthorized. Medical personnel allowed it– implied it was pre-approved by Lupin.

Dialogue overheard:

Black: “She’s stable enough. She doesn’t need another probe in her skull today.”

Med: “Orders say–”

Black: “Your orders are late. She’s stable.”

Note: Black refers to Subject 7 by name now. Name. Breach of protocol.

Concern: If Lupin is heart, Black is fire. Neither are following containment procedures. The Subject is beginning to sense power in their protection.

ENTRY 056

Time: 22:01

Observation: James Potter still adheres to 97% protocol efficiency. No signs of divergence. Logged slight delay in reporting today’s diagnostics, but cross-referenced with security footage– delay caused by server maintenance, not intentional.

Note: He trusts Remus implicitly. Black follows Remus, not Potter.

Prediction: If Lupin fractures, Black will follow. Potter is the only stable pillar. Must be monitored for signs of doubt or exhaustion.

ENTRY 062

Time: 02:34

Observation: Handler Lupin exited Subject 7’s chamber visibly shaken. No logs of incident. Subject was in REM phase.

Lupin muttered: “She’s remembering. Without the triggers.”

Then: “I think the Veil is pulling her even when we don’t ask it to.”

Note: He should have reported this. He didn’t.

ENTRY 067

Time: 17:49

Observation: Sirius Black bypassed the biometric entry to the containment hallway. Used Remus Lupin’s code.

Flag: Impersonation of handler access.

Dialogue intercepted:

Black: “You don’t have to go in again. You’re burning out.”

Lupin: “She’s starting to trust me. If I stop showing up–”

Black: “You’ll lose her. And we’ll lose her.”

Conclusion: They’re aligning with the Subject emotionally. Compromise probable. Termination threshold drawing closer.

Note to self: Let them hang themselves with their own empathy. Surveillance will do the rest.

ENTRY 071

Time: 12:00

Summary: Watching Remus and Sirius is like watching a fault line stretch.

When it cracks, I’ll be the one who reports it.

And James? I’ll wait.

Everyone breaks.

Eventually.

Scene: Observation Room 3 – Two-Way Mirror Surveillance

Sirius stood beside the biometric projector, arms folded, face set like steel. The room was stark– just him, James, and the sterile hum of fluorescent lighting. Subject 7 was occupied in physical testing. This was supposed to be a handler recalibration check– routine, procedural. But it never stayed procedural with them.

“You’re still defending him,” James muttered, voice low and edged with exhaustion.

Sirius didn’t look away. “Because he’s right. She is stabilizing. The more we push, the more she breaks. Do you want clean data, or do you want actual results?”

“You’re not paid to decide that.”

“Neither are you.”

Then Sirius exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. His next words came slower, softer. “I just– look. I think we’re past pretending she’s just another trial subject. And you think so too. We don’t want her ending up like the ones before.”

That was it. A shift. A slip. A sentence with too much care tucked inside.

In the alcove, Peter paused over his datapad, pretending to sort response metrics. His fingers froze. His eyes didn’t move, but his ears sharpened.

James’ low voice reached him, Black. Do you really believe I won’t report you for treason the moment this ends?

But Sirius didn’t blink. “I think I’m done pretending. I’m not putting another body on my conscience.” James looked at him– a second too long. Then turned away, moving to check Subject 7’s vitals. But Peter watched closely now.

And then– James did something that didn’t make sense. He reached into the files, found the weekly lab report–the one containing fresh neurological scans, the most valuable data they’d harvested since her Veil interaction–and instead of logging it, he quietly slipped it inside his lab coat. No stamp. No hand-off. No record.

Sirius saw it. His eyes widened. Peter saw it. His blood went cold. James just walked out. Peter remained still. Then slowly marked the moment on his datapad.

UNAUTHORIZED LANGUAGE DEVIATION: CLASS IV.

But it wasn’t the words that made him bolt. It was the gesture that followed.

Sirius stepped forward and placed a hand on James’s shoulder. Just for a second. No clipboard. No protocol. No observation report. Just a human moment. That was enough. Peter closed his file, stood up, and walked–fast, silent–straight to Internal. Because this wasn’t a team anymore. This was a fracture. And it was growing.

HANDLER OBSERVATION LOG – P. PETTIGREW

ENTRY 075

Time: 16:37

Summary: Inter-handler meeting (Sirius Black, James Potter).

Flagged: Emotional language. Divergence from mission objective. Non-verbal signs of allegiance with Subject sentiment.

Quote: "I’m not putting another body on my conscience"

Conclusion: Handlers have formed personal attachments. Protocol has broken. Containment no longer sustainable with these variables intact.

Recommend: Immediate psychological clearance review. Consider extraction or reassignment.

Will report directly. No delays.

Peter didn’t wait for authorization. He marched through the hallway, logs clenched in a trembling grip, badge raised like a knife. “They’re compromised,” he said as the security doors opened. “Potter. Black. Maybe even Lupin. I have proof.”He didn’t care about the wide eyes of the interns or the way the door hissed shut behind him. He was finally right. And he was done waiting.

SCENE: OBSERVATION ROOM, EAST WING – LEVEL 7

The room smelled of steel and something more sterile–like a dentist’s office, if it were designed by people who believed in fear over painkillers.

Peter stood rigid under the observation lights, trying not to fidget. He’d brought everything–timestamps, session logs, clipped interactions, even fragments of sub-vocal audio from Remus’s mic that shouldn’t have made it into archives. He’d been watching them for weeks. Quietly. Carefully.

Across from him sat Commandant Ellery–the head of Project Anchor oversight–and two other figures from Internal Intelligence. One of them held a thin tablet. Another wore an expression like he’d smelled something rotten in the walls.

“You’re certain?” Ellery finally said, tapping a stylus against the edge of the table. Peter nodded. “Lupin has delayed Veil exposure sessions twice now. Black modified the last restraint command. And Potter hesitated when given a mild memory disruption protocol. Hesitated.”

“Is it affection?”

“I think it’s worse,” Peter said. “I think they care.” Ellery exchanged a brief glance with the intelligence officer beside him. Then he turned back to Peter with something colder in his eyes. Approval.

“We had our doubts. But if what you’re saying is accurate, this goes beyond soft loyalty. This is emotional contamination.”

Peter felt the tension in his spine loosen, just a little. “So what happens now?”

Ellery’s voice didn’t shift. “We see what they’ll do when ordered to break her.”

Peter blinked. “You mean–?”

“We’ll fabricate an execution order,” Ellery continued calmly. “No real weapon. No real termination. A full-drill simulation. And the three of them will be the only ones who don’t know that.”

The other officer leaned forward. “If they comply, we can reassign them–wipe memory, scrub the attachments. If they rebel…”

“Decommissioning,” Ellery said. “Both handlers and subject.”

Peter’s mouth went a little dry. He nodded all the same. “When do you start?”

Ellery tapped the tablet, sending the directive down the line. “Now.”

...

06:07 A.M.

Status: EXECUTION SIMULATION INITIATED

The lights were different down here. Not the pale blue hum of the labs. Not the soft white of the observation decks. This was surgical light. Cold, sterile, cast in hard shadows. It made the floor look like ice. Made the blood in your veins feel visible.

She was already there when they arrived–tied down again. Not strapped like in the regular sessions. No soft padding. No monitored vitals. Just iron restraints, tight enough to burn. Her face was pale. Her breathing shallow. But her eyes–those didn’t flicker. Not yet.

They opened the door slowly. Sirius was the first to pause. His hand twitched near his side. James moved ahead without looking at him. Remus walked slower than both. Two guards were already stationed inside. Neither of them looked familiar. That was the first warning sign.

James scanned the room. "Where’s Dr. Sallow? Or Bane?"

No answer. Just a nod from one of the guards toward a table in the corner. On it: a black case. Inside, a single syringe filled with a silver-blue fluid. Sedation? No. This wasn’t sedative. This was colder. Cleaner. Final.

Remus stepped beside him. “This wasn’t in the directive. There’s no behavioral trigger. No breach. No catalyst.” James didn’t respond. He kept his eyes on the case. His jaw clenched. From behind, her voice broke through.

“James?” It was soft. Not scared. Just… waiting. He turned. Her wrists were already chafed red. Her ankles barely moved in the restraints. And yet somehow, she still looked composed. Dignified. Like she hadn’t yet let herself believe this was happening. “What’s going on?” she asked. “Why are you all–” She glanced between them. Saw the case. Her voice dropped. “No. No. No. You’re not.” James couldn’t speak.

Remus was already shaking his head. “This isn’t protocol. This is–this is fabricated. I never signed off on this. None of us did.”

“Then stop it!” she screamed suddenly, yanking against the restraints. “Tell them! You’re my handlers! Tell them I haven’t breached!”

The guards didn’t move. Sirius stared at the ground. His hands were fists at his sides.

Peter’s voice echoed through the overhead speaker. “Commence termination.” James flinched. Remus spun to look at the ceiling. “Peter–what the hell is this?!”

“Authorized override. By command order. You have sixty seconds.”

“You’re not even in charge of termination calls,” Sirius snapped.

“She’s breached emotional stability, fractured memory suppression, and compromised three handlers.” Peter’s voice was too calm. Too rehearsed. “Stand down and execute. Or be relieved.” The room was silent except for her rapid breathing. James turned back toward her. He picked up the syringe.

“James–don’t,” Remus breathed so quietly, stepping in front of him. James’s eyes were too bright. But his hand didn’t shake.

Her voice cracked. “You know me.” Still, he approached.

“Please,” she sobbed. “Please, I did everything you asked. I–I tried. I didn’t ask to be like this.”

The syringe clicked. She screamed when the tip neared her skin. “James?” she choked. “James?”

That one broke him. His hand froze midair. Something broke in his chest like glass. And then: movement. Remus threw himself over her. Arms around her. Voice sharp. “No. She’s not a weapon. She’s a girl.” Sirius turned and punched the nearest guard without hesitation. The crack of bone echoed. The other lunged, and Sirius met him halfway–fist to throat. Two hits and both guards were on the floor.

James dropped the syringe. Backed up. Ran a hand down his face, like trying to wipe himself clean of what almost happened. Overhead, alarms started blaring. From the corner of the room, a camera shifted focus. Someone had been watching. Then a voice–not Peter’s. Commandant Ellery. Calm. Measured. Deadly.

“Test concluded. Loyalty confirmed.”

The red lights went out. But the silence after wasn’t relief. It was realization. James staggered back from the table. “This was a test?”

“You set us up?” Sirius shouted. Remus didn’t speak. He stayed wrapped around her, shaking. Her breath came in shallow sobs. She had nearly died by the hands she had begin to almost trust..

They brought her back to her quarters in silence. Her restraints had left shallow red bands on her wrists, and her throat was raw from screaming. None of the boys spoke. Not even Sirius. The air around them was charged–sick with guilt, stunned by survival. They hadn’t known it was a drill. And that ignorance was what broke them.

Inside her room, the light hummed low. The walls felt closer than before. She sat on the cot, curled in on herself, trembling. Not from the sedation anymore–but from something far deeper. The taste of betrayal still thick in her mouth. Remus handed her a blanket. She didn’t take it.

A long moment passed. Then, softly: “Tell me how many there were before me.”

James and Remus froze. Another pause. Then James’s voice, like gravel dragged over cement: “Thirty-seven before you.” A beat. “Only three survived the Veil long enough to speak again.” Her breathing faltered.

“What happened to them?” she asked.

Remus exhaled. “We erased them.”

Her eyes snapped to his. “You killed them.”

“No,” James said quietly. “We made them forget. But forgetting doesn’t mean surviving.”

Something cold bloomed in her gut.

The Veil pulsed–deep beneath the floors, far from here. Soft. Like a heartbeat. And then she said it again, louder now, sharper: “Where did the others go? You killed them.”

“No,” James said, too quickly, too sharp–like the word burned his throat. “Not like that.”

He stepped forward. The lights flickered once overhead.

“You don’t just open the Veil,” he said. “You don’t walk into death and come back without paying for it.” She stared at him like he’d lost his mind.

“You’re saying that makes me special?”

James’s gaze sharpened. “I’m saying it makes you dangerous. To them. And to us.” Remus looked over sharply.

“You mean to the ones running this,” she said. James hesitated. Then nodded.

“Project Anchor was never about giving you freedom. Only function. That’s why we exist. Not to protect you. To contain you.”

A distant beep came through the speakers–HQ alert. Surveillance sweep. Their time was running out.

Sirius’s voice returned, lower now. “They’ll come down harder. You know too much.”

James nodded grimly. “We’ll keep you alive.” A pause. “Not because we’re ordered to,” he said. “Because it’s right.”

She didn’t answer. But her fists unclenched.

And for the first time, since this all began, she saw it: They weren’t her saviors. They weren’t her captors. They were prisoners too. And now they were planning to break the machine.

And then above them, the speaker crackled.

“James Potter, your presence is required at Commander Ellery’s office as soon as possible.”

The line went dead as her three handlers looked at each other in confusion.

Earlier

LOCATION: INTERNAL OPERATIONS BRIEFING ROOM – SECTOR 5

The walls were matte black. No reflections. No clocks. Just a single long table, with a screen embedded in the center. On it, the word PROJECT ANCHOR glowed in steady, quiet blue. Commander Ellery had his back turned, hands clasped behind him as he stared out at the reinforced glass looking over the deep levels. Peter stood a few paces behind him, the silence stretching too long.

Then Ellery spoke. “We move ahead with the fake execution. Let’s see what the handlers do when the hammer drops.”

But Peter’s voice cut through, low and sure. “There’s a better way.” Ellery glanced over his shoulder.

Peter stepped closer, eyes glittering. “If the drill shows resistance–if they defy the command–we don’t terminate them immediately. We teach them. Break them. And we start with James Potter.”

Ellery turned fully now. “You want to run a secondary test?”

“No,” Peter said. “I want to run a dismantling.”

He placed a folder on the table. Inside: timestamps, behavioral summaries, and a chart–showing how James, once the most clinical of the four, had grown closer to Subject 7 than anyone else.

“He’s the root. Remus is emotional, Sirius volatile–but James is the spine. You cut that spine, the rest collapse.”

Ellery opened the folder, silent.

Peter’s voice darkened. “After the drill, if he fails it… don’t punish him. Reward him. Tell him you’ve chosen him for a task of the highest honor. A solo operation. Secret. Classified. Tell him the Anchor has destabilized. That her exposure to the Veil is becoming too dangerous. That we must extract the corrupted energy from her and set her free.”

Ellery raised an eyebrow. “And what does ‘set her free’ mean?”

Peter didn’t smile. “It means you tell James Potter that only he can do it. That he can lead her to her final peace. One last act of trust. Walk her through the final gate. And bring her back in. Except she is not built to come back from it.”

Ellery began to understand. “From the Veil.”

Peter nodded. “She won’t come back. But he’ll be the one who leads her in. That’s the kill shot. Not physical. Psychological. When he realizes what he’s done–what they made him do–it’ll destroy him.”

Ellery closed the folder. “And then?”

“We clean up. Disavow the experiment. Remove Remus and Sirius if they haven’t broken already. And if James survives the fallout?” Peter’s voice dropped into steel. “We’ll never have to worry about his loyalty again.”

Ellery exhaled once through his nose. Then turned back to the glass.

“Draft the directive,” he said. “Prepare the Veil chamber for final operation. I have an inkling we might come out of the mock execution with surprising results and we need to be prepared in advance.” Peter nodded, stepping back into the shadows.

...

COMMANDER ELLERY’S OFFICE – 0600 HOURS

James stood before the desk, spine straight, jaw firm. Commander Ellery opened a slim black folder and placed it down with the reverence of a religious text.

“There’s been… deterioration,” Ellery said, folding his hands. “The Subject is showing spiritual corrosion. Prolonged contact with the Veil has left its imprint on her–agitation, hallucinations, instability.”

James’s eyes narrowed slightly. “We’ve seen those symptoms before. They stabilize.”

“This time, the readings are off the charts. Look,” Ellery gestured to the graphs inside. Red. Spiking.

“What are you saying?”

“We believe residual energy from the Veil has embedded in her nervous system. It’s changing her. If it spreads beyond her–if it infects others–we lose control.” A beat.

“But there’s a solution,” Ellery said, as if offering mercy. “A full-spectrum extraction.”

James’s breath caught. “You can remove it?”

“We can cleanse her. Purge the Veil’s residue completely. Restore her.”

James blinked. “She’ll be free?”

Ellery nodded slowly. “Free from the pain. Free from the system. She will finally–finally–be at peace.” A pause. “You’ll lead the operation. She trusts you. It’s… fitting.”

James stared at the folder. Inside: medical diagrams. High-energy maps of her brain. The seal of Project Anchor stamped cold and official at the bottom of the page. “Does she know?” he asked.

“She knows she’s being healed.” Ellery’s voice was gentle. Carefully chosen. “She deserves to believe in that.”

...

VEIL EXTRACTION CHAMBER – 2300 HOURS

White walls. Floodlights. A strange smell in the air–ozone and ash. She walked beside James quietly, her wrists unbound this time, a blanket draped around her shoulders.

“Are you sure this will work?” she whispered.

He nodded once. “They said they can fix it. Whatever the Veil left in you.”

Her eyes flickered. “And then what?”

“You’ll be free.”

That made her smile, just barely. Trusting. Shaky. They entered the chamber.

Technicians took her gently. She didn’t fight them–James was here. It was fine. It was going to be fine. They eased her onto the metal table. Arms splayed. Head strapped. Electrodes pressed against her skull. Her eyes searched for him through the lights.

“I’m not scared,” she said, voice thin. “As long as you’re here.” James swallowed hard and nodded.

And then the lights dimmed–and the sound changed. A deep hum began, slow and rising. The walls pulsed with a sickly blue light.

James frowned. “This doesn’t look like–” But a figure in white cut him off. “Sir, please step behind the barrier.”

“Wait. I wasn’t briefed on this setup–”

The room’s command monitor lit up. A cold mechanical voice echoed through: “Veil extraction procedure initiated. Life channel will open in sixty seconds. Prepare for offering.”

James froze. “Offering? What offering?”

The technician looked up–but didn’t answer.

James stepped forward. “*What the hell is this?*”

She was struggling now, straining against the straps. “James–why are they saying that–what do they mean?!” James moved fast. He grabbed the nearest control tablet.

Onscreen:

Subject 07.

Status: Contaminated.

Phase: Sacrificial Purge.

Outcome: Complete Re-integration with Veil.

Handler: James Potter. Confirmed Initiator.

His hands went ice-cold. “I didn’t authorize this–” “Sir, you led her here. That is authorization,” a voice said. Calm. Final.

And suddenly, she knew. Her screams cracked the walls. “James?!”

“Shut it down!” James bellowed.

He spun toward the control module, slamming his palm on the abort panel–but it didn’t respond. “Abort!”

Remus and Sirius weren’t there. They hadn’t known. This was only him. Only he had brought her. She was sobbing now, thrashing, the restraints cutting red into her skin. “Please, James–I trusted you–I trusted you!”

And he– He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. She had believed him. And he had delivered her to death.

The Veil beyond the glass shimmered like water. The system voice chimed again: “Thirty seconds to threshold opening.”

“No.” James screamed. He turned and punched the nearest console, grabbed the guard’s sidearm, and fired into the control panel. Sparks erupted. Lights exploded. A siren wailed. Outside: the blast door slammed shut. Inside: smoke. Screaming. Her restraints flickered, but the lock stayed.

James was at her side in a second, a wall of glass and fluid between them and his fist pounded and pounded. “I didn’t know,” he rasped. “I didn’t know.” Her eyes–wild and wide–locked on his.

Fifteen seconds to threshold opening.

The girl was inside the tank now. Suspended in thick fluid, threads of Veil energy slithering into the containment glass like ink in water. Her eyes fluttered–then closed. Her body trembled once, violently. Then stilled.

James slammed his hand against the control panel. “Get her out of there. Shut it down!”

“No response,” said the lead technician, voice cold, blank, like static. “The offering protocol is locked. Initiated by your signature.”

The lights flickered. The Veil pulsed. Then–CRASH. The doors burst open. Remus charged in first. Then Sirius. A blur of movement. Fear in their bones.

“What the fuck is happening?” Remus snarled, grabbing James by the collar.

“You–” He looked at the tank. At her. “*You put her in there?!*”

“She was contaminated–they said they could help her–”

“She’s dying!” Remus howled, shoving him back so hard James slammed against the wall. Sirens wailed above.

“Extraction countdown, T-minus nine seconds.”

“NO!” Sirius roared, already moving. He dove behind the control station, tore through the wires with bare hands, sparks blinding him.

“Seven seconds.”

Remus threw himself at the tank. He pounded the glass. “Come on–wake up, wake up–” Inside, she twitched. The fluid around her churned with dark veins of Veil. James crawled forward, blood leaking from his lip, fingers dragging across the floor. His voice broke. “I didn’t know. I swear to god–I didn’t know–”

“Five seconds.”

Sirius ripped the main power conduit out with a shout, and suddenly–the lights died. Everything plunged into darkness. The tank lights went out. The threshold hum cut off. The emergency lights clicked on.

And Peter was there. Standing by the door like a shadow had opened. He was immaculate. Calm. Not even winded. “…Interesting,” he said softly. “You actually tried to stop it.”

James looked up. “Peter?”

Peter stepped forward, bootfalls precise, echoing in the stillness. He looked at the tank. Then at James. Then at the blood on the floor. “Didn’t think you’d go this far, though.”

“You set this up,” James said, breathless. “You–this isn't real. This isn't real.”

Peter tilted his head. “Define real.”

James lunged toward him–but Remus caught his arm. The tank hissed. Inside she floated, unconscious. Barely breathing. Her pulse monitor a jagged mess of flickers and faltering.

“You nearly killed her,” Peter said quietly. “You handed her over with your own two hands.”

James stared at him like he was staring at a ghost. “You knew,” he whispered. “This was a test.”

Peter gave the faintest smile. “You always said you’d die for the system. I just wanted to see what it’d take for you to break for someone else.”

“Why?” James rasped.

Peter’s eyes glinted–sharp, merciless. “Because the government doesn’t need followers. It needs absolutes. It needs monsters. And you were becoming too… sentimental.” He crouched next to James, level with his face. “I told them you’d fail. I told them you’d start to see her as a person. That you’d hesitate. That your precious morality would kill the machine. And look at you. Right on cue.”

He gestured toward the tank. Toward her still frame. “You really were starting to love her, weren’t you?” James couldn’t speak. His throat was ash.

“You think they’d ever let someone like you stay in power if they knew you were falling for the project?” Peter’s voice lowered. “They trusted me to watch you. I gave them everything. Every flicker. Every hesitation. Every time you looked at her too long.” Silence.

Then Peter stood up. Brushed imaginary dust from his sleeves. “I’ve already submitted the report. You’re compromised. All of you. The machine doesn’t forgive weakness. It just recycles it.”

Remus growled, stepping forward–but Sirius held him back. Barely. James looked at the girl in the tank. He had led her here. He had strapped her in. He had believed them. Not because he didn’t care–but because he did. He had cared so much that he’d clung to the only thing he thought he could still trust: the system. And it had used him. Used his faith. His loyalty. His belief in rules and orders and purpose. Twisted it all into a weapon–Peter’s weapon. And now– Now she was dying. Because of him. His knees hit the floor. His hands trembled.

Peter’s voice came one last time. Crisp. Cutting. “They won’t need to execute you, James. Not after this. You’re already gone. You betrayed yourself.” Then Peter walked out. The door sealed shut behind him.

The tank hissed. Her back arched underwater. The light around her flared–Veil static boiling. She was dying. James’s body was frozen as he watched Sirius rip the emergency crowbar off the wall and smash it against the chamber’s side. “Help me!”

James turned, still stunned. “We have to–”

“Help me break the glass, James!”

He moved a little. It took so much effort. He had never felt betrayal like that–his faith gutted, turned inside out–but he moved. He punched and kicked at the tank with anything he could find. The other two beside him going equally ballistic. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. Not to Peter. Not to the system. But to her. Because everything he thought was righteous–Wasn’t. And everything he thought he would never become– He just did.

The tank cracked.Then shattered. James had his arms around her before the shards hit the floor. Fluid soaked his shirt, hot and sticky with energy residue. Her body was limp. Cold. Veins faintly glowing with leftover Veil. “C’mon,” he whispered hoarsely. “Come back. Come back.” She didn’t open her eyes. But he had her.

Red lights strobed across the chamber, throwing everything into violent flashes–her pale, limp body in James’s arms, Sirius’s bloodied knuckles from smashing the tank, Remus’s face stark with horror and fury. Boots thundered in the distance. Doors locking down in sequence. The sound of the facility sealing itself like a tomb.

“We have to move–now,” Remus snapped, voice cracking through the panic. He was already at the door panel, ripping the casing off with trembling hands. James didn’t move. He couldn’t. Her head lolled against his shoulder, wet hair clinging to his cheek, breath shallow enough he couldn’t tell if she was even still alive. His body was shaking too hard. He could still hear Peter’s voice in his skull, cold and final: You’re already gone.

“James!” Sirius grabbed his shoulder, yanking him forward. “She’ll die if we don’t get her out. MOVE!”

That snapped him. His legs obeyed even if his heart didn’t. He stumbled after Sirius, clutching her tight, as Remus sparked wires together and forced the lock. The door hissed open with a scream of steam. The corridor beyond was already crawling with soldiers.

“Back!” Remus barked, slamming the panel shut again. His chest was heaving, pupils blown wide. “They know we’re here. They’re closing in from every side.”

Sirius’s hand was already on his gun, eyes feral. “Then we don’t run.”

James blinked, still reeling. “What–?”

Sirius’s face turned toward him, lit in the red flash of the alarm light. For once, there was no grin. No recklessness. Just raw conviction.

“We burn it,” Sirius said. Quiet. Certain. “We burn all of it.”

Remus whipped his head around, eyes narrowing. “Are you insane–?”

“Insane is staying here and letting them do this again,” Sirius snarled, pointing to her slack body in James’s arms. His voice cracked. “They’ll never stop. Not until she’s gone. Not until we’re gone.” Silence. Only the sirens screaming, only the boots thundering closer.

And then James realized something. He wasn’t clutching her just to save her anymore. He was clutching her like an anchor. Like the only thing that kept him from falling straight into the abyss Peter had opened under his feet. The system had twisted him, broken him, used him. But right now–he had a choice.

His gaze rose, meeting Remus’s. Remus’s jaw worked. His eyes flicked to the girl. Then to James. Then back to Sirius. And finally–slowly–he nodded. “…Fine,” Remus said, voice low. Dangerous. “But we make it count.”

Sirius’s grin came back–muted, but sharp, deadly. “Oh, it’ll count.” James finally found his voice. It was hoarse, cracked, but steady.

“We burn Grimmauld Place.”

...

They didn't argue after the decision. They moved. Sirius went for the nearest electrical bay. He smashed the panel open with the butt of a rifle. Sparks flew. Wires arced and hissed. The main lights blinked and went out. Emergency strips kicked in, painting the corridor in angry red. He wasn't trying to rig anything complicated – he was trying to make chaos. A short, violent blackout was all they needed.

Remus was already working on the opposite problem. He had the facility's surveillance mainframe in his sights. He got there and started ripping connectors free, yanking hard drives and smashing terminals with the butt of his hand. He muttered to himself the whole time, cutting the cameras off one by one. The monitors that had been tracking them went black. The one-way glass rooms emptied of watching faces and returned only silence.

James cradled her against his chest and moved. He kept low, took routes he knew from months of rounds. He didn't look back at the two he left behind; he couldn't. He had a shape in his arms, breathing shallowly, and every second he kept her alive was a second closer to getting out.

They set smaller, immediate fires first – not with careful planning but with whatever would start flames fast. A knocked-over solvent tray in the chemical prep room flared. Exposed wiring in the server arrays sparked and caught insulation. A ruptured gas line in the maintenance corridor ignited when a live arc hit it. None of it was technical; it was opportunistic: make a spark, make smoke, put the building into an alarm state that would tie up personnel and force doors to open automatically. They didn't plant bombs. They created simultaneous failures and let the building do the rest.

Guards came running. The first wave was met by Sirius. He moved like something that had nothing left to lose – fast, hard, and ugly. He hit the nearest guard with the butt of his rifle, took his sidearm, and fired at the locked doors to force mechanical overrides. Remus, after cutting surveillance, stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Sirius, throwing punches, helping wrestle open bolts, dragging bodies out of the way. James kept moving through the smoke and heat, carrying her, ignoring the pain that flared along his neck with every burst of hot air.

They were not clean about it. They were not tactical. They were violent and blunt because there was no time for elegance. Alarms that had been set for protocol override howled; sprinklers cycled inconsistently; somewhere down the corridors a secondary containment vent failed and filled the floor with acrid steam. People shouted orders over the din, but most of the facility's immediate response was confused and delayed by the sudden loss of the surveillance backbone Remus had demolished.

At the second stairwell the real firefight started. Riot teams poured into the hall and fired non-lethal rounds to stop them. Remus took two hits in the flank from taser rounds; he kept moving. Sirius took a baton strike to the rib. He grunted but kept pushing forward; later the X-ray would show a cracked rib. James felt a hot sting in his neck – a slash from a shrapnel fragment or a thrown bit of metal – and blood began soaking into his collar. He ignored it until he couldn't.

They reached the atrium where the main archive was stored. That archive held the names, the files, the sealed red folders. Remus hesitated for a fraction of a second and then went straight for the vault doors, slamming his shoulder into the electronic lock. The lock held. He hammered. The second hit sheared a bolt. The door gave with a groan. They shoved stacks of files into the hallway and tossed them down the ramp. Flames from the maintenance corridor lapped at the first papers and the fire took. The smoke climbed fast.

Troops tried to seal them, to hem them in between stairwells and corridors. James, blood hot on his neck, shoved through, taking rounds of concussive noise and a glancing hit that opened wet, red skin beneath his collarbone. He felt dizzy but he kept moving. He could hear Remus panting behind him and the thunk of bodies hitting the deck when Sirius used a captured rifle butt to keep a sliding door from closing on them.

By the time they reached the south exit the building was responding to the damage. Secondary alarms had tripped entire sectors onto emergency power. Smoke screens made visibility zero in places. The sprinklers–when they did work–created slick floors that sent two guards tumbling. Those same sprinklers stalled some fires long enough for them to get through; in other places the suppression system had been sabotaged and flames roared unimpeded. They didn't set the sprinklers off. They damaged the infrastructure so that suppression response was uneven.

They moved through choking smoke. James coughed and half-dropped her once when his strength failed, but Sirius and Remus kept him upright. They heard gunshots behind them and felt bullets kick up pulverized tile at their feet. James' shirt was plastered to the girl's back with residue from the tank. Her lips were grey. He whispered promises he had no right to make, words that weren't plans– "hold on," "don't go," "we're out"– and then kicked down the last steel door into the loading dock.

They were almost there when a figure crawled from the wreckage– burned uniform, face a smear of soot and blood. A senior officer, one of the people who had authorized experiments. He pulled himself upright, raised a shaking hand, and spoke directly to James as if he could still call him soldier.

“Do this, and you're no longer a soldier. You're a traitor. We'll hunt you all.”

James looked at the officer, then down at the girl in his arms. He could feel the life in her as a single thin thread. He looked up and nodded once– slow, deliberate.

“Then you’d better be thorough,” he said, voice ragged. “Because we will not let you an inch within her. Ever again.” James didn't hesitate. He didn't argue. He should have stayed a soldier. He didn't.

They didn't stop at the loading dock. They kept moving until they were outside, and then they did not stop running. They didn't wait to see the full burn. They didn't watch the flames consume the archive and the lab wings. They heard it behind them– the roar, the collapse of doors and ceilings, the intermittent thunder of failing infrastructure. The smoke rose in a column over Grimmauld Place, visible for miles, and people would later call it a signal, or a requiem, or a penance. For now they only knew it as cover.

James stumbled in the alley with blood in his collar. He slumped to one knee as Remus ripped his shirt to fashion a bandage, hands shaking. Sirius stood just uphill, watching the building where they had been trained, where they had served, go up in smoke. His chest heaved, a cracked rib made every breath like a knife. They only stopped when the sound of pursuit grew distant, when the first tendrils of smoke mixed with rain, and when the girl in James' arms twitched and drew a ragged breath that sounded like life.

They didn't look back. They limped away into the city under the cover of a night that smelled of burnt paper and hot metal and betrayal.

They had burned Grimmauld Place down. All of it, the labs, the archive, the console rooms, the Veil chambers, the sealed files. Not one clean document remained. No neat reconstruction would be possible. Names, experiments, directives– everything that had been used to make weapons out of people– was charcoal.

They left wounded and exhausted and afraid, and they left with her alive. They had crossed the line and there was no going back. The fire was not revenge. It was penance. They had chosen to erase the machine that had made monsters out of men.

Outside, the sky cleared a little. In the alley, James wrapped his hand tighter around her shoulders and whispered the same promise again: “We’ll fix this. We’ll find a way.” He didn't know how. He only knew that after what Peter had done, after the thing he had almost done himself, there was one thing he could do that mattered– protect her now at any cost.

...

OFFICIAL REPORTS

Anchor Project: TERMINATED

Subject 7: UNRECOVERED. PRESUMED LOST (No remains identified. Energy traces detected outside blast radius remain unexplained.)

James Potter: MIA. Presumed casualty. If located: immediate termination

Sirius Black: MIA. Presumed casualty. If located: immediate termination

Remus Lupin: MIA. Presumed casualty. If located: immediate termination

Peter Pettigrew: PROMOTED TO OVERSECTOR ZETA-13

Internal Tag: "COMPROMISED UNITS PURGED"

Comment: Full deletion. Zero tolerance. Loyalty must remain absolute.

And I'm back from the dead (fitting, considering the subject matter😉). This one's written a little different than usual- more sterile, colder because I wanted it to read the way the facility feels, transport readers to the same clinical white walls as Subject 7. I just hope that came across well.

James.P– Emotional Conditioning & Obedience Anchor

Sirius.B– External Threat Simulation & Attachment Control

Remus.L– Cognitive Monitoring & Emotional Decompression

Peter.P– Data Logging & Internal Feedback Analysis

Each name had a weight, a role. A betrayal.

Peter’s name was circled in angry red ink.

Your eyes scan the next page, and your breath catches.

Subject maintains stability only if unaware.

Your name is scrawled beneath it, listed under Monitored– Status: Unstable. The handwriting isn’t neat. It’s jagged, hurried. You recognize it– it’s Sirius’.

You blink, the paper blurring. You try to focus, but everything feels too sharp and too hazy all at once.

A sudden rush– a broken memory, or maybe a dream– flashes behind your eyes.

You’re screaming.

Your arms are tied down, and the air is thick and heavy.

A voice shouts, angry, desperate:

“She’s rejecting the reset!”

You try to recall more, but it slips away like smoke.

The file hints at an event. A fire.

You see flames licking at a window.

Your hands press against cold glass.

Locked inside.

Your heart stutters.

Your family– where are they? Not dead, you’re sure. But gone. Or erased. Or maybe running.

A woman’s voice whispers your name in your mind, soft and distant.

Then silence.

You try to picture your mother’s face–

But all you see is static.

For the hundredth time again, you wonder why.

Why can’t you remember your own family? Your own life?

Why have you never gotten the answers all these years?

Your eyes fall to the back of the page.

Faint, nearly erased, a note is scribbled:

“You were never supposed to remember. But you did. And now everything burns.” –P.P.

Her knees nearly buckled. The file felt heavier now, as if soaked with blood or something worse.

Another page, smudged with ink and fingerprints. Scribbled margins:

“She’s waking up too fast. Suppress again.”

“Memory loop, instability increasing.”

“Subject believes control is organic. Proceed.”

“Risk of collapse if anchor resets fail.”

Surveillance photographs fell out like ghosts. James reading to her in a hospital cot. Sirius gripping her wrist, fury on his face. Remus kneeling beside her, his expression soft, calculated.

But no Peter. Who was Peter?

Something inside her cracked.

Her eyes landed again on one line, bold and underlined in heavy black:

Subject maintains stability only if unaware.

Unaware. Suppressed. Controlled.

The handlers– James, Sirius, Remus, Peter– they weren’t just friends. They were assigned. Constructed. Scripted into her life like actors in a carefully curated lie.

A sharp knock echoed in her chest- panic. Her skin felt too tight. Her breath, too shallow. The study spun around her like a sinking ship. The house was no longer a home. It was a lab. A cage.

She backed out, clutching the file like a blade, every creak of the floorboards under her bare feet now a gunshot.

She had to run.

They would know she’d found it. They’d feel it in her silence, her eyes, her absence. They were watching. They always had been.

And something told her: they wouldn't let her go easily. Because these boys know about a past she does not and that's dangerous.

...

Your footsteps echo down the hall like they belong to someone else.

The folder burns against your side, hot under the roll of paper towels and the cleaning rag– like it’s aware, like it knows you weren’t supposed to touch it. You walk stiffly. Not too fast. Not too careful. Just enough to look normal. Just enough to pretend you aren’t unraveling.

Laughter spills from the living room– then stops.

Too sudden. Too clean.

Your throat tightens.

You round the corner. They’re there– James, Sirius, Remus– spread out across the battered furniture like nothing’s wrong. The television glows a dull blue, painting flickers across their faces. But the moment they see you–

Silence.

James leans forward slowly, forearms on his knees, his expression unreadable.

“You alright?” he asks.

Casual. Concerned.

Too casual.

You nod stiffly, the folder like a brick under your arm. You say nothing.

His eyes linger. Too long. There's something behind them– calculation? Confusion? A code no one ever taught you to crack?

“You’re pale,” Sirius mutters from the arm of the couch. He doesn’t look up. But there’s a sharpness in his tone now. Measured. Tense. Like he’s listening more than speaking.

“I’m fine,” you say, your voice too small, too rehearsed. You edge toward the stairs.

Remus smiles– soft, careful. Like he’s trying to be kind. But his eyes are locked on you, still and watchful.

“You sure?” he asks. “You’ve barely eaten. Long day right, with all the cleaning?”

His voice used to soothe you. Now it crawls over your skin.

“I just need to lie down,” you mumble.

You move past James. His knee almost brushes yours. The scent of his cologne, familiar, warm, safe– hits you like a memory. Or a lie.

“Sweetheart?” Sirius calls behind you. You pause mid-step.

His voice is flat. Too flat.

“You didn’t go poking around in the storage room, did you?”

Your heart stumbles.

You don’t turn around. “No.”

“Good, cause it's so dusty. Wouldn't want you catching something.”

You keep walking. Force yourself to.

You don’t see the look James gives Sirius. Don’t see Remus slowly setting his mug down with barely a clink.

But you hear Remus. Low. Measured. Almost like a sigh.

“She’s waking up.”

The stairs groan beneath you like they’re protesting. You grip the banister. The folder is still tucked tight beneath your arm, a lifeline– or a loaded gun.

You don’t breathe again until your door clicks shut behind you. Locked.

Your pulse drums in your ears. Your thoughts spiral.

Handlers.

The word slithers through your mind, heavy with implication. Like you’re not a person, but a subject. An asset. A controlled variable in an experiment dressed up as a life.

Why had they kept you here?

Why did you feel like a stranger inside your own skin?

Your mind feels like shattered glass– no reflection, only fragments.

Your eyes flick to the file again. Coordinates.

A place.

Not here. Maybe hope. Maybe a trap. But not here.

You swallow hard. The weight of the choice presses into your spine.

If you stay, you’re their captive– smothered in soft lies, studied behind friendly eyes.

If you run, you’re alone. Blind. Memoryless. Untethered.

The room feels colder now. Shadows stretch in the corners like they’re listening. Watching.

And somewhere, beneath the shock and fear, a sharp ache unfurls.

Alone.

The line of coordinates on the file is where you have to go to get answers.

You move without thinking.

Quiet hands. Quick decisions.

You begin to pack.

Avoid floorboards that creak.

Pull on your hoodie and slip out the window.

The yard is still. Moonlight spills across the ground. You move in the shadows.

And then–

Motion-activated Floodlights.

A harsh, electric glare slices through the dark. She freezes like prey.

A voice floats from the porch– calm. Too calm.

“It’s late. Where are you going?”

Sirius.

His voice isn't angry. It's controlled. Off. Like he's trying not to startle her.

“Dove? Did you read the file?”

Remus.

That word– Dove– slams into her like a bullet.

Her breath jerks. Her pulse stutters.

A memory shatters through her, sudden and violent:

Straps on her wrists. White walls. A woman screaming– no– herself.

“Let me go! Let me go!” A warm hand on her cheek.

“She’s rejecting the reset! Dove, you're fine, okay? Hold on, dovey–” Panic. Needles. Fire. Flatline.

Then nothing.

She gasps.

Staggers back into the now.

Footsteps are coming.

Lie? Pretend? Reason?

No.

Run.

She bolts.

Feet pounding across the grass. Cold air slicing through her lungs. The night splits open behind her with shouts.

“Stop!” Sirius’s voice– raw, panicked.

“Just listen!”

“Don’t run from us!” James now, frantic, desperate.

But she doesn’t stop.

She can’t.

Because now, maybe her life depends on it.

“There!” James yells. “She’s heading for the woods!”

They’re running. No hesitation. No plan. Just instinct.

“Split off. Remus, west trail!” Sirius barks. “We can’t lose her again!”

Remus vanishes into the dark, lungs burning, heart pounding like a war drum. Sirius is already vaulting the railing. James follows close behind.

Leaves slash their faces. Branches grab at their jackets. None of them stop.

“She’s scared out of her mind,” James gasps. “Why is she scared of us?”

“We should’ve told her,” Sirius shouts back “We should’ve told her everything.”

Their feet slam against the forest floor, adrenaline drowning out thought.

They don’t even know what they’ll say if they catch her.

They just have to catch her.

Because if they lose her now, they might never get her back.

But they will.

She can only be safe– only be happy– with them.

Outside, she disappears into the trees.

But they’re right behind her.

She knows she’s not alone in the dark.

The forest tears at her.

Branches claw her face. Her arms sting. Her hoodie is soaked with cold sweat and rain.

Mud sucks at her shoes. Her legs scream with every step.

But she doesn’t stop.

Behind her- shouts. Then silence.

That was worse.

Because if they weren’t yelling anymore, it meant they were thinking.

Planning.

She had to get somewhere.

Somewhere they couldn’t reach her.

She ducked deeper into the woods, heart a thunder in her mouth. Her thoughts weren’t thoughts anymore. Just fragments.

Subject 7. Handlers. Obedience Anchor. Emotional Conditioning.

Her stomach flipped.

Every second she ran, those words chased her harder than the boys did.

The forest thinned.

Gravel and fencing appeared ahead. She didn’t hesitate.

She climbed.

Barbed wire tore into her palm. She didn’t feel it. Her bandaged hand from earlier was unravelling.

Not until she landed hard on the other side– her knee buckling beneath her.

She whimpered. Bit down on it.

Had to move.

They know where you’ll go, a voice whispered inside her. They always know.

She didn’t trust anything anymore.

City lights smeared across her vision. Every corner felt like it had eyes.

Every time she thought she’d lost them, something flickered-

A movement.

A shadow.

The shine of leather.

The echo of boots on pavement.

Sirius was always faster. A shadow on her heels.

But it was Remus’s voice she heard most– lodged somewhere in her ribs.

“You’re safe with us, Dove. I promise.”

Lies.

Now it tasted bitter.

How had she let herself lean on him?

How had she let James in– his warmth, his stupid, easy grin, like a sun made to orbit?

All of it- lies.

Emotional conditioning. Obedience anchor.

They didn’t love her.

They were assigned to her.

She slipped through back alleys, stole a coat off a laundromat line. Her hoodie was soaked through. Her hand throbbed, slick with blood through the bandage Remus had so carefully wrapped around her just this morning.

She slipped once– skidded across a wet curb. Skinned her elbow.

No time to cry.

No one was coming to save her.

And still, behind her, the footsteps never really stopped.

They just got quieter.

Smarter.

They knew how to stalk.

Attachment Control. Threat Simulation. Decompression.

This wasn’t their first time.

...

She had found the coordinates in the file.

Scrawled in the corner of a classified incident report, barely legible beneath redacted lines and water stains: “Location: GP-12 | Archive Access Pending.” There was no name. No explanation. But something in her gut twisted when she read it. As if her bones remembered what her mind had long buried.

So she followed it. Miles on foot. No sleep. Just instinct.

The heavy iron gates groaned as they opened, revealing what looked like the husk of a mansion– cold, sterile, newly rebuilt into something it was never meant to be. This wasn’t a home. It was a laboratory dressed in architecture. As she stepped inside, the air turned clinical. The scent of antiseptic stung her nose. Every footstep echoed too loudly in the dark halls. Shadows gathered in sharp corners, watching.

She froze near the threshold, her eyes wide and unfocused, as murmurs rippled through the small group gathered in the vast entryway. Faces she didn’t know– stoic, unreadable, and tinged with disbelief– turned toward her. One whispered, “Is that... her? Subject 7? But she was– she was gone.” Another shook their head, unable to hide a mixture of shock and wariness. The weight of her name, spoken so quietly yet so urgently, bounced off the cold walls like a ghost– someone declared dead years ago, suddenly returned from the ashes of a past too painful to confront.

Her own mind spun, fragmented images flickering like a broken film reel: flickers of a house she couldn’t place, the roar of flames swallowing everything she once called home, and the haunting echo of a voice whispering accusations she wasn’t ready to face. Questions clawed at the edges of her memory– what had happened to her? Why did her feet bring her here? Why was everything she thought she knew unraveling so quickly? These people seemed to know her.

The oppressive stillness settled over her as a figure stepped forward amidst the masses all gathered around at a distance from her– calm, clinical, the embodiment of cold authority. The words began softly, deceptively gentle, but each syllable was a razor edged in intent: “You must understand, what happened years ago was tragic. There was a fire– right here– it was not by accident. It was you. You set it all ablaze. This was your home, do you remember?” The statement hung in the air, heavy and absolute, designed to crush any resistance before it could take root.

Her eyes flared with disbelief, a sickening knot tightening in her stomach. No, it couldn’t be true. The very idea was unbearable, a monstrous weight forced upon her by hands she no longer trusted. Yet the faces watching her, expectant and unyielding, offered no comfort, only the cold certainty of her supposed guilt.

The walls seemed to close in tighter, the fluorescent lights above flickering like the last breaths of hope. The sterile scent invaded her senses, the silence broken only by the clipped, rehearsed words meant to erode her from within. Every lie planted was a seed of doubt, every accusation a chain tightening around her will.

Her thoughts spiraled as the machinery of control began its relentless work, weaving falsehoods into the fragile threads of her shattered identity. Grimmauld Place was no sanctuary– it was a prison, and here, beneath the weight of shadows and whispered betrayals, her freedom was being methodically stripped away, piece by agonizing piece.

The moment the words left their lips, she crumpled, as if the very ground beneath her fractured and gave way. “You set the fire. You killed your family.” The accusation crashed into her like a tidal wave, relentless and unforgiving. Her breath hitched, heart pounding in her ears, a scream caught in the depths of her throat. Her knees buckled, and she sank to the cold, unforgiving floor, tears streaming down her face, hot and desperate. Her hands clawed at the walls, at the air, anywhere– anything– to hold onto something real. “No, no, please–” she sobbed, voice cracking, “Tell me the truth! Please, I need to know. I didn’t– I couldn’t have! I remember nothing!”

But they showed her the footage. Grainy. Warped. Her, standing in a hallway as flames devoured the walls. Her own voice shouting “Run!” over the roar of fire. Faces– familiar yet lost from her mind– twisting in pain, disappearing into smoke.

Panic spiraled into raw terror. Her breath hitched and then broke, ragged sobs ripping from her chest as the impossible truth seeped in– she had done what? They say she had set the fire. She had destroyed everything. But it couldn't be. If she was from here, why doesn't she remember any of it? But then her mind has been blank for years. The knowledge crushed her like a hammer blow, shattering what remained of her fragile sense of self. The room spun, walls closing in, suffocating, and she clawed at the door, frantic. “No! Let me out! Please, I’m not dangerous! You’re lying– this isn’t me! Why do I not remember anything then?” Her screams echoed, desperate and raw, bouncing off sterile white walls that seemed to press closer, colder with every second.

Suddenly, the harsh clang of metal doors locking reverberated through the room, the lights flickering violently overhead, plunging her into a strobe-lit nightmare. Then a voice– cold, mechanical, and unyielding– filled the room from hidden speakers, detached and final: “Subject 7: Memory destabilization detected. Initiating lockdown.”

Her screams turned frantic, the last flickers of resistance burning fiercely as the world tilted and blurred. Strong hands grabbed her, cold and unrelenting, pressing a needle into her neck before she could resist. Her limbs went heavy, a creeping numbness swallowing her senses as sedation took hold.

When her eyes fluttered open again, she was alone. Cold white walls stretched endlessly in every direction, harsh lights glaring down like sterile suns. The silence was a crushing weight. Somewhere far off, someone screamed– and then it stopped, like a switch had been flipped.

She curled into herself on the cold floor, the taste of fear thick on her tongue. The system had won– for now. And in this sterile tomb, she was nothing but a prisoner of her own mind, haunted by a monstrous truth she barely understood and a past that refused to let her go. Even if she knew nothing of it.

...

They began with silence.

No loud interrogations, no restraints– at least not at first. Just a white room, windowless and humming with fluorescent lights, where time dissolved and the sterile air never shifted. She was left alone for hours. Maybe days. The lights never dimmed. The walls were too smooth, too clean, as if nothing human had ever happened here. Every second stretched long and strange, until her thoughts curled in on themselves.

Then the voice began.

Soft at first. Gentle. Feminine. Maternal. “You’re safe now,” it told her, from somewhere above or within the walls. “We’re here to help you remember the truth.”

She flinched the first time it spoke, recoiled the next. But eventually, after long bouts of silence where she would press her hands to her ears just to hear something– anything– she began to listen.

“You were always different. Special. Important. That’s why they chose you.”

Images followed. Projected onto the white wall opposite her bed: grainy footage, photographs, documents stamped with redacted ink and barcodes. And always, the fire. Its sick orange glow spilled across every surface, flickering in her peripheral vision like it was still alive. She tried not to watch, but they kept showing it.

“You lit the match, sweetheart,” the voice cooed. “Don’t you remember? You always wanted to feel in control. They told you it would make everything better.”

Sometimes, when she cried, the room would soften– the lights dimmed to a warmer hue, and the voice would hush, like a lullaby. “You didn’t know what you were doing. They made you believe it was the right thing. But it was your hand. Your fire.”

She screamed at first, begging them to stop. Pounding her fists against the wall until her knuckles cracked. But every outburst was met with silence, and then another session. More footage. More photographs. A name whispered over and over: Subject 7. Arson-Class Outlier. Emotional Liability. It became harder to hold onto the edges of her memories– were the boys protecting her? Or using her? Had she run away from danger… or straight into it?

Then they gave her a mirror.

She hadn't seen her reflection in so long. She barely recognized the girl staring back at her: hollow-eyed, sleepless, wearing clothes too white, skin too pale. There were burn scars she didn’t remember. On her hands. Her wrist. Her shoulder.

“What did you do?” the voice asked softly.

She stared at her reflection, and for a moment– just a breath– she believed it.

Maybe she had done it.

The voice began to change then– less gentle, more clinical. “You’re dangerous, Subject 7. You’re unstable without regulation. This is why the program existed. To keep you from hurting others.”

More footage. Her handlers– James, Sirius, Remus– standing beside her in blurred images. She wasn’t smiling. They were. A report displayed: “Obedience Anchor breach: Subject exhibited resistance. Required secondary simulation exposure.”

Her head pounded. Her eyes burned. “No,” she whispered to the empty room. “No, this isn’t right. I didn’t– ”

But another file opened on the screen. A recording. Her own voice– cracked, deranged, sobbing: “If I can’t be free, I’ll burn it all. I swear I will.”

She collapsed then. On the floor. Heaving. Her screams shredded her throat as she begged for someone to tell her what was real. For someone to tell her it wasn’t true. That she wasn’t a monster.

The lights went out.

And from the dark, the voice whispered: “This is who you are. This is what you’ve done.”

That night, they gave her a pill.

She didn’t fight it.

...

She awoke again to a thick silence. The world came back in pieces–white ceiling, blinking red light in the corner, a faint antiseptic sting in her nose. Her limbs were leaden, her tongue dry. When she tried to move, her arms obeyed sluggishly, dulled by whatever they'd pumped into her. A heavy blanket covered her legs, but it didn’t bring warmth– only the sensation of being pinned in place, like a patient, like a prisoner.

The room looked like a bedroom. A nice bedroom, even. Pale blue walls, soft sheets, a familiar rug near the bed– one she couldn’t place, but her fingers twitched when they saw it, like muscle memory tugging at something buried. A bookshelf stood in the corner, filled with titles she almost recognized. Everything was soft, sterile, warm-toned, but the warmth was artificial, curated. She could feel it– the hollowness beneath the details. Like a stage set meant to look like home but missing the soul of it.

A soft chime sounded.

“Subject 7 has regained consciousness,” a voice announced overhead, not cruel but not human either. Calm. Pacing. Detached. “Welcome back. You’ve been through a trauma event. Please remain still. Your recovery is being monitored.”

She tried to sit up. Her vision blurred at the edges, heart pounding as the words Subject 7 sank in like teeth.

“Where am I?” she croaked. Her voice felt foreign.

“You are safe,” said the voice. “You have been found, after years of destruction and disappearance. It’s time to heal.”

Heal.

A flicker of memory jolted through her– fire licking at her skin, the weight of hands gripping her shoulders, someone screaming her name– Dove, not her real name, not anymore– and then the sound of her own voice cracking open as the truth sank its claws into her.

She gripped the blanket tighter. Her body had moved through those memories like a ghost, but now they clung to her skin. No one was coming for her. She was the danger. That’s what they had told her. And that’s what she feared was true.

The door hissed.

And he stepped inside.

He introduced himself as Peter. Peter Pettigrew. From the file. One of her handlers.

Soft sweater, tired eyes. Slouched shoulders like he carried something heavy and long-carried. His presence didn’t scrape or jar. He didn’t smile. Didn’t flinch at her panic. He simply sat in the armchair beside the bed like he’d always been meant to be there, as natural as breath.

“I– I don’t…” she started, voice breaking.

“You don’t have to speak,” Peter said gently. “Not yet.”

He sounded kind. That was the worst part.

The others– they'd always filled the room with gravity. James with certainty, Sirius with fire, Remus with mournful calm. But Peter was quiet. Gentle in a way that didn’t demand trust– it invited it. He didn't seem like he was her handler.

“You’re not crazy,” he murmured, watching her hands twist the blanket like a lifeline. “You’re not broken. And you didn’t deserve any of it.”

She blinked at him, confusion fogging everything. “They said I… I killed them. My– my family. They said I set the fire.”

Peter’s throat moved in a slow swallow. “I know.”

A beat.

“They lied to you, dove.”

The nickname shouldn’t have felt safe, but coming from him, it didn’t sting. It shuddered something deep inside her.

“They programmed you,” he whispered. “Conditioned you. Broke you down and built you up again and again until you only fit their shape.”

Her mouth parted, but no sound came.

“They made you love them,” Peter continued, words low and trembling with some barely-contained grief. “Made you need them. And when it didn’t work the way they wanted– when your mind started slipping through the cracks– they made you the villain. Framed you for everything.”

Each word dropped like lead.

“You’re not a monster,” he said. “They are.”

Tears filled her eyes before she could stop them. She didn’t even know who “they” were anymore. The boys? The government? Herself?

Peter didn’t move closer. He didn’t ask her to believe him. He just was there, watching with eyes like an open wound.

“I know you want to run,” he said softly. “But you’ve been running a long time. And I’m the only one who doesn’t want to use you. Just… let me help you sort the truth from the noise.”

And in that moment, with her body aching and her mind full of shadows, Peter didn’t look like a threat.

He looked like a lifeline. A quiet one. A soft one.

...

She’s kept in Grimmauld Place for days. Weeks, maybe. Time drips through her fingers like the IV fluid they pump into her at night, a silent sedative humming through her bloodstream. They don’t call it prison. They call it “sanctuary.” “Rest.” “Rehabilitation.” The words are soft and sterile, like the sheets on her bed. Like the voices that echo from the intercoms in the ceilings. Like the whitewashed walls that seem to breathe when the lights dim.

But she doesn’t trust them. She doesn’t trust the flickering cameras, or the guards in medical whites, or the woman with red lipstick who always smiles too long when she says, “Tell me again about the fire.”

She trusts Peter.

At first, it’s just because he’s quiet. The only one who doesn’t ask. Doesn’t prod. Doesn’t shove a clipboard between her ribs and say, Tell us again how it felt when your house burned. The others– therapists, agents, doctors– leave a film of sickly dread behind them when they exit the room. Peter leaves behind warm tea. Tissues already folded. Gentle eyes like a dog that’s been kicked too many times to bark.

She doesn’t feel anything for him. Not yet. She's still too wary.

That’s the thing.

She doesn't love him– not the way she adored Sirius, with his razor-blade grin and wildfire gaze. Not the way Remus made her ache with his haunted hands and ancient eyes. Not the way James smiled like summer and made her feel like the whole world couldn’t crush them. He is just another one of her handlers.

But Peter… Peter doesn’t ask to be loved.

He just stays.

When she screams, he’s already there, crouched by her bedside with a blanket. When she throws things, when she cries and begs for the truth, he never flinches. He watches her fall apart like he’s seen it before. Like he’s lived it.

And in the beginning, she’s skeptical.

Peter Pettigrew was always background noise– sweet and soft-spoken, but forgettable beside the others.

But now, when the world is shattering like stained glass and nothing feels real, it’s Peter who sits with her through the sharp edges.

“Do you want to know the truth?” he asks her one night, voice low as the hum of the lights. “Really know?”

She nods. She’s so tired of not knowing.

He opens a box.

Inside: a stack of yellowed letters, photographs bent at the corners, and one cassette tape. The smell of old ink and lies rises into the room.

He places one letter in her lap.

“She’ll do anything for them. Sirius knows that. It’s why they chose her.”

Peter doesn’t speak. He just watches her. Waiting.

Another letter. More writing. More cracks in the mirror she’d built of her life.

“Remus says the ritual will only work if she believes it’s her choice. James is getting impatient. I think he’ll do something drastic soon.”

Her fingers tremble.

“This isn’t real,” she whispers.

“I thought the same thing,” Peter says softly.

And the tape– God, the tape.

She plays it, knuckles white.

Her voice. But warped. Screaming. Crying. Laughing in a way that makes her sick.

And their voices– James, Sirius, Remus– cold and clinical.

“She’s compliant now. Burn it tonight.”

“We’ll reset her again after.”

“She is never meant to remember.”

She vomits in the corner of the room. Peter doesn’t touch her. He holds the bucket. Rubs her back. Doesn’t say I told you so. Doesn’t even look triumphant.

He just looks sad.

“They built you,” he says gently. “And they broke you. Over and over again.”

She curls up on the floor. Shaking.

Peter kneels beside her. His sweater smells like mint tea and hospital soap. His hands stay at his sides. Never touches her without permission.

“I tried to stop them,” he says, voice breaking. “I didn’t mean to leave you. I just– I wasn’t enough. But I never stopped looking.”

She cries then. Not because she believes him.

But because she wants to.

Because Peter is the only one who looks at her like she’s still human. Not a project. Not a weapon. Not a ghost.

And slowly– God, slowly– he becomes her anchor.

He doesn’t ask her to remember.

He asks her what she feels.

And when she says, “I feel like I don’t know who I am anymore,” he just nods. Like he’s been there too.

And maybe he has.

Maybe he hasn’t.

But the way he sits quietly and lets her fall apart, the way he holds her truth like it’s too delicate to crush– it breaks her in a different way.

The others had fire. Peter is a tide.

Soft. Relentless. Patient.

And she begins to wonder.

What if he’s right?

What if the others– the ones she trusted– were the ones who made her into this?

And what if Peter was the only one who never wanted anything but her freedom?

What if this is the truth?

What if he’s the only one who never touched her– and that’s what makes him safe?

What if, this time, she’s not being broken?

What if Peter’s the one putting her back together?

...

It’s late. The lights are dim. There’s a fog of silence between them, thick and heavy, like the Veil itself is listening.

She’s sitting cross-legged on the mattress, hospital socks scrunched at her ankles, voice hoarse from sleep and crying and not knowing anything real anymore. Peter’s in the armchair beside her, hands folded neatly in his lap, a steaming mug of chamomile untouched at his feet.

“Tell me the truth. Why am I here?” she says. Not begging. Not whispering. Just… tired.

He doesn’t ask what she means. He just nods. Like he’s been waiting.

“You want to know what you are.”

She flinches. “What they made me?”

Peter finally lifts his eyes. “No,” he says gently. “What you were, before they touched you.”

She doesn't answer, so he does.

“You're an Anchor.”

She blinks. “What is that?”

His voice is steady, like reading from an old storybook.

“Anchors are… rare. People who can touch the Other Side. See ghosts. Hear them. Some can step into it, like walking through a dream. The dead are drawn to them– clinging, whispering. You don't just sense death. You hold it. You pull it in.”

The word pull tastes wrong in her mouth. Heavy.

“That's not real.”

“It’s very real,” he says softly. “You’ve been seeing them your whole life. The shadows. The voices you thought were dreams. The way people left a room colder after touching you.”

She stares at him. “So what does that make me? A freak?”

“No.” Peter’s eyes don’t leave hers. “It makes you a weapon.”

She jerks like he struck her.

He doesn’t flinch.

“That’s what they think,” he amends. “That’s what Project Anchor is for.”

She says nothing, but he sees the question in her silence.

So he tells her everything.

How the government discovered the Other Side. How they built underground labs and put white coats on people who still believed in ghosts. How they didn’t want understanding– they wanted control. Power. Ghosts as spies. Spirits as soldiers. Anchors as weapons.

“How do you think they found you?” he says. “They’re always watching. Near-death experiences, disappearances, sightings… You were on a list before you could read.”

“And the others?” she whispers. “James? Sirius? Remus?”

Peter’s expression flickers.

“They were never your friends,” he says carefully. “They were your handlers. Sent in to study you. To manage you. To… guide your powers into something useful.”

“No.” She shakes her head. “No. They took care of me in the brief time I spent with them..”

“They made you think they loved you.”

He slides a thin folder across the bed.

Inside: surveillance photos. Dossiers. Charts mapping her emotional responses. Clinical notes about memory wiping. Behavior conditioning. Emotional control via positive reinforcement.

There’s a line scrawled in red on the top page:

Subject shows increased stability when emotionally bonded to Handler S. Black. Recommend continuation of affection simulation.

She almost throws up again.

Peter’s voice is low. Almost apologetic.

“You burned down your house, love. Not because you wanted to. Because they made you believe it was the only way out. They triggered your Anchor state. Then wiped your memory clean.”

Her hands are shaking. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because they’re still watching,” Peter says. “Because if you remember too much, too fast, they’ll reset you again. Start over. You know they'll not stop getting you back.”

She’s breathing too fast. “Then why aren’t you stopping them?”

He looks at her like that’s the saddest question of all.

“I tried,” he says. “I failed. I was meant to be the passive one– the one you never noticed. I was the fallback, the safety net. When they broke you, I was the one they sent in with a soft voice and no sharp edges.”

“But you– ” She looks at him, dazed. “You didn’t–"

“I didn’t touch you,” he says. “Not like they did. I didn’t lie to you. I didn’t break you and call it love.”

She starts crying.

Peter doesn’t reach for her.

He waits.

Because Peter never touches without permission. Peter doesn’t want to own her. He just wants her to know.

...

Grimmauld Place becomes a fixed point in her life. A compass, of sorts. It’s no longer a cursed home or haunted manor– it is a hospital now, a holding cell, a place between madness and mercy. The curtains are always drawn. The walls are a muted grey-blue, like stormlight on old film. Everything is softened– edges dulled, sounds muffled, light filtered through gauze.

They say it’s for her comfort.

They say it’s so she doesn’t panic.

Every morning begins the same: pale sunlight diluted through enchanted glass. Warm broth on a tray. A blue capsule slipped between her fingers with practiced ease. “Just for the nerves,” someone says– always someone new. Their faces blur together: quiet smiles, trimmed uniforms, names she doesn’t bother to remember. But Peter is constant.

He’s already seated in the corner when she wakes, ankles crossed, reading glasses perched low. Never imposing. Never loud. He always knocks, even when the door is open. He always asks before sitting closer.

She never tells him no.

Her body is weaker now. Slower. Limbs weighted. Mind fogged like glass breathed on too long. The pills blur the edges– take the sharpness out of grief, memory, rage. Some days she barely speaks. Some days she whispers fragments: names, dates, the smell of burning wood. Peter just nods. Never pushes. Only listens.

And she begins to crave that silence. The safety of it.

He teaches her to eat again. To drink without flinching. He slips small comforts into her world: soft sweaters, worn books, a clock that ticks gently instead of ticking loud. When she spirals, when her head is pounding and her chest feels too tight to breathe, Peter reaches for her hand, but never grabs. He waits for her to meet him there.

“You’re doing so well,” he says, voice soft as flannel. “I’m so proud of you.”

The others– her new handlers– come and go with steady rhythm. They’re always polite. Always still. They speak in quiet tones and careful phrases.

“You are healing now,” they say as they inject her with something faintly sweet, faintly silver.

“Truth is a mercy,” they whisper as they guide her through old reports, doctored memories, half-truths worn into shape.

“They made you fire. We’re making you still.”

Every time she hears her own name on one of their tapes, she jerks like she’s been slapped. The screen lights up cold and blue in the dining room– a room she only uses when they want her awake. Her file spills open like a wound.

There’s footage– grainy, spliced, but chillingly believable. There she is, in the halls of the old Grimmauld Place, clutching her head, shrieking, crying. Screaming for voices to stop. There is kerosene puddled on the floor around her. Everywhere. A match is struck. Standing there as the flames eat everything. And then the boys appear around her before the footage cracks.

They watch her reaction like surgeons monitor a dying pulse.

She turns to Peter, throat dry. “Why do they keep showing me that? I want to forget.”

Peter’s eyes glisten. But he doesn’t answer.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he says. “But it was your hands.”

The words land like a bruise. Quiet and cold and inarguable.

She stops protesting. Just a little.

That night, she doesn’t fight the sedative.

By week three, Grimmauld Place feels like the only reality she remembers. The rest– hogwash and fever dreams. Ghosts with names she no longer wants to say. Boys with soft hands and too-sharp teeth. When Peter offers her a file labeled “The Handler Logs,” she opens it with steady fingers.

She reads how James manipulated her emotional highs to trigger psychic spikes. How Sirius flirted, then punished, to reinforce dependency. How Remus gaslit her into believing her powers were dreams.

“You loved them,” Peter says. “That’s what makes it cruel.”

She doesn’t cry. She just stares at the page that claims Sirius hand-fed her sleeping pills to keep her pliant. That James gave her false projects. That Remus watched her fall apart and only took notes.

She whispers, “They were supposed to protect me.”

Peter lowers his eyes. “They were paid to monitor you.”

The lines between truth and poison blur. She can’t tell if she’s dizzy from sedatives or despair.

But she starts believing.

Not fully. Not yet.

But enough.

She stops saying their names out loud. She stops picturing their faces when she dreams. Her hands stop shaking when she watches the videos.

And when Peter brings her warm tea and reinforces, “You are healing now,” she believes him.

A little more each day.

Her descent is quiet. Soft. Not a scream, but a sigh.

She doesn’t even feel herself slipping.

Not yet.

...

It doesn’t happen all at once.

Hatred never does.

It starts in the stillness between sedations. In the hours where her mind floats– neither dreaming, nor waking, but open. It starts with every rewatch of grainy footage of The Fire. It starts with the whispered mantras she barely registers anymore:

“They made you fire.”

“We’re making you still.”

“Truth is a mercy.”

She hears them like background music– like white noise behind the flickering of tapes, behind Peter’s steady voice guiding her through another report.

One day they show her interviews. Or old surveillance chopped into pieces. Sirius pacing. James smiling at something unseen. Remus talking to someone off-screen. The voices are altered slightly, the tone just off enough to curdle her stomach. But it’s them.

Sirius says, “She’d tear the world apart for us if we asked nicely enough.”

James says, “She’s more useful when she’s not thinking too hard.”

Remus says, “She needs to feel safe. Not *be* safe. There’s a difference.”

It plays on a loop.

She vomits the first time. She seems to be doing that too much lately.

Peter is there, holding a towel to her lips, wiping her mouth.

“I didn’t want you to see that yet,” he says. But he lets her watch again. And again.

The more she sees, the more the lines solidify. The ghost of doubt becomes the seed of loathing.

“They twisted your gift,” one of the handlers tells her, smoothing her hair like a nurse. “Do you remember when you first saw them? You were unstable. Shaking. They pretended to help. But they needed you to stay broken.”

She shakes her head weakly. “No. They– they helped me… they– ”

“They lured you to them. How do you think you ended up with them of all the people in the world? They used you to track spirits they couldn’t find on their own. They needed your senses. Not you.”

“You were an asset. Not a girl.”

“You were leverage.”

“You were bait.”

“They were obsessed with you. Sick in the head.”

She starts flinching at the sound of their names. Stops correcting the doctors when they call them her captors.

Peter never speaks in absolutes. He just listens. Offers fragments. Lets her fill in the gaps.

“They loved each other more than they ever loved you,” he says one night, after the screen shows James and Sirius laughing together, her watching from a corner.

“They only brought you close when it served them. When it hurt to be outside the warmth.”

Another night, Peter sits at the foot of her bed, voice quiet and broken. “Do you remember what they made you do in the church basement?”

She doesn’t.

But the silence he leaves afterward is enough to make her believe something happened. Something awful.

The room begins to shrink. Every hallway echoes with footsteps she swears used to mean safety. She starts to hate the smell of leather. The glint of gold. The curve of a grin in a photograph. She tears them all down. Screams when they try to calm her.

“They lied to me,” she says, voice cracking. “They played me.”

Peter doesn’t deny it. He doesn’t say, Yes. He doesn’t need to.

He just holds her hand.

“You were eighteen,” he murmurs. “They were trained men.”

Her body goes still.

It was never fair.

They taught her to trust them. Then they trained her to obey.

She spends an hour staring into the mirror one day, whispering to her reflection:

“It wasn’t your fault. But it was your hands.”

It echoes like scripture.

That night, she dreams of the fire again.

But this time, they’re the ones screaming.

And she’s the one holding the match.

...

It’s morning. Or at least, they tell her it is.

The lights above hum in soft, sterile gold. Her room always smells faintly of antiseptic and mint tea– soothing. Controlled. The curtains don’t open. The clock ticks in an artificial rhythm. Her limbs feel lighter today, though the air still pulls slow, like walking through water. The sedatives haven’t fully worn off, but her thoughts are sharper. Sharper than they’ve been in days.

Peter brings her breakfast on a tray, like he always does– oatmeal, blueberries, honey drizzled just the way she likes it. He places it on the table near the bed, careful not to make sudden movements. He never does. He doesn’t hover. He waits until she sits up on her own.

She doesn’t touch the food.

“I want to hurt them,” she says, voice low and calm. Almost too calm.

Peter doesn’t flinch. He simply lowers himself into the chair across from her, folds his hands in his lap, and says nothing.

“I want them to feel what I felt,” she continues. Her eyes are glassy, fixed on the edge of her tray. “To be afraid. To doubt everything. I want to look at them and know they don’t get to sleep at night. That they wonder when it’s coming.”

Peter tilts his head slightly. His eyes are soft. Always soft. “Do you want them dead?”

She blinks.

The question floats between them like smoke.

“I don’t know,” she whispers. “Maybe.”

He nods. Not in approval, not in shock. Just in acknowledgment.

“They deserve pain,” she says. “Real pain. Not just punishment. Not clean. Dirty. Scars they can’t see but feel every time they breathe.”

Peter doesn’t try to talk her down.

He doesn’t offer hollow words like you’re better than this or revenge won’t help. No lectures. No shame.

He just says, “Then we’ll make sure they understand. In time.”

She looks up sharply. “We?”

Peter meets her gaze. “You’re not alone in this.”

His voice is barely more than a whisper, but it carries something solid. Steady.

“I tried to stop them. I failed. I’ll never pretend otherwise. But I saw what they did to you. I saw the way they– ” he cuts himself off. Swallows hard. “I didn’t have the power to protect you then. But now I do. If you want to make them pay… I’ll help you.”

He leans forward just slightly, the gentleness in his eyes becoming something darker, heavier.

“When the time comes,” he says quietly, “I’ll be there. With you. Every step. We’ll make sure they never forget what they did to you. I promise.”

It silences her.

Because part of her expected him to pull back. To chide her. To turn her fury into a lesson.

But instead he’s just… with her. In it.

She studies his face, trying to find deceit. Malice. Manipulation.

All she finds is that same tired sorrow. That quiet regret he always wears like a second skin.

“Why are you doing this for me?” she asks.

He hesitates. Then answers with brutal honesty.

“Because I need to believe you’re stronger than they made you. And because I need to believe that standing beside you now will count for something.”

She exhales.

The hate begins to root deeper.

She imagines James flinching. Sirius shaking. Remus pleading.

And she doesn’t feel guilt. She feels clarity.

Peter rises to leave, but he pauses at the door, glancing back.

“They broke you to build their perfect Anchor,” he says. “But you’re not their weapon anymore. Starting tomorrow, we'll begin practice. I want you to hone your powers for when you finally face them.”

She closes her eyes.

“Truth is a mercy.”

“They made you fire.”

“We’re making you still.”

But today, she doesn’t want to be still.

Today, she wants to burn them up.

...

She stands in the cold, dimly lit training room again, the sterile walls reflecting back a fractured version of herself. Her breath hangs heavy in the stagnant air, and every muscle in her body trembles– not from weakness, but from the relentless storm inside. The power she holds is raw and unpredictable, pulsing beneath her skin like a wild, untamed fire she can barely contain.

They tell her she’s special. The strongest Anchor they’ve ever found. But strength tastes bitter on her tongue, laced with the poison of what she’s done– and what they say she was forced to do. Her hands ache with the memory of the flames she set, the screams she caused. They replay in her mind like a broken record: the fire roaring, the heat scorching every last piece of her innocence. It wasn’t just destruction. It was murder. Her family. Her home. Burned to ash because of her– because of them.

Peter stands quietly across the room, arms folded. He doesn’t shout or demand. He waits. Watches. And when she falters, when her breath hitches with the weight of the past, he speaks– not like a commander, but like someone who’s also been broken before.

“Don’t run from it,” he says, voice low. “You can’t control what you won’t face. Let it come. Let it burn.”

The program pushes her, pushes her harder, telling her that this power inside isn’t a curse but a weapon, a tool for her to wield. To control. To use when the time comes to make them pay– the three boys who used her, twisted her mind, made her set that fire, and then left her to drown in the wreckage. They remind her, with clinical calmness, that her hands were the ones that burned everything down. The guilt claws deeper with every lesson, every training session.

Peter never repeats the script. He doesn’t bring up the boys. He doesn't call it “justice” or “mission.” Just asks her, simply, “What do you want to feel when you touch your power? Fear? Or control?”

She focuses, summoning the faintest echoes of the Veil– the other side where restless spirits drift like shadows. At first, it feels like slipping beneath icy water, suffocating and vast. But with each breath, she learns to stretch her senses farther, to hold onto the edge of that realm without drowning. The cold seeps in, but so does a flicker of power. It’s terrifying and exhilarating. She tastes her own potential– the terrifying freedom of a force that could destroy or protect.

Peter steps closer. “Anchor it,” he says, steady, as if that word alone could hold her grounded. “Not to your pain. Not to your fear. Anchor it to you.”

But it’s always haunted by the faces she can’t forget. James, Sirius, Remus– the ones who promised loyalty but betrayed her in the cruelest ways. The ones who made her this monster and then abandoned her. Every surge of power is tangled with rage. Every step forward is shadowed by the weight of what she’s been made to carry.

They say this training is to make her ready– ready for the reckoning, for the punishment she’s meant to deliver. She swallows hard, the fire burning low but steady inside, fueled by the horror of the past and the twisted love they denied her. She trains not just to reclaim control, but to sharpen the weapon she never asked to become. Her hatred is her fuel. Her guilt, a chain she’s determined to break.

In the silence of the room, with nothing but the echo of her own heartbeat, she lets the anger rise. It is hers. It is raw. It is the only thing left untouched by their lies.

Peter’s voice slices through the silence. “Now. Let it out.”

She draws in a sharp breath– and releases.

The world stills.

At first, there’s nothing.

And then, a flicker.

A ripple through the air, so faint it could’ve been imagined– but it wasn’t. The shadows shift. The cold trembles. A single spark of energy arcs across the space between her hands, burning silver-blue, alive and real.

Her breath catches.

Peter nods once. A flicker of approval– no smile, no celebration. Just quiet recognition. And that warms up her chest.

“You broke through,” he says.

She stares down at her hands, chest heaving. For the first time, they’re not shaking.

She nods.

For the first time, she knows: she can be more than what they made her. The spark is small. But it’s hers. And it’s just the beginning.

And when the time comes, it will be enough.

...

Seems like the day came sooner that she expected.

She sits beside Peter in the quiet hum of the observation wing, knees pulled to her chest, a steaming mug of bitter coffee cradled in her hands. The sterile white lights buzz faintly overhead, but for once, the room feels almost peaceful. She lets herself lean back into the silence, the kind that only comes after months of noise– of training, screaming, remembering. Peter doesn’t speak, and neither does she. They’ve always shared this kind of silence– sharp and steady, like the calm that precedes a storm.

She watches him out of the corner of her eye. He’s sitting still, hands folded in his lap, staring at the monitors on the far wall. He’s more tense than usual. His shoulders too rigid, jaw tight, foot tapping once every few seconds like he’s bracing for something.

A faint sound slices through the room– low at first, like a tremor, then louder, shrill.

Alarms.

The stillness snaps.

Flashing red lights wash over the walls as the klaxon wails, signaling what she already knows before Peter even stands.

“They’re here,” he says, voice clipped but calm. He grabs his coat from the back of the chair. “The boys broke in. All three of them. This is it.”

Her breath catches. That storm inside her stirs, awakening like something old and half-buried.

Peter looks at her– hardly. “Now’s your time. You know what to do.”

She swallows hard, lips trembling. “Peter, I- I can’t set this place on fire again. People will get hurt. This isn’t like before.”

But Peter’s already shaking his head. “Everyone here knew this day would come. Every person who trained you, every person who stayed– they’re ready. They’re waiting for you to punish them.”

Outside, the chaos grows louder– doors slamming open, voices barking orders, a sudden crash of something heavy breaking.

Peter takes a step closer. “You were never meant to stay caged forever. You are not a girl anymore. You’re the reckoning.”

She looks down at her hands. They don’t tremble. Not this time.

Peter leans in slightly. “When the time comes, you set it all on fire.”

Her voice is small. “What happens after?”

“I’ll find you,” he says. “I’ll get you out. Once it’s done, I’ll come for you. But for now– ” He glances toward the door, then back at her, softer now, but with steel in his voice. “They can’t see me. I have to go.”

She nods, even though everything inside her is screaming.

Peter lingers for a second longer. “End it. Correct your past wrongs.”

Then he’s gone, vanishing through a back exit before the next alarm bell even finishes ringing.

She’s alone now.

But the fire is already building in her chest.

And this time, she won't run from it.

The door creaked open– not slammed, but pushed with urgency, trembling beneath the force of desperation. The moment stretched thin, fragile like a thread about to snap.

James, Sirius, and Remus stumbled into the room, breathless, their eyes wide with panic and hope– hope– as if the sight of her might undo the weeks of silence, the nights spent wondering if she was still alive. The sterile air, thick with chemicals and stillness, clung to their skin like guilt.

She was there.

Standing upright, pale beneath the harsh white light. Her wrists were bare now, no restraints, but the weight of the room still held her like a cage.

The world seemed to stop.

James was the first to move. He took a slow step forward, his voice cracking just from the sight of her. “You’re awake…”

She didn’t speak.

Her eyes met his– and then Remus’, then Sirius’. A moment passed. Two. Something ancient and aching stretched between them.

Their faces softened– no masks, no pretenses. Just boys with broken hearts. Remus’s lips parted like he was about to say something tender. Sirius looked like he might cry. And James... James had never looked so unsure in his life.

Their eyes shimmered with everything they’d never gotten the chance to say: We’re sorry. We looked for you. We thought we lost you.

But her eyes…

There was no softness there.

Only fire.

Only rage.

The silence broke with a breath– shaky, bitter, venom-laced. Her laugh was quiet but raw, the sound of something unraveling. “You found me.”

The words weren’t a relief. They were an accusation.

James reached toward her instinctively, like his touch might pull her back into something safe.

She flinched. Hard.

“You think I’m coming with you?” Her voice was low, splintered at the edges. “You made me burn it all down.”

Sirius looked like he’d been punched.

Remus opened his mouth– closed it again. His eyes brimmed with something unspoken, something terrible and tender.

James shook his head slowly, his voice nearly a whisper. “We didn’t know. We didn’t understand what they were doing to you. We tried to fix it–”

“You betrayed me,” she snapped, louder now. “You put a monster in me and you watched me wreck everything.”

The words hit their target, sharp and sure.

“But we’re here now,” Sirius finally said, voice hoarse. “We came back for you.”

Her expression twisted. “Too late.”

The fire was stirring beneath her skin again. Her breath trembled. The ghosts of her family screamed behind her eyes. The guilt. The hatred. The truths Peter whispered into her ears every night. It all swelled like a storm.

“He said I’d get to hurt you,” she said softly, a tremor running through her voice. “And today’s that day.”

James stepped forward again, almost helpless. “You don’t have to do this.”

“I do,” she whispered, fists curling at her sides. “Because this… this is the only thing that feels real anymore.”

The lights above them flickered.

The machines around her hummed like a warning.

And as the alarms blared again beyond the door, drowning out the world, the first glint of flame sparked at her fingertips– small, but alive.

The fight hadn’t begun. It had already found them. And it would end in fire.

...

The alarms shattered the sterile silence, shrill and relentless, echoing through Grimmauld Place’s cold corridors like a scream that refused to be swallowed. The walls trembled with urgency– heavy boots thundered down the halls, radios crackled orders, and steel doors slammed shut one by one, locking the chaos in like a beast in a cage.

She stood at the center of it all. The eye of the storm.

Breathing hard, chest heaving, hands trembling. Not from weakness– but from power. From everything that had been buried deep, drugged down, smothered. The fire inside her pulsed beneath her skin now, aching to be set free. Her fingers twitched. Sparks crackled faintly along her knuckles.

James, Sirius, and Remus closed in, their movements careful, like approaching a wounded animal they had once called their own. Fear etched their faces– not of her, but for her. And beneath that– grief. It settled in the creases of their brows, the tremble in their voices, the unspoken weight of all they couldn’t undo. They reached out to grab her, to pull her back into the shadows they had painted over her mind, but she recoiled as if they were poison– poison she had no intention of swallowing again.

“You don’t get to have me,” she spat, the words venomous. Her voice broke like glass, sharp and splintered. “You left me to burn.”

“Please,” Sirius choked out, hands raised slightly in surrender. “We didn’t know–it wasn’t supposed to go like this– just come with u-”

Her eyes snapped to him. “But it did. Didn’t it?” The fire flickered at her fingertips. “You watched it happen.”

“We tried to fix it,” James said, voice raw. “We tried, alright? But everything was already coming undone– we thought we could protect you if we just–”

“Just what?” she cut in, stepping closer, the air crackling between them. “Erase me? Rewrite me?”

Remus moved forward, tears brimming. “You’re not thinking clearly. You’ve been through hell and they’ve twisted everything. Let us get you out before you get hurt– please.”

Her eyes filled with something colder than fire– betrayal that had turned into something far sharper.

“I am thinking clearly. For the first time in weeks. I remember everything. Every second. The fire, the screams, the ash– my family, gone because you wanted to make me your weapon.”

A tremor ran through James. “That’s not true,” he whispered.

But her lips curved into something broken. “Isn’t it?”

The air vibrated. Sparks danced up her arms now, glowing faintly like embers waiting for breath. The guards were closing in. The facility’s last defense. Peter had said they’d come. He had said this day would end in fire.

“You’ll die if you stay,” Sirius said suddenly, stepping forward. His voice cracked open with fear. “You’re powerful– but this place has kill orders. We heard them. The second you lose control–”

“I already lost control,” she hissed, eyes locked on his. “And no one came.”

Remus reached toward her like it would matter. “Let us come with you. Let us fix it. You don’t have to do this alone– ”

“I was always alone.”

Silence dropped like a blade.

The flames leapt higher at her sides, casting their haunted faces in flickering gold. They looked like the boys she had once loved– fragile and furious and breaking. But she was breaking, too. She had broken long before they realized they couldn’t save her.

“It was all for you,” Remus whispered one last time, voice soaked in ache. “It’s always been for you, love.”

Her eyes glistened, something sharp and unspeakable catching in her chest. And then–

“You don’t get to call me that,” she whispered. “Not anymore.”

The corridors around them became a battlefield. Shouts of commands clashed with the metallic clatter of weaponry and the sharp snap of energy– her power stirring in the air, unstable and unpredictable. Every glance at the three boys was like a dagger twisting deeper, a reminder of every scar they had left behind.

And through it all, a quiet shadow lingered just out of reach– Peter. His soft eyes never left her, steady and unwavering, a tether in the swirling madness. But even his presence couldn’t quell the storm raging within her.

She wasn’t ready to run yet.

Not until everything they built– their lies, their control, their guilt– was ash.

She took a breath.

And then she let go.

With a single, sharp motion– fingers splayed, eyes blazing– she unleashed it.

Flames erupted from her hands like a living scream, hissing and snarling as they tore across the ground. They raced up the walls, hungry and untamed, devouring paper, wires, curtains, the very bones of the facility. The cold, calculated brightness of the hallways was replaced with an infernal orange glow, shadows flickering and twisting like demons summoned from the depths of her broken mind.

The scent of burning plastic choked the air. Smoke curled like black serpents into the vents, swallowing oxygen, swallowing light.

But she barely noticed.

Destruction was freedom.

The fire was her voice, her vengeance, her reclaiming of the self they had tried to erase.

And ahead of her– watching, frozen– stood the boys.

The moment the flames touched the walls, everything else fell away. Time seemed to fracture. James went still, his eyes wide with disbelief, as if reality had betrayed him. The girl he knew– the one who once laughed like sunlight– was now cloaked in flame, her fury pouring out in waves that made the walls tremble. His lips parted, but no words came. He couldn’t recognize her, and yet he had never seen her more clearly.

Sirius stumbled back a step, his breath caught in his throat, a strange, helpless sound. The heat stung his skin, but it was the guilt that scorched him. His hand lifted slightly, instinctively, like he could shield her from the fire– but the truth was brutal and immovable: they had lit the match. Every crack in her voice, every tremor in her hands, every lick of flame was a consequence of choices they’d made. Of truths they'd kept from her.

Remus didn’t move for a long moment. His mind, always the calmest among them, scrambled to make sense of what they were witnessing. But the fire wasn’t a mystery to solve– it was pain incarnate. It was her scream after years of silence. And it was beautiful and terrible and unstoppable.

“James,” Remus murmured faintly. “We have to get to her. She’s not in control.”

James blinked, the words breaking through the fog of horror. He tore his gaze away from the inferno and back to her– just a silhouette now, framed in flames, standing at the heart of their ruin. “We’re not losing her,” he said fiercely, though his voice cracked under the weight of it.

“She’ll burn herself alive,” Sirius snapped, stepping forward, shielding his mouth with his arm from the rising smoke. “We have to reach her– now.”

And so they ran. Into the smoke, into the heat, into the chaos she had conjured. The corridor outside collapsing into a battlefield– sprinklers burst but hissed uselessly, electricity arced across broken wires, the floor cracked beneath the pressure of it all. Each step was a gamble. The building groaned like it was dying.

But still, they ran.

Because she was in there.

Not just the girl with fire in her hands, but the one they had laughed with. The one who trusted them once. The one they still loved, even if she would never forgive them.

The fire surged again, reacting to her anguish– a living storm lashing out in every direction. The walls rippled with heat, the air became a furnace, and through it all she stood, unmoving, eyes locked on the ruin she was bringing down.

She didn’t flinch when they appeared through the smoke, coughing and frantic.

“You’re going to die in here!” Sirius shouted, voice frayed and breaking. “This place isn’t worth your life– we aren’t!”

She turned slowly, flames curling up her arms like armor. Her gaze met theirs– empty of hope, full of wrath. And yet, for the briefest second, it flickered. Just barely. Like a memory slipping through.

“This place was my grave long before I lit the match,” she said quietly. “At least now– I get to choose how it ends.”

And yet–

Remus stepped forward and grabbed her arm roughly, the fire licking at his boots, his skin already blistering from the heat. “Then let us die with you,” he said. “But we’re not leaving you in the fire alone.”

And there it was.

That old wound, deep and endless.

She looked at them– faces streaked with soot and desperation– and for a moment, she faltered.

Not enough to douse the flames.

But enough to remember that once, long ago, she had hunted ghosts with them. And they made her feel like she belonged.

And in the very next breath, she yanked her arm from Remus’ bruising grip, and the ceiling groaned– then collapsed.

The fire roared.

And the world went white.

Flames spiraled upward, shadows dancing like mad specters on the walls. Smoke billowed thick and black, curling like poisonous serpents as it clawed toward the vents, choking the halls in darkness. The acrid stench of burning plastic and paper seared her throat and eyes, but she didn’t falter. Her mind locked onto one truth as she ducked to take cover from the wreckage: destruction was freedom.

Guards shouted. Footsteps thundered. Desperate orders echoed. But the fire was louder– an extension of her scream, her anguish, her rebellion. It swallowed the sterile light, transforming the halls into a hellscape of orange flame and ruin.

Every shattering window, every collapsing beam was a monument to her war– a pyre for the lies, the chains, the years of silence. This wasn’t a cry for help.

This was vengeance.

And amid the chaos, the three boys saw her.

They were too late– too late to stop it, too late to pull her back. The flames were already everywhere. And she crouched at the center, silhouetted against the blaze, an avenging spirit wreathed in fire.

Their faces, streaked with soot and sweat, held an unspoken promise: no matter how broken she felt, no matter the walls she built with flames, they would fight to reach her. Because love, as fierce and consuming as fire, was what remained– raw, painful, and impossible to extinguish.

The moment the flames had erupted, the boys froze. She was getting away.

Time fractured.

The fire clawed at the walls with hungry, furious hands, roaring like a beast freed from chains as Peter’s grip tightened around her wrist. The heat was suffocating– an unbearable wave that pressed against their skin, searing the air with each labored breath. Smoke coiled and twisted around them like living shadows, thick and choking, burning eyes and scraping at lungs that begged for mercy. The acrid taste of ash filled their mouths, mixing bitterly with adrenaline and fear.

Peter didn’t hesitate. His steps were swift but careful, guiding her through the chaos with an urgency that never became frantic. Every moment felt fractured, time splintered between the snap of collapsing beams, the hiss of flames licking closer, and the deafening alarms that screamed out a warning none could ignore. The world they had known was unraveling, and beneath it all, the fragile thread of something new and uncertain stretched taut between them.

Her heart hammered against her ribs, wild and untamed, a mirror of the storm inside her– rage, despair, and a desperate hunger for freedom tangled with confusion and the faintest flicker of trust. She glanced at Peter, his face illuminated by the flickering firelight, calm and steady despite the inferno surrounding them. In his eyes was a sorrow that matched her own– a silent promise that maybe, just maybe, this flight through fire was the first step toward something that wasn’t poison.

Behind them, the flames consumed Grimmauld Place with merciless appetite, swallowing memories and lies in a blaze that was both end and beginning. The past– the cages, the betrayals, the manipulation– burned to ash, leaving only smoke and the sharp sting of loss in its wake.

James, Sirius, and Remus were stuck in the haze, faces pale and etched with desperation. They saw Peter clutching her hand, leading her away through the suffocating heat, the fire swirling hungrily around them like a living thing. Shouts tore from their throats– pleas, commands, heartbreak– but it was too late. The walls cracked and groaned, the inferno an impenetrable wall between them and the girl they had come to save.

James’s voice broke with anguish, “No! Don’t take her– she’s ours! Peter, don't! I beg you. Not again!”

Sirius’s wild eyes searched frantically, hands reaching out as if to pull her back from the edge of the burning abyss. Remus’s screamed so raw that the other two had to hold him back from running into fire.

But Peter moved with unyielding resolve, carrying her through the choking smoke and heat, away from the fire that was both her prison and her rebellion. The burning building behind them was a raging monument to everything broken and betrayed– yet in the roar of destruction, there was a fragile heartbeat of hope.

Away from the flames, in the cool air that burned their lungs with relief, she felt it– the terrifying, raw possibility of a new path. The fire had taken much, but Peter’s steady presence whispered that maybe, beyond the smoke and ashes, there was still something worth holding onto.

And so they fled– two fragile figures leaving behind a world ablaze, stepping into the unknown where trust was fragile, but real. The fire raged on, but the future waited, waiting for her to claim it.

Behind them Grimmauld Place went up in flames once more and yet more destructive and heavily-hearted than the last time years ago. She looked back one last time but the three bodies she was looking for, had disappeared amid the tragic gold flames. And her heart sank for a reason she didn't understand.

...

The car’s engine purred low beneath them, a steady hum in the quiet night. Rain streaked across the windshield in thin, glassy veins, blurring the world outside into a smear of headlights and darkness. The road twisted through a lonely stretch of forest, slick with storm and shadow, and the silence inside the vehicle was thick enough to choke on.

Peter’s hands were steady on the wheel, knuckles pale, jaw set. His voice broke the stillness softly. “You did the right thing.”

She didn’t respond.

Her head was pressed lightly against the cold window, breath fogging the glass as her gaze tracked the blurred trees whipping past. The fire still lived in her nose, smoke tucked into her lungs like it had claimed a home there. Her fingertips itched with leftover energy– residual heat from the blaze she had summoned, uncontrolled and furious.

“You did well,” Peter said again, gently, as if reassuring a child waking from a nightmare. “They tried to use you. Twist you. That wasn’t your fault. I am proud of you. ”

She closed her eyes.

But it felt like her fault.

There was something fractured inside her– a wrongness that pulsed deep beneath her skin. Every time she tried to remember what came before Grimmauld Place, it slipped through her fingers like ash. But not always. Lately, slivers had begun to rise. Not memories, not exactly. Dreams, maybe. Visions.

She saw Sirius’s face, wild and furious, but not cruel. James standing in front of her like a shield. And Remus– his hand brushing her cheek, his voice so real in her ears even now.

“You’re not safe here.”

Her heart twisted painfully.

“Peter…” her voice cracked. “Did I ever– was there ever a time I didn’t hate them?”

His eyes flicked toward her, just for a second, unreadable in the dim orange glow of the dashboard. “You were scared of them. Rightfully so. You didn’t see it then, but I know what they did to you. I saw what they turned you into.”

He reached across the console and gently touched her knee, grounding. “But you’re free now.”

Free.

Why did it feel like a lie?

The rain hit harder, drumming against the car roof like anxious fingers. She curled in on herself slightly, clutching her arms as tremors rippled through her muscles. Her skin felt like it was humming, her body caught between ghost-touch and memory, like something was pressing up from inside her, trying to speak.

“Peter…” she whispered again, hesitant. “Why do I keep hearing them?”

His voice came soft and soothing, like honey in tea. “Trauma plays tricks on the mind. They imprinted themselves on you, branded you like cattle. That’s how they kept you weak. But you’re healing now.”

He smiled faintly, turning down a narrow, overgrown road. “We’re almost there.”

Somewhere behind her eyelids, she saw James’s blood-smeared face. Sirius screaming her name through flame. And Remus, again and again– You’re not safe here.

But she was with Peter now. She had destroyed everything they built.

So why didn’t she feel safe now either?

The car rumbled on and the rain softened to a misty drizzle, steam rising off the hood of the car like breath. Peter drummed his fingers lightly on the steering wheel.

“You’ve come so far,” he said, his voice warm with pride. “They never thought you’d survive without them, but look at you now. Stronger. Sharper.” He leaned back in his seat, eyes flicking toward her. “Exactly what they feared you’d become if you weren’t in their leash.”

She glanced at him, then down at her lap, where her fingers had begun to curl into fists.

Peter’s tone was light, casual. “It’s almost funny, isn’t it? They spent so long building you up, training you like a weapon– and now that you’ve finally become what we designed, they’re the ones who should be afraid.”

The words hung heavy in the air.

Her heart gave a slow, hard thud.

What we designed…?

She turned her head slowly toward him. “What did you say?”

Peter blinked. “What?”

“You said I finally became what you designed.” Her voice was quiet, precise. “What does that mean?”

He hesitated for the briefest second– just long enough to send a spike of unease down her spine.

“I meant… what they tried to force you into. What they were turning you into without your consent.” He smiled, but there was something brittle at the edges now. “You rose above it. You didn't become that. You become better in our care. That’s all I meant.”

But her mind had latched onto the phrasing. Not helped you. Not supported you. Not picked up. Designed. Almost as if manipulated.

A word like a blueprint. A plan.

Her breath slowed.

Peter kept speaking, softer now. “They taught you to burn, but they never expected the fire to turn on them. You did what had to be done. I was there– I saw what they were making you into. I saw how Remus just stood there when you begged for it to stop– ”

“I never begged,” she said sharply.

The silence snapped like a taut wire.

Peter’s mouth parted slightly, like he realized too late he’d crossed some invisible line.

She turned her whole body to face him now, blood loud in her ears. “How do you know that?”

He paused. Then: “You told me.”

“No,” she said slowly, carefully. “I didn’t.”

They stared at each other. And in that space, in that breath, something shifted.

Something inside her woke up.

Peter’s hands clenched the steering wheel, knuckles pale. Rain tapped softly against the windshield, as if trying to fill the silence stretching like a blade between them.

“You told me,” he repeated, quieter this time. “In the facility. You don’t remember.”

“I don’t,” she agreed, eyes narrow. “That’s the thing. I don’t remember telling you. I don’t remember begging. But you do.”

Peter didn’t look at her. “You were in pain. You said things. Screamed things. We pieced together what we could.”

Her voice was a whisper now, dangerous and sharp: “So you watched me?”

He flinched.

“You watched me,” she said again, the words tasting like poison in her mouth. “In the program. While I was broken and screaming and drugged– you watched me. You were part of them.”

“No– no, that’s not– ” he ran a hand through his hair, frantic, face flushed with urgency. “I was with you. I protected you. They would've killed you if I hadn’t–”

“But you never said that before,” she cut in. “You said they lied. You said they made me a monster. But if you were there from the beginning…”

Her throat felt tight, choked with too many truths rushing in at once.

“Did you ever tell me the truth, Peter?” she asked. “Did you ever tell me what really happened?”

His eyes were wild now. “I protected you,” he repeated. “They were going to erase you, burn everything. I stopped it. I pulled you out. You have me to thank for still being alive– ”

Her voice rose, cold and hollow: “You drugged me. You sat beside me and watched me forget who I was. You fed me stories. Showed me footage. Made me doubt myself.”

“I saved you from them!” he snapped, hitting the steering wheel. “They were going to use you again! Just like last time! You think Remus really cared? James? Sirius? They were rebels– traitors– before they were your friends. I was the only one who stayed.”

“No.” Her voice was shaking now, a tremor of rage and horror. “You didn’t stay. You stayed quiet. You let it happen. And now you’re still doing it.”

Peter’s mouth opened. Closed. He looked like a man caught in the open, exposed under floodlights. The charm had vanished from his face. All that remained was something desperate, cornered.

“They would’ve destroyed you,” he said hoarsely.

“And you didn’t?” she whispered.

He turned his head sharply toward her, pleading now. “I’m the only one who knows what you’ve become. They can’t handle it. You can’t even handle it– ”

“I’m starting to,” she said, voice like ice.

Her hands burned in her lap. Not with fire– but with something deeper. Awareness. Truth.

And he saw it, then.

The beginning of her slipping from his fingers.

She looked out the window, into the misty grey woods beyond. Something inside her– fractured and repressed– was stirring with dangerous clarity.

“I’m not safe,” she murmured to herself. “And I never was.”

Peter didn’t respond.

He didn’t need to.

Because the silence spoke louder than anything else.

The car jolted slightly as Peter gripped the wheel harder, the tires slipping on wet gravel as they veered off the main road into the forest path. Trees loomed outside like tall, silent witnesses. Inside the car, the air grew heavier by the second.

“What do you mean? You are safe here. With me.”

She snapped forward in her seat, breath sharp and uneven.

“Peter,” she said, her voice strangled. “Peter, look at me.”

He didn’t.

Her pulse thundered. “What are you hiding?” she demanded.

Still no answer.

“Peter!” she screamed, fury rising from her chest like wildfire. “What are you hiding?! I swear to God– if you had any hand in what they did to me, if you stood there and watched it happen– I will not hesitate. I will burn this whole car down with you in it.”

His jaw clenched. His eyes stayed forward.

“I’m not kidding.” Her voice cracked at the edges, high and hysterical now, but filled with deadly promise. “Tell me. Tell me what it is you’re hiding.”

Rain pelted harder. Thunder murmured in the distance.

Peter inhaled, sharp and shallow. His voice, when it came, was low. Tight. “You don’t understand what they were turning you into. You– ”

“No,” she cut him off, trembling. “Don’t give me that. Not again. Don’t twist it. Just answer me. Did you know what they were doing? Did you help them?”

His fingers twitched on the steering wheel.

And that– that was the answer.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t deny. Didn’t protest.

Just silence.

Silence, and the sound of her heart shattering into something wild.

Her breath caught, and her vision blurred– not with tears, but with rage. “You were there,” she whispered, horrified. “You let them do that to me.”

“I tried to protect you,” Peter murmured, finally glancing sideways– but not with guilt. With calculation. “You were slipping, and they said you were a threat. I did what I had to.”

She stared at him, the image of him sitting by her bedside– smiling, soft, trustworthy– flashing through her mind like poison in reverse.

All of it.

Fake.

She pressed her hand to her mouth, trying to hold back the scream rising in her throat. Her fingers tingled. Her palms were hot.

“Pull over,” she whispered.

“What?”

“Pull. Over.” she snapped.

Peter didn’t move.

And that was another mistake.

Because now she wasn’t scared.

She was awake.

And she wasn’t his anymore.

The car shuddered as her rage broke through the last thread of restraint.

She moved– fast, sharp, and without hesitation. Her hand crackled with heat, raw and electric. The interior lights flickered as the air changed. Thicker. Heavier. Charged.

Peter barely had time to blink.

The dashboard lights dimmed to red as her power surged– raw, volatile, alive. She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t have to.

“Stop the car.”

“I– ”

Her fingers twitched. The gear shift melted.

Peter yelped and slammed the brakes. The tires screeched across the rain-slicked road, the car jerking to a halt at the side of the tree-lined path. They sat in silence for a second– only the patter of rain on the windshield filling the space between them.

Then she turned to him, slow and predatory.

Her eyes were fire.

“You really thought I’d never wake up, didn’t you?” Her voice was eerily calm now, like the quiet before the earth split. “You fed me lies. You made me hate them. So tell me what was your role there? What you really did.”

Peter pressed himself back into his seat, arms slightly raised like she was holding him at gunpoint. “Okay– wait, just– please–”

“You let them turn me into a weapon.” Her voice dropped. “You watched it happen. And then you smiled at me like you were saving me. You let them brand me a monster, and you tucked me in like you cared.”

“I didn’t have a choice!” he blurted out, sweat beading at his brow. “The government told me you were dangerous, they said they were traitors, that they were using you, and I– I just– I made it easier!”

“Easier?” she snarled, her power rippling from her like a furnace ready to erupt. “You drugged me. You lied to me. You made me burn everything down. That wasn’t easier– that was convenient.”

She leaned forward, close enough to watch the panic bloom in his face. “You’re not a protector, Peter. You’re a coward. A rat.”

He whimpered now. Trembling. “Okay– okay– I’ll tell you everything. Everything. Just don’t hurt me. Please.”

She watched him crumble in front of her.

The man who whispered mantras like lullabies, who promised her strength, loyalty, purpose– a liar. The fear in his eyes wasn’t fear for her.

It was fear of her.

“Start talking,” she said coldly. “And choose your words wisely. Because if you lie to me again– I will bury you where no one will find what’s left.”

The flames behind her eyes had only just begun to rise.

He gulped then averted his eyes from her. Then burried his head in his arms. And from within came a whisper that rattled her to her core and destroyed everything in her.

“I lied about everything,” he whispered. “You never set The Fire. They did. To save you from us.”

Then

“You weren’t a monster,” he whispered. “But I needed you to believe you were.”

A/n) wheww long break I took there but thanks for the well wishes, my exams went great!! Thankyou for waiting so long and so patiently for the next part right after I left you all on the nastiest cliffhanger ever. But the cliffhanger on this chapter is no better, I must say hahaha.

“I’m fine.”

“Let me see.”

You sighed and turned slightly, offering him your hand. The skin across your palm was scratched, raw, and steadily bleeding from where you’d caught it on shattered ceramic. The adrenaline had made you forget how much it actually stung.

Remus exhaled, a sharp little breath through his nose. “Right. Come on. Kitchen’s a disaster, but the first aid kit’s probably under whatever isn’t destroyed.”

You followed him. The floor crunched underfoot– broken mugs, sugar, something unidentifiably sticky near the fridge. He stepped carefully, like he’d done this before.

James and Sirius weren’t far behind. You heard their voices before you saw them.

“Bloody hell,” James said, surveying the wreckage from the kitchen doorway. “We leave for one night and you two decide to wrestle the furniture?”

Sirius whistled low. “Damn. Is that chair hanging from the ceiling?”

“It was the poltergeist,” you muttered, already exhausted. “It got… ambitious.”

James stepped around the glass on the floor, eyes wide. “Wish I’d seen it.”

“You were both conveniently missing,” Remus said without looking up. He was already rummaging through a battered drawer for the first aid kit. “Again.”

Sirius walked into the kitchen, rubbing the back of his neck and looking only mildly impressed by the carnage. “Brilliant job, team.”

Remus was already pulling open drawers, retrieving the half-crushed first aid kit from beneath a broken tea tin. He flicked his eyes to you and then to the counter. “Sit. Hold still.”

You obeyed without a word, easing yourself up onto the edge of the counter as your hand throbbed.

Sirius and James were right behind, hovering closer now that they’d taken in the mess– and you. James’s expression shifted quickly from amused to sharp.

“Hey,” he said, stepping in front of you, voice dropping. “You alright? You’re kinda pale.”

“I’m fine,” you said, trying for steady. “Broken ceramic. Very aggressive.”

James glanced at Remus, not quite convinced. “We shouldn’t have left you two alone.”

Sirius didn’t say anything at first. He was standing at the opposite counter, arms crossed, jaw tense. “She handled it,” he said finally, quieter than usual. “Took a bad hit, still kept her head.”

Remus didn’t respond. His attention was locked on your hand, brows drawn as he cleaned around the cut. His touch was careful– meticulous– but the set of his mouth gave him away. The sight of blood on your skin clearly bothered him more than he let on.

“Doesn’t need stitches,” he murmured. “Just pressure and gauze.”

Sirius moved over, crouching to grab a fallen roll of bandage. He held it up. “This one’s clean. Swear on James’s questionable music taste.”

“I checked,” he added after a beat, handing it over without letting go until Remus looked up.

James hovered behind your shoulder, still watching your face for signs you were lying about how okay you were. “You sure it’s just the hand?” he asked. “No other bruises, haunted trauma, emotional damage?”

“Only mild emotional damage,” you muttered. “Nothing long-term.”

James didn’t laugh, not yet. He just nodded, serious for once.

Remus took it anyway, wrapping your hand carefully. “Let me know if it starts to throb later. Or if you feel dizzy.”

“I’m fine,” you said again, though it came out a little softer.

The three of them stood around like some strange triage unit. James, somehow with soot on his face, Sirius absentmindedly fidgeting with the corner of your now-empty moving box, and Remus crouched in front of you, focused entirely on your hand.

It was the first moment since the chaos started that you felt still.

Sirius nudged James with his elbow. “Reckon we owe them for handling that on their own.”

James grinned. “Speak for yourself. I was fully ready to jump in if I was called. Just… not while airborne debris was involved.”

“I was packing her boxes,” Sirius added, mildly accusing. “Alone. Jamie was no help.”

“You were judging my book choices and drinking my juice,” you pointed out.

“It was dusty juice! I did you a favour.”

Remus finished wrapping your hand, taping the end of the gauze with a practiced movement. “There.”

You looked down at it– clean, tight, neat. It barely stung now. Remus stood up, his knees popping slightly as he did, and gave you a small nod. You nodded back.

James rubbed his face, yawned loudly. “What time is it?”

“Late,” Sirius said, checking a watch that may or may not have been working. “Stupidly late.”

“We should crash,” Remus murmured. He sounded tired now too. “Clean up in the morning.”

Sirius glanced down the hall at the mess, winced, and turned back, careful eyes on you. “Only one room not totally wrecked.”

James looked at you. “You okay with a sleepover?”

You nodded. “Yeah. I mean– yeah, of course.”

Remus gave your shoulder a light pat as they all started to shuffle out of the kitchen, still muttering about ghosts and cabinets and who had had worse bruises. You stayed a moment longer, flexing your fingers gently under the bandage. The house was quiet again.

Your bedroom looked comically untouched compared to the rest of the house– walls still intact, windows unshattered, bed still made. The only chaos was the pile of boxes you hadn’t finished unpacking yet.

“You really packed your life into ten boxes?” Sirius had said that night, rummaging through one. “Bit dramatic, even for me.”

You swatted his hand away. “Don’t touch that. It’s labelled fragile.”

Yeah? So was I once,” he said, and James groaned from the other side of the room.

James dropped an extra pillow onto the floor and flopped down next to it. “I vote I get the rug. It’s probably the cleanest floor space in the house.”

“You say that like it’s a good thing,” Sirius said, already toeing off his boots and claiming the other half of the floor beside him. “Remus gets the chair. I’ll suffer in silence on the carpet.”

Remus raised a brow. “I’m not sitting up all night like some haunted grandfather.”

He glanced toward the edge of your bed. You blinked, realizing what he was considering.

“Oh,” you said quickly. “You can– yeah, I mean– any of you, really. It’s fine.”

Sirius gave a low whistle. “Brave words. Letting three disaster men sleep in your room.”

You gave him a look, though your pulse did skip a little. “I just fought a poltergeist. Sharing a room doesn’t scare me.”

“Fair,” James said, pulling a blanket off the end of the bed and settling in like this was a normal Tuesday night.

It wasn’t awkward, not really– but your heart thudded a little louder than usual as you climbed onto your bed, careful not to jar your hand. Remus had claimed the far corner of the mattress without much discussion, legs stretched out and back propped against the wall. He was flipping absently through one of your books, but his eyes flicked up every so often, still quietly alert.

You weren’t sure if it was just his natural posture or some lingering overprotectiveness, but it settled something in you. Like if the cabinets came alive again, he’d throw himself in the way without hesitation.

The lamp by your bed cast a soft yellow glow across the room, just enough to make out the outlines of faces and shapes in the dim. Everyone had more or less settled into their spots– blankets rustling, limbs adjusting, the kind of quiet that only came when people were too tired to pretend they weren’t.

“Once got possessed by a ghost at boarding school,” Sirius said casually, voice muffled by the pillow. “Very flirty. Called me darling.”

From his place, a few inches away from you, Remus let out a breath. “You were not possessed. She just floated through you.”

“She left me a love bite.”

“That was a hickey from Becky Carrow,” James added helpfully.

“Tragic,” Sirius muttered. “She couldn't even float.”

You couldn’t help laughing under your breath. Remus rolled his eyes but looked quietly amused too, his head tipped against the pillow deeper. The warmth between them was subtle but constant, like a thread tugging them all into orbit.

For a moment, it was easy to forget the wrecked hallway, the cabinets, the bruises. Just the four of you, in the safe little pool of light.

Then the lights dimmed. The chatter slowly faded, replaced by the soft shift of blankets and occasional creak of the floorboards outside.

You stared up at the ceiling, listening to the quiet breathing around you. Somewhere to your left, Sirius murmured something unintelligible in his sleep. Someone– maybe James– shifted closer to him, a blanket rustling. Remus' breathing had gone silent.

It was late when you woke again.

The room was dark, lit only by the moonlight sliding through the curtains. Your throat was dry. Carefully, you slid off the bed, cradling your hand, and padded across the room toward the water bottle near the desk.

That’s when you saw them.

James had rolled over in his sleep, arm slung lazily around Sirius’s middle. Sirius, in turn, had curled into him, forehead pressed against James’s shoulder. Their breathing matched, slow and easy, like they’d done this a hundred times.

You stood still, the bottle in your hand forgotten. Not out of shock– but something softer. Something quieter. You’d known they were close. Anyone with eyes could see that.

But this… this was different. This was unguarded. Familiar in a way you weren’t part of.

You didn’t say anything. Didn’t move. Just watched for a moment longer– watched the way Sirius’s fingers twitched in his sleep, the way James held on tighter in response, unconsciously.

Then you turned, took your water, and climbed back into bed careful to let over a bit of your blanket over at Remus' side in case he wanted to take it at night.

...

The kitchen was quiet except for the occasional clatter of pots and pans. The morning light filtered in through the window, soft but clear. You sat on a wooden chair near the small kitchen table, your injured hand resting on the counter. The bandage from the poltergeist fight was already soaked through, and now Remus was carefully peeling it off to rewrap it.

Remus worked slowly and deliberately, his fingers gentle as he cleaned the cut with a damp cloth. His eyes stayed on your hand the entire time, focused but calm. He didn’t say much, just the occasional soft instruction.

“Hold still,” he said quietly.

You nodded, trying not to wince as the cloth brushed against the tender skin.

From the corner of your eye, you noticed Sirius standing near the bookshelf. He had a book in his hands, but you could tell he wasn’t really reading. His gaze flicked between you and Remus, an unreadable expression on his face. He looked calm, almost casual, but there was something else there– a kind of quiet attention.

James was at the stove, making breakfast, occasionally glancing over at you. The sizzle of food cooking filled the room, mixing with the occasional clang as he moved pans and utensils. His movements were quick, confident, noisy. You could hear him humming a tune under his breath. It wasn’t fancy cooking– just eggs and toast– but the sounds grounded the space, made it feel lived-in.

Remus finished rewrapping your hand and gently pressed the bandage into place. “There,” he said, brushing a stray hair behind your ear as he pulled back slightly. His voice was low but steady.

“Thanks,” you said.

He nodded but didn’t say anything more. Instead, he took a step back, folding his hands in front of him.

Sirius finally looked up. “You’re not dying, then?”

You raised an eyebrow. “No. Disappointed?”

Remus hid a grin as he sat down across from you.

Sirius closed his book with a soft snap and moved closer to the counter, leaning casually against it. He smirked, eyes flicking to your bandaged hand.

“Seriously, you’re lucky you’ve got him,” Sirius said teasing, nodding at Remus. “I’d have just slapped a band-aid on and called it a day.”

James laughed from the stove, shaking his head as he flipped an egg. “Yeah, and then you’d be the one calling for help.”

Sirius threw a glance at James, clearly unimpressed. “Please. I’m the one who fought off the demon dog back at St. Agnes.”

Remus, standing near the window, didn’t bother to reply. His expression was dry, and he was watching you.

You felt a little awkward, still nursing your hand, trying to fit into this rhythm that had clearly existed long before you arrived. The way the three of them spoke to each other– the teasing, the familiarity– it was easy to see that they’d known each other for years. You, on the other hand, still felt like an outsider looking in.

Sirius leaned closer toward Remus, lowering his voice a bit but with a smug grin. “Come on, Moony, you know I was the one who saved you last time that poltergeist went for you.”

Remus raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “You mean the one I knocked out with a well-placed book?”

“Exactly,” Sirius said, crossing his arms. “I’m the brains and the charm around here.”

James turned from the stove, mock-scolding Sirius. “Brains? Charm? You’re all talk.”

You laughed quietly, glad for the lighter mood after the tension of the fight the day before.

James went back to cooking, the clatter of pans and sizzling filling the room again.

The day hadn’t started with much. But something about it felt heavier. Quieter. Like everyone was trying not to say too much too fast.

Some while later, James slid into the seat next to you just as Sirius reached across the table and stole a slice of toast from his plate.

“Oi,” James said, batting his hand away too late. “That’s mine.”

Sirius shrugged, already taking a bite. “Should’ve been quicker.”

James rolled his eyes but let it go. Then he shook his head. “Still can’t believe we weren’t there yesterday when Remus and our Rookie had to deal with that poltergeist. Could’ve used some help.”

“I was over at her place packing up boxes,” Sirius drawled, leaning back in his chair like it had been backbreaking labor. “You know, doing the tough work.”

James snorted, “You were napping in the car.”

“I was meditating.”

“You were avoiding the work,”

Sirius shot back. “I was lifting cursed furniture.”

“You carried, like, two cactus plants.”

“One of them growled at me!”

James, sitting on the chair beside you, looked up at you, “He was snoring.”

You hid a small smile behind your mug as the back-and-forth continued. The bickering was light, easy. No sting to it. Just something that settled into the air like background noise– habitual, lived-in.

They moved around each other like it was muscle memory. James passed the sugar without being asked. Sirius poured himself another cup and nudged it toward Remus before he could reach for the pot. They didn’t look at each other when they did it. They didn’t need to.

James leaned into Sirius’s shoulder as he poured tea for himself. Sirius murmured, “Here, love,” as he slid the cup over.

You paused mid-bite.

They didn’t notice you noticing. Or if they did, they didn’t show it.

Something warm stirred in your chest– then ebbed. It wasn’t unwelcome, just… unfamiliar. Like watching a language you didn’t quite speak. You smiled politely, then looked back down at your plate.

You suddenly felt aware that there were corners of this group you hadn’t stepped into yet. Places that had been shaped long before you arrived.

The conversation kept going. Someone brought up the way the poltergeist screamed when hit with salt. Someone else joked that Remus was oddly good with a baseball bat.

You listened, and ate, and didn’t say much.

…

After breakfast, James declared they were finally tackling the case files. The house sorting and cleaning would be done later.

You didn’t expect actual boxes– three of them, stacked and taped haphazardly, each one threatening to fall apart. They’d been shoved into the corner of the living room, half-buried under coats and a broken EMF reader. Now, spread across the coffee table, they looked like relics of another life.

The boys settled into their usual spots without thinking– James sprawled on the floor with a pen in his mouth, Remus cross-legged beside him, already sorting papers by date. Sirius lay across the sofa with one foot hooked over the back, flipping lazily through a folder like he wasn’t really reading.

You curled into the armchair with a blanket draped over your knees, still a little sore from the poltergeist incident, your hand faintly throbbing under its fresh bandage. Restless, you reached for one of the thinner files and cracked it open.

Messy handwriting. Smudged ink. Doodles in the margins. Some cases were barely legible, others weirdly poetic.

Case 026: Child’s laughter in the cemetery. Turned out to be a mimic. DO NOT engage if it hums.

You squinted. “Your notes are insane.”

James glanced up, a grin already forming. “Sirius writes those. Half of them are nonsense.”

“Hey,” Sirius said, lifting his head with a wounded expression. “That mimic nearly got us killed.”

“You tried to adopt it,” Remus said without looking up from his stack.

“It laughed like you did when you were twelve,” Sirius replied easily.

That got Remus’s attention. He looked over, a flicker of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He nudged Sirius with his foot under the table. Sirius grinned back, unbothered.

You watched them quietly, smile caught halfway. The ease of it. The history between every glance, every nudge, every inside joke. The way they filled in each other’s sentences without meaning to.

Still, you weren’t not part of it. You were here. In the room. In the blanket. Reading their files, adding your comments in the margins. Laughing when James read aloud a note that just said: House possessed. Still not sure if it was the bricks or the grandma.

Remus snorted. “It was the bricks.”

James threw a pen at him.

You flipped open another folder– thicker than the others. Your fingers brushed against something tucked inside.

A photo.

Old and slightly curled at the corners. The three boys, years younger. Sirius’s hair shorter but just as wild, James grinning so wide his eyes crinkled, Remus with his arm thrown around both their shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You stared at it for a moment. The photo didn’t feel posed. It felt lived-in.

“How long have you three been doing this?” you asked softly.

Everything quieted.

Not in a dramatic way– just enough to feel the stillness settle between them. James’s pen stopped tapping. Remus looked up from his stack. Sirius leaned back, eyes briefly flicking to the photo in your hands.

He didn’t answer.

Instead, his gaze shifted– first to Remus, then to James. It wasn’t loaded or tense. Just... full of something. Memory, maybe. Or knowing.

James leaned into Sirius a little as he reached across him for his mug. Sirius didn’t move, just murmured, “Here..” as he passed it over.

Remus rubbed his thumb over the edge of a folder, eyes lingering on the photo. “Too long,” he said finally.

You nodded, not sure what to say. The silence stretched– comfortable for them. A little sharper for you.

Because in that moment, you felt it. Like standing behind glass. Watching a world already in motion, a rhythm already set. One you hadn’t learned the steps to yet.

You weren’t excluded. But you weren’t entirely in it either.

The conversation shifted. Another file. Another bizarre case. Something about a cursed mattress that smelled like lavender and screamed at midnight. Laughter picked up again. You joined in.

But the feeling stayed– quiet and cool under your ribs. Not sad. Just real.

They were something before you. Maybe even something together now.

And you– well, you were still figuring out where you fit.

…

The afternoon stretched lazy and low-lit. Someone had opened a window; a breeze kept rustling the edge of the case files, scattering loose papers every now and then. No one really moved to fix it.

You’d taken over the couch, legs curled under you, a folder open on your lap. Case 041: Haunted record shop. Vinyls played songs that hadn’t been recorded yet. Half the notes were scratched out and rewritten. A doodle of a saxophone wearing sunglasses took up the margin.

Remus was nearby, sitting on the floor with his back against the armchair, reading something dense-looking and underlined to death. Every so often, he scribbled a note in the margins with the same pen he used for everything. Sirius said he’d kill for that pen once. No one was sure if he was joking.

James sat near the old stereo, trying to get it to play without sounding like a dying robot. A faint crackle came through the speakers, followed by the opening notes of something jazzy.

Sirius groaned from somewhere in the basement where he'd gone to start on the house cleanup.“Why does the attic still smell like… wet newspapers and guilt?”

“Because you haven’t cleaned it,” James called back.

“I just cleaned it.”

“You rearranged the dust,” Remus murmured, not looking up.

Sirius entered the room dramatically, holding a grey sweater. “Love, have you seen the other one of these?”

“Which one?” James asked, not missing a beat.

“The black one. With the holes.”

James reached out from where he sat and pointed toward the stairs without looking. “In the laundry. You left it on the floor.”

“Ah,” Sirius said, satisfied, and wandered off again.

You glance at Remus. He meets your eyes, and there’s no defensiveness there. No apology. Just knowing.

“You’re staring,” he says, voice quiet.

“I’m not,” you start. Then pause. “Maybe a little.”

“It’s alright,” he says. Then turns the page of his book.

No one blinked at the exchange.

When Sirius passed behind Remus, his fingers brushed the back of Remus’s shoulder– just a ghost of contact. Remus didn’t flinch. Didn't even glance up. Just leaned slightly to the side to make room.

You didn’t say anything.

Didn’t really think anything either. Just... noticed.

Like the way James leaned his head briefly against Sirius’s shoulder. The way Sirius absently knocked their ankles together. The way Remus took the mug without asking who it was for and passed it straight to James.

Puzzle pieces. Not being handed to you– just falling into place.

You didn’t know what the picture was supposed to be. But it was forming, all the same.

You sink deeper into the couch cushions, the quiet hum of the music and the occasional clink of mugs filling the space.

This strange little household– the ghost-hunter, half-lost boys– it’s starting to feel like a rhythm you’re learning to move with.

They’re kind to you. Remus with his careful, quiet attention to your hand. James with food that tastes like a promise of normalcy. Sirius with his endless teasing that never quite crosses the line. You tell yourself it’s just kindness. When James had said you were now a part of their team, you think it had been a kind ‘thank-you’ for saving him from the ghost. That’s all it is.

But then, when the three of them settle in on the couch, close and easy like it’s their natural place to be, you feel it– a flicker of something just out of reach.

Not just noticing. Not just outside looking in.

Something in your chest twists. Not because you’re jealous exactly. But because part of you wants to be held that effortlessly too. To belong like that.

You want something here. Something you haven’t named yet.

And you’re scared to want it.

So you don’t say anything. You don’t even let yourself finish the thought.

Instead, you breathe in. Try to match their rhythm. And tell yourself– for now– that it’s enough.

But… that’s not enough.

Not when you’re sitting just a few feet away, watching the three of them melt into each other like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like this is home, and you’re only renting space in it.

James’s head rests on Sirius’s shoulder, half-asleep, fingers still curled around a mug he forgot to finish. Sirius doesn’t mind. He’s murmuring something low and lazy to Remus, who’s slouched against the arm of the couch, eyes half-lidded, his knee nudging Sirius’s thigh like it belongs there.

And you– bandaged hand in your lap, legs tucked up on the corner of the rug– don’t know where you fit in that picture.

They’ve been kind. Warm. Gentle in ways you didn’t expect.

But there’s a difference between being let in and being part of.

And suddenly, it’s too much. The closeness. The comfort. The quiet pull in your chest that won’t stop aching.

You push yourself up too fast. James jolts awake at your rustle.

“I– um,” you start, voice thin, “I’m gonna head up. To freshen up.”

Three sets of eyes blink at you, slow and unfocused.

“You alright?” Remus asks, his brow twitching in concern.

“Yeah. Just tired.” You offer a quick, practiced smile, already backing toward the hallway. “Long day.”

They nod, almost in sync, and Sirius makes a soft noise of agreement.

“We’re here.” James mumbles, his words caught in a yawn.

You nod. Turn.

And walk fast down the hall, heart thudding louder with every step. Not from fear. Not even from sadness.

Just… whatever this is. Whatever you’re feeling. It’s too much to carry in a room where you can’t set it down.

So you close your door behind you. Lean against it. Breathe.

And finally let yourself feel it all. You tell yourself firmly you can't have what's theirs. Never. You don't deserve it. You could never earn it. They don't want you. Not like that.

…

The hallway light clicks off with a soft snap as her door closes from somewhere above.

For a second, no one says anything. The living room dims again, quiet except for the soft hum of the heater and the clink of James finally setting down his mug.

“She okay?” James asks, voice low.

“Seemed tired,” Sirius replies, but there’s a subtle shift in his tone. Doubt. Or maybe guilt.

Remus doesn't speak. Just leans forward, elbows on knees, his hands loosely clasped. He watches the hallway like he could see through walls if he just focused hard enough.

Sirius glances over. “You think we’re crowding her?”

“No,” James says. Then, “Maybe. I dunno. It’s not like we’re trying to.”

“I mean…” Sirius gestures vaguely between the three of them, “We’ve known each other since we were eleven. We’re just– like this.”

Remus finally speaks. “She’s not.”

There’s a pause.

James shifts uncomfortably. “Not what?”

“Not like us. Not in the same way. Not yet.”

Sirius leans his head back against the couch, stares at the ceiling. “I hate when you’re cryptic.”

“I’m not.” Remus looks tired, but not angry. “She’s still figuring out how to be here. With us. And we’re not exactly… easy.”

James rubs his eyes. “She shouldn’t have to try so hard.”

“No,” Remus says quietly. “She shouldn’t.”

Sirius exhales through his nose, then sits up. “Alright. So what, we back off? Pretend like we’re not what we are?”

“I don’t think she wants that either,” James mutters.

They lapse into silence again.

Then, softer:

“She looked sad,” Sirius says, almost to himself. “Not tired. Sad.”

Remus glances at him, brows drawn.

James leans forward, resting his arms on his knees. “We should talk to her.”

Remus gives him a dry look. “Because we’re famously good at talking about our feelings. Or the past.”

Sirius snorts. “Alright, Moony, your turn to be annoying.”

But none of them laugh.

They sit like that for a while– shoulders brushing, knees knocking, thoughts tangled but unspoken.

Eventually, James murmurs, “Tomorrow, then. Let's give her space meanwhile.”

And they nod. All of them.

Then the sound of her door reopening echoes down the hallway.

Remus straightens slightly. James glances up. Sirius doesn’t move, but his eyes track her steps as she reappears in the living room– backlit by the hallway light, hair a little mussed, a determined set to her jaw.

In her hands: a broom, a roll of bin bags, and an ancient feather duster that’s already shedding.

“I come bearing supplies,” you announce, voice too chipper to be real. “Congratulations, boys. We’re cleaning.”

Sirius blinks. “Cleaning?”

“Yes.” You nod firmly. “This place looks like a wreck. We’re fixing it.”

James raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t you almost die, like, a few hours ago?”

“Perfect time to start tidying up, then.” You set the bags down with a thump. “Catharsis.”

Remus watches you a moment longer, brow furrowed like he’s trying to read the lines beneath your expression. But you don’t give him the time. You sweep past, dusting a broken picture frame off the floor and tossing it into a bin bag.

“You sure you don’t want to rest?” James asks, not quite joking anymore.

“I’m good,” you reply, cheerful and clipped. “Besides, you lot don’t know where anything goes.”

Sirius squints. “Is this a trauma response?”

You shrug. “Does it matter?”

No one quite has an answer to that.

The living room is first.

So you get to work. They follow. Quietly at first, but then Sirius declares himself “Head of Floor Recovery” and starts sweeping like he’s avenging something, sending splinters and shattered glass skittering across the hardwood. You fish a broken mug out from behind the bookcase and don’t bother mentioning it had started becoming your favourite. James is humming– badly– as he tapes up the wobbly leg of a side table, muttering something about structural integrity.

Remus crouches beside the overturned bookshelf, stacking volumes back into place. Every so often, he glances your way. Not obviously. Not enough to call him out on it. But he’s watching.

“You okay with this?” he asks at one point, softly, as you brush cobwebs off the banister.

You nod without looking at him. “I said I was fine.”

“I know.” He straightens. “Just making sure that still applies after you’ve inhaled half a century of dust.”

That gets a smile out of you. A small one. But still.

In the kitchen, it’s worse.

The cabinets look like they’ve been through a war. The fridge is unplugged and somehow covered in soot. There’s an entire drawer jammed under the table that none of you can figure out how to dislodge.

James sighs as he surveys the mess. “If anyone needs me, I’ll be crying in the pantry.”

“You always say that,” Sirius says, tossing him a rag.

“And one day, I’ll mean it.”

You find yourself laughing– and hating how much lighter it feels when you do. Like the ache behind your ribs is something you’re not supposed to be carrying, not here, not with them. So you bury it again, under bleach spray and rubber gloves and Sirius’s off-key singing.

Remus ends up balancing on a stool to tape the curtain rod back into place.

“I give that about fifteen minutes,” you say as it droops sideways.

“Rude,” he mutters. “I’d like to see you do better.”

You hold up your bandaged hand. “Excused.”

Sirius peeks over his shoulder. “Can’t believe you’re playing the injury card.”

“Would you like me to reopen it? I’m not above proving a point.”

James sticks his head into the room. “Hey, has anyone seen my left shoe? Not the right– very important– it has the better sole.”

“I found it in the sink,” you say, tossing it to him.

He catches it with a grin and a, “Mwahh.”

You move away quickly pretending to busy yourself with gathering more mops. You don't let yourself linger on the way Sirius leans into Remus' chest who wraps his arms lightly around the other. You ignore the soft bump of James’s shoulder as he brushes past them, the way his hand lingers briefly on one of their backs. You keep your head down, tuning out the low murmurs exchanged between them as they work– quiet things meant only for each other.

You focus on the floor. On the dust. On anything but the way your chest tightens like it’s trying not to crack.

…

The house is starting to look livable again– at least on the surface.

The floor is clean. Most of the furniture is upright. The air feels less like a battlefield and more like a home again, though the corners still carry the ghost of what happened. Of what always seems to happen.

Your hands are raw from scrubbing, your shirt streaked with dust, but the ache in your chest hasn’t dulled. If anything, the quiet after the chaos makes it louder. The boys are still in the next room– bickering over whether the curtain rod will hold or if it's going to brain someone in the middle of the night.

You drop to your knees beside a scorched cabinet near the back wall, reaching for the final pile of scattered papers. Most of it’s useless– smeared ink, old receipts, a torn page from a guidebook on spectral activity.

And then you see it.

A folder, crumpled slightly at the edges, half-tucked beneath the broken leg of a chair. It’s older than the rest– dustier, water-stained– and your fingers still automatically smooth it open.

Your name is on the corner.

Not printed. Scribbled. In a rushed, barely-legible scrawl.

There’s a faint line drawn through it, like someone meant to cross it out and didn’t quite finish the job. Your chest tightens.

You flip the folder open slowly, cautiously, your pulse thudding in your ears. Inside: notes. Observations. Photographs– some of the house, some you can’t place. And one... that’s unmistakably you. Blurry, candid. You’re in the background, barely in focus, but it’s you.

You stare at it, cold washing down your spine like ice water.

Before you can fully register what you’re doing, you fold the folder shut and tuck it under your arm, hidden between a roll of paper towels and a cracked cleaning rag.

No one saw.

No one asked.

You stand up slowly, mouth dry, and force your feet to move back toward the sound of the boys’ laughter echoing down the hall.

You don’t know what it means.

You don’t know what they know.

But the ache in your chest sharpens, stretching into something more than just longing.

Something is not what it seems.

And maybe it never was.

You have to leave.

A/n) wait wait waitttt??? Reader finds a file w her name on it (it deffo seems like the boys' handwriting I'm just saying) Shit about to hit the fan😋

Side note: I would not be able to write up the next chapter any time this week due to ongoing exams☹️ bright side, next chapter's going to be looongg

You gave him a tired, crooked smile, peeling off your gloves and dropping them next to James’s bag. “Was it that obvious?”

“Only a little,” Sirius said, hopping down with a thud. “You’ve got that fresh-out-of-trauma glow.”

James just grunted and headed toward the kettle. You slid into one of the chairs at the kitchen table and leaned back, watching the steam from the mugs curl like ghosts of their own.

Remus entered a few minutes later, quiet as always, rubbing sleep from his eyes and pulling on an old cardigan with frayed elbows. He nodded at you both in greeting and took the chair across from you, like this was all just a normal Saturday morning.

The silence between the four of you wasn’t awkward. It was something else. Tired. Steady. Like a space that held room for all the things you weren’t saying. James set down a mug in front of you and one in front of Sirius, who looked genuinely touched about his second mug of coffee.

“Gentleman,” he whispered, hand over heart.

You let the heat of the mug seep into your palms. Something shifted in your chest. Something clicked. You hadn’t been sure before– not really. This wasn’t just ghost-hunting, wasn’t just adrenaline or curiosity anymore. There was something binding in this house, in these people, in this terrible, terrifying, wonderful thing you’d stumbled into.

You exhaled. “I think I’m gonna move in.”

Three heads turned to you at once. You took a sip of coffee.

“I mean– I’ve made up my mind about staying here for training. Might as well stop paying rent somewhere else.”

There was a beat of silence. Sirius blinked once. Then grinned like the sun splitting through storm clouds and raised his mug of coffee again.

“To another lost soul joining the haunted house,” he said, voice warm and just a little reverent.

James smiled at you, slow and crooked. Remus hummed lightly. You clinked your mug to Sirius’s, and the warmth in your chest had nothing to do with the coffee.

It felt like saying yes to something you didn’t have a name for. Somewhere you were beginning to be someone.

The decision, once spoken aloud, settled into the room like it belonged there. There were no shocked expressions, no protests, just a quiet kind of acceptance– as if some of them– if not all been waiting for you to say it before you even realized you meant it.

You leaned back in your chair, cradling the mug in your hands. “I’ll head over in a bit. Need to pack up my apartment. Shouldn’t take more than a few hours.”

“Not a chance you're doing that alone,” Sirius said, already nudging James with his elbow. “Tell her, Prongs.”

James looked up from where he was scraping out the last bits of jam from a nearly empty jar. “Yeah, no way. We’re coming.”

You raised a brow. “You two are going to help me pack?”

“We’re excellent movers,” Sirius said, sounding entirely too proud for someone who probably hadn’t lifted a box in his life. “James has muscles and I bring the emotional support.”

James rolled his eyes. “I’m driving.”

You snorted into your coffee. “Fine. But you're paying for anything you two break.”

Half an hour later, the three of you were crammed into James’s car, windows down, music low, the wind tangled in your hair as the city slid past in pale morning light. There was something strangely comforting about Sirius in the passenger seat, feet up on the dash, sunglasses perched on his nose despite the clouds, and James humming under his breath, drumming fingers on the wheel. You sat in the back, watching the two of them banter– light, teasing, familiar. Like this was routine. Like you were already part of it.

Your apartment felt smaller than you remembered. Colder, somehow. Maybe it was the contrast. The silence. The way your footsteps echoed a little more now that you knew what warmth sounded like in a haunted house with three insane ghost hunters.

James grabbed the stack of flattened boxes from the closet while Sirius wandered the space with curious eyes, trailing his fingers across your bookshelf, poking at the string lights above your bed.

“Didn’t peg you as a fairy light girl,” he said, grinning.

“I contain multitudes.”

“You’re keeping these,” he decided, tugging them down with more enthusiasm than care.

You boxed up your books while James started dismantling your makeshift desk, the three of you working in easy rhythm, pausing only for the occasional complaint from Sirius about your heavy “emotional baggage” (read: your journal collection). There was laughter, and a kind of softness in the air, the kind that settles when people who care about each other pretend it’s all just a regular day.

By early afternoon, the living room was stacked with taped boxes, your essentials sorted and marked. You volunteered to run the first batch back to the house– clothes, books, the things you wanted to set up first– while James and Sirius stayed behind to keep boxing up what was left. After loads of insistence from the boys that they could make the trip twice and your stout refusal, you called yourself an Uber.

“Don’t let him pack my plants,” you told James, jerking a thumb toward Sirius.

“No promises,” Sirius called from the kitchen. “One of them bit me.”

“You touched the cactus.”

“Same thing.”

...

When you stepped into the house again– arms full of boxes, hair damp from the light drizzle outside– the quiet felt different. Not empty, just still. Lived-in. Remus glanced up from the couch where he sat reading, a mug of tea cradled in his hands. He offered a soft smile, one that crinkled gently at the corners in a way that made you feel unexpectedly seen.

“Need a hand?” he asked, already setting the mug down.

You hesitated, shifting your weight, then nodded. “If you don’t mind.”

“I don’t.”

Together, you made your way down the hallway. Your door was still mostly bare, save for the nameplate Sirius had scrawled your name onto in permanent marker two nights ago– back when you were still “the new recruit who might bolt at any moment.” Remus held the door open while you set the boxes down, then quietly rolled up his sleeves and started helping you sort through them.

You stood in the middle of the room, holding a box of books, taking in the space. The bed was still bare, but the walls were beginning to feel less foreign. A little more like you. The scent of candles you had unpacked mingled softly with the cool air drifting in from the open window.

Across the room, Remus was rearranging your bookshelf with careful hands, his brow furrowed in concentration. He handled the books like they were delicate– like they mattered. You watched him for a moment, a small smile tugging at your lips. It was strange how natural his presence felt already. There was a quiet steadiness to him, the kind that made a space feel safer just by being in it.

“You’re good at this,” you said, your voice softer than usual. “Like... really good.”

He looked up, the corners of his mouth twitching into a smile. “Years of experience. I’ve moved around a lot.”

“I know the feeling,” you said, setting your box down. “Feels like I’ve been doing it forever.”

Remus nodded. There was understanding in his expression– not prying, just present. He didn’t need to ask more. And you liked that about him.

You fell into a quiet rhythm unpacking, moving through the room slowly, intentionally. There was no rush. It felt peaceful, even grounding– the small act of making the space your own.

“Where do you want the lamp?” Remus asked, holding up the mushroom-shaped one you’d stubbornly held onto over the years. It was slightly tacky, entirely yours.

“By the window,” you said, walking over to help him. “It always looks good in the corner.”

He set it down gently, and for a moment, you both just stood there, looking around. The room felt warmer. More like yours. You felt a flicker of something quiet and bright– a small relief that this was real. That maybe, just maybe, you could stay.

You opened another box. Inside was a stack of old photographs, a worn photo album, and a few framed pictures. The sight of them hit harder than you expected. Faces stared up at you– people you hadn’t seen in years. Places you hadn’t stood in even longer. It was like opening a door you weren’t ready for, and suddenly the past was closer than you wanted it to be.

You hesitated, then picked up a small, cracked family portrait. The edges were frayed, and the glass was gone, but something about it pulled at you– a snapshot of a time before everything fractured. Without thinking too hard, you slipped it into your coat pocket. Maybe for safekeeping. Maybe because part of you didn’t want to leave it behind.

Remus must have noticed your shift. He turned from the shelf and walked over, his eyes gentle.

“You okay?” he asked, voice low, like he didn’t want to break the moment unless you needed him to.

You nodded, swallowing around the lump in your throat. “Yeah. Just... a lot of memories.”

He didn’t push. Just sat down beside you, close enough to offer comfort, far enough to give space. You didn’t say anything else, and he didn’t need you to. His presence filled the room like something solid and kind. And for now, that was enough.

And that’s when you noticed it. In the soft lighting and the closeness of the space, his sleeve had shifted. A jagged scar traced the length of his forearm. You’d seen glimpses before, in passing. But here, now, the silence held weight– and the scars seemed louder than anything spoken.

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t look away. You just saw them– and couldn’t stop seeing them.

“I’ve noticed your scars before,” you said softly. “I never really asked.”

The air went still for a moment.

Remus’s gaze dropped, not out of shame, but something more complex. His hand twitched slightly, like he was considering pulling the sleeve down, but didn’t.

“I never thought you’d ask,” he said, his voice barely above a murmur. “Didn’t think you’d notice.”

“I did,” you said. “But I also knew better than to ask too soon.”

He exhaled slowly, glancing down at the thin map of lines across his skin. “It’s not something I usually explain. Most people either stare or avoid it entirely.

You waited, not out of politeness, but respect.

“They’re from a long time ago. Most of them, anyway.” He offered a weak smile. “The newer ones– those happen when I forget I’m not made of iron.”

You didn’t say anything right away. Just let it rest. Then, without thinking, your fingers brushed his– just enough to let him know you were there. That you weren’t running.

“No need to explain if you don’t want to,” you murmured. “I just… I see you, Remus.”

He looked at you then. And in that look was something raw and unguarded– like he’d peeled something back, just for a moment, just for you.

He gave your hand a small, reassuring squeeze. “Thank you,” he murmured, though it wasn’t clear whether it was for noticing or for not pressing further.

Before either of you could speak, the air shifted.

You felt it first– a subtle, almost imperceptible drop in temperature. The hairs on your arms rose, and a hush settled over the room, too quiet, like the house was holding its breath.

“Did you feel that?” you whispered.

Remus stiffened beside you, eyes narrowing. “Yeah.”

Stillness spread like a held note. A low hum began to vibrate through the floorboards, the walls– a pulse of something restless and disturbed.

Then, without warning, the book on your table launched itself across the room, slamming against the wall.

You jumped, heart pounding.

Remus was on his feet instantly, already reaching for your hand. “Hallway. Now. It’s a poltergeist.”

Before you could move, the door slammed shut with a deafening bang. The lights flickered once– then burst, plunging everything into darkness. The floor trembled beneath you, like the house itself was groaning. You heard something sharp scrape across the wood, followed by the violent crash of furniture being flung.

Remus yanked you toward the door, grip tight, pace quick. The hallway was no better– cold, suffocating energy pressed in from all sides. The poltergeist’s laughter echoed down the corridor, high-pitched and mocking.

You glanced ahead. The floor had cracked in places. The ceiling sagged. A cabinet burst open, silverware clattering in all directions.

“Remus!” you shouted, panic rising.

“We need cover,” he said, scanning the hallway. He spotted a door, flung it open, and pulled you inside a supply closet, slamming it shut behind him.

The closet was small and dusty, packed with old cleaning supplies. It was dark, but it was something. Remus stood in front of you, shielding the door, chest heaving.

Outside, the chaos raged. The poltergeist passed by– its energy a storm on the other side of the wall. You could hear faint whispers leaking in, cruel and close, like it was toying with you.

Inside the dark, your breath mingled with his– uneven, too loud in the cramped space. Neither of you dared speak. The silence between you was taut, fragile.

Then Remus shifted, pressing his ear to the door. His hand brushed yours again, steadying both of you.

“We’ll wait here a minute,” he whispered. “They burn out if you don’t give them attention. Once it moves further down, we slip out.”

You nodded, barely a sound. But your mind was racing. What if it didn’t burn out? What if the house gave way first?

“Do you think Sirius and James will be back soon?” you asked, voice low.

“They better,” Remus muttered with a dry half-smile. “But if not– we head for the drawing room. There’s a warded window there. Stronger protections. We just need an opening.”

Time passed slowly. Then Remus pulled back, eyes alert. “I think it’s passed.”

You listened. No crashing. No tremors. Just stillness.

“We’ll give it thirty more seconds,” he said. “Then we run. Stay close. Don’t say its name. That’s how it feeds.”

You swallowed. “Got it.”

He looked at you then– really looked. “Thanks. For what you said earlier.”

You nodded. “Same to you. For trusting me.”

The moment hung there– solid, real.

Then he turned to the door, hand poised near the knob.

“Ready?”

You took a breath. Nodded.

“Let’s go.”

The air in the closet crackled with energy as the poltergeist tore through the house, another crash echoing down the hall. It was closer now.

Without a word, Remus grabbed your hand and yanked the door open with a grunt.

What greeted you made your blood run cold.

Furniture was flying down the hallway in wild, terrifying abandon– tables, chairs, shattered glass– anything in its path hurled with violent force. A chair came hurtling toward you. You ducked just in time, the wooden frame smashing into the wall behind you. Your heart slammed in your chest, but Remus was already pulling you forward, weaving through the chaos. His grip was tight, his movements precise, eyes constantly scanning for danger.

“Stay close,” he said through clenched teeth.

You nodded and kept pace as you rounded a corner. Overhead, the lights flickered violently– then burst in a shower of sparks. Darkness swallowed the hallway, interrupted only by brief flashes of destruction.

The house felt alive, like it was breathing with the poltergeist’s fury.

You stumbled when a bookshelf slammed into the opposite wall, raining dust and debris. The floor groaned beneath your feet. But Remus didn’t let go.

“You alright?” he asked, glancing back.

“Fine,” you panted, adrenaline making your limbs shake. “But how do we get to the drawing room?”

“We need to disrupt its focus,” Remus muttered, scanning the corridor. “Throw it off. Something personal, maybe... a distraction.”

Before you could ask what he meant, a violent gust of wind ripped through the hallway, followed by a shriek so sharp it felt like it pierced your skull. The poltergeist's fury was on you.

A table soared through the air. Remus shoved you aside, the table crashing behind you in a spray of splinters.

You both stumbled back as malicious laughter echoed through the house. This wasn’t just random chaos. It was targeting you.

“Where is it coming from?” you asked, breath hitching.

Remus’s eyes narrowed. “The basement.”

Then he turned sharply, eyes locking on the drawing room door.

“We end it where it started,” he said. “That window– it has an old warding charm etched into the frame. Half-eroded, but if we reactivate it, we might trap it.”

You didn’t ask how he knew. Another shriek tore through the walls, and a cold gust knocked over a coat rack with a screech.

“This way!” Remus barked. He dragged you to the drawing room. A side table slammed into the wall beside you as he flung the door open and yanked you inside, slamming it shut behind you.

The room was freezing. Your breath misted in the air.

The poltergeist’s presence here was thick– like walking through molasses.

Remus released your hand and rushed to the bay window. “Here,” he muttered, wiping grime from the wooden sill. A faint pattern emerged– deliberate, worn, but intact. “The original owners knew what they were doing.”

He opened a tin from his coat: chalk, sea salt, a lighter, a chisel. He knelt and began retracing the sigil with swift, practiced strokes.

“Keep your eyes on the door,” he said without looking up. “It’s coming.”

You turned as the door exploded inward with a loud crack. The poltergeist stood there, flickering like a heatwave, pulsing with rage. Furniture lifted and trembled midair.

“It’s almost done!” Remus shouted, sweat dripping down his temple. He poured salt in a circle around the window. “This sigil’s a containment glyph. If it pulls the poltergeist in, it won’t be able to escape.”

“Then what?” you asked, ducking as a lamp flew past your head.

“Then we burn it.”

A book flew by. You ran to Remus’s side and held the tin steady while he traced the final line.

“Done. But it’s not active yet. We need a trigger– something personal. Something to tie it down.”

Your hand instinctively moved to your pocket. The photograph.

You froze, fingers brushing its corner.

Remus turned toward you. “You’ve got something?”

You pulled it out slowly. The old photo. Your family– before everything changed. Before the house. Before all the silence and distance. The only real piece of your past you still carried with you.

Your voice caught. “It’s mine. My family. From a long time ago.”

Remus looked at it, and then at you. “This would work,” he said carefully. “It’s powerful. Emotionally charged. But... you’d have to be sure.”

You stared down at it. At the version of yourself caught in a moment long gone. You could feel the weight of it pressing into your chest. And then you nodded.

“If this helps end it– if it helps finish this– then burn it.”

“You don’t have to,” he said softly.

“I do,” you said, firmer now. “I think I do.”

He took it gently from your hand and placed it at the center of the sigil. Lit a match. The flame caught quickly, curling the edges into ash. As it burned, the lines surrounding it began to glow– faint but alive, like the house itself was holding its breath.

“We’re close,” he murmured. He raised one hand in a strange motion, like he was drawing power from the very air. His eyes were on you, observing you.

Then the floor trembled.

The poltergeist surged forward– distorted, almost human but warped and unrecognizable. Its shriek pierced the air, slamming into your skull like a blade. You staggered, but Remus’s hand locked around yours.

“We need to focus,” he said. “It feeds on chaos. We have to anchor it– make it feel.”

Before you could speak, the entity lashed out– not with furniture, but raw energy. A sharp bolt aimed straight at you.

Remus moved on instinct.

He stepped in front of you, took the hit full force. His body jerked– but he didn’t fall.

“Remus!” you cried, reaching for him. There was a gash on his arm.

“I’m fine,” he gasped, still gripping your hand. “Focus. We finish this.”

Together, you turned back to the window, to the burning sigil and the shrieking entity. The room trembled around you, wind howling as the poltergeist was dragged, inch by inch, toward the light.

It screamed– long, furious, guttural. But the sigil held.

Glass cracked. Salt glowed. The entity thrashed like smoke caught in a storm– and then, finally, it was gone.

Silence crashed over the room.

The air warmed. The lights flickered once, then steadied. No more tremors. No more screaming.

Just... stillness.

Remus exhaled and sank back on his heels. “It’s over.”

You stared at the scorched sill, the faint burn of the sigil still glowing in the wood.

“You sure?” you whispered.

He nodded. “Poltergeists don’t die. But they can be bound. This one won’t be getting out again.”

You didn’t speak. You just stood there and listened– to the quiet, to the house settling.

…

The last shriek had been final. Whatever came after wasn’t rage– it was release.

The lights glowed warm again. The destruction stilled. And something in the air shifted– not just relief, but recognition. The house had felt your presence. It knew you now.

You stumbled, legs trembling. Remus caught your arm.

“It’s gone,” he said, voice hoarse.

But something deeper buzzed beneath the surface– something unspoken. Not just survival. Connection.

Remus looked at you.

“That was... you were incredible,” he said, low, almost reverent.

You met his gaze, heart thudding. Something had shifted between you. Unsaid, undeniable.

“Same to you,” you replied. “We make a good team.”

The front door creaked open just as you and Remus stepped into the hallway.

Footsteps. Voices.

You barely had a moment to exchange a glance before Sirius and James appeared in the doorway, their laughter dying mid-sentence. They stopped short.

The sight in front of them said everything.

The hallway was a mess. Soot streaked one wall; a picture frame dangled by a single nail. Broken furniture strewn around. The air still held a faint, acrid tinge– burnt wood, dust, the kind of tension that clung like static.

Sirius’s smile faded instantly. He scanned the room, then looked at you– disheveled, bruised, adrenaline still humming beneath your skin.

“What the hell happened?” he asked, quiet but sharp.

James stepped past him slowly, his eyes sweeping over the destruction like he was trying to reconstruct the scene. A cracked light fixture. A scorch mark on the floor. The overturned table you hadn’t bothered to fix. His gaze landed on Remus– who looked steadier now, but not untouched. There was still a gash on his arm.

James’s voice was low. “It came back, didn’t it?”

You gave a small nod. “We didn’t have a choice. It hit hard, fast.”

Sirius exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “And you two handled it?”

Remus stepped forward. “We didn’t really have time to call for help.”

Silence. Then James let out a breath that was almost a laugh– but not quite. “I leave for two hours and you fight off a poltergeist without us?”

Sirius shot Remus a look. “Was it bad?”

Remus just gave a short nod. “Could’ve been worse.”

“But it wasn’t,” you added. “We stopped it.”

James studied you for a long moment, like he was trying to read beyond the words. Then he nodded, slowly. “You okay?”

“I am now.”

There was a beat of silence, then Sirius grinned, the tension slipping from his shoulders like a shrugged-off coat. “Well, damn,” he said, clapping James on the back. “I guess we missed the show.”

James didn’t laugh right away. His gaze lingered on the walls, the floor, the faint crack in the ceiling, before finally landing on you. And he looked at you as if searching for if you were not okay.

You gave a small smile. “Yeah. It was intense. But Remus was... incredible,” you added, glancing at him.

James’s expression shifted at that– subtle, but noticeable. He looked at Remus, then back at you, and something passed between them. Something quiet. Respect, maybe. Or understanding.

Sirius raised a brow. “Well, aren’t we all getting cozy,” he said with a smirk. “Looks like we’ve got ourselves a dream team.”

James finally let out a breath and nodded. “Yeah,” he said, the last edge of tension slipping away. “We could use a drink.”

His eyes lingered on you a second longer than necessary– like he wanted to say something else, but didn’t.

The moment passed. The air lightened.

Remus smiled, the kind that didn’t need fanfare to feel sincere. “Let’s see if we can clean up a bit, and settle in,” he said. “The night’s still young.” He grabbed your hand and pulled you along.

And this time, as you looked around at the battered hallway and your strange little group, you didn’t feel like an outsider. The house was still haunted, still strange, still scarred– but in a way, so were you. And maybe that was why it was starting to feel like a place you belonged.

That had been her first glimpse of what ghost hunters really did. Of what kind of wraiths followed them into the safety of their own houses. And Sirius– who seemed so brash, so annoyingly smug– had gone quiet. The kind of quiet that said he knew exactly what those voices were. That he’d heard them before. Maybe too many times. She remembered the way his fingers had curled slightly at his sides. The way he’d looked at her when it stopped– like he was suddenly aware of how new she still was. And how fragile that made her.

Now, morning.

The hallway smelled like damp wood and burnt toast. Remus was packing up calmly in the living room, parchment notes fluttering at his side. Sirius was stuffing his gear into a bag with more irritation than efficiency. His hair was still a mess, and he hadn't bothered to dry his hair from the shower he had had. It was sopping wet and stuck to his neck. She stood there for a second, watching them.

“Your official training begins today and you’re with James,” Sirius said without turning around. Voice rough, distracted. “Hollow Hall.” Then, after a beat: “Stick close to him.”

She blinked. “Where are you going?”

Remus answered before Sirius could. “Ridgepoint Forest. Some old wards came undone. Echo magic’s pooling around there.”

“You’ll be alright,” Sirius said finally, glancing over his shoulder. “James is– he’s good under pressure. Just don’t let him flirt while actively cursed.”

She rolled her eyes, but the nerves curled tighter in her stomach. It wasn’t James she was worried about. It was her. Her, with barely any training. Her, who had signed up to be recruited as a ghost hunter on a whim. Her, who had frozen when those voices poured in last night like cold air through a crack in the door.

Remus met her eyes for a brief second. He didn’t smile, but he nodded. And somehow, that unnerved her more than if he had talked to her.

Then they were gone– stepping into the swirling grey of the rainy morning, their silhouettes swallowed up as the front door slammed shut.

The silence in their absence felt loud.

"Guess it’s you and me now, rookie," came James’ cheery voice from behind her.

She turned.

He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, grinning. He was all sun-bleached curls and confidence, warm eyes and crinkled smile lines. Like this was a normal Tuesday and not a haunted-house stakeout.

“You ready, rookie?” James asked, hair wild from sleep, hoodie half-zipped, a lopsided grin tugging at his mouth.

“No,” she said honestly.

He laughed. “Great. Me neither. Come on," he said, pushing off the wall. "Let’s go ghost-hunting.”

...

They took his car, a beat-up Volvo that smelled like old coffee and dried sage. It rattled like a dying breath over potholes, but James drove like he trusted it with his life. Hollow Hall wasn’t far– a forty-minute drive down misty roads, trees leaning in close like they wanted to listen.

As they arrived, the air shifted– cooler, sharper, like stepping into a memory. The building ahead had once been a boarding house, the kind that raised troubled children and buried darker secrets beneath thick carpets and polite silence. Now it stood frayed at the edges, rotting but defiant, its crumbling stone half-hidden beneath tangled vines.

It stood at the edge of a dead orchard, where twisted branches loomed like the bones of something long forgotten. Vines curled around shattered windows, and the wood beneath them sagged with rot.

“Used to be a boarding school,” James said, pulling the gear bag from the trunk. “For kids with ‘discipline issues.’ Which usually meant they didn’t fit in—or didn’t shut up when they were told to.”

James’ tone shifted as soon as they stepped inside. No more jokes. His eyes scanned every corner. The atmosphere shifted– dense, sour, electric. Like grief left to ferment. James didn’t joke anymore. His voice dropped low, movements sharp. They laid out the basics– iron pins at the corners of the room, a voice recorder on the dining table, a salt ring to keep their gear safe.

“You’ll notice the air feels heavier,” he murmured. “That’s not your imagination. The echoes cling to grief here. Especially the kind people try to forget.”

She nodded, forcing herself to walk steadily beside him. It was strange, seeing him like this– shoulders square, voice low, so unlike the bright, reckless warmth she usually associated with him.

He showed her how to check EMF readings by pacing the walls and pausing where the dial flickered red. She caught him glancing at her sometimes– not mocking, just checking. Noticing. And saying nothing. It was… reassuring.

Until it wasn’t.

They were in the dining room– walls sagging with old water damage, windows choked by ivy– when James paused mid-step. His shoulders stiffened. His fingers twitched. The gear bag slid from his hand and hit the floor with a soft thud.

“James?” she asked.

He turned to her slowly. Too slowly.

And then smiled.

Not his smile.

Not at all.

“Sweetheart,” he drawled, voice low and crawling, “you look like you want to run.”

She froze. Something was wrong. His eyes weren’t quite right– the gold in them dulled, shadowed. His mouth still smiled, but it didn’t reach anything real.

“James– stop it.”

“You think they trust you?” the voice purred, still wearing his face. “They sent you here to break. The weak ones always crack first.”

It was like being doused in ice water. Her legs screamed to move, to bolt, to scream for someone– anyone– but there was no one. Remus was gone. Sirius wasn't here to help her like last night. Just her and James and the thing inside him.

The thing watching her.

She gripped her bag in her arms like it could anchor her.

The voice dropped further. “They’ll leave you behind. It’s what they do.”

Her breath caught.

“You’re not one of them,”

It’s not him, she told herself. That’s not him. That’s me. That’s mine. My fear. And the ghost– it was echoing it. Feeding on it.

She closed her eyes. Gritted her teeth. Remembered Sirius’ voice last night, when she asked him what ghosts hated most. “Warmth,” he’d said, half-joking. “Fire. Love. Reminds them they can’t have it anymore.”

Her hands were still trembling. The salt line at the window had broken when James– when it– stepped too close. The EMF meter lay on its side, buzzing faintly. Her tools were scattered, the tape recorder blinking red, capturing everything. But that wouldn’t help her now.

She opened her eyes slowly.

James was staring straight at her, eyes too still. Head tilted just a fraction too far. But he hadn’t moved closer. The thing inside him– it was still testing her. Still poking at whatever fear it had latched onto.

She stepped forward.

Very slightly.

Just enough to feel her heart thud against her ribs.

“I don’t need you to believe I belong,” she said quietly. “I already do.”

The ghost stilled in James’ body. A flicker of something– maybe annoyance, maybe disbelief.

“And you hate that, don’t you?” she whispered. “That I’m warm. That I’m real. That I still have a life and people who could love me.”

The lights in the hallway buzzed once, sharp and shrill.

James’ lips curled into a sneer that wasn’t his.

She stepped forward again. “You can’t have that anymore. And you never will.”

The EMF meter spiked.

She didn’t stop. Her voice grew louder. “You’re just a shadow. A coward too bitter to move on.”

The thing snarled, low and guttural. “You think they care? You think they’d stay if it got bad?”

She didn’t flinch. “Yes they would.” She remembered the crazed protectiveness Sirius had shown her last night and how James had placed a cup of warm tea in her shaking hands and how Remus didn't say anything but stomped upstairs to get rid of any evil residue after the incident.

That was it.

Her hand slid into her bag– quiet, careful. Her fingers closed around the flare stick. One of the emergency heat charges Sirius had shoved into her kit this morning in his hurry to leave. “Ghosts hate warmth. Don’t let them forget what you’ve got that they don’t.”

James lunged.

She barely dodged, her shoulder slamming into the wall. Her fingers fumbled the flare. He came at her again, fast, too fast. She ducked under his arm, scrambled across the floor, tearing the flare from its plastic casing.

He grabbed her ankle.

She turned sharply, kicked him– hard– and the grip loosened. With shaking hands, she struck the flare.

It sparked.

Then roared to life.

A blast of orange light and searing heat burst between them.

James– the thing inside him– screamed. Not with pain. With rage.

She didn’t hesitate. She shoved the flare forward, close to his chest, not quite touching. The heat shimmered in the air, and for a split second, she saw something shift in his expression– James’ face flickering between fury and fear. Like the ghost wasn’t sure if it could stay.

“You can’t have him,” she hissed.

The house groaned around them. The temperature rose with the firelight. The ghost writhed in James’ body, snarling through clenched teeth, eyes blown wide.

She stepped closer. “You don’t get to stay in the warmth when you’ve chosen the cold.”

Then she pressed the flare to his sternum. A thin line of flame sparked between them, flickering orange and gold. Not aimed at him– at the space between them. The warmth surged into the air.

The thing inside James screeched, a high, unnatural sound that shattered the silence like splintering glass. His body jerked, seizing against the force tearing through him. His face twisted in agony, eyes wide and unfocused. Then– suddenly– it ripped free. A streak of black vapor shot from his mouth, shrieking as it went, coiling in the air like smoke and darting for the nearest wall. The lights flared violently as it passed, and the temperature dropped like a stone. James staggered. Swayed like a puppet with its strings severed. Smoke curled from the hem of his shirt, singed but not burned.

She rushed forward. She dropped the flare. Knelt below him on her knees, reaching up to cup his sweating ashen face, trying to coax him to sit down.

“James,” she said, panting heavily. “If you’re in there, blink twice.”

He didn’t.

But his jaw clenched. Hard. A flicker of something familiar behind his eyes.

“I’m not leaving you,” she said, louder now. “You stay.”

He blinked.

Once.

Twice.

And then crumpled to his knees.

She caught him before he hit the ground. They sank to the cold floor, breathing hard. The fire still flickered on the edge of the room, casting long shadows across the mold-stained wallpaper.

She didn’t let go right away.

Even as he knelt there, gasping for air like it had been stolen from his lungs, she kept one hand fisted in the collar of his jacket. Like if she let go, something else might slip in again. Something she wouldn’t be quick enough to fight off.

His fingers brushed the floorboards, nails dragging slightly as though grounding himself. And for a moment, neither of them spoke. Just the fire between them, small and flickering, casting long shadows on the rotted walls.

James was trembling.

Not violently– but enough.

She stared at him– heart racing, hands shaking– and then he looked up at her.

Eyes clear again.

“James– hey. Come on, talk to me.”

He gasped. Once, then again, like he was gulping air after being held underwater.

His hand found her arm. Weakly. “Was that you?” he croaked.

“Depends,” she said. “Do you remember me kicking you in the chest?”

He blinked at her. “Vaguely.”

“Then yeah. That was me.”

He didn’t speak. Just pressed his forehead to her heaving chest and let himself breathe.

They didn’t speak for a while after that.

…

Rain had started falling by the time they stepped outside.

It wasn’t the sharp kind that whipped across your face in sheets– it was slower, colder. The sort that seeped into your sleeves and made everything feel heavier. The sort that didn’t ask for permission.

James had been quiet since they left the mansion. Not withdrawn, not really. Just... muted. Like someone had reached in and turned his brightness down.

She didn’t mind the quiet. She was used to it. Preferred it, sometimes.

But as they picked their way down the hill toward his parked car, she noticed the way his hand brushed hers– once, lightly. Like he was making sure she was still there. Still real.

They walked like that for a while, rain soaking through their clothes, street lights flickering in the fog. The adrenaline had drained from her system, leaving only cold and quiet and something else she couldn’t name.

“I was scared,” she said, her voice so soft it nearly got lost in the rain.

James glanced at her, brow furrowed. “Back there?”

She nodded. “But not of the ghost.”

He didn’t say anything, just waited.

“I was scared I’d mess it up. That I’d freeze. That I’d… prove you were wrong to bring me, the rookie recruit.”

Her throat tightened, but she forced herself to keep going. “I keep thinking– I don’t belong here. With you three. You’ve got years of this. You’ve got each other. And I’m just… new.”

James stopped walking. Turned to face her.

His hair was plastered to his forehead, his jaw tight– but his eyes were soft. Steady.

“We don’t let people in easy, you know,” he said. “But when we do… we don’t let them go easy either.”

She stood there for a moment, rain trickling down her spine, trying to breathe around the weight in her chest. The air felt different after that. Softer. Warmer, despite the chill.

After a minute, he shrugged out of his jacket and held it out to her without a word.

She took it.

It smelled like salt and wind and something faintly warm, like autumn. The sleeves were too long. It hung on her like a half-forgotten promise.

She gave a short laugh under her breath. “Ghost slime,” she said, gesturing to the hem of her ruined shirt.

He gave a tired huff of amusement. “Badge of honor.”

She raised an eyebrow. “That so?”

James looked at her, really looked. His eyes weren’t joking now.

“That’s how you know you’re one of us.”

…

The house came into view, lights glowing through the rain. Sirius was at the door before they reached it, jaw tight, eyes scanning her like he was looking for damage.

Behind him, Remus stood in the hall. Still. Watching.

James squeezed her shoulder once, then walked past them, shaking water from his hair.

Sirius didn’t speak. Just took in the way James leaned slightly toward her, the way she didn’t give the jacket back, the way their silence felt earned and fragile.

His eyes flicked to her, sharp and searching. Not angry– just... watchful. Protective in that way he got when something precious had been shaken.

Remus stood at the end of the hallway, a book half-lowered in his hand. His face didn’t move, but his eyes tracked every detail. Measured. Calculated. Quietly alert.

No one asked what happened.

No one had to.

She walked past them without a word and made her way to her room, the jacket still clutched in her hands. Her clothes clung wetly to her skin. Her shoes squelched against the floor.

She shut the door behind her.

The room was cold. Still. Familiar in a way that almost made her chest ache.

She sat on the edge of her bed and stared down at the jacket in her lap.

It was just fabric. Just stitched seams and weather-worn sleeves.

But it felt like a turning point.

Not because she’d saved James.

But because when she looked at herself– shaking and soaked and still standing– she realized she hadn’t waited for someone else to fix it.

She had acted.

And James had come back.

You look up. The man in the doorway has messy dark hair, a crooked grin, and a bomber jacket half-zipped over a threadbare t-shirt. He squints at you like he’s debating whether you’re a threat or just an inconvenience.

"Uh," you stammer, "I– I'm the new recruit. I was told to report here?"

He gives you a once-over, slow and deliberate. Then steps aside, muttering, “Well, shit. Good luck.”

You step inside, the door creaking behind you. The air smells like old wood, coffee, and something faintly metallic. You're halfway through admiring the chaotic, book-filled front room when a voice calls out:

"Sirius, don’t scare the rookies on day one."

Another man enters from a side hallway, looking more put-together: button-up shirt rolled at the sleeves, glasses perched on his nose, clipboard in hand.

Sirius shrugs. “Wasn’t scaring her. Just warning.”

“You must be Y/N,” the new guy says, offering a handshake. His grip is warm, firm. “James Potter. Welcome to Subdivision Seven.”

"Nice to meet you," you say, glancing around. "I thought there’d be more... people."

"Oh, there are," James says, “They all quit.”

You blink, unsure if he’s serious.

"Kidding," Sirius mutters from behind you. “Mostly.”

Before you can process that, yet another person enters the room. He moves quieter than the others, a stack of files tucked under one arm and a coffee mug balanced precariously on top. His eyes flick up to you briefly, then back down.

“That’s Remus,” James says. “He does the real work.”

"Hi," you offer.

"Hello," Remus says, not looking up.

“And that’s the team,” James says cheerfully. “Come on, let’s show you around.”

You follow James through a maze of mismatched halls, Sirius trailing behind like a shadow that whistles. The building feels bigger on the inside– like every door opens into a place it shouldn’t. You pass a stairwell that seems to lead nowhere, a flickering overhead light that hasn’t stopped buzzing since 1973 (according to a scrawled Post-it), and a portrait of a woman who definitely turns her head to follow you. James is talking, explaining protocols– check-ins, assignments, the “don’t touch anything unless you want to die” rule– but your brain only half-processes his words. The place has a pulse. You swear you can feel it– humming faintly beneath the floorboards, brushing against your ankles like fog.

Eventually, you’re led into what might’ve once been a sunroom, now converted into a sort of headquarters-slash-lounge-slash-evidence-dumping-zone. There’s a corkboard sagging under the weight of red string and ghost photos. A worn couch. A whiteboard with “FIELD INCIDENTS” scrawled at the top, underneath which someone’s drawn a crude sketch of Sirius being slapped by a ghost with a frying pan.

Remus is already there, perched on the arm of the sofa with his files in his lap, flipping through one as he sips coffee. He glances up as you enter, his gaze sharper this time. Measured. “So what’s her assignment?”

James drops the clipboard on the table. “Training week starts tomorrow, but she’s coming on recon tonight. Just observation.”

Remus raises a brow. “Tonight?”

“Emergency call from Midwick Hospital,” Sirius answers, dropping onto the couch like he owns it. He throws an arm over the back, stretches his legs out, and grins at you like he knows something you don’t. “Lovely little place. Shut down in ’93 after a fire broke out. Spirits have been flaring up all week. Someone’s gotta babysit the ghosts.”

“You’re bringing her to Midwick?” Remus asks, tone flat.

“She won’t even leave the van,” James says. “We just do a sweep, collect readings, go home. Easy.”

“And if it’s not easy?” Remus shoots back.

James shrugs. “Then we improvise.”

By the time the sun dips below the horizon, you’re sitting in the passenger seat of a rusting black van labeled 'Pest Control', with duct tape over the 'P.' Sirius is driving, naturally. He plays loud music the whole way there– something fast, something grungy– and sings along like you’re not gripping your seatbelt for dear life.

Midwick rises from the darkness like something out of a fever dream– an old red-brick hospital swallowed by trees, its windows hollowed out like sockets. The fence is chained, but Sirius cuts it with bolt cutters and a grin. James handles the equipment. Remus clips a flashlight to his coat and murmurs something under his breath that sounds like Latin. You trail behind them, heart pounding louder than your footsteps.

Inside, the hospital is cold. Not just chilly– wrong. Like the air is thick with things unsaid. The walls are peeling, papered with mildew and graffiti. Old beds lie upturned in corners, and your flashlight flickers twice before stabilizing.

They start their sweep. You stay close. You’re supposed to observe, but something keeps pulling at your attention– like the way the shadows seem to move just a second too late.

An hour in, James gets a call and steps outside to take it, promising he’ll be right back. Remus continues checking the wards, moving with careful precision. You’re in an old surgical room when Sirius wanders off down a hallway lined with broken light panels. You hesitate for a moment before following.

“Sirius?” you call.

“Back here,” comes his voice, echoing oddly. You round a corner and find him standing by a rusted elevator, flashlight aimed at the crack between its doors.

“You okay?”

He glances over his shoulder, smirking. “Why? Worried about me already?”

Before you can reply, the lights go out.

Not a flicker– die.

The silence is instant, suffocating. You freeze. Your flashlight won’t turn on. Neither will Sirius’s. The corridor is thick with darkness, so dense you can’t see your own hand.

Then–

whisper.

Your name.

Soft. Dragged out. Like breath over glass.

You go still. The air shifts around you, and Sirius is suddenly closer, his hand brushing yours in the dark.

“You heard that too,” he mutters, low. Not teasing now. Not even a little.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “What is it?”

His fingers wrap around your wrist, firm and steady. “Don’t panic.”

“Too late,” you whisper.

There’s a clatter behind you– metal on tile. You spin, but there’s nothing. Only more dark. More whispering.

Sirius shifts closer until his arm is nearly around you. “Stay with me, rookie,” he murmurs. “And whatever happens– don’t answer when it says your name.”

“But why–”

“It’s not you it wants,” he says, voice barely audible now. “It’s whoever you used to be.”

You nod without realizing it, breath shallow, fingers curling into Sirius’s jacket as the shadows press closer. There’s a sound behind you again– closer this time. The slow squeak of rubber soles on tile. Someone walking. Someone who shouldn’t be. You’re frozen for a heartbeat, two, three– then Sirius moves, pulling you back with him until your spine hits the wall.

“Where’s Remus?” you whisper. “Where’s James?”

“Probably still outside,” he mutters. “Reception’s shit in here. Can’t call them.”

The footsteps stop. Just beyond the corridor turn. Whoever– or whatever– is there, it knows you know.

“Sirius,” you whisper, clutching his sleeve tighter. “I want to leave.”

“We will,” he says. “Just– stay calm, okay? This kind of thing, it feeds off nerves. If you lose it, it gains more ground.”

He sounds calm, but you can feel the tension in him– how tightly wound he is, how his breathing’s gone shallow like yours. The darkness shifts again, and this time it’s not just sound. Something brushes past your leg. Cold. Weightless.

Sirius shoves you behind him instinctively, stepping forward. “Not tonight,” he mutters to the dark. “You’ve had your fun.”

Silence.

Then, your name again. Sharper now. Close. It echoes off the walls, but you can feel it– in your ear, in your skull. It’s saying it like it knows you. Like it remembers.

“What is that?” you whisper.

"Residual attachment," Sirius says, his voice calm but laced with something darker. "Some spirits cling to names. Memory, emotion. You probably brushed up against something when you walked in. Looked at the wrong photo. Stood in the wrong spot."

“I didn’t do anything–”

“I know,” he replies, firm but reassuring. “Doesn’t matter. Sometimes they pick. Sometimes they choose you because you remind them of someone they’ve lost. Or someone they want to punish.”

You stare at him, unblinking. “And we’re just standing here?”

“No,” he says, with a hint of humor, reaching into his jacket and pulling out a small tin. He flicks it open. Salt. “We’re surviving.”

He pours a circle around your feet, movements practiced, murmuring something under his breath that doesn’t sound like Latin– older, rougher.

Then– something shifts. The air grows thick, a pressure swirling like a storm in the room. The darkness folds inward, as if bending to some unseen force. And then– ding. The elevator behind you.

Both of you freeze.

“No one called it,” you say, eyes wide.

“Yeah,” Sirius mutters, voice tight. “That’s kind of the point.”

The doors creak open with an unnerving groan, like metal scraping against metal. Inside, nothing. Just void. But you feel it. Something in there. Something ancient.

“I’m not going in there,” you whisper, the words barely leaving your throat.

“Good,” Sirius says, his grin wild. “Because I am.”

You grab his arm, panic clawing at your chest. “Are you crazy?”

“A little bit,” he says with a wink, shaking you off gently. “But it’s part of the job.”

He steps forward, flashlight in hand. The beam flickers– once, twice– then steadies. For a brief second, you see it. In the elevator mirror. Behind him.

A figure. A white dress. Hollow eyes.

Not Sirius.

You scream.

He spins around, but there's nothing there– just his reflection.

The scream shatters the silence. The whispers return, louder, mocking, circling around you. You stumble backward, tripping over something soft. Something that feels… wrong.

You look down. It's a patient chart. With your name. And a date of death.

Sirius is beside you in an instant, yanking the chart from your hands, tearing it in half without even reading. "Nope. Don’t do that. It’s lying."

“But it had my–”

"I told you," he interrupts, his voice low, “it’s not you it wants.”

The walls groan. The lights above flicker, then hold. In the brief flash of light, you see all the doors on the ward are open.

All of them.

And something is stepping out of each one.

Sirius grabs your hand. “Change of plan. We’re running.”

You run.

You sprint through the corridor, past the elevator, past the open doors, the shadows lurking beyond. You don’t look back. You just follow him, feet pounding against the cold tiles, heart a hammer in your chest.

You burst out through a side door and into the night air, collapsing in the gravel beside the van. Remus stands there, flashlight steady, calm as ever.

“Took your time,” he remarks.

“We had company,” Sirius gasps, leaning back against the van. He looks at you then, and for the first time tonight, his smile falters.

“You good?”

You nod, though your hands are still shaking.

Remus crouches beside you, his tone gentler than before. “First night’s always the hardest,” he says. “You survived. That’s what matters.”

James appears from behind the van, looking half concerned, half annoyed. “I leave for ten minutes–”

“Don’t,” Sirius warns, hauling himself upright. “Not the time.”

You stand slowly, legs unsteady. Your palms are scraped. Your heart is still racing.

Sirius watches you, expression unreadable. Then, quieter than before, he says, “Next time, stay closer. I almost lost you in there.”

You blink at him. “There’s going to be a next time?”

He grins– wild, reckless, real. “Oh, yeah,” he says. “Welcome to the Graveyard Shift.”

…

You barely sleep that night.

Curled on the threadbare mattress in the guest room, you try to drown out the whispers with the pillow around your ears. It doesn’t help. The voice comes again. Soft. Familiar. Your own.

You can’t escape it.

Around three a.m., you give up. You pad barefoot down the creaky hallway, your steps slow and hesitant. The dim light beneath the door of the common room flickers. You knock once, too tired to care about interrupting.

“Come in,” comes the voice.

Sirius.

You open the door.

He’s sprawled across the couch, long legs draped over the coffee table, a book open on his chest, mug in hand. His hair is a mess, his eyes heavy, like he hasn’t slept either. The fire in the hearth is low, casting a soft warmth across the room.

When he sees you, something shifts in his face– not alarm, not annoyance– just concern, subtle and fleeting.

“You look like hell,” he says.

“I feel like hell.”

You shut the door behind you and cross the room, sinking into the other side of the couch. He doesn’t say anything, just nudges the blanket toward you and sets his mug down.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, voice soft.

You shake your head. “It kept whispering.”

“The ghost?”

“My own voice.”

Sirius goes still for a moment. When he speaks again, his voice is softer, more serious. “That happens. Sometimes. When a spirit tries to root itself.”

“Root itself?”

“They latch on. Try to dig in deep. Names are powerful. If it keeps saying yours, it’s not random.”

You pull the blanket tighter around you. “What does that mean?”

“It means…” He rubs his face, pausing. “It means we need to look into it.”

Silence settles between you. The crackling fire is the only sound for a moment. Then Sirius shifts slightly, turning toward you. “Hey.”

You look up.

“You did good today.”

Your laugh is bitter. “I screamed. I tripped. I panicked. I almost got you killed.”

He snorts. “Please. You think I haven’t had worse nights? You didn’t bolt. You didn’t break. You stayed with me.”

You look down at your hands, suddenly uncertain. “I felt like I was breaking.”

“Yeah. That’s the job sometimes.”

There’s something different in his voice now. No teasing. No bravado. It hits you before you can stop it.

“I thought I was going to die in there.”

He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t brush it off.

“I know,” he says, his voice quiet. “That’s why I stayed close.”

You look up, surprised. “You didn’t have to.”

He shrugs, but there’s a weight to it now. “I wanted do.”

The room feels different now– heavy in the best way.

The room hums with quiet for a beat too long. Then he shifts again, grabs something off the table and hands it to you. A dog-eared folder, thick with papers.

“What’s this?” you ask, confused.

“Hospital records. That wing you got stuck in? the fire from '93 broke out inside there. No survivors. But some of the names on these records? They’re still showing up. Even though they died decades ago.”

Your brow furrows. “Why are they still here?”

“Unfinished business. Curses. Or maybe,” he says, eyes meeting yours, “they were never meant to leave.”

You shiver.

Without a word, he pulls off his jacket and drapes it over your shoulders.

“I’m fine,” you protest.

“Shut up,” he mutters, his voice softer than usual. “You’re freezing.”

You let it happen.

An hour later, you fall asleep, curled into the couch with Sirius’s jacket wrapped around you, the file still clutched in your lap.

Sirius doesn’t move. He just watches the fire burn low, eyes darting over the shadows– just in case they start whispering again.

...

The silence when you wake is wrong. The fire’s gone out. Sirius is gone.

Then, you hear it again.

Your name. Soft, breathless.

“Y/N…”

You scramble out of bed, voice thin, desperate. “Sirius?” you call, but there’s no answer.

Just the whisper.

“Y/N…”

It’s coming from upstairs.

You hesitate. Heart pounding. You want to scream. You want to run. But Sirius wouldn’t have left you. Not unless he had a reason.

So you move. Step after step, up the crooked stairs, through the narrow hallway where the shadows feel too thick.

The voice coils down the hall like smoke. You follow it to the end, to the old linen closet. The door creaks open.

A hand grabs your wrist.

You freeze, your heart skipping a beat. But it’s Sirius, eyes wild, breath shallow.

“Don’t,” he whispers.

“What– what is it?”

“I don’t know, but it’s not human. It seems like it followed us from the hospital.”

You shudder, the fear settling deep in your bones.

He pulls you back, closer to the stairs. “Come on,” he says, voice tight with urgency. “We’re leaving.”

You’re about to ask him why, but then you hear it again.

That voice.

“Y/N…”

And now you know, without a doubt. It’s not human.

Your stomach lurches.

Sirius pulls you against the wall, his whisper urgent. “I woke up and you were gone. I heard it too– your voice. I followed it upstairs, saw you walking toward this door, but– Y/N, I swear to God– I also saw you standing at the bottom of the stairs, watching yourself go.”

“What?”

“It wasn’t you.”

The knob turns.

Sirius shoves you behind him, his posture defensive.

The door creaks open– slow, deliberate. At first, there’s nothing. Just the stench of rot. Dust. A hum that rattles in your ears.

Then something crawls out.

You can’t see it– just the blur of limbs, a smear of darkness that shifts like it’s submerged underwater. It moves forward, its voice distorted, echoing in your head.

“Y/N… come closer…”

Sirius fumbles in his pocket, pulling out a tiny silver charm. “Get behind me and don’t let go.”

You do, your fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt.

He mutters something under his breath, a Latin phrase that makes the air crackle with power. The charm flickers to life, glowing faintly– moonlight soaked in silver. The thing hisses, recoiling as if burned, but it doesn’t vanish.

Instead, it laughs.

It sounds just like you.

Sirius throws the charm– dead aim, straight into the thing’s chest.

The hallway erupts in blinding white light.

You hit the floor hard, your ears ringing. When you open your eyes, the air is different. Lighter. The thing is gone. The closet door is left ajar, empty.

Sirius crouches beside you, gripping your shoulder firmly. “You good?”

You nod, breath shaky. “What– what was that?”

He hesitates. “A mimic. Nasty spirit. Feeds on fear. Gets stronger every time you listen.”

You glance at the door. “Why was it in my voice?”

“Because you listened.”

You sit there for a long moment, heart still hammering in your chest. Then, barely above a whisper, you say, “Thanks for coming after me.”

Sirius gives you a crooked half-smile. “Always.”

Slowly, you rise, your legs still unsteady. He steadies you, his hand lingering on your arm.

“Come on,” he says, a touch of humor in his voice. “I think we’ve had enough paranormal bonding for one night.”

You manage a weak laugh.

The two of you make your way downstairs. The lights are still out, the fire long cold, and the house groans with age, but–

You don’t feel alone anymore.

You don’t know what tomorrow will bring.

But tonight? You survived.

With Sirius Black by your side.

And he didn’t let go. Not once.

…

Back downstairs in the lounge, James hands you a steaming mug of tea. Sirius sprawls on the couch and, with a grin, declares you "not useless." Remus disappears upstairs with the case files.

You sit in stunned silence.

"So," James asks, leaning casually against the counter, "Still want to work here?"

You think of the flying books, the shrieking ghost, the way Sirius pulled you from danger without hesitation. You remember the way Remus had looked– furious– when he saw you bleeding from a simple paper cut.

You take a long sip of tea.

“Yeah,” you say. “I do.”

James grins widely. “You’ll fit right in.”

You’d always been on the periphery of their orbit. Not a stranger, no. Just… not one of them. Not the kind of person people whispered about in corridors or followed around with wide eyes. Not someone who got tackled by James Potter for fun, who got pulled into Sirius Black’s wild schemes, who got bookmarked by Remus Lupin in quiet libraries like a page he never wanted to lose.

You weren't sure what this was– maybe they liked you, maybe it was platonic, maybe it was all three of them just being Marauders. But whatever it was, you liked being near them. You liked being wanted.

And slowly, steadily, it started to feel like you were the fourth in a constellation.

It started with Sirius. Of course it did. He was bold like that. Too pretty for his own good, too charming to be safe. One day, you were sitting in your usual spot on the Gryffindor common room couch, curled up with a book. The next, Sirius was dropping beside you like a comet crashing into orbit.

“Whatcha reading, sweetheart?”

Sweetheart.

It wasn’t the first time someone had called you something like that. But from him, it didn’t feel like a throwaway word. It felt like the start of something.

You answered cautiously, but he didn’t tease you. He didn’t mock the book or your taste. Instead, he listened. And then he stayed. Not just that day, but every day after. Like you’d unknowingly lit a beacon he couldn’t help but follow.

James came next. With him, it wasn’t words– it was energy. He started waiting for you after class, tossing his arm around your shoulder like it belonged there. When you spoke, he turned his whole body toward you, like you were the most interesting person in the world. It was addictive, the way he paid attention. Like you were this rare bloom he’d just discovered.

Remus was the quietest of the three, but perhaps the most dangerous. He didn’t flirt, not exactly. He observed. He remembered things you didn’t expect anyone to. How you liked your tea. That you always tapped your fingers when you were thinking. That you never liked sitting with your back to the door.

He started sitting beside you in the library. Sharing notes. Asking soft, pointed questions that lingered long after the conversations ended.

It was gradual, the way they enveloped you. Not overwhelming, not at first. Just a steady current of warmth pulling you in.

You started looking forward to seeing them. Noticing the way Sirius would light up when he spotted you in the hallway, like you were the only person that mattered. How James would slide into the seat next to yours in the Great Hall before you even sat down. How Remus would subtly angle his body toward you during group conversations, nodding along like he was reading the subtext in your silences.

And God, it felt good. Like you belonged. Like you’d slipped into some unspoken rhythm that had always existed, just waiting for you to join.

You didn’t question it. Not at first.

They were affectionate in a way that was uniquely theirs. Touchy, loud, loyal. They fought and flirted and tangled themselves into people’s lives without asking. But with you... there was a softness. A reverence. A way they carved out space for you between them, as if they’d already made room long ago.

It was James who started calling you ours in front of others.

“She’s ours, don’t even try it,” he said one night at a party when some seventh year tried to flirt with you. He was grinning when he said it, his tone light– but there was something dark in the way Sirius laughed beside him. Something heavy in the way Remus’s hand brushed against your wrist and stayed.

The word echoed in your chest long after.

You laughed it off. Because what else were you supposed to do?

...

There were moments– little ones– that made your stomach twist in strange ways. Like how Sirius would watch you when you laughed, gaze lingering too long, like he was memorizing your joy and cataloguing it for later. Or how James’s touches, casual as they seemed, always found the most intimate places– your knee, your lower back, the curve of your neck. Or the way Remus would say your name like a prayer, low and deliberate, like he was tasting it.

But they never crossed lines. Not really. They were just them. And you… you were just grateful to be let in.

You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. That the touches were friendly. That the looks were coincidental. That the flutter in your chest was just the high of attention.

But deep down, you knew.

Something was shifting. Becoming heavier.

And you liked it.

At least– at first.

...

There’s a sweet spot in every story. A moment where everything feels right– not too much, not too little. Just enough to make your heart swell, to make your cheeks warm, to make you believe maybe, maybe, this is something real.

You stayed in that moment longer than you should have.

The four of you moved like a constellation now. People started whispering in hallways– not maliciously, not cruelly. Just curious. Observing. Wondering if something was happening between you and the infamous trio of Gryffindor. If they’d chosen you. If you were theirs.

You didn't know how to answer.

Because how do you explain something that doesn’t have a name?

It wasn’t like you were dating. Not really. But it also wasn’t not like that. Sirius would walk you to class with his hand brushing against yours until it finally just slipped into place. James would sit with his legs wide open and tug you to sit between them like it was the most natural thing in the world. Remus would rest his chin on your shoulder while reading over your essays and hum in approval at your phrasing like it mattered deeply to him.

They each gave you something different, something impossible to refuse. Sirius gave thrill– he lit you up, made you laugh so hard your stomach hurt, made your blood fizz. James gave warmth– this overwhelming, honest devotion that made you feel chosen. And Remus? He gave depth. He saw you in quiet moments when no one else did, noticed when you were too tired to keep up the banter, and never made you feel like you had to.

And you?

You gave yourself in little pieces. A laugh here. A secret there. A touch, a look, a shared silence.

And they soaked you up like they’d been starving.

It became routine– the way they'd save you a seat without asking, the way they'd pull you into their dorm after dinner just to “hang out,” the way they'd always touch. Not always intimately, but constantly. Hands in your hair, arms around your waist, fingers trailing your spine. Sirius would trace shapes on your thigh under the table during meals. James would whisper into your ear and rest his cheek on yours. Remus would brush his hand over your knuckles while reading beside you and not let go.

It was fine.

It was fine.

It was fine… until it wasn’t.

...

The shift came quietly. Like a slow fog rolling in over a familiar street.

You didn’t notice it at first.

You noticed how Sirius stopped joking when someone else tried to sit next to you. How James’s laugh would flatten if you paid too much attention to someone who wasn’t them. How Remus started showing up wherever you were, book in hand, gaze cool but unmistakably observant.

You told yourself it was sweet. That they cared. That they were just protective, not possessive.

But then the looks started changing.

Not just admiring. Hungry. Eyes sweeping over you like you were something to be devoured. Like they were waiting for something– some permission, some shift– so they could claim you for real.

Sirius would stare. Not always. But enough. Long enough for your skin to crawl, even if he smiled afterward like it was nothing. James stopped joking about you being “ours” and started saying it like a fact. No grin. No wink. Just a quiet, loaded certainty.

Remus– God, even Remus– had started to ask questions.

“Where were you this afternoon?”

“Who were you talking to?”

“Why didn’t you come sit with us?”

Each one posed gently, but laced with that soft steel Remus always kept hidden under his calm. You realized, belatedly, that his sweetness wasn’t softness– it was intent disguised.

It didn’t feel like you were part of something anymore. It felt like you were caught in it.

Their affection, once warm and glowy, started to press on you like a too-tight blanket. You couldn’t breathe without feeling their eyes on you. Couldn’t laugh with someone else without feeling their moods shift. Couldn’t even sit alone without one of them finding you and sliding into your space like they owned it.

You wanted to tell yourself you were overreacting.

But the dread had started.

You’d walk into a room, and Sirius’s head would snap toward you like a predator scenting prey. James would straighten, eyes gleaming like he was proud– possessive. Remus would close his book, fold his hands, and watch you walk in like you were a show.

And you?

You’d feel it. That pulse of something heavy and hot. Not fear exactly. Not discomfort exactly.

But not right either.

They never touched you in a way you didn’t allow. Never said anything wrong. But their presence grew weighty. Sticky. Too much.

It got hard to smile at them. To laugh. Even when you tried.

You’d catch Sirius watching your mouth too intently. You’d feel James’s arm tighten around your shoulders just a bit too long. You’d catch Remus looking at you like he already knew something you hadn’t said– and it made your stomach turn.

And then one day, it happened.

You walked into the common room. James looked up immediately, like he’d been waiting. Sirius grinned lazily and spread his arms in invitation. Remus tilted his head, soft and steady like always, eyes unreadable.

And your skin crawled.

Something in you recoiled. Hard.

Their faces– all so familiar, all so adored once– felt like too much. Sirius’s grin looked wolfish. James’s brightness looked invasive. Remus’s gaze felt like a mirror you didn’t want to look into.

And suddenly, you couldn’t do it anymore.

The couch where they always made space for you? A trap.

The laughter you once chased? A net.

Their closeness? A wall.

Their eyes? Cages.

You didn’t even realize you were backing away until Remus blinked and said, too gently, “You’re not sitting?”

Your throat dried. You shook your head, murmured something– anything– and walked out.

Their eyes followed you all the way to the door.

...

You didn’t mean to avoid them.

Not at first.

You told yourself it was just a break– a breather. That the discomfort, the suffocation, was temporary. That you’d come back to yourself and it would all feel sweet again. That maybe you were just overwhelmed. Tired.

But the truth was… you couldn’t look at them anymore.

You tried. You did. But Sirius’s smirk made your stomach turn now. James’s bright eyes felt invasive, like he was always watching, waiting. And Remus– Remus with his unreadable calm– he looked at you like he was already ten steps ahead. Like he knew what you were doing. Like he was just letting you play it out.

And that made it worse.

Because you didn’t want to be watched.

You didn’t want to be read like a book.

You didn’t want to be wanted this hard.

It felt like being submerged– like no matter where you turned, you couldn’t come up for air. Their eyes were everywhere. Their presence, even in absence, pressed at you. The common room felt too full. The corridors too loud. The castle too small.

And everything they did now felt wrong.

Sirius’s laugh? Too loud. Too manic.

James’s constant loyalty? Clingy.

Remus’s gaze? Intrusive. Dissecting.

The same hands that once rested on your back like comfort now felt like claims. Their glances once made your cheeks flush with fondness– now they made your skin crawl.

The more they tried, the worse it got.

James cornered you after Transfiguration.

“Hey,” he said, too soft. “Everything okay?”

You forced a smile. “Yeah. Just tired.”

But he didn’t buy it. Of course he didn’t. He looked at you like he was trying to peel the truth out of you.

“I miss you,” he added, voice cracking slightly. “We all do.”

And that– God, that– made your stomach twist into something sharp and bitter.

Because you hadn’t even pulled away all the way yet. And already they were aching for you.

You couldn’t bear it.

You mumbled something– nothing– and escaped.

Sirius found you later. Half-smirk, eyes glinting, still so Sirius it should have felt like home.

“Ghosting us, sweetheart?” he teased, sliding in beside you at the library table, like he hadn’t been haunting your mind for days.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t even look at him.

Because if you did, you knew it would show on your face.

The ick.

The shift.

The sudden, inexplicable desire to push him away. To flinch when he leaned in. To run.

Because his presence– his everything– felt like a trap now. A beautiful one, yes. But a trap nonetheless.

And worst of all?

You hated yourself for it.

You hated how disgusted you felt by the people who had once made you laugh so hard you nearly cried. You hated the way their smiles now read as manipulation. You hated how their kindness felt weaponized. You hated that they hadn’t really done anything wrong– and yet, you wanted to burn the whole thing down.

You didn’t want to talk.

You didn’t want to explain.

You didn’t want to be perceived.

And every time one of them tried to reach you, it made it worse.

You started taking alternate routes to class. Sitting at the edge of the room. Leaving the common room early. Ducking out of conversations. Becoming small. Distant. Detached.

Because if you stayed too long, you'd start shaking with the need to scream:

"Leave me alone. You don’t own me. Stop looking at me like I belong to you."

You couldn’t even find their faces attractive anymore. Sirius’s sharp jaw and James’s broad grin and Remus’s honey-brown eyes– ick. The ick was everywhere. On their hands, on their voices, on their jokes. On their care.

And maybe the worst part was: a tiny part of you still wanted to be held.

But not like that.

Not by them.

Not when it felt like drowning.

...

It was bound to happen. You knew it. You could feel the tension gathering like a storm behind your back.

There were only so many times you could say "I'm just tired" before someone called your bluff.

And unsurprisingly, it was Remus.

He cornered you outside the library, somewhere quiet and tucked away where people didn’t usually linger. Somewhere you couldn't just vanish.

You froze when you saw him.

He didn’t say your name softly, not like James. He didn’t lean in with playful charm, not like Sirius. He just looked at you– sharp and serious, like a professor about to hand back a failed paper.

“I’m not stupid,” he said.

You blinked.

“You’re avoiding us. Me. All of us.”

There it was. Blunt. Flat. Impossible to dodge.

You wanted to run. You really, really did.

But you didn’t.

You stood your ground. And for a moment, you wondered if this was what you’d been waiting for all along. A reason. A break. Someone to put their foot down so you didn’t have to tiptoe anymore.

“I know,” you whispered. “I just… needed space.”

Remus’s jaw tightened. His arms crossed.

“You needed space,” he repeated slowly, like it was a word in a foreign language he didn’t understand. “From what? From people who care about you? Who love you?”

That word– it hit you like a slap.

Love.

You never said that word.

You never asked for it.

It was like they poured it on you without warning. Drenched you in it. And then looked surprised when you couldn't breathe.

“I didn’t ask for any of this,” you murmured, eyes darting away.

Remus’s voice sharpened. “Didn’t you?”

You looked up sharply.

He regretted it the second it left his mouth– you saw it in the flicker of guilt. But he didn’t take it back. Just watched you quietly, waiting.

You bit the inside of your cheek. Hard.

So that’s how it was.

You didn’t get to feel strange, or overwhelmed, or uncomfortable. Because to them, the beginning– the late nights and shared laughter and inside jokes– meant something. And maybe they did to you too. Maybe you had wanted them. At one point.

But now?

Now it felt like they were asking you to carry a boulder you never picked up.

“I liked you,” you said quietly. “All of you. I did.”

Remus didn’t move.

“But it got too much,” you continued. “Too intense. Too fast. I didn’t know how to stop it without feeling like the bad guy.”

The silence between you stretched long and tight.

And then, just as he opened his mouth to speak, the other two showed up.

James and Sirius. Of course.

“Moony, we’ve been looking for– ”

James stopped when he saw your face.

And Sirius? Sirius didn’t say anything. He just looked at you, blinking slow. Expression unreadable.

You wanted to disappear.

“What’s going on?” James asked, voice low and cautious, like he already knew the answer.

“I’m pulling away,” you said.

They all froze.

You said it again, firmer this time. “I’m pulling away. I have been.”

James looked stunned.

Sirius’s mouth twitched– something bitter creeping in.

“Why?” he asked flatly. “Because we liked you too much?”

You swallowed. “Because I felt owned. Watched. Tied down. Like every step I took had to be filtered through how it would affect you. Like I became a mirror instead of a person.”

“That’s not fair,” James said, quietly.

“No,” you agreed. “But it’s how I feel.”

You didn’t need them to understand. You just needed them to know.

And standing there, under the weight of three pairs of eyes– three hearts cracking open– you finally realized what you had been running from.

It wasn’t them.

It was the version of you they loved. The bright one. The affectionate one. The one who always smiled back, who never flinched at closeness.

But you weren’t her anymore. Not to them.

And that version?

She wasn’t coming back.

...

You didn’t cry after you walked away.

You didn’t feel relieved, either.

You just felt… hollow.

It wasn’t like you’d set fire to anything. You hadn’t shouted. You hadn’t accused. You hadn’t been cruel. But it still felt like you’d shattered something sacred. Something that once felt tender and beautiful and safe.

And maybe that was what stung the most.

Because it wasn’t supposed to end like this.

Not in silence. Not with three boys left standing in a corridor, eyes full of questions and hurt and a kind of quiet disbelief. James had looked like he might run after you. Sirius had looked like he wanted to be angry, but couldn’t quite summon the energy. Remus– Remus hadn’t said anything at all. And that silence had hurt worst of all.

You found yourself retracing old patterns.

Avoiding certain halls. Choosing library tables far from the windows. Turning corners with caution. Walking faster, smiling less, vanishing more.

The castle adjusted to your absence the way water accepts a stone– ripples, and then stillness.

But even in stillness, they were everywhere.

You saw James’s scarf draped over a chair and felt your stomach flip. You heard Sirius’s laugh echo down the hallway and flinched like it was thunder. You spotted Remus’s annotated copy of Great Expectations in the study lounge and felt your chest squeeze around something sour and sharp.

You didn’t miss them.

You missed before.

Before the shift. Before the pressure. Before the invisible leash tightened around your neck.

And yet…

You still looked for them.

Out of habit. Out of guilt. Out of some strange, twisted longing for a version of them that didn’t exist anymore. A version that knew when to stop. That didn’t push and smother and cling.

It had been a few days– maybe a week– before any of them approached you again.

And, of course, it was James.

He didn’t corner you. Didn’t crowd. Just sat beside you in the courtyard one crisp afternoon, quietly, like you were strangers again. He didn’t say hi. He didn’t smile.

He just said:

“I’ve been thinking.”

You didn’t look up from your book.

“’Bout what?”

“About how we didn’t ask.”

You blinked.

“We never asked what you wanted,” James said softly, picking at a blade of grass. “We just… liked you. And we kept showing it. Loudly. Constantly.”

Your fingers stilled on the page.

“I didn’t realize it made you feel like you had no room to breathe.”

Your throat tightened.

“And I’m sorry for that.”

You finally looked at him. He wasn’t looking at you.

Just at the sky, like the clouds might give him an answer to everything that had gone wrong.

“You were the best thing that happened to us,” he said. “But we were too greedy with it.”

The words settled in your chest like dust. Not heavy, not painful. Just… present.

“I don’t hate you,” you murmured.

He smiled a little. Sad. “We know.”

“I just needed air.”

James nodded, like he understood now– truly understood– and for the first time in weeks, you felt seen again. Not wanted. Not adored. Just… seen.

And it was enough.

...

Things didn’t go back to the way they were.

Not immediately. Maybe not ever.

There were no dramatic apologies in the rain, no desperate declarations under starlight. No one ran down corridors, panting with love or regret. The world didn’t stop for your grief. It just kept turning– gently, indifferently.

And in that quiet turning, something began to mend.

Not with grand gestures. Not with heavy stares or suffocating closeness. But with a nod in the hallway. A cup of tea left beside your book in the common room. A joke slipped into conversation that didn’t ask you to laugh– just invited you to if you felt like it.

You began to breathe again.

And they let you.

James no longer dropped everything to orbit you. Instead, he passed by, offered a soft “Hey,” and walked on. That space, that freedom– it was oxygen. Sirius, who used to look at you like you were something to devour, started looking at you like you were something to understand. Less fire. More gaze. And Remus– God, Remus– he gave you the most precious thing of all: patience.

You never unlearned the feeling.

Even in that peace, even in the softer way they treated you now– there was always that memory. That subtle dread curled up somewhere in your ribs. A flicker of what if it happens again?

What if their affection grows teeth?

What if they forget how to leave you be?

What if their love turns loud again, hungry again, and you’re back where you started– trying to smile with lungs full of smoke?

You didn’t pretend it wasn’t possible. You didn’t tell yourself, Oh, they’ve changed forever. You didn’t romanticize their restraint like it was some love language.

No.

You carried that knowing like a stone in your pocket– not to weigh you down, but to ground you.

Because you changed.

You stopped being the girl who mistook their intensity for warmth. You stopped thinking attention always meant care. You stopped letting love mean losing yourself.

You didn’t go back to them as the same girl who once swooned under their gaze.

You returned as someone who could say “No.” As someone who could walk away again, if she had to. Someone who would.

That made all the difference.

There were days when you still flinched at too much attention. Days when you saw them laugh together and felt a pang of guilt, as though your honesty had fractured something golden. But more and more, that ache began to feel like… growing pains.

They stopped treating you like a prize.

You stopped treating yourself like a villain.

And slowly, you came back to them– not because you had to, not because they asked– but because you chose to.

You let Sirius walk beside you down to the greenhouses without touching you. You shared tea with Remus again, letting the quiet stretch between you without pressure. And one evening, when the common room was buzzing and your eyes were heavy, James wordlessly offered you his sweater– nothing more.

You took it.

It was soft and warm and smelled like firewood and lavender and a little bit like safety.

Something new was growing in that sweater. In the quiet tea. In the space between footsteps.

Something smaller than love. Gentler.

Not obsession. Not infatuation.

Just care.

The thing about love– real love– is that it doesn’t just live in how someone looks at you.

It lives in how they listen when you say, “That’s too much.” It lives in how they pull back when you need air, even if it bruises them a little to do it.

So no– you didn’t forget.

You remembered everything.

And you still walked back.

Not because you forgot who they were.

But because you knew who you were now.

And you were someone who could leave the moment love tried to hold you too tight.

But this time?

They loved you without holding too tight.

And that’s how you knew it was real.

Regulus Black, younger brother and resident Slytherin consultant, sat cross-legged on a desk, inspecting Sirius's work with barely concealed amusement, nodded solemnly, "Definitely suspicious. Maybe James is into... evil types?"

Sirius froze. Horror dawning.

"Oh my God," he whispered. "James has a villain kink."

Regulus coughed violently to cover his laughter.

"You know," Regulus said, tapping a photo of James talking to Evan Rosier during Potions class, "it could just be classwork."

Sirius scoffed, violently connecting Rosier’s picture to James's with a length of string.

"Open your eyes, Reggie. James hates Potions. And Rosier smells like cabbage. There's no way James is suffering that unless he's involved."

Regulus blinked, a picture of serene innocence. "Of course. Must be a love affair, then."

"Exactly!" Sirius cried, missing the heavy sarcasm entirely. He stabbed the marker at Rosier's photo. "But maybe it’s Mulciber. James did pass him a note in Charms once–"

Regulus arched an eyebrow. "Maybe he’s secretly courting the entire Slytherin house?"

Sirius narrowed his eyes. "Don’t be stupid. James has standards."

Regulus made a thoughtful hum, twisting the silver ring on his finger to hide his smirk.

Meanwhile, James– bless his stupid Gryffindor heart– was probably lurking two corridors down, waiting to drag Regulus into a broom closet and whisper "Did he buy it?" against his mouth.

(Spoiler: Sirius had bought it, paid extra, and tipped the cashier.)

And here Regulus was, actively assisting his brother in hunting down... himself.

Sirius stared at the corkboard like it had personally betrayed him.

"This isn't adding up," he muttered. "We need more evidence. We need–" He snapped his fingers. "–to spy on him!"

Regulus clapped his hands slowly. "Bravo. Very mature."

"I am mature," Sirius said rather proudly, missing the mockery. "And you, little brother, are going to help me."

Regulus sighed, sliding off the desk with the slow grace of a martyr.

"Fine. But when this blows up in your face, don't say I didn't warn you."

"Blow up?" Sirius laughed, throwing an arm around Regulus's shoulders. "Reggie, this is going to be legendary."

Regulus smiled thinly, already planning how best to break the news when– not if– he eventually got caught with his tongue down James' throat.

Legendary indeed.

Fast forward: three hours later.

The corkboard looked like a crime scene.

Regulus had been promoted to "Chief Slytherin Analyst."

Sirius had drawn a diagram titled "James's Possible Lovers" with a graph that included "Snape," "Rosier," "Mulciber," and, alarmingly, "Lucius Malfoy."

("If James is into blondes," Sirius said grimly, "we're all screwed.")

Regulus, at this point, had mentally divorced himself from reality.

And then– oh, and then– Sirius had an idea.

A terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad idea.

He decided they would tail James.

In disguise.

Wearing stupid Muggle sunglasses and trench coats they stole from McGonagall’s lost property closet

...

Sirius: "Keep low. Stay cool. Act natural."

Regulus, deadpan: "We are hiding behind a suit of armor, Sirius."

James, fifteen feet away, secretly dragging Regulus away.

"Oi, Reg, keep a sharp lookout everywhere yea- Reg..?"

Sirius blinked at the empty hallway.

"Wait... where did he go?"

Cue five straight minutes of Sirius running around the castle screaming "REGULUS? REGULUS??" while Regulus and James made out behind a tapestry.

(They were laughing so hard they almost got caught.)

...

It happened on a Tuesday.

Because of course it did. Tuesdays were cursed.

Sirius was tailing James again. (In broad daylight. Wearing a massive floppy sunhat. Looking absolutely deranged.)

He was alone this time– Regulus, the little traitor, had "homework" and "couldn’t make it."

('Suspicious,' Sirius had muttered. 'Snake behavior.')

He gripped his walkie-talkie and whispered into it (Regulus said he would be actively listening in on whatever he reported) "Operation Find James's Secret Slytherin Lover is a go."

Peeking around the corner, Sirius watched James sneak into the abandoned Transfiguration corridor.

Suspicious. Very suspicious.

Sirius crept closer, holding his breath.

And then–

LIKE A SCENE OUT OF A SOAP OPERA SIRIUS WOULD NEVER ADMIT TO WATCHING–

James reached out.

Grabbed someone lurking in the shadows.

And kissed them.

Right there. In the open. Full-on, no-holding-back, hand-in-hair, body-pressed-up-against-the-wall, movie scene kiss.

Sirius’s jaw hit the floor.

"WHO—"

he shrieked.

The “someone” turned their head–

and Sirius saw.

It was Regulus.

His Regulus.

His little brother Regulus.

Sirius made a noise that started somewhere between his toes and ended somewhere in the stratosphere.

"REGULUS?!" he howled.

James broke the kiss, beaming like he’d won first prize at the fair.

Regulus just smirked, lazy and catlike, like he hadn’t just committed literal fratricide.

Sirius pointed between them wildly, as if by moving his hands fast enough he could undo reality.

"YOU–" (James)

"AND YOU–" (Regulus)

"–ARE–" (both of them)

"NO!!"

James snickered. "Surprise, Pads!"

Regulus, perfectly unbothered:

"I told you this would blow up in your face."

Sirius stumbled back like he’d been slapped.

"No. No no no no. WHAT. WHAT. THIS IS ILLEGAL."

Regulus crossed his arms.

"Pretty sure it’s not."

"IT SHOULD BE!"

James slung an arm around Regulus’s shoulders.

"Face it, mate. You’ve been helping us hide it for weeks."

Sirius clutched at the air like he was trying to hold onto his last brain cell.

"You made me– I– you made me build a CONSPIRACY WALL–"

Regulus, expressionless:

"You built that yourself."

James, tilting his head:

"Reg did suggest the 'villain kink' theory, though."

"YOU WHAT?!" Sirius screeched.

Regulus smiled serenely, like a horrible little angel.

"I thought it was funny."

Sirius just crumpled to the floor.

Sat there.

Completely dead inside.

His best mate was dating his baby brother.

His conspiracy board was a lie.

His floppy hat was crooked.

He stared at the ceiling and whispered, brokenly:

"I need a drink."

Regulus patted him on the head condescendingly.

"Good luck with that, you're sixteen."

James laughed so hard he almost collapsed.

...

Later that night:

Sirius set the entire conspiracy board on fire.

(In the Quidditch pitch. At midnight. Crying real tears.)

James and Regulus made out behind the bleachers.

Mission: Complete.

A/n: inspired by this thing I read on pinterest. hope it made you smile like it did me💗

Sirius cracked one eye open. "What do you mean, she's in her room, idiot."

“No– she came here last night! Bad dream, remember?”

In the armchair, where he had been quietly reading (because of course he was), Remus froze. His book slid from his hands.

“When I woke up... she wasn’t here.”

The room went still.

Sirius sat bolt upright, hair sticking in every direction. James' heart hammered painfully against his ribs.

They both scrambled out of bed, knocking into each other and Remus, and tore into Daisy’s room.

Empty.

The tiny pink bed was perfectly made, her stuffed Hippogriff tucked under the covers like it was mocking them.

“Oh fuck,” Sirius whispered.

And then came a run through of the whole house with panicked screams from Sirius and "DAISYYYY MY CHILD??? ARE YOU IN THE PANTRY??". No she was not.

Remus ran a hand through his already messy hair, pacing. "Think. Think. She can’t Apparate– she can barely tie her shoes. Where would she–"

Then they saw it.

A trail of black soot, leading from the living room floo container, across the rugs, into the fireplace.

James went cold. “The Floo.”

"She tried to Floo?" Sirius said, eyes going wild.

The next second, all three of them were elbowing each other out of the way to reach the fireplace.

James grabbed a handful of powder, nearly dropping it in his panic, and flung it into the flames, bellowing the first place that made sense. "The Burrow!"

Green fire roared up, and the familiar cozy kitchen of the Weasley house spun into view– along with a very startled Molly Weasley, who dropped a mixing bowl with a clatter.

She barely had time to open her mouth before all three Marauders practically fell through the fireplace, shouting over each other.

"IS DAISY HERE?!"

"WE LOST HER!"

"CHECK UNDER THE TABLES!"

Molly blinked at them, utterly bewildered. "What– ? No! She’s not here! What do you mean, you lost her?!"

James looked half a second away from fainting. Sirius was already tearing cushions off the couch. Remus checked under the dining table with the wild-eyed desperation of a man hunting for his soul.

Molly, realizing the full scope of the emergency, gasped and clapped her hands sharply. "Fred! George! Ginny! Search the backyard! Bill, go upstairs– look in the attic, look everywhere!"

Like a well-trained army, half the Weasley children shot off in different directions, shouting at each other, a blur of red hair and panicked voices.

Molly rounded back on the Marauders, eyes blazing. "Where was she last seen?! What was she wearing?! Do you have a tracking spell on her– tell me you have a tracking spell on her!"

All three men froze.

"...We were going to get around to that," Sirius said very weakly.

Molly looked like she might murder them herself.

Just then, Fred skidded back into the kitchen, panting. "She's not in the garden! George checked the broom shed– nothing!"

The three men exchanged wide-eyed, white-faced looks.

Remus, voice tight as piano wire, asked, "If she’s not at home and not with you... then where the hell is she?"

CUT TO:

Daisy Potter-Lupin-Black, all of six years old, wandering Diagon Alley with a lollipop in her mouth, completely unbothered.

She pressed her face to every shop window, nose smudging the glass, marveling at the twinkling lights and broom displays, smiling a wide mouthful of gappy, missing teeth at every suspicious-looking adult who dared glance her way.

Absolutely living her best life.

...

Back at home, chaos reigned.

James was already halfway into the fireplace, Sirius was pacing a trench into the carpet, and Remus was muttering things that sounded suspiciously like complicated death threats– and not even in English anymore.

"Diagon Alley," James barked suddenly. "We know she's obsessed with the sweet shop there–"

"And the owlery!" Sirius added frantically, grabbing his jacket.

"Alrightyy, here we go– mission: locate Daisy," Remus muttered grimly, heart racing fast.

They practically fell into the Floo, shouting, "Diagon Alley!" and tumbling out the other end like panicked clowns.

...

Meanwhile:

Daisy was having the best morning of her life.

She had already successfully:

- Convinced a group of third-year Hogwarts students she was lost (they bought her a pumpkin pasty and then immediately lost her again).

- Pet three illegal magical creatures.

- Attempted to shoplift a Fanged Frisbee (got caught, flashed her biggest innocent smile, and got a discount instead).

She was currently sitting on the curb outside Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlor, swinging her legs and eating a triple-scoop sundae the size of her head.

THAT'S when she spotted them.

Her dads.

Barrelling down the street like three very distressed, very dangerous-looking thunderstorms.

"Daisy Potter-Black-Lupin!" James bellowed loud enough to rattle the windows.

People turned. Owls scattered. Shopkeepers peered put nervously.

Daisy calmly took another spoonful of ice cream.

Sirius skidded to a stop in front of her, dropping to his knees, clutching her shoulders like he was checking for mortal wounds.

"ARE YOU OKAY?! DID SOMEONE TAKE YOU?! DID SOMEONE TOUCH YOU? DO I NEED TO KILL SOMEBODY?!" he shouted in one breath.

"I'm fine," Daisy said serenely, licking her spoon. "I wanted ice cream."

James stumbled up next, nearly crying. "Baby, you scared the bloody hell out of us–"

"Language," Remus snapped automatically, appearing beside them, eyes wild, hair a mess.

Daisy blinked up at them, utterly unbothered. "I left a note."

There was a beat of stunned silence.

"You– you left a note," Remus repeated faintly.

"Yeah," Daisy said proudly. "On the fridge."

Another beat.

"But... you can’t write?" Remus said weakly.

James groaned and buried his face in Sirius' shoulder.

Remus looked like he might actually sit down and weep right there on the cobblestones.

Sirius, ever the dramatic one, threw his hands to the heavens and declared, "We have raised a menace to society."

Daisy just smiled sweetly and offered him a bite of her ice cream.

...

Just as Remus was trying to pull himself together and James was dramatically mumbling about how he was going to need a blood replenishing potion after this, the fireplace inside the ice cream parlor flared violently green.

And out stepped Regulus Black, looking crisp, cold, and extremely judgmental.

He dusted imaginary soot off his immaculate robes, gave a sniff of disdain at the chaos before him, and said coolly,

"I was told there was an emergency involving my god-daughter."

His sharp grey eyes landed on Daisy, happily swinging her legs and still munching her triple-scoop sundae, completely unconcerned by the three frantic men practically collapsed around her.

Regulus blinked.

Once. Twice.

Then he slowly turned his head toward his brother and said, deadpan, "You're all idiots."

James let out a wounded gasp. "We were worried about our DAUGHTER, Reg! She could have been kidnapped!"

"Eaten by a dragon!" Sirius added dramatically.

"Or arrested for grand larceny," Remus grumbled darkly, eyeing the mischievous glint in Daisy’s eye.

Regulus looked skyward, clearly questioning whatever deity had burdened him with such ridiculous family members, before he crouched neatly in front of Daisy.

"You," he said, voice sharp and smooth as a dagger. "Why did you attempt to floo to my home at seven in the morning?"

Daisy beamed at him. "I wanted to show you my drawing!"

She pulled a very crumpled, slightly melted piece of parchment out of her pocket. It was a stick-figure drawing of Regulus (labeled Uncle Reg) holding hands with her (labeled Daisy Best Girl Ever) in front of a massive ice cream cone. All incorrectly spelled.

For a terrifying second, nobody moved.

Not even the air dared stir.

Then–

Regulus' face twitched. The tiniest twitch.

A barely-there crack in his pristine, emotionless exterior.

"...I see," he said stiffly, taking the melted picture with two fingers like it was the most precious royal decree.

James made a noise that suspiciously sounded like an awwwwww.

"You're grounded," Regulus announced coolly.

"You can't ground our daughter!" Sirius squawked.

"She's OUR daughter," James added indignantly.

Regulus ignored them all. He lifted Daisy effortlessly off the curb, wiped a bit of ice cream off her nose with a handkerchief, and said, "Come. I will buy you another sundae before these three incompetents faint from stress."

Daisy squealed happily and hugged his neck.

Meanwhile, the Marauders stood blinking in the street, completely forgotten.

"...Did our daughter just ditch us for Regulus?" Remus asked faintly.

"Yes," Sirius said, voice hollow.

"And betrayed us for more ice cream," James added, equally hollow.

There was a long, solemn pause.

Then all three men nodded gravely at once.

"Respect," said Sirius.

"Respect," agreed James.

"Respect," finished Remus.

They dusted themselves off, resigned to their fate, and trudged into the ice cream parlor after their tiny, fearless traitor.

Something in your chest curls, not angry. Just… there.

You clear your throat. He looks up. “There you are,” he says, voice lighter than you feel, like nothing is out of place. “You alright?”

You nod. “Fine.”

“Come here.”

You don’t move.

Lily stands then, brushing off her coat. She nods at you on the way out, and you nod back. Polite. Distant.

James stands too, but you’ve already walked past him.

Sirius and Remus are in the kitchen. Sirius is half-asleep on a stool with his head tipped back, and Remus is making tea for everyone like he always does. Like putting the kettle on is the only magic left that always works.

“You’re not bleeding, are you?” Remus asks without looking, eyes on the steam curling up from the pot.

“No. I’m okay.”

“You look like shit,” Sirius mumbles, his voice hoarse and fond.

You shrug. “I’m tired.”

“We’ll get you home soon, dove,” Remus says, and that’s when the words leave your mouth without warning:

“I think I’ll go back to my flat tonight.”

The silence is sharp.

Sirius lifts his head, and Remus turns fully to you. “Why?”

You flinch, hating the immediate suspicion in Remus’ tone, the edge of worry.

“I’m just tired,” you say quickly. “I haven’t been home in a while. It’s not a big deal.”

Sirius slides off the stool. “But you’re always tired. That’s why you come with us. So you don’t have to– what? Go home to your cold flat and eat toast over the sink? No offense, sweetheart, but we’ve seen that horror show.”

You laugh weakly, and it almost tricks you into thinking this’ll pass.

“I just want some space tonight.”

They share a look. You hate when they do that– like they’re reading a page you’ve never been allowed to see.

“Did something happen?” Remus asks.

You shake your head. “No.”

You’re too old to be jealous. Too sure of them to doubt what you have. But that doesn’t erase what you saw earlier– the way James still leans toward Lily out of instinct. The way his smile softens for her in a way you used to watch happen across the Gryffindor common room. The way he used to orchestrate grand schemes with full backing from Sirius and a wary eye-roll from Remus just to get her to say yes to one Hogsmeade date.

He never did that for you.

You don’t say any of that.

You just say, “I’ll owl in the morning.”

“Love,” Sirius says gently, “you don’t have to—”

“I know. I want to.”

You’re already slipping your coat on before they can stop you. Remus watches you closely, brow creased. Sirius looks like he wants to argue, but something in your face must keep him quiet.

James appears in the kitchen doorway just as you’re buttoning up.

“Where’re you going?”

You glance up. “My flat.”

He frowns. “Why?”

“Tired.”

“I’ll come with you,” he offers immediately, and that– that– nearly does you in. Because that’s what James does. He follows you. He checks in. He makes sure you’re okay. You know he loves you. But part of you still remembers the way he used to shout his love for Lily across the Quidditch pitch. Used to sign his initials next to hers on every spare scrap of parchment. Used to say she was the only girl for him, always had been.

And you wonder, not bitterly but truthfully, if there’s a small corner of him that will always be seventeen and looking for her in every room.

“It’s okay,” you say softly. “Stay. I’ll be fine.”

They’re standing in front of you like they don’t know where they went wrong.

You wish they knew.

Because you're tired. Because all night, while they fought and bled and cast spells beside you, you were fine. But then you looked up and saw James sitting with Lily in the corner of that room like there was a world between them you’d never step into. He wasn’t flirting, wasn’t teasing. He was laughing with her. Soft and familiar. Quiet.

The kind of laugh you used to dream he’d share with you. Before this– before them.

He still looked like the boy who carved her initials on the edge of his Transfiguration textbook. You don’t even think he realized it.

So yeah, maybe you’re selfish for needing space. Maybe you’re not supposed to care. But God, you do.

And then you leave.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” you say, and it sounds final.

...

Your flat is too quiet.

Not in the peaceful way, not in the candlelight-and-book kind of way. It’s the sort of quiet that feels like it’s pressing into your ears, like it wants to drown something out.

You toss your coat on the back of the couch. It slips off. You don’t bother picking it up.

It’s not even midnight when you crawl into bed, but you’re wide awake.

The kettle squeals too loud when it’s ready. You pour a cup of tea and forget about it on the kitchen counter. You light a candle in the bathroom for some ambiance, then blow it out five minutes later because the smell is too sweet.

Your pillow smells like your shampoo, which is strange– because you’ve been sleeping in their bed for weeks now, and it always smells like them there. The faint musk of Remus’ cologne, the hint of Sirius’ smoke and leather, James’ too-sweet hair products that you secretly love.

Here, it’s just you.

You let yourself spiral a little. Just for a bit. Not bitterness, no. You don’t resent them.

You just think of Lily.

Not because you hate her– you don’t. You really, really don’t. She’s kind, strong, brilliant. She’s the type of girl you would’ve wanted to be like in school. You remember the way she used to look at James like he was being ridiculous, and how that only made him more ridiculous. You remember how everyone knew– everyone– that James Potter was in love with Lily Evans. It was a running joke.

And now, watching them talk again, years later, something inside you flickered to life. Not a flame. Just an old lightbulb clicking back on.

You wonder if there’s a part of James that still sees her the way he did when he was fifteen, seventeen, nineteen. If she still holds the same kind of gravity for him.

And if he even realizes how much that makes you feel like an afterthought.

So you stay quiet the whole next day. You don’t respond to their owls. You don’t go to the safehouse. You don’t check in with the Order or leave your flat or even change out of your sleep shirt. You ignore the knock on your door at noon, and the tapping at your window at three. You lie in bed with your arms wrapped around your own waist and press your nose into the pillow, even though it doesn’t smell like them.

You hold your breath when dusk creeps in. You don’t want them to come again.

You do.

...

Your flat is cold and too quiet. You sit on the kitchen counter in your socks and drink leftover wine from the bottle.

You scroll through old photos– one of Sirius making a dumb face, Remus half-asleep on a bench, James pressed against your side with his smile wide and unfiltered.

And maybe it's not about Lily. Maybe it's about the way no one ever asked you if it hurt.

Because it does.

Even if you love them. Even if they love you back.

And God, sometimes that feels like not being chosen at all.

Because you never got grand gestures or fireworks. You just got folded in.

...

They don’t come that night, and for that, you’re grateful. You crawl into bed late, still wearing your jumper, face warm from the wine and eyes a little heavy with sleep that doesn’t come easy.

It’s not until the next morning– bright, cloudless, and far too cruel– that you hear the knock.

You stay frozen on your sofa for a minute. The knock comes again.

And then, a voice. “Dove?”

Sirius. Quiet. Hesitant.

You sigh and let them in.

All three are there: Remus holding a paper bag like it might soften his presence, Sirius with that cut above his brow finally scabbing over, James with his hair still damp from a too-fast shower.

The flat feels too small for them suddenly. You wish you hadn’t left that blanket on the floor.

James speaks first. “Did we– did something happen?”

You watch him fidget with the sleeve of his jumper. He looks worried. You hate that your silence did that.

But you nod. “Yeah. Sort of.”

James’s expression shifts, like he’s trying to solve an equation he’s missing variables for. He steps inside without asking, like always, but it feels different now– like he’s uncertain about his place.

You don’t blame him.

Remus sets the paper bag on your counter. It smells like coffee and something sweet, and for a second you want to cry, because of course he remembered the cinnamon rolls you like.

You don’t say thank you. You just sit.

They do too, slowly. Sirius crouches in front of you, long legs folding awkwardly, fingers twitching like he wants to reach for your knee but won’t.

James stays standing. You think he can’t bear to look at you sitting like that– so quiet and unlike yourself.

Remus is the one who finally asks, “Was it about the other night?”

You nod again, slower this time.

James sinks onto the arm of the sofa, hands clasped between his knees. “Was it– was it me?”

You don't know how to answer that without hurting him.

So you say, “It wasn’t just you.”

They’re all quiet. Not defensive. Not pushing. Just… waiting.

Your throat tightens. You don’t want to make it a thing. You’re not jealous. Not really. You’re not angry either.

“I just–” you start, then stop. You’re not sure what the right words are. “Sometimes I feel like I’m walking in on something that already existed before me. Something stronger.”

Sirius frowns. “You’re not an outsider.”

“I know,” you say quickly, almost too quickly. “I know. I don’t feel like that. Not usually.”

Remus shifts closer, elbows on his knees, voice careful. “But something last night made you feel... off.”

You nod, cheeks heating. “I saw you three, and I saw Lily. And it just– I don’t know. It just settled weird. It reminded me of who you were before this. Before me.”

James leans forward, brow creased. “But that’s just it, isn’t it? That’s before. This–” He gestures, broad and clumsy. “This is now.”

You offer him a small, tired smile. “I know that too.”

“But it still hurts,” Sirius finishes, like he’s only just understood. He reaches out, this time placing a hand on your shin. It’s grounding. Warm.

“I don’t want more,” you say quietly. “I don’t want big things. I don’t even want different. It’s just– sometimes it hits me weird. I can’t always predict it.”

You let out a soft breath and tuck your knees up, arms wrapped loosely around them. “It’s like… I know I’m here. I know you want me. But sometimes, when something echoes from before– when I see something old and soft between you and someone else, or when a memory walks into the room before I do– I get caught in the middle of it. And it’s not jealousy, not exactly. I just feel like I’m watching something I was never part of. Something you might go back to.”

That part makes Sirius flinch.

And James– his whole face folds. Not in guilt, but in this almost aching realization. Like he’s only just now understood what you’ve been carrying.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice gone thick. “No. No, love, we’re not walking back into anything.”

“I know,” you whisper. “I do. It’s just… the past feels louder some days. Last night, it was like I couldn’t unsee all those years you spent chasing something else. I don’t want to be ungrateful for what we have now, but I still remember.”

Remus leans in, his voice steady and warm. “That makes sense. Really. You’re not ungrateful for having feelings. You’re human.”

Sirius rubs a thumb along your leg, slow and steady. “You’re allowed to carry old feelings. Even ones that sting a bit. We’re not expecting you to be untouched by all of it.”

James speaks again, quieter this time. “I loved Lily in the way you love an idea. I was a boy and she was… shiny. And kind. And just out of reach. It was about the chase more than anything real. You–” he swallows. “You’re real. You’re here. I chose this.”

You meet his eyes. You think you believe him. Maybe not completely, not yet. But it helps.

They don’t ask for more from you. No reassurance. No fixing. They just stay.

And that’s what you needed, really.

Not to be chased.

Just to be seen.

You close your eyes and nod, once, sharp and small, like it’s all you can manage without breaking.

Then you feel arms wrap around you– Remus on one side, Sirius on the other, and James still hesitant until you shift just enough for him to lean in too. He doesn’t crush you in a hug– he leans into you, like he needs to make sure you’re real.

You let your head rest against his chest. His heartbeat is fast.

It’s quiet. The kind of silence that feels like safety.

No one needs to.

No one asks you to explain any further.