saturn

bf¡judebellingham gets ridiculously competitive over the dumbest things. whether it’s board games, mini golf, mario kart, or rock-paper-scissors. he swears he’s “having fun” and “doesn’t care that you won” right before spending twenty minutes explaining why he technically won.

bf¡judebellingham can’t handle himself when you wear his jersey’s to his games, around the house, events, or just a simple outing. he will always pull you to the side and smother you in kisses, telling you how much he loves you and how beautiful you look.

bf¡judebellingham is always praising you, not only in the bedroom, but in public too. he’ll always say things like “that’s my girl ”, “i knew you could do it”, or “there you go.”

bf¡judebellingham loves your boobs. he’ll come up behind you and give them a little squeeze whenever you’re around the house. his favorite thing to do is to kiss them and lay on your chest.

bf¡judebellingham loves taking candid photos of you. the ones where you’re laughing too hard, looking out a car window, or concentrating on something. those are his favorites, and his camera roll is full of them.

bf¡judebellingham keeps screenshots of your texts. especially the sweet ones. he’ll never admit it, but on bad days he’ll scroll through old messages just to make himself smile.

bf¡judebellingham has a habit of calling you the second something exciting or good happens. good game? calling you. funny story from training? calling you. new movie coming out? calling you. you’re always the first person he wants to tell everything to.

bf¡judebellingham has a habit of looking over at you whenever something funny happens. before he laughs, before he reacts, he’s checking to see if you’re laughing too.

bf¡judebellingham never lets you carry heavy bags by yourself. you’ll reach for them, and somehow they’re already in his hands before you can even argue.

bf¡judebellingham loves teasing you. he’ll mispronounce your favorite song lyrics on purpose or dramatically tell stories wrong just to watch you get annoyed and correct him.

bf¡judebellingham always saves you the last bite of whatever he’s eating. even if it’s his favorite food. he’ll casually slide the plate toward you like it isn’t a big deal.

bf¡judebellingham loves lazy days with you more than fancy dates. staying in, ordering food, watching movies, and doing absolutely nothing together is honestly one of his favorite ways to spend time.

bf¡judebellingham gets extra nervous when you’re around his family because they always pamper you and spill his childhood secrets and old habits.

bf¡judebellingham loves giving you flowers every week, he changes up the days each time so you aren’t expecting it. he’ll always follow it up with your favorite snacks or a cute bag you’ve been wanting.

bf¡judebellingham hates that you love rollercoasters. they’re his biggest fear, but he forces himself to get over it so you can be happy. and he also never complains about going on them and does not make excuses as to why he shouldn’t ride one.

-

jude wasn’t trying to be weird about it, but he sat on the edge of the hotel bed scrolling through his phone. it was something that had started months ago by accident.

he unlocked his notes app one day while waiting for a team meeting to start and he wrote down something funny you said one day, the way you’d been sitting across from him at lunch with that adorable look on your face, and a conversation you two had about pigeons working for the cia.

he laughed quietly to himself at all those memories, so he’d written it down. he typed out the sentence and saved it, he thought that would’ve been the end of it.

except then you said something else, he remembered another conversation a few days later, and then another silly comment you made earlier in the week and eventually that one note became twenty. he scrolled through the growing list, turning the twenty into fifty.

then, somehow it became an entire collection of things that reminded him of you and silly things you’d say and do.

he wrote down things like your drink order, the fact that you always stole his fries but never ordered your own, the way you tapped your fingers against a table whenever you were excited before saying something, and the face you made when you were trying not to laugh.

unfortunately for jude, you discovered it completely by accident.

you were sat beside him on the couch one afternoon and he had left his phone unlocked while grabbing a drink from the kitchen.

you reached for the phone because it kept lighting up. you weren’t trying to snoop, you were just curious.

you saw it was just the madrid group chat, but when you swiped up you noticed he left off on the notes app.

things i don’t want to forget

your eyebrows furrowed slightly and your curiosity immediately won. you tapped the screen before thinking twice. the note opened, your eyes widened slightly.

the first thing you read made you smile, it was about a time he had surprised you with a date night, then you tucked your legs beneath you.

the second made you laugh, you covered your mouth, reading about the time he fell into the pool and you tried helping him out, only to slip and fall yourself.

the third one made your heart do something flip. your gaze lingered on the screen, it was specific things you had said over the years about wedding rings.

you were still reading when jude walked back into the room. he carried two drinks in his hands, and froze instantly when he saw you on his phone.

you looked up slowly, your lips parted. he looked at his phone, then back up at you, complete horror crossed his face.

you looked back down at the screen, your smile growing.

he immediately set the drinks down, and moved faster than you’d ever seen. “give me that.” he lunged toward the couch.

you dodged him easily, scooting backward with the phone clutched against your chest.

“jude.” you stared at him in, enjoying his cute embarrassment.

“don’t read that.” he reached for the phone again, his eyes pleading.

“why is there a list called ‘things i don’t want to forget’?” you laughed softly.

“because i was clearly going through something and just wanted memories to make me laugh.” he buried his face in his hands.

you ignored him, and continued to scroll, causing jude to groan loudly as he dropped onto the couch beside you.

your eyes landed on another text, the way she always checks if everyone got home safely.

you glanced at him, you felt your chest warm, but you laughed at the fact he was refusing to make eye contact with you and his ears were turning red.

you looked back at the screen, your heart continued melting, when she gets excited she talks with her hands.

she always gives me the blue gummy bears because she knows they’re my favorite

she says goodnight even if we argued earlier and i’m off somewhere training.

none of them were huge moments, or core memories in your relationship that you’d both bring up constantly. they were moments you didn’t even realize he’d noticed which made you feel ten times more flattered.

finally you locked the phone and looked over. you turned toward him on the couch.

jude still hadn’t looked at you, he stared firmly at the opposite wall.

“you wrote all of those?” your voice came out quieter than before.

“unfortunately.” he rubbed the back of his neck.

jude finally looked over, his expression still the same embarrassed one as earlier. “it’s not weird.” he defended himself immediately.

“i didn’t say it was.” you shifted closer, giggling.

“you were about to.” he narrowed his eyes, accusingly.

“i was not gonna.” you shook your head.

he looked unconvinced, he folded his arms over his chest, silently throwing a fit. then, you leaned over and kissed his cheek. your hand rested lightly against his muscular arm.

“that’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for me.” you looked at him softly, “thank you.”

his entire face lit up, the embarrassed look gone and replaced with a grin that spread across his face, his eye crinkling at the corners a bit.

you handed his phone back, standing up from the couch, “and by the way, i still think i’m right about the pigeons.”

-

“…the hell,” you whispered to yourself, still raspy and pouty from sleep.

You dragged yourself out of bed, an oversized t-shirt swallowing your body, hair a little messy and steps wobbly. The apartment was dark, the faint hum of the fridge the only sound. And then—

Clink.

The soft sound of a spoon tapping something. You squinted toward the kitchen.

And there he was.

Anton, your sweet, sweet boy, standing by the counter with a glass of water and a tub of yogurt, shirtless in those grey sweats — the ones you swore he wore on purpose when he wanted to ruin your night’s peace. His hair was messy, like he’d been running his hands through it, his eyes still puffy with sleep.

You stared.

You always stared.

And then you moved, padding across the floor until you were behind him. You wrapped your arms around his waist from the back, face pressing between his shoulder blades with a soft little sigh.

He froze for a second. And then you felt the way his back shook with a quiet chuckle.“Couldn’t sleep without me, huh?”

his voice was husky, slow, laced in that late-night softness that made you melt every time.

“I woke up and you were gone,” you mumbled into his skin, already frowning. “Not cute. I was cold.”

He turned around slowly in your arms,

and his hands found your waist immediately — warm, big palms running lazy circles on the small of your back.

“I didn’t wanna wake you,” he said gently, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “You looked so cute sleeping.”

You hugged him tighter, burying yourself into his chest. “Let’s go back to bed.”

He chuckled softly, letting you hold him like he was the blanket you’d been missing. His arms circled your waist again, pulling you in with this slow, sleepy strength that always felt so secure — like you could fall asleep standing up in his arms and it’d still be the safest place in the world.

“I was literally gone for 10 minutes,” he whispered into your hair.

“Too long,” you mumbled back. “Missed you.”

You felt his smile against your scalp, and he kissed your head, a little longer this time. “You’re so clingy when you’re sleepy.”

“Am not,” you grumbled, already burrowing further into him.

“You are,” he laughed gently, “but I like it.”

You were quiet for a moment, just letting yourself melt into his chest — the steady beat of his heart, the heat of his bare skin under your palms. His hand rubbed slow circles into your lower back, like he was trying to memorize the curve of you all over again.

And then, out of nowhere—

“Wait… why are you shirtless?” you suddenly asked, brows furrowing as you pulled back to look at him. “Isn’t it cold?”

He blinked, deadpan. “…You always steal the blanket.”

You gasped. “That’s not true—!”

“It is. I literally woke up freezing,” he said, fake serious. “You had all the covers wrapped around you like a sushi roll.”

You laughed — a sleepy, snorty giggle that made his heart do flips. And then your fingers brushed down his abs, featherlight. Not for any reason. Just… touch.

“Well, I’ll keep you warm now,” you said with a pout, reaching up to kiss his jaw — then his cheek — then the tip of his nose.

He blinked slowly, the tips of his ears pinking.

“…You’re not gonna let me eat my yogurt, are you.”

“Nope,” you said, all smug and clingy, tugging him back toward the bedroom by the waistband of his sweats. “You can have breakfast in the morning. Right now I need cuddles. Urgently.”

“Yes ma’am,” he sighed playfully — but there was no resistance.

Back under the covers, he tangled his legs with yours, pressed his chest to your back, and whispered, “Is this better?” against your neck.

You just hummed, half-asleep already.

“Best boyfriend ever,” you mumbled, and he smiled so hard it hurt.

He kissed your shoulder — and finally, finally let himself fall back asleep, now that his favorite girl was warm in his arms again.

And then, inevitably, there are the ones who stay. The ones who take root. Friends who become fixtures in our hours, our patterns, our very way of moving through the world. These are the companions who anchor us, shape us, and sometimes save us.

But of all the categories of human interaction, the most treacherous—by far the most damaging—are those who fall into that final, cruel compartment: the ones we spend a great deal of time loving, and even longer trying to forget.

Unfortunately for you, there are not one but two such individuals who haunt that particular category. 

The first is your mother, a woman of remarkable cruelty and unrelenting spite, whose presence in your life has left wounds no healing spell has yet managed to erase. Her voice remains embedded in the back of your mind, an echo that resurfaces in moments of quiet, and most especially in moments of fear. 

She is, by all accounts, what one might imagine the devil would send if he himself were otherwise detained.

And then there is Regulus Black.

Your ex-lover.

He occupied your heart for six brief months, and has plagued your memory for over a year since. In the hierarchy of harm, he should rank second; he did not raise you, did not abuse you, did not imprison you in your own home. 

And yet, in certain hours of the night, it is his name that claws to the surface first, his voice that revisits you in your dreams, not with cruelty—but with absence. With silence. With the terrible emptiness of what might have been.

You do not know which wound is more exhausting: the one left by the mother you were born to, or the one left by the boy who told you he loved you and then disappeared so thoroughly it felt like grief. 

What you do know is that you have, at the very least, escaped one of them. Your mother is not here. Hogwarts, for all its horrors, is mercifully free of her presence.

Regulus, however, is another matter entirely.

You see him no fewer than three times a day. Sometimes across the Great Hall, his expression unreadable beneath the sweep of dark hair. Sometimes in the library, hunched over his parchment with the same precision he used to study you. 

And sometimes—like now—you find him walking directly toward you, claiming proximity with the casual grace of someone who does not feel the ground shift beneath your feet when he appears.

He is here for a book. That is all. A book Remus happens to have tucked under his arm. The corridor is quiet, the class bell not yet rung. You had been mid-conversation with Remus, about Arithmancy of all things, when you felt the air change.

You did not need to look to know it was him.

And yet, of course, you did.

Now he stands before you, perfectly composed, as if he does not know the state of your hands, the sudden sweat on your palms, the weight in your chest. 

As if you are no more significant to him than any other girl waiting beside her friend. As if he has not occupied every corner of your memory for the past twelve months.

“Lupin,” he says, his voice smooth and quiet, carrying just enough weight to command attention without raising its volume. “You still have that copy of Magical Theory I lent you last month?”

Remus adjusts the strap of his bag. “I do,” he replies, with an expression that flickers between casual politeness and something more watchful. “Was wondering if you’d ever come for it.”

“I meant to earlier,” Regulus says. “Life interfered.”

His eyes shift momentarily toward you, too fleeting to be called a glance, scarcely more than a subtle movement. 

Yet somehow, it ignites a warmth within you. You lower your gaze to the floor, as though it might provide a refuge from the weight of that silent acknowledgement.

Remus reaches into his bag and withdraws the book. “Here,” he says. “Try not to annotate the margins next time. Some of us actually care what the author meant.”

Regulus takes the book with a quiet nod. “Noted.”

You wait until he turns the corner before your shoulders finally drop, teeth clenched so tightly your jaw begins to ache. 

You exhale harshly through your nose, then turn on your heel, your shoes hitting the stone floor with unforgiving purpose.

“This is ridiculous,” you mutter, storming ahead, your robes flaring behind you. “Why the hell is he everywhere I go?”

Remus hurries after you, a half-confused, half-amused expression tugging at his mouth. “Is it my fault Regulus wanted a bloody book?”

“Oh, don’t act innocent,” you snap, grabbing his sleeve and pulling him down a side corridor. “Why are you even talking to him?”

He blinks in surprise. “Because he’s at Hogwarts, in the same school, studying in the same halls and library? I am not twelve, severing ties as if cutting a frayed thread. Some connections persist whether we want them to or not.”

You stop short. “Well, you are breaking the biggest girl code ever.”

Remus blinks, confused. “Pardon? Girl what?”

“You heard me. Girl code.”

He raises a brow. “I’m not even a girl!”

“You’re gay!” you fire back without missing a beat. “Girl code applies.”

He throws his head back and laughs, hand over his chest as if you have just confessed your undying love. “I cannot believe this is happening.”

You glare. “You are not supposed to associate with your friend’s ex. Especially when he’s an emotionally constipated bastard who left me without a single decent explanation. What’s next? You going to lunch with him and chatting about his new broomstick?”

“I’m sorry!” he says, still chuckling. “But in all seriousness, you’re acting like he cursed your name into a grave.”

“Remus,” you hiss, pulling him closer by the edge of his robe. “You don’t get it. Every time I think I’m okay, every time I’m having a semi-decent day, he appears. He just slinks in like some bloody ghost and ruins everything.”

“You hate him that much?”

“I hate that he’s still here. I hate that I spent six months giving everything to someone who couldn’t give me one sentence of honesty in return!”

There’s a long pause. Remus watches you carefully now, the humor softening into something gentler.

“You know,” he says quietly, “it bothers you that he doesn’t look bothered.”

You freeze.

“That’s what this is,” he goes on, his voice not unkind. “You’re mad because he ended it, and he walks around like he doesn’t regret it.”

You scoff, though it sounds brittle in your throat. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve moved on.”

“Have you?”

“I have,” you say, too quickly. “He ended things because of his own issues or whatever, which, by the way, he never even told me about. Just decided I didn’t need to know, like I wasn’t worth the effort.”

Remus sighs, eyes flicking toward the stained glass window at the end of the corridor. “He didn’t think he could make you stay.”

“I would’ve stayed,” you whisper.

“I know,” he replies. “But Regulus doesn’t believe anyone stays.”

You feel something hot sting the backs of your eyes, but you blink it away. 

You’ve cried enough over Regulus Black to fill every basin in the castle.

“Well,” you say, lifting your chin, “he was wrong, because now I’m gone. And this time, I’m the one who’s staying gone.”

“Well,” Remus began, his tone far too casual for your liking, “I’m afraid I must tell you that you do share a class with Regulus Black. Defense Against the Dark Arts, to be precise.”

You blink slowly, dread blooming like a headache. “I feel like this entire week has been designed to ruin me.”

Remus offered a small nod, watching as you turned and made your way toward your classroom. You exchanged a brief glance, an unspoken understanding passing between you, before each of you vanished into the corridors leading to your separate lessons.

The classroom is already half-full by the time you arrive. Pandora catches your eye and gestures to the seat beside her near the front. You gratefully accept and settle in. 

Moments later, the chair behind you scrapes against the floor, and without needing to turn, you know who it is. Of course it is him. Regulus Black. The universe never misses an opportunity to mock you.

The professor strides into the room with a quiet authority, his robes flowing behind him as he surveys the class.

“Wands out,” he commands without preamble. “Today we continue our practice of spell deflection and countering dark magic. If you failed to revise over the weekend, I advise you remain silent and take diligent notes. This lesson will be entirely practical.”

A few students murmur in quiet protest. You share a brief glance with Pandora, who offers a small, knowing smile.

Pairs are assigned swiftly. Pandora finds herself paired with Dorcas, while you are left with a boy whose uncertain grip on his wand betrays his inexperience, as if he cannot quite discern which end poses the true danger. 

The duel begins with harmless exchanges. Spells burst into vivid flashes of light, Protego charms shimmer and ripple like liquid glass, and stunning spells bounce in practiced arcs. 

You move through the motions with practiced detachment—cast, block, repeat—finding solace in the rhythm that dulls the edges of your anxiety. Your partner flinches at every near miss but perseveres. 

Gradually, you settle into a steady cadence, grateful for the distraction it provides from the presence a few feet behind you: Regulus Black, undoubtedly observing your every move with an inscrutable gaze.

And then something shifts.

It happens so fast you almost miss it — a wand flicks too hard across the room, a shield charm is cast too late. A spell that was meant to be redirected suddenly veers off its original path. 

It slices through the air with a sound that’s too loud, too sharp. The kind of sound magic makes when it goes wrong.

You see it out of the corner of your eye. A bolt of deep violet light, spiraling toward you in a jagged line. 

Before you can react, it hits.

The curse slams into your side like a live wire. You stagger backward, your wand slipping from your fingers as your entire left side lights up with blinding heat. 

Your shoulder crashes into the desk behind you. The air tears from your lungs.

There’s a split second of silence before the chaos.

You collapse to your knees. The floor feels far too cold beneath your palms. A ragged breath escapes you, but it catches halfway. 

Pain spreads through your ribs like someone’s carving fire through them, sharp and hot and crawling beneath your skin. You press a hand to your side and it comes away wet.

Red, bright, and vivid red.

Your name rings out, repeated more than once, but the sound feels distant, muffled, as if heard from beneath water.

“Do not move!” the professor’s voice commands, cutting sharply through the noise. You flinch at the sudden intensity. “Everyone, step back.”

Yet before the room can obey, firm hands grasp your shoulders—steady, anchoring. For a moment, you believe it to be Pandora, but then a gentler touch brushes your hair aside, and your name is spoken once more, quieter this time, urgent.

The world around you bursts into chaos.

Voices rose in panic. Footsteps thundered against the stone floor. The professor’s sharp commands cut through the chaos, urgent calls for help echoing around you.

You curled on the cold floor, your side burning with a fierce, unyielding pain.

Hands reached for you hesitantly, some too firm, others too gentle. Shadows flickered in the candlelight as the heat and noise closed in—too much, too close.

And suddenly, your mind is no longer in the classroom.

You are nine years old again, backed into the far corner of the drawing room. The wallpaper is peeling. The curtains are drawn. The air smells like ash and liquor and old perfume. 

Your mother’s voice is a velvet snarl, sweet and poisonous. Her wand is steady, raised like a promise, and you are not fast enough to run this time.

The spell hits your shoulder. You remember the way it felt—the tearing heat, the way your skin split without bleeding, the way she looked bored as you screamed. 

You remember the way no one came.

Back in the present, your chest heaves. The pain in your side is spreading, but it is nothing compared to the one cracking open inside your skull. 

You shove at the hands reaching for you and hear yourself cry out. 

“Get off me,” you sob, though no one is holding you anymore.

You clutch your side with trembling hands, shaking your head, rocking forward, trying to escape a memory you cannot outrun.

“She is in shock,” someone says, far away and echoing.

“I need everyone to back away,” the professor’s voice cuts through the haze, sharp and commanding. “Now!”

You are sobbing uncontrollably now, your entire body convulsing with it. It is not the pain of your wound that has undone you. It is memory. It is fear so old and familiar it has worn grooves into your bones.

“Can she hear us?”

“Merlin, she is bleeding through her robes—”

“She is panicking—she is not breathing right—”

You want to tell them to stop. You want to scream until the noise stops, until the hands disappear, until your mother’s voice fades from the corners of your mind.

But all you can do is cry.

Cry and tremble and bleed.

Cry and fold into yourself like you used to, like you always have, like it is the only thing that has ever kept you safe.

And for the first time in a very long time, you feel utterly, irrevocably powerless.

Regulus reaches you first. His presence carves through the panic like a blade through water, sharp and inevitable, silencing the rush of footsteps and the flurry of voices.

“Move,” he says, his voice low yet carrying an authority that makes the crowd hesitate. 

When no one obeys quickly enough, his tone sharpens into something unmistakably furious. “Move the fuck away from her!”

He drops to his knees beside you, the wool of his robes brushing the stone floor, and for the smallest moment his hands hover, trembling slightly, before he gathers you into his arms. 

The movement is careful, protective, and almost desperate, as though he fears you might dissolve into nothing if he holds you too tightly.

Your cheek finds the sharp line of his shoulder, and you feel the rise and fall of his breathing, quick and uneven. 

His hand presses lightly to your back, the other cupping the side of your face as though to anchor you.

“Breathe,” he murmurs gently by your ear, his voice soft and laden with unspoken affection. The fury from before fades into a trembling vulnerability, as if your pain unsettles him to his core. “Please, just breathe for me. It is done now. You are safe in my arms—no one will ever hurt you again. I swear it. I will not let go.”

You cling to him without thought, your hands fisting into his robes so tightly that you feel the fabric strain. He holds you just as fiercely, his head bowing until his temple rests against yours.

“She needs space!” he shouts suddenly at the few students who dare step closer, his voice snapping like a whip. “Do not come near her!”

The professor’s voice calls for Madam Pomfrey, hurried and strained, but you hardly hear it over the pounding of your heart. 

Regulus rocks you slightly, murmuring in low tones that you cannot entirely understand, only catching fragments. “Stay with me… just a little longer… you are here, not there…”

You are trembling so violently that your teeth ache from the force of it, and still you do not loosen your grip. 

Your mind flickers between the present and the past until it becomes unbearable, and the last thing you feel is the steady, protective cage of his arms before everything fades to black.

***

When you open your eyes, the air smells faintly of antiseptic potions and the crisp, laundered sheets beneath you are unfamiliar. The ceiling is high and white, the room softly lit. Your side throbs with a dull, persistent ache.

Regulus is sitting beside your bed. His elbows rest on his knees, his hands clasped loosely, his head lowered in thought. He looks nothing like the cold, distant boy you have seen for the past year. 

There is a rawness in his expression, a weight in the shadows beneath his eyes that makes him appear older, thinner, almost as though the worry has been consuming him for longer than you can comprehend.

The moment you stir, his head lifts sharply. His eyes, dark and searching, find yours, and in that instant, he is on his feet. 

Without a word, he strides to the door and calls for Madam Pomfrey, his voice edged with relief and urgency.

The matron sweeps in with brisk efficiency, her wand already in hand. “You gave us quite a scare,” she says, moving to your side and inspecting the area where the curse struck. 

Her wand hovers, emitting a faint golden glow. “You took a direct hit from a poorly cast Stinging Hex. Normally it would leave only a welt, but the spell was overcharged, which accounts for the severity of your pain. The student responsible has been assigned two weeks’ detention, and your professor was furious enough to petition for expulsion. The Headmaster intervened, so it will not come to that, but rest assured it will not happen again.”

You nod faintly, the words slipping over you like water without truly sinking in.

Madam Pomfrey continues, “You will feel discomfort for several days. The damage to the muscle has been repaired, but it will remain tender. Avoid strenuous movement, and come back for a check-up tomorrow morning.” 

She sets a small vial on the table. “For the pain. Do not take more than two sips at a time.”

Once she leaves, the room is silent again except for the faint rustle of the sheets as you shift. Your gaze drifts back to Regulus.

“You stayed,” you murmur, your voice quieter than you intended.

The moment the curtain shuts behind Madam Pomfrey, he crosses the short space between your bed and the chair he had been occupying, his movements sharp with urgency. 

“Are you in pain? Does anything still hurt?” His eyes move across your face and shoulders and down to where your side is bandaged, his expression tight with something between fear and anger.

You shake your head, though the dull ache in your ribs remains. It is not the pain that feels unbearable now, but the fact that he is here, leaning over you, close enough for his breath to brush your cheek. 

“Regulus,” you murmur, your voice scratchy from the earlier screaming, “what are you doing here?”

His eyes flash, the crease between his brows deepening. “What am I doing here? What kind of question is that?” He pulls his hand back, as though your words have burned him. “You were lying on the floor, shaking, barely breathing. Of course I am here.”

Your lips press together, the faintest tremor in your jaw. “You have spent a year avoiding me. I thought you made it clear that my wellbeing was no longer your concern.”

He exhales through his nose, sharp and incredulous. “That is what you think? That I could watch you suffer and simply walk away?”

“Is that not exactly what you did before?” Your tone sharpens without your meaning to, the words tasting of months of hurt. 

“You left, Regulus. You left without a word, and now you appear out of nowhere, acting as though you have the right to stand here and—”

He cuts you off, his voice suddenly louder. “Do you think I wanted to leave? Do you think I did it lightly?” His hand runs through his hair, the gesture breaking the perfect composure he used to guard so jealously. “I had reasons. You would not have understood.”

Your gaze hardens. “I would have understood if you had given me the chance!  I would have stood beside you, no matter what, but you never gave me the choice. You just vanished.”

His voice drops to something quieter, almost desperate. “I thought I was protecting you.”

You shake your head, your voice shaking now. “You were protecting yourself. You decided I could not handle the truth, or that I was better off without you, and you did not even let me fight for us.”

There is a silence so heavy it feels as though the room itself is holding its breath. His eyes do not leave yours, and in them you see the glimmer of something painfully familiar, something you have not seen in a year.

When he speaks again, the words seem torn out of him. “I never stopped caring for you. Not for one day. I stayed away because I thought it was safer.”

Your own breath hitches, the anger still burning but tangled now with something warmer and far more dangerous. “You cannot say things like that, Regulus. Not after everything.”

His voice softens, but the intensity in it remains. “I am saying it because it is the truth. I still—” He stops, his jaw tightening as though the admission is almost too much. “I still love you. And I can’t help that.”

Your voice cracks when you finally say it. “What do you mean you still love me, Regulus?”

His head jerks back slightly, as though the words hit harder than any hex. “You heard me,” he says, his tone sharp, almost defensive. “Do not act surprised.”

“How could I not be surprised?” Your fingers knot into the blanket, your chest rising too fast. “You walked away and you never looked back.”

He takes a step closer, his expression tightening. “And you think that means I stopped caring?”

“It means you stopped everything!” The pitch of your voice trembles. “You stopped writing, you stopped meeting me, you stopped—” Your throat closes. 

Something flashes behind his eyes, frustration sparking like flint. “I never stopped.”

The heat in the room becomes unbearable. You swing your legs off the bed, the urge to escape flooding your body, but as soon as your feet touch the ground, pain lances through your side and you stumble forward.

In a heartbeat his arms are around you, one hand braced at your waist, the other steadying your back. 

He lifts you effortlessly, setting you down again with such precision it feels almost angry.

“Would you just listen to me, woman?” His voice is low and fierce, his face only inches from yours. You can feel the rush of his breath against your cheek, the tension humming between your bodies.

Your heartbeat rattles in your ribs. “Then talk.”

“Why do you think I pretend to want Lupin’s wretched annotated books?” His tone grows sharper with each word. 

“Why do you think I force our schedules to match? Why do I visit the Gryffindor tower under the excuse of seeing Sirius? It is because I bloody care about your well-being! I always have. So do not, for one moment, question me.”

His gaze holds yours with an intensity that steals your breath. Slowly, deliberately, he closes the distance between you. When his lips meet yours, it is as if all the years of silence, pain, and longing have been building toward this one desperate, fervent moment—fierce, unyielding, and weighted with all the words he never found the courage to speak.

When you finally drew back, the space between you was narrow enough for his breath to brush against your cheek. 

“I owe you an apology,” he said at last, his voice softer now but still unwavering. He reached up, gently cupping your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing lightly against your cheeks. 

After a heartbeat, he leaned closer, closing the small space between you just enough to let his breath mingle with yours. “For every moment I left you to wonder whether you mattered to me, for allowing you to believe that you were a passing sentiment instead of the one truth I have carried with me all these years.”

He paused, his forehead resting lightly against yours. “I was a coward in the way I walked away, and I will regret it for as long as I live.”

You parted your lips to answer, but before the words could form, the curtain at your bedside was suddenly pulled aside. Sirius and Remus peeked in, their eyes immediately taking in the quiet intimacy between you and Regulus.

Sirius’s voice cut through the stillness with a teasing edge. “Hi!—wait—what exactly is going on here?”

Remus’s hand shot out, grabbing Sirius by the collar and pulling him back. “Let them have their moment, will you?” he muttered, dragging Sirius away gently but firmly.

“Oww! Fine, fine,” Sirius grumbled, shooting you a cheeky grin as he retreated.

As the curtain swished closed behind them, a short laugh escaped you both, the tension easing as your conversation resumed.

With a sly smile, you tilted your head and leaned in just enough to catch his attention. “Now that I realize…” you began, your eyes sparkling with mischief.

Your fingers slid up to the collar of his robe, tugging him gently but deliberately closer until the space between you vanished.

“Does that mean you were sneaking books from Remus just to see me?” you teased softly, your voice dripping with playful accusation.

Regulus’s cheeks flushed a shade deeper, an almost imperceptible crack in his usual composed facade. “Stop it,” he muttered, half embarrassed, half amused.

“Oh, come now,” you coaxed, your grin widening. “You must have known I’d find out eventually. Was I your secret motivation to studying all along?”

He swallowed, then tilted his head slightly, eyes searching yours with something softer, hopeful. “Does that mean… I can be your boyfriend again?”

You feigned hesitation, arching a brow with theatrical deliberation. “Hmm. I don’t know, Black. Does that mean you’ll get all depressed and disappear on me again?”

His lips quirked into a pout, the vulnerability both infuriating and endearing. “I thought you liked your boys a little depressed.”

You laughed quietly, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. “Only if it’s you.”

His smile was genuine now, a rare and precious thing. “So, I am forgiven?”

“Absolutely,” you said softly, squeezing his hand. “But only if you promise to stick around this time.”

He leaned in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “For you, I’ll try very hard.”

A gentle smile curved your lips, warmth radiating from your gaze. “Good,” you whispered, your voice barely above a breath. “Because there is something I need to hear from you.”

Slowly, you lifted your hands to cradle his face, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw as your eyes locked with his. “Promise me this,” you murmured, your tone both tender and resolute, “no more secrets between us. No more disappearing without a word. I want all of you, completely, without reservation.”

His smile softened as he leaned into your touch. “All of me is yours, amour.”

For a moment, you simply held each other’s gaze, the world outside fading into quiet stillness. 

Then, with deliberate gentleness, he leaned in slowly, his breath warm against your cheek as his eyes searched yours for any hesitation. 

When none came, he pressed his lips softly to yours, a kiss that held both promise and forgiveness, tender and unwavering.

As he pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, he whispered, “Just don’t die on me, alright?”

You chuckled softly, the sound bubbling up effortlessly. “I’ll try not to.”

A mischievous glint sparked in his eyes as he smiled. “Je t’aime.”

You rolled your eyes with a playful grin. “Gosh, I missed your French accent.”

Because when someone you love spends the entire day being casually, infuriatingly smug, it doesn’t hit like a joke. It lands like the sting of a rubber band snapping against your skin: quick, deliberate, and just painful enough to make you flinch.

It started at breakfast. You’d woken up late, your hair had declared mutiny, and the last slice of toast had vanished without a trace. Still half-asleep and already on edge, you’d muttered something—less a complaint than a sigh scraped out of frustration. 

And Remus, seated across from you in infuriating serenity, calmly buttering his toast like he had all the time in the world, had the nerve to say, “You’d find mornings easier if you actually prepared for them the night before.”

That was all it took. One sentence, spoken casually and without a care, and somehow you wanted to launch the entire plate at his head.

You didn’t. Mostly because you still had a shred of dignity. And partly (entirely) because Remus Lupin, infuriating as he was, looked so bloody handsome.

Even sitting down, he somehow managed to tower over everything. One arm slung across the back of his chair, legs sprawled like he owned the bloody sun, and a piece of toast held delicately between his fingers like it had earned the right to be touched by him.

You were not proud of the thought, but God, you would’ve traded your soul to be that toast.

Golden and warm, pressed to his lips, held like it belonged there.

You weren’t proud of it. But there it was.

You’d looked at him then, waiting for a smirk, a wink, something to break the tension. But he didn’t even glance up. Just folded the edge of the Daily Prophet like he hadn’t said anything at all.

And the worst part? This fucker knew he was dreamy. Knew it in the smug little way he wore sleep-soft curls and slouchy cardigans, like the universe had handed him beauty on a silver platter and he hadn’t even bothered to say thank you.

Which is precisely why it had been barely an hour since he woke up, and already he was getting on your nerves instead of your pants.

Unbelievable.

And that was only the first strike. The rest of the morning followed suit.

In Defense, when your wand sputtered and your spell tangled mid-air before fizzling out completely, you stumbled a step back, catching yourself on the edge of a desk.

Remus didn’t laugh. That would’ve been too kind. He just tilted his head and said, “Close,” in a tone that made it perfectly clear it wasn’t.

Later, in the corridor, when you claimed—accurately and with mounting exasperation—that one of the staircases had shifted mid-step and nearly launched you into the abyss, he simply blinked.

You stood there, arms crossed, waiting.

When you finally snapped, “What?”, biting down the urge to throw a shoe at him, he only shrugged.

“Nothing. You’re just… you.”

And somehow, that was worse than any insult.

Now it’s evening, and he’s back in the common room, perfectly at ease as if nothing had happened. He sprawls in his usual chair, a blanket draped casually over one knee, a book balanced effortlessly in one hand.

You linger in the doorway, jaw tightening without conscious thought. His eyes lift, as if drawn by the very weight of your silent ire, and he meets your gaze with that infuriatingly placid expression he’s worn all day—calm, unreadable, and utterly maddening.

“You’re still sulking, then?” His voice is low, smooth, laced with vague amusement.

You say nothing.

He flips a page like it’s the most natural thing in the world and adds, almost as an afterthought, “Hope you found the scarf, by the way. Would be a shame if you lost another thing you swore you didn’t misplace.”

Your fingers twitch, restless and sharp at your sides.

You don’t know what irritates you more—his words, or the effortless way he delivers them, offhand, like he’s commenting on the weather instead of poking at your temper with a feather.

You step further into the room, arms folding across your chest like a shield.

“I didn’t lose it,” you say sharply, voice tight.

“Mhm,” he replies, turning the page with an air of practiced disinterest.

You wait for an apology, a joke, something—bloody anything.

But there is only the soft rustle of parchment and the maddening scrape against the corner of the page as he folds it back into place.

He doesn’t even bother pretending to be interested?!

“You’re doing that thing again,” you say, arms still crossed tightly over your chest, your voice taut with the frustration you’ve been holding in all morning.

He barely lifts his head but arches an eyebrow, that infuriating smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “Which thing exactly?”

“That thing where you act like you’re listening, like you’re actually paying attention to what I’m saying, but really you’re just waiting for me to exhaust myself—waiting until I give up on arguing.”

He lets out a quiet chuckle, almost indulgent, as if this bickering between you has been rehearsed a thousand times before. 

“You know, you usually do,” he says softly, with a tone that drips equal parts amusement and quiet certainty.

You narrow your eyes and press, “Do what? Wear myself out? What exactly do you mean by that?”

His smile widens just enough to reveal the smugness beneath. “I mean you get so worked up, so tangled in your own frustration, that before long you’re done. You stop fighting, because you’ve run out of steam.”

His words settle in the air like a weight you hadn’t expected, sharper than any insult you could have thrown.

Fine, Remus.

There is only a long breath you never fully take, and with a sly tilt of your head, you shift.

The room falls silent, as if holding its breath in anticipation.

You curl into yourself, bones reshaping and fur sprouting in a rush of magic.

Your limbs shorten, claws extend, and the familiar sleek orange coat of Snickers, your Animagus form, ripples across your skin—every graceful line and stripe settling into place as you become the cat he knows so well.

You leap lightly onto the arm of his chair, your paws sinking into the worn fabric with deliberate grace. 

Settling yourself, you curl your tail once around your body and fix him with a gaze sharp and unyielding. 

For once, Remus does not respond immediately. He simply studies you, and for the first time all day, the usual smirk falters.He exhales quietly, a low, resigned sound, and drags a hand across his mouth before casting a sidelong glance at the flickering fire.

“Right,” he mutters, more to himself than to you, “she’s shifted.”

You flick your tail in acknowledgment, then resume your silent vigil, watching him as though he stands before a court of judgment.

Remus reaches for his tea and takes a slow, deliberate sip without meeting your eyes. “This feels deserved,” he admits softly.

At first, he cannot take it seriously. 

You, curled up in the unmistakable shape of a very unimpressed orange and white cat, seem like a temporary protest.

He’s seen this before. When you’re annoyed, you shift into your cat form—not just as a silent protest, but as part of a well-rehearsed routine. 

Usually, you curl up around him, all sleek fur and sharp claws, until you wear yourself out and reluctantly shift back. It’s your way of saying, I’m mad, but I still need your cuddles, remmy.

He knows this too well. He’s certain you’ll return to yourself once the storm inside settles. Ten minutes, he thinks, then everything will be exactly as it always is.

He turns back to his book.

But five pages later, his eyes drift upward, and there you are still perched—ears half-flattened, tail twitching with a slow, venomous rhythm, unwavering in your silent verdict.

You look deeply offended and this close to filing a formal complaint against his entire existence.

He blinks at you, then smiles, slow and fond, like he finds this ridiculous in the way one finds an angry kitten ridiculous — all teeth and noise and absolutely no threat.

“Oh, dovey,” he murmurs, setting the book aside as he leans forward in his chair, a slow smile curling at the edges of his mouth.

“You’re so cute when you try to be mad.”

His fingers reach toward you gently, expecting a reluctant purr or at least a half-hearted flick of your tail.

Instead, you hiss.

“Right,” he says slowly, pulling back like he’s just remembered you have claws. “Okay. So we’re really doing this.”

You turn your head away with all the dignity in the world, as if further conversation is beneath you. Then you hop off the arm of the chair and stalk across the common room, tail high and every step dripping with carefully performed indifference.

Remus watches you go, utterly baffled.

He blinks, then stands, his hand still tingling from where he nearly touched you.

“Love,” he calls after you, voice cautious but already softening at the edges. “Alright, alright, I may have been—slightly unbearable today. But you’re still being dramatic, aren’t you?”

You say meow nothing, of course. Instead, you leap onto the table beside the sofa, where his books lie neatly stacked—or at least they did—and with one light, deliberate flick of your paw, you send the top one sliding off the edge.

It hits the floor with a solid thump.

Remus opens his mouth. No sound comes out.

You knock another.

And another.

Then you pause, watching him.

“You wouldn’t,” he whispers.

You blink at him, once, as if to say try me.

The last book falls.

Remus exhales, somewhere between horrified and awed, and watches as you stretch lazily before padding toward the corner of the room — where his favorite sweaters are folded in a pile beside the laundry basket.

He sees your eyes narrow.

He sees your paws flex.

He knows exactly what’s coming.

“No, no, no, wait!” he blurts out, nearly tripping over the rug as he scrambles forward.

“Please, please don’t! Not the lambswool! That one’s… it’s—well, it’s my favorite!”

You’re already there, tail flicking with that slow, inevitable menace, claws just barely unsheathed.

He throws up his hands in surrender. “Listen, listen, I’ll do anything! I’ll buy you a lifetime supply of cat treats, I’ll give you the comfiest spot on the couch forever, just please don’t shred the jumper!”

You raise one paw, slow and deliberate, sinking your claws just an inch into the collar of his softest jumper.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry!” he pleads, voice desperate now, eyes wide like you’re holding his wardrobe hostage.

“Truce, ceasefire, I’m on my knees here! Just… please don’t ruin the lambswool!”

You hold your paw there a moment longer, claws teasing the fabric, eyes locked with his like you’re daring him to breathe wrong.

You retract your claws slowly, then hop down without a sound, sauntering away as if you’re entirely above the violence you almost unleashed.

Remus lets out a soft, barely audible breath of relief and mutters something under his breath about being emotionally held hostage by someone with whiskers.

He thinks that’s the end of it.

It is not.

Because not even thirty seconds later, you’re perched on his desk—the very surface of his work—tail swishing lazily over stacks of notes and essays, eyes locked onto the glass bottle of ink teetering dangerously close to the edge.

“No, Snickers, no!” he says immediately, stepping forward, voice sharpening with panic. “No, no, no, don’t even think about it—”

You think about it.

Then, with one deliberate paw and zero remorse, you bat the ink bottle clean off the desk.

It lands sideways, splattering ink in a dramatic black arc across his half-finished essay. The ink bleeds into the parchment with the slow devastation of spilled wine on white carpet.

“Oh my god, Snickers!” he screams out, voice cracking slightly as he rushes to the desk, grabbing useless scraps of parchment to blot at the disaster. 

“Do you even understand what you've just done? That was three nights of research. I footnoted.”

You turn, tail flicking, eyes gleaming with mischief.

He moves faster, reaching to catch you before you can leap off the desk.

“Love, wait—don’t—”

But you hiss sharply, a low warning rumble vibrating from your throat, claws flashing just inches from his outstretched hand.

Remus freezes mid-reach, eyes wide.

“Okay! Okay! I’m sorry, Snickers,” he says hurriedly, hands up like he’s defusing a bomb. 

“No scratches, please! I’m on your side—I just don’t want my essay to look like a Runes class went wrong.”

He crouches at the side of the desk eyes soft and serious as he meets your unrelenting glare.

“Alright,” he begins, gentle, breath catching slightly. 

You’re still glaring, tail curled neatly around your paws, but he looks at you like you’re the moon dragged down to earth just to ruin him.

 “I know I’ve been insufferable today. I know. You have every reason to be angry with me. I was smug, and sarcastic, and far too pleased with myself, and instead of stopping when I saw it bothering you, I kept going—like a complete idiot who thinks being annoying is somehow endearing.”

He lets out a breath, eyes not leaving yours, not even for a second.

“I thought I was being clever. I thought teasing you was harmless. I thought… that making you flustered would make you smile eventually, because you always do. But I wasn’t charming today. I was cruel without realizing it. I didn’t mean to be. But I was, and I hate that.”

You blink once—slow, regal, unreadable.

Still, he takes it as hope, and he continues.

“I shouldn’t have called you dramatic. I didn’t mean it in the way it sounded. I meant dramatic the way feelings are—when you love someone so much, everything feels bigger. You care so deeply, so fiercely, and sometimes I forget how easy it is to hurt you when you’re trying not to let it show. I made light of that, and I made you feel small, and there is nothing I regret more right now.”

Your posture doesn’t change. Still tall, still elegant, still completely done with him.

But he’s already too deep to stop.

“I love you,” he says, and this time it lands like something sacred. 

“I love you more than being right. More than whatever was in that essay. Honestly, I’d write the entire thing again—by hand, twice—if it meant I wouldn’t have to sit here with you looking at me like that.”

He lifts one hand slowly, fingers curling slightly toward your ears.“Please, Y/N, come back to me.”

And that’s when the door swings open.

“Oi!” James’s voice hits the room like a Quaffle through a windowpane. “Dovey’s here, isn’t she?”

Sirius steps in beside him with the ease of someone who expects trouble and knows exactly how to enjoy it. He surveys the wreckage — the spilled ink, the fallen books, Remus kneeling in defeat — and then clocks you on the desk perched high up, still glaring, still regal.

Sirius grins, slow and dangerous. “Y/N?”

You meow, cheerfully, like nothing is wrong. Like you haven’t spent the last hour hissing and orchestrating the emotional collapse of the person who loves you most.

James lights up like a bloody Christmas tree. “Knew it.”

He opens his arms without hesitation, and you—utter traitor—leap gracefully from the desk into his chest, tucking yourself into the crook of his arm with an actual, audible purr. A purr. As though you haven’t spent the evening exacting revenge with the elegance of a queen and the precision of a general.

Remus watches, stunned.

Watches as you blink slowly up at James, all soft and lazy, your gaze half-lidded with practiced affection. And he knows exactly what that means in cat language.

He’s seen you give it to him a hundred times.

Only now, you’re giving it to bloody James.

And Remus is the one glaring.

Sirius reaches out and strokes behind your ears, chuckling as you lean into it like you were born to be adored. “You’re really working the drama today, sweetheart.”

Remus sits on the edge of his bed like a man exiled from his own kingdom, a book open in his lap and completely unread, his eyes fixed somewhere between the page and the small orange-and-white blur tangled in Sirius’s arms.

He turns a page every few minutes just to keep up appearances.

He is sulking. Completely, utterly, unapologetically sulking. From the corner of his eye, he watches as you roll across James’s lap like royalty, pawing lazily at the cuff of his sleeve before hopping effortlessly into Sirius’s waiting arms. 

Sirius accepts you with a grin, like you’ve never once shredded a sock in passive-aggressive protest, murmuring praise and dragging his fingers gently behind your ears as though you’ve earned every bit of affection.

You purr, loud and deliberate. Your tail curls around Sirius’s wrist like a silk ribbon drawn tight, and then comes the softest, most calculated meow he’s ever heard.

It sounds smug and pointed and designed specifically to unmake him—full of pride, absolutely, but still so stupidly cute it makes something in his chest ache.

It’s unfair, really, how bloody adorable you are. And all he wants—desperately, irrationally—is to hold you. To bury his face in your fur and keep you close.

He flips another page. 

Sirius traces a thumb down your spine, slow and affectionate, and Remus—who is definitely not watching, and definitely not fuming—tightens his jaw and exhales through his nose like a man suppressing ancient fury.

And yet he says nothing, just sits there, shoulders too straight, like he is not currently being excluded from the most intimate feline cuddle session Hogwarts has ever seen.

It goes on like this for an hour.

An entire hour of tactical silence, purring treachery, and the steady sound of Remus Lupin quietly losing his mind.

James eventually falls asleep first, snoring lightly into the crook of his arm. Sirius remains where he is, his hand still lazily carding through your fur, but his eyes have gone soft and drowsy, his words slowed, fading into silence.

You’re still curled into him, your breathing steady now, the rise and fall of your little frame barely perceptible, your tail twitching only once before it stills completely.

And then, gently, with all the quiet reverence of someone who understands how sacred you’ve become in that moment, Sirius lifts you into his arms.

He stands without a word. Pads over to Remus. Pauses in front of him like it’s a peace offering.

“She fell asleep,” Sirius murmurs. “Properly asleep. Been purring like mad, figured she might want to be with you now.”

Remus looks up. His heart twists.

You’re nestled in Sirius’s arms like the embodiment of warmth itself, your fur soft and glowing under the flicker of firelight. Your face is tucked into your paws. You look defenseless. You look peaceful.

Sirius lowers you carefully into Remus’s arms, and something in Remus aches when you instinctively nuzzle into his chest, still half-asleep, still warm from being adored.

Sirius doesn’t say anything else. Just nods and turns back toward his own bed, collapsing into it.

Remus adjusts you slightly, letting you rest against his sternum. Your small form is a ball of orange and white, impossibly soft, your breath a feather against his collarbone.

And for a long time, he just sits there.

Then, gently, he lifts a hand and gently strokes behind your ears, fingers moving barely there.

“I’m sorry, love,” he whispers. 

“For all of it. For being smug and stupid and talking to you like your feelings were inconvenient. For thinking I was funny when I was just being a complete git. For not noticing how close you were to snapping. You deserved better than that.”

He smooths his fingers down your spine.

“I hate that I made you feel like you had to run away from me just to be heard,” he continues, voice barely audible. “I hate that I pushed you so far you thought being a cat was the better option, and I know you’ve forgiven me in the most dramatic, theatrical way possible, but just in case any part of you is still a little mad — I’m saying it again. I’m sorry, Snickers.”

His other hand comes up, resting carefully over your back, not holding you in place but simply resting there.

“I’ll do better. I’ll listen. I’ll stop trying to be right all the time. And I’ll never — never — say you’re dramatic again. You are... overwhelming, yes. Important things always are. You take up space in my life that I never want to give back, and I adore you for it.”

He exhales, his thumb stroking softly over the spot between your ears.

“I love you,” he says again, and this time it lands like truth. Quiet, warm, real.

For a moment, nothing changes. You stay curled, still pressed beneath his chin, your breathing slow, deep.

And then you open your eyes.

Golden and gleaming and terribly alive, you lift your head just slightly and look up at him, your yellow cat eyes meeting his, unblinking for one long beat — and then, slowly, with that feline elegance that says everything words never could, you blink. Once. Twice. Long and deliberate.

He lets out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, soft with relief and disbelief all at once.

“Oh, love,” he murmurs, a smile tugging at his lips. “If you’re going to turn into a cat every time we argue, the least you could do is let me pet you.”

You narrow your eyes instantly. Then, without moving from his arms, you unsheathe your claws by a fraction and tap them meaningfully against the fabric of his jumper.

He Laughs again. “Alright, alright. Sorry, message received.”

Satisfied, you curl tighter against him, nose tucked into the curve of his neck, your breathing steady, your purr deep and content.

Remus doesn’t move at first. He simply holds you, cradling your small form like something rare and impossibly fragile, his fingers resting protectively along your spine, as though even a breath too sudden might break the spell and scatter you into smoke.

In that moment, his heart feels impossibly full—so heavy with love that it almost aches. He’s never been happier, never more certain that you are everything he wants to hold onto, everything worth fighting for.

And then—seamlessly—you shift.

A quiet exhale, a shimmer of magic against his chest, and you’re back. Warm and real and unmistakably you, curled in his lap with your cheek still pressed to the hollow of his throat, your breath soft against his skin like nothing has changed at all.

“Hi, love,” he breathes, voice warm and stunned.

“Hi, Remmy,” you whisper, eyes barely open, voice thick with sleep.

“Hi,” he says again, a little breathless this time, like he still can’t believe you’re real.

You nuzzle closer, arms looping around his waist, body curling instinctively toward his warmth.

“Am I forgiven?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper, his thumb brushing lightly against your cheek, gentle and uncertain.

“I’ll do anything you want.”

But inside, something curls tight and trembling in his chest, a quiet dread laced with all the things he’s too afraid to name. He waits, not daring to speak or move, because he doesn’t know what you’ll ask for next — and it terrifies him, in a way nothing else ever has.

Not because he doubts you, but because he doubts himself. Because if you ask for something he can’t give, if your forgiveness slips, even for a second, through the cracks in his hands, he knows he’ll fall apart trying to reach for it.

He is not built for losing you.

Not to James, not to time, not to silence, not even to one of your moody afternoons when you ignore him for an hour just to prove a point. Even then, even in those small, petty standoffs, his mind races.

Because the truth, the horrible, unspoken truth, is that Remus doesn’t know how to exist in a world where you are distant.

He’s smug and sarcastic and impossible, the king of casual remarks and maddening glances. But all of it, every last bit of it, is just a flimsy curtain he hides behind — a way to mask the simple, aching fact that he’s yours.

Utterly and pathetically yours.

Even when you're mad. Even when you're claws and narrowed eyes and sharp little hisses of warning, especially then. Because beneath every hiss is a heart that hasn’t stopped choosing him, not once.

And gods, he loves you for it.

He’s a bastard, sure. But he’s your bastard. And the thought of not being—of you turning your gaze elsewhere, of that soft affection in your voice belonging to someone else, even for a heartbeat—undoes him.

And even if you don’t say it, even if all you do is blink at him with tired indifference — he’ll still be here.

Because no matter what, Remus cannot stop loving you. 

Your voice breaks through the haze of his thoughts, quiet and half-lost in the fabric of his jumper.

“Anything?” you hum, soft and slow, the syllables slurring slightly with sleep.

His smile wavers, flickering with tentative relief. “Anything, dovey.”

You fall silent for a moment, resting against him like you’ve never left, because in his heart, you never really did. Then, softly and sincerely, free of any trace of your earlier fire, you murmur—

“Can you make a spell that turns me into a toast?”

Remus stills. “I’m sorry—what?”

You nod, eyes closed. “I wanna be a toast.”

There’s a beat of stunned silence as he looks down at you, utterly baffled.

“I—why would—love, why would you want to be a toast?”

You sigh, sleepy and serious. “You looked so happy eating it this morning.”

Remus stares at you for a long, silent moment, torn between concern and complete adoration.

The moment the door1 creaked open, an uproarious cacophony assaulted his senses.

Books and parchment littered the floor like casualties of a minor explosion. A startled owl screeched and flapped against the far wall, desperate to escape the pandemonium.

Amid the wreckage, two figures blazed with frenetic energy: Snickers, the fiery orange blur of a cat animagus possessed by the most intense zoomies anyone had ever witnessed, and Padfoot, a dark shadow of equal parts menace and mirth, darting and bounding with predatory zeal.

James sat perched atop the dresser, arms folded, laughter bubbling from his lips as if he were witnessing the most entertaining spectacle in years.

“Remus! You missed the highlight reel—Snickers just launched herself off the bed and knocked over the whole lampstand. Padfoot’s been chasing her tail for the past five minutes.”

Snickers skidded across the floor, knocking a stack of books into the air. One fluttered down to land on James’s head, eliciting a dramatic groan.

Without pause, you streaked between Remus’s legs and shot upward like a comet, claws scrabbling at the ceiling tapestry.

Padfoot was instantly on your tail, teeth bared in a playful snarl.

“James, why aren’t you breaking this up?” Remus demanded, trying to keep his voice steady over the uproar.

James shrugged, grinning unabashedly. “And ruin the fun? No way.”

A low growl sounded from the corner, and you responded with a triumphant yowl as you vaulted toward a precarious stack of quills.

Padfoot intercepted you mid-air, sending both of you crashing into a pile of scattered robes. The ensuing tumble sent Remus staggering backward, narrowly avoiding a flying textbook.

He closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, breath hitching. “I just—after today’s exam, I was hoping for some peace.

“Peace died the moment Snickers remembered she’s a cat with a rocket strapped to her back,” James said with a wink. “Seriously, moony, I think she’s been holding all this energy in since the last full moon.”

Snickers (you) exploded into another frenzy, darting from wall to wall, a streak of orange lightning barely visible in the dim light.

Padfoot yipped and leapt after you, knocking into the dresser and sending a cascade of socks raining down like confetti.

Remus didn’t even make it fully to the chair.

He’d aimed for it—honestly, he had—but between the pile of exploded parchment, the mangled remains of what he hoped was just a textbook, and the streak of orange that rocketed under his feet, he never stood a chance.

One foot slipped, the other tangled in a sock, and suddenly he was flat on his back, blinking up at the canopy.

You zipped past his head, your claws skidding dramatically against the wood floor, tail puffed up like a bottlebrush, pupils blown wide with ecstasy.

“I will hex both of you!” Remus snapped, pointing furiously at you as you vaulted off James’s trunk, ricocheted onto Padfoot’s back mid-run, and used him like a trampoline, vanishing under the bed in a blaze of orange rage.

Padfoot howled and spun in three tight circles, eyes wild.

“Don’t you dare—” Remus warned, finger still raised.

Too late. Padfoot launched after you with the reckless momentuml, disappearing under the bed with a guttural growl and a flurry of socks.

“Padfoot, get out from under there! And you—” he pointed to the bed frame, where the tip of your tail flicked defiantly out from beneath.

“Come out before I charm your paws to the floor!”

Another crash answered him from beneath the bed.

“WHAT are you doing?” Remus shouted from the floor, voice cracked and betrayed.

James was doubled over on his bed, face purple with laughter, tears streaming down his cheeks. “You just got demolished, Moony—by a ten-pound feline!”

Padfoot reemerged with your tail in his mouth. You were yowling furiously, limbs flailing like a spaghetti demon, fur puffed in seven directions.

“Let her go, you maniac—!” Remus scrambled up, just in time for Padfoot to tear through the room in a victory lap, dragging you along the floor like some kind of orange war banner.

James was now on the floor, laughing so hard he wheezed, slapping the stone tiles.

Remus sighed, ducking as a pillow launched itself from the bed and exploded into a storm of feathers.

You broke free with an acrobatic twist, rebounded off the wall, and scaled James’s curtains.

From the top of the bedpost, you looked down with imperial menace, panting, fur standing on end.

Padfoot barked again and lunged up after you, but missed and headbutted the wardrobe.

There was a long silence.

Then a crash.

Then the wardrobe tipped sideways and slammed into the floor.

Padfoot didn’t pause to assess the wreckage. The wardrobe had barely finished slamming to the floor when he snarled—low and guttural—and launched himself at you.

You barely had time to adjust your footing on the bedpost before he collided with the frame below, sending the whole canopy rattling.

He jumped again, this time with intent, claws scrabbling, teeth flashing.

His weight rocked the structure, and before you could leap away, he caught your leg in his mouth.

“PADFOOT—!” Remus’s voice cracked like a whip, sharp with panic. He was already on his feet, wand half-raised, eyes wide. “Let go! What are you doing?!”

You twisted in his grip, yowling in protest, your ears flattened, body writhing like liquid fury. He didn’t release and so you raked your claws across his snout with a hiss.

Padfoot reeled back with a yelp, fur bristling, blood blooming where your claws had connected.

And then—shift—he was Sirius again, all limbs and wild black hair.

“You psychopath!” he barked, staggering backward and rubbing at the scratch on his nose. “You clawed me across the face!”

“You tackled her!” Remus shot back, storming forward now, eyes flicking between the two of you, trying to determine if he needed to physically intervene. “She’s half your size, Sirius—what the hell was that?!”

“She bit me first!” Sirius shouted. “And look at her!”

You were still vibrating at the top of the bedpost, fur puffed, eyes blazing, tail whipping side to side like a live fuse.

“She’s got demon energy! That’s not a cat!.”

And then you moved.

You leapt off the post in a blinding flash of orange and took off across the room like your tail was on fire, skidding across a pile of quills, then rebounding off a chair.

“Oh, hell no—” Sirius dove after you, crawling under the bed, swearing violently. “Come back here, you absolute gremlin—”

Remus reached out a hand to stop him but missed. James was back to wheezing on the floor.

“This is better than the Gryffindor vs Slytherin match,” he gasped.

You darted out from beneath the bed just as Sirius lunged again, sending both of you toppling into the curtains. The fabric ripped, Sirius cursed as yoy tore out of the mess and leapt onto his back.

“OW—bloody hell—she’s on me again—Remus! Help!”

But Remus didn’t move.

Yiu shifted mid-pounce, landing on Sirius’s back in human form, knocking the wind out of him as he crashed forward with a grunt.

“What the—?!” He tried to turn over, arms flailing, but you hooked an arm around his neck and pulled him down again.

“Not so fast, mutt,” you growled, grinning into his ear.

“Oh, now you’ve done it—” Sirius flipped under you, wrestling playfully, his hands grabbing at your waist as he tried to flip you back. “You think you can scratch me and tackle me?”

“Yes, I can!” you shot back, elbowing his ribs.

“Gods, you’re feral,” he wheezed.

“You attacked me!”

“You attacked me first!”

“You bit my tail!”

Remus groaned, rubbing both hands over his face. “Can we please go one night without bloodshed?”

You rolled off him, flopping back on the floor, hair a mess, breath heaving. Sirius followed, lying beside you, shoulder brushing yours.

Then, suddenly, Sirius scrambled to his feet with dramatic flair and sprinted across the room.

“Moony!” he wailed, arms outstretched like a tragic widow. “Your girlfriend is so mean to me!”

Remus barely had time to react before Sirius flung himself forward and latched onto him like a lifeline. “She scratched me! She bit me!”

“You dragged me across the floor by my tail!” you barked from the other side of the room, indignant, hair wild, one sock still stuck to your elbow.

“What was I supposed to do? Purr?!”

Remus, to his credit, didn’t flinch. He stood there with Sirius clinging to him like a particularly dramatic scarf and let out a long, exhausted sigh.

“She’s literally still vibrating,” Sirius whispered, clinging harder. “I think she’s rabid.”

You gaped. “I’m rabid?! You’re the one who went full wolf-on-steroids—Remus, tell him he’s wrong! Tell him I’m not rabid.”

Remus looked between the two of you, the absolute carnage of the dorm, his slashed-up bag in the corner, and said, “I think I’d like to transfer schools.”

James snorted into the pillow he was using to hide his laughter.

Sirius groaned dramatically. “Just hold me while she reloads.”

“Oh my god—” You stomped across the room, snatched Sirius by the collar, and yanked him off Remus with zero effort. “That’s my boyfriend, thank you.”

Remuss finally let the corner of his mouth lift, soft and a little stunned, like he couldn’t believe the storm had finally passed. “Do I get a say in any of this, or…?”

“No!” you and Sirius said in unison.

Then you laughed. Loud and unfiltered and stupidly happy. And Sirius was laughing too, leaning against your shoulder now, his bruised ribs forgotten.

Ron’s brows shot up. “I never said Lupin! You said Lupin!” he hissed, glancing around as if the professor himself might materialize beside them them. “I’m keeping it anonymous. That’s the whole point of research ethics, Hermione. Haven’t you read the guidelines?”

Hermione’s sigh could have curdled the foam on her drink. “You have a list of interview questions that literally describe him to the letter. ‘Mild-mannered, prematurely greying, quiet but—’” she squinted at the parchment, “‘deceptively fit’? Ronald!”

Harry snorted into his coffee mug.

Ron went red but kept his chin high. “Look, it’s a serious question! Lupin’s a decent-looking bloke, right? But he’s not flashy like Lockhart was, and people adored Lockhart. I just want to test whether looks actually matter when it comes to who people fancy. For science.”

“Science,” Hermione repeated flatly. “You’re going to get expelled for science.”

The library was unusually full that evening—students packed into every table, laptops humming and coffee cups balanced precariously beside open textbooks as everyone tried to finish their end-of-term projects before exams swallowed them whole.

Ron’s pile of notes, however, was distinctly more chaotic than most. Empty coffee cups surrounded his laptop like trophies of bad decisions, and someone’s doodle of a wolf stretched across the corner of his summary page.

Applied Statistics was meant to be the easy option. Lupin had a reputation for being gentle, patient, the kind of professor who cared more about understanding than perfection. 

It was supposed to be a quiet way to end their academic careers on a calm note. But then he’d assigned a final research project: design your own study, collect real data, and present your conclusions. The only rule was that the topic had to be appropriate for class.

Hermione had immediately started drafting a comparative analysis on probability and study efficiency between morning and night classes. 

Harry was working on something about reaction times in competitive sports, using his old Hockey instincts as inspiration. 

Ron—after three hours of staring at a blank document and two iced coffees later—had landed on human attraction. Specifically, whether someone’s appearance could statistically predict how likely they were to be asked on a date.

And in what could only be described as divine misfortune, he’d chosen his mild-mannered, unreasonably charming professor as his “model subject.”

“I still can’t believe you roped me into this,” Hermione muttered.

“I didn’t rope you in!” Ron protested. “I just need you to help me make sure my sample size isn’t biased.”

“Your sample size is going to be detention if Lupin finds out,” Harry said, grinning. 

Ron shrugged, though the tips of his ears betrayed his nerves. “He’ll never know. I’m not putting his name anywhere, and I’ll make sure no one says it out loud.”

Hermione gave him a long, withering look before scanning his notes again. “You literally describe him as ‘the soft-spoken man with kind eyes, questionable jumpers, and a habit of vanishing for a week every month due to a mysterious illness.’ Who else could that possibly be?”

Ron grinned despite himself. “It’s anonymous if I say it is.”

He sat at a corner table, clutching his notepad like a shield, eyes flicking past rows of students lost in their screens. “All I need is one person to answer a few questions. Someone normal. Someone who won’t laugh in my face.”

Harry leaned back in his chair, looking far too amused for Ron’s liking. “You’ve been saying that for twenty minutes,” he said. “Just pick someone already. It’s not a marriage proposal.”

Ron ignored him, scanning again—and then his eyes stopped. 

A few tables over, you sat hunched over your laptop, earbuds in, an empty coffee cup balanced precariously on a stack of notes. You looked tired in the soft, lived-in way of someone who’d been working too long, your screen glaring white against your face.

“That one,” Ron said suddenly, jerking his chin in your direction. “She’s not typing anymore. Perfect.”

Harry followed his gaze, smirking. “Looks like she’s about to call it a day. Go on, mate. Before she escapes.”

Hermione sighed, already closing her laptop. “If they’re busy, they’ll tell you,” she said, voice threaded with resignation.

Ron took a deep breath, straightened his posture, and picked up his notebook. “Alright. Science waits for no man.”

“Especially not for you,” Harry murmured under his breath, earning a sharp kick under the table.

Together, they made their way across the library, Ron clutching his clipboard like a life raft. You noticed them only when the shadow of their approach reached your table.

“Uh—hi,” Ron began, his voice slightly too loud for the setting. You pulled out your earbuds, blinking up at him. “Sorry to bother you. I’m doing a project for my Applied Statistics class, and I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions? It won’t take long, I promise.”

You studied him for a second—the nervous energy, the notebook, the faint red creeping up his neck—and decided you didn’t have the heart to say no.

Your motivation for work had long evaporated anyway. “Sure,” you said, leaning back in your chair. “Go ahead.”

Relief flickered across Ron’s face as he clicked his pen. “Brilliant. First question—do you identify as someone who’s romantically attracted to men?”

You frowned, caught off guard. “Uh… yes?”

“Right. And sexually attracted?”

You tilted your head with a grimace. “I think I’m a little old for you.”

His face went crimson. “No, no—bloody hell, not like that!”

Harry coughed behind him to smother a laugh.

You chuckled, amused by his mortification. “Then yes, I am.”

“Great,” Ron said quickly, desperate to move on. “Okay, so I’m going to describe a, uh, theoretical man to you, and you just tell me whether you’d go on a date with him, based on what I say. Alright?”

“Sure.”

He glanced at his notes, cleared his throat, and began reading. “Okay, so… he’s a bit reserved. Dresses like he owns only jumpers and sweaters, all in different shades of brown. Kind smile, good sense of humor, can be awkward when complimented, and occasionally vanishes for a week every month because of—er—some chronic condition. Totally normal. Nothing suspicious about that.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That’s… oddly specific.”

Harry coughed again, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like ‘textbook Lupin’.

Ron glared at him before looking back at you. “Out of the following answer choices, what would be your answer if this man asked you on a date: definite no, no, maybe, I guess, yes, or definite yes?” He looked up at you, pencil poised, clearly waiting for an answer.

You pretended to consider it, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “He sounds decent. I’d say yes.”

Ron froze mid-scribble. “Yes as in yes, or yes as in maybe?”

“Yes as in yes.”

He continued to look at you like you’d grown a third head until Hermione  cleared her throat, reminding Ron to keep going.

He snapped out of it and took a begrudging breath, reaching for the picture paperclipped to his question sheet.

“Okay, hypothetical follow-up. If this man looked like this—”

You leaned forward, and your breath caught in a laugh. The photo was clearly taken from somewhere it shouldn’t have been:  what appeared to be some Professor mid-lecture, smiling faintly, sunlight streaking through the classroom blinds behind him. The image quality was terrible, but somehow, that only made it look better.

 “—would your answer to the previous question change?”

You studied the picture again, amused by the sheer audacity of it all. “Well, in that case, I’m changing my answer. That’s a definite yes.”

Ron looked utterly baffled. “You’d actually—why?”

You smiled faintly. “I have a weakness for guys who seem quiet and kind, a little awkward but in a charming way… and he has some really, really pretty eyes.”

Ron blinked at you, clearly trying—and failing—to see the appeal. “Right. Fair enough. Data’s data.”

“Glad to help, researcher,” you teased.

He scribbled something down in his notebook with the seriousness of someone logging a scientific breakthrough. “Thank you for your time.”

As you packed up your things and left the library, you didn’t notice him still watching the door long after you’d gone. Nor could he have known that your name—just one of dozens written on that clipboard—would be the one that refused to fade.

***

Remus could tell almost immediately that the project was about him.

The moment Ron began his presentation, Remus recognized the uncomfortable familiarity in the data, the phrasing, and—Merlin help him—the word choices. 

His first instinct was to be mildly horrified, followed closely by the urge to deduct twenty points on principle. But as the presentation went on, his irritation gave way to reluctant curiosity.

The truth was, it wasn’t a bad project. In fact, it was rather well designed—shockingly so, considering it came from Ron Weasley, who once turned in a probability worksheet with “winging it” written in the margin. 

And while Remus wanted to be offended that his own students had used him as their unwitting test subject, he wasn’t about to become the sort of professor who graded out of bruised ego. So, he sat there, listening as the class analyzed his mannerisms, his “polite smile,” and the “hot scars all over his body” that apparently made him statistically attractive.

Ron, to his credit, was thorough. He explained his hypothesis, the methodology, the sample groups, and the confidence intervals... Remus even found himself smiling, until he skimmed over one particular detail that made his brows knit together.

When Ron wrapped up, Remus lifted a hand. The room fell quiet. Ron swallowed, clearly expecting to be scolded.

“Mr. Weasley,” Remus said, tone mild, “could you elaborate on the outlier you mentioned?”

Ron blinked. “Oh—right, yeah. There was one participant whose responses didn’t fit the pattern, so I had to exclude them from the analysis. Everyone else rated the subject’s attractiveness after seeing the picture, but this person said they’d go on a date with him before seeing anything. Highest pre-photo score by far.”

Remus tilted his head, feigning scholarly interest, though a faint heat crept up his neck.

He felt a little guilty for being so interested in this outlier, but while he wanted to pretend he was perfectly happy being single, he had to admit, it was kind of nice knowing someone found him attractive on something other than the physical level. 

 “I see. And… did they say why?”

Ron flipped through his notes. “Um… something about having a thing for people who seem a little awkward but in a charming way… and they specifically wrote, ‘He has really, really pretty eyes.’”

For a long moment, Remus said nothing. The class waited. Then, to everyone’s surprise, he chuckled—low and quiet, the sound carrying a hint of embarrassment and something warmer beneath it.

“Well,” he said, closing his notebook with deliberate calm. “Statistically speaking, Mr. Weasley, I suppose everyone’s bound to be someone’s outlier.”

The class laughed. Ron looked like he might faint with relief. And as Remus moved on to the next presentation, he couldn’t quite stop himself from wondering who, exactly, that particular outlier had been.

As curious as he had been in that instant, by the end of the day, the week, and even the month, Remus had completely forgotten about the random outlier from Ron’s project.

Until he saw you.

It was a rainy Thursday afternoon, and the campus café was packed; half students pretending to study, half professors pretending they weren’t exhausted. 

Remus had queued for a coffee he didn’t particularly want, clutching his satchel in one hand and trying to ignore the headache forming just behind his eyes.

You stood in front of him in line, scrolling through your phone with the kind of absent concentration that made him smile despite himself.

When you reached the counter, you ordered the exact same drink as him—down to the dash of cinnamon—and turned around at the sound of his quiet laugh.

“Sorry,” he said quickly, the corners of his mouth twitching in apology. “It’s just—you’ve got impeccable taste.”

You blinked, caught off guard by his Welsh accent yet deep voice. The man before you was tall, soft-looking despite the tired eyes and slightly threadbare jumper.

You blinked. Something about him tugged at your brain. You knew that face. Or at least—you felt like you did.

“Thank you,” you replied, smiling. “It’s my go-to. Can’t survive the day without it.”

He nodded, and before you could pull out your card, the barista had already rung up two drinks. 

Remus cleared his throat softly. “I’ll get both,” he said, tone polite but firm in that way professors have when they’ve made up their mind.

“Oh—you don’t have to—”

“Please,” he said, voice calm, a little low. “It’s easier than splitting the bill for identical drinks.”

You huffed a small laugh. “You really didn’t have to, but thank you.”

The two of you stepped aside to wait for your drinks. You glanced at him again, trying not to be obvious about it—but you were sure now. 

It felt like it was right at the front of your mind. You knew you knew him, you were sure of it. You just didn’t know how. Which was weird, because you were pretty sure you would’ve remembered meeting someone as handsome as him.

“Sorry,” you said at last, turning toward him. “I know this is weird, but… have we met before?”

He looked mildly startled, brow creasing. “I don’t think so,” he said slowly.

You squinted at him. “Were you ever, like… in a commercial? Or maybe a university brochure?”

That earned a soft, weary laugh. “No. I’m a Professor. I’m fairly certain no one wants my face on their advertising.”

Your head tilted. “A Professor?”

He hesitated, clearly wary of where this was going. “Yes. Statistics, actually.”

It hit you like a lightbulb moment. Your eyes went wide, and the realization burst out before you could stop it. “Oh my god. You’re real!”

His brows rose in quiet confusion. “I—pardon?”

You covered your mouth, half laughing, half mortified. “No, sorry, that sounds insane. But there was this student—he came up to me weeks ago asking questions for a statistics project about attraction. He showed me a picture of some guy, and I thought it was, like, a stock photo or something. But it was you, wasn’t it?”

He blinked, then rubbed a hand over his face with a sigh that was equal parts tired and amused. “Red hair, bit of an attitude, usually trolls around with two others?”

“Exactly!” you said, snapping your fingers.

“Right,” he muttered, shaking his head with a wry smile. “That would be Weasley.”

You groaned, covering your face with one hand. “That kid didn’t tell me it was an actual person! I said yes both times—before and after the photo—and now this is just—mortifying.”

Remus chuckled, a warm, low sound that made your stomach flip. “Mortifying? I’d say flattering.”

You peeked through your fingers at him. “You’re not serious.”

“Oh, I am,” he said, his smile soft but teasing. “Statistically speaking, it’s incredibly rare to meet one’s outlier twice.”

The barista called your names, breaking the moment. You both reached for your cups, fingers brushing briefly over the cardboard sleeve. The contact sent a tiny spark of something electric up your arm.

Remus hesitated for a moment, then—almost shyly—added, “Since you were kind enough to answer that study, perhaps you’ll let me ask a follow-up question?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Which is?”

“Would you like to get dinner sometime?”

Your heart stumbled in your chest, and a grin slipped out before you could stop it. “Only if I get to pick the café next time.”

“Deal,” he said, eyes crinkling as he extended his hand. “I’m Remus.”

“Y/N,” you replied, shaking his hand and trying not to notice how warm it felt.

“Tuesday?” he asked, a hint of hope in his voice.

“Tuesday works for me,” you said, smiling.

“Perfect. It’s a date then,” he said softly, a trace of pink coloring his cheeks.

He held the café door open as you stepped outside, and you waved. “I’ll see you,” you said.

“Can’t wait,” he murmured back.

Even with a pile of work waiting for you, you felt unexpectedly giddy, and somehow, not embarrassed at all.

“Hi,” you say softly. You kneel by the bed, lightly touching the ends of Remus’ hair. “How are you, love?” 

“Bad,” he mutters from beneath the covers. You wince. He must be, if he won’t even lower the sheets beneath his eyes. 

You do your best to keep the pity from your voice, knowing he’d hate it. “I brought you some tea,” you murmur, “if you want it.”

“Can’t right now.” 

“It’s chamomile,” you coax. “It might help—”

“I can’t.” The low rumble of his voice takes on a hard edge, and you fall instantly silent. You nod even though he can’t see it, setting the tea and chocolate on his nightstand as quietly as you can. 

You don’t tell him you’re going, sure every footstep is agonizingly loud for him. You force down the lump in your throat. Remus is miserable right now; he’s not thinking about how his tone affects you, and that’s not his fault. He doesn’t mean anything by it. You can deal with it, help anyways.

You sweep instead of vacuuming, gathering the little bits of crisps into a dustpan and dumping them in the trash. The half-eaten snacks get reshelved in your cabinets, the puddle of tea cleaned off the coffee table, and candles lit to banish the stale smell in the living room. The cinnamon ones are usually Remus’ favorite, but you trade them out for lavender on the off chance it helps with his headache. You’re washing dishes one at a time so they don’t clatter when the bedroom door creaks open. 

“Hey,” you say, relieved. “Feeling better?” 

“No.” Remus’ voice is low, and the scratch of it tears at your heartstrings. He trudges to the end of the hall, where he stops, rubbing his forehead with his thumb and forefinger. “I need you to be quiet.” 

“Oh, sorry.” You soften your voice, freezing with your hands submerged in the warm dishwater. “I’ve been trying, I didn’t realize you could hear. I’m almost done with this, so—” 

“Could you stop?” he asks, tone going harsh again. “Just, be quiet or find somewhere else to be, please. I can’t deal with this.” 

You swallow against the intrusion in your throat. Will away the heat from your face. “Okay,” you say, the word barely a whisper. 

Remus turns, plodding back to the bedroom. You hear the door shut.

You leave the dishwater to get cold rather than pouring it out and making more noise. You sit down on the couch with a book, eyes skimming over the words as you convince yourself over and over that it’d be stupid to cry about this. Your face heats, then cools. Tears blur your vision and you blink them away. This is ridiculous. Remus is just moody, he didn’t mean it. You know better than to take anything he says to heart right now. You can’t expect your efforts to be properly appreciated, but the important part is to keep making them. When he’s feeling better, he’ll thank you in a million sweet ways, because that’s who he is. He loves you. He didn’t mean it. 

It’s dark outside when the bedroom door creaks open again. You hadn’t noticed night falling, even when the light became too dim for you to make out the words on your page. You set your book down; you hadn’t been reading anyway. 

Remus sits next to you without a word. He leans the side of his head against the cushion with a sigh. 

“Dove?” he murmurs. 

You don’t dare do more than hum in response. 

A scarred hand finds your leg, the thumb sweeping back and forth over your skin. “I’m sorry for snapping at you,” he says quietly. “That was…it was really mean. And undeserved.”

“I’m sorry I was being loud,” you reply, and you can’t help it, your throat clogs all over again. “I was just trying to help.” 

Your voice catches on the last word, and Remus makes a pained sound that has you silencing yourself instantly. He makes another at your response. 

“Fuck, I’m so sorry,” he rasps. “Do you want a hug?” 

You bite down on your lower lip. “Are you okay to hug?” 

“Yeah, sweetheart.” 

He meets you in the middle, pressing upon your shoulder blades like he can hold you together by sheer physical force. You try for his sake, swallowing the cries that rise in your throat. 

“I’m sorry,” he says again, palm marking a slow path up and down your back. “You weren’t too loud, I’m just fussy. You were only being your kind self. I had no reason to be so horrid.” 

“You weren’t horrid,” you warble. “I know you’re having a hard time.” 

“That’s no excuse.” His palm makes its way back to your shoulders just in time to feel the first little sob escape you. Remus’ grip tightens. “Aw, dovey. I’m so, so sorry. I can’t believe I spoke to you like that.” 

“It’s okay.” 

“It’s not,” he murmurs, kissing the exposed bit of skin where your shirt is slipping down your shoulder. “It’s not, and—” He pauses, looking around the room for the first time. “Did you clean?” 

You nod against his front, feeling the pained sigh that leaves him. 

“Fuck, I’m awful.” 

“You’re not.” 

“You were cleaning up my mess, and I yelled at you.” Now Remus’ voice sounds a tad raw too. He gathers you closer, stubble scratching your forehead as he kisses your hairline. “My sweet girl. You should have ripped me a new one.” 

“You weren’t yelling,” you point out, teasing a bit now, “and anyway, it seemed like you were already being ripped a new one.” 

“Still,” he mumbles into your hair. “You lit the lavender candles and everything. You deserve to put me through hell.” 

“You’re already going through hell,” you remind him gently, brushing a kiss against his cheek. “I don’t need to help the process along. Do you want some tea, love?” 

Remus hums. “I do, but let me get it. Let me get some for you, too, yeah?” He leans back to look down at you. “You want some nighttime tea, darling?” 

Even though they were running late, they were pranksters after all. They didn’t want to waste a good moment like this to prank their dear friend and his girl. They've been waiting for an opportunity like this. They were fond of you and accepted you into their little friend’s group. Sirius and James wouldn’t tell Remus this, but they had a small crush on you when they first met you. Which ended when Remus and you came out as a couple but once in a while, James and Sirius’ gaze would linger a little bit too long on you whenever you spoke or when doing something.

Running into the bathroom to hide, they left the door ajar. They had a clear view of Remus' bed. They held their breath when they heard the knob of the door jiggling.

“Remus.” Sirius’ ears perked up at your voice as both of you came walking in.

Sirius sees Remus leaning down to kiss you. Remus’ hands cups your face as he makes out with you. The boys freeze when they witness the sight of tenderness between Remus and you. Remus is mumbling your nickname to you as he lays his forehead against yours. His lips meets yours again before pulling away to lay you down on his bed, you’re on your back.

About to jump out and scare both of you. You began to moan when Remus started to nip on your neck, planting wet open kisses.

It takes a lot to make playboy, Sirius blush like a school girl but seeing Remus kiss you like that flipped something in him. Remus’ fingers were working quickly to unbutton your shirt. James gulped when Remus took your shirt off, showing your bralette.

“Prettiest fucking tits, I swear.” Remus says as he pulls them down, showing your bare breasts.

Sirius and James’ eyes grew wide as they saw Remus sucked your nipple while squeezing the other. They were practically salivating when they saw your wet hard nipple when Remus pops it out of his mouth.

“Don’t forget to lock the door.” You tell him as Remus quickly removes his sweater and throws it across the room.

“Don’t worry. Peter is in the library with Lily. James and Sirius are at practice. They won’t be back until a few hours.” Sirius and James glance at each at the word practice.

Practice will not be on the agenda today that was for sure especially when they saw you removing the rest of your clothes. Remus follows you and it is not the first time they have seen Remus naked. All the years they have helped him with his transformations. They were always amazed by his body. His tall frame was something out of a painting. His fair skin looked so soft even with the scars. His hair was getting longer, and his piercing eyes peeked behind the strands of hair as he leans over you.

Their cocks grew hard when they saw you riding Remus. The sound of skin slapping together, your wet cunt and Remus groans were so arousing to them. Your breasts were bouncing up and down as you rode Remus’ cock. James rubs the back of his neck as he hears Remus calling you his pretty slut. Sirius starts to play with the belt around his waist when you cried out that you were going cum.

Remus brings his hand to your neck and Sirius is hard when he sees you, go crossed eyes for a sec and a grin appears on your pretty flushed face when you cum on Remus’ cock.

It’s been three weeks since James and Sirius saw Remus fucking you. After watching Remus and you, they had to go their separate ways and deal with themselves. They felt bad afterwards, the guilt was eating them up every day. Jacking off to the thought of their best mate fucking his girlfriend.

They vowed to never tell Remus or you about this. Not even a living soul, they couldn’t tell anyone that they enjoyed it. Remus and you had ruined porn for them completely, nothing was exciting them like before. They had to hear Remus and your moans. They had to see your cunt gushing all over Remus’ cock to cum. It had gotten to the point that Sirius and James would pretend to forget some details. The boys would “recall” how your ass looked or how Remus’ cock slid into you. They wanted to talk about you and Remus in order for them to cum.

“Remember that face she made?” James nods at Sirius.

“When he started to choke her..fuck.” Sirius says as he cups himself through his trousers.

Remus and you never suspected a thing and they kept doing it. James and Sirius would hide in the closet, bathroom again, and use the cloak of invisibility. James and Sirius thought they were close before but nothing was like being close with each other like being under the cloak with their cocks out in their hands as they watched Remus fucking you from behind.

They had front row seats to their favorite show.

Remus had you on your hands and knees on his bed. He’s panting above you as he holds your hips while thrusting into you.

Sirius bites the inside of his cheek as he squeezes the head of his cock gently. James is breathing heavily, his round glasses start to fog up a bit as he strokes himself.

“Remus!” You cry out as he pushes the side of your face down on the mattress, you are facing James and Sirius now and they see a smile on your face when Remus holds your neck down. You love this just as much as Remus did.

Your moans become louder as Remus slams himself inside of you. The mattress springs creak so loudly by his rough thrusts. Your cheek is squished against the blankets. You hold on for dear life, your pussy pulse around Remus’ cock as he praises you for being a good girl with her ass in the air and head down.

They never would have thought Remus as a dom, he was too bashful and too respectful towards you. This was the same Remus that blushes when you call him baby and kisses his cheeks in the hallways. The same Remus that would walk you to class, carrying your books and even your bag.

That Remus is gone, this Remus is using your pussy as his personal pocket pussy and you’re just loving it. Even with his rough strokes, Remus leans down close to your face pushing his cock deeper inside of you.

Remus is muttering sweet words to you. Pushing your hair back, as he coos about your pretty face. He kisses your shoulders, as he calls you his.

“Mine. All mine.” He says before continuing ramming his hips against your ass.

James was the first to cum, he always is. He just couldn’t help it. You looked so fucking good with teary eyes taking a pounding from Remus. Sirius cums when you cry out for Remus to cum in you.

You are begging your boyfriend to fill you and Remus whines when he holds you in place. He leans over you and pulls your hair back, almost making your upper body fold back. He pulls you back by your hair and you look up at him with a pout, he kisses you.

Remus cries your name when he fills you to the hilt and paints your wall with his cum. James and Sirius just stare at both of you as Remus rolls you carefully on to your back. He’s gentle with you as he opens your legs and makes room for himself. He goes on you to lay there with you. Caging your head with his forearms as he kisses you. You wrap your legs around his waist.

They liked watching the aftercare, something so sweet and tender. Remus kisses you so gently, it leaves you out of breath. They would watch Remus stare down at you with so much intensity and love.

“You okay, love?” You nod at your boyfriend’s soft voice. Remus holds you until your breathing is back to normal. James whines softly at the sight of it and Sirius glances over at him. It’s hot and humid under the cloak.

James and Sirius give each other the same look after every time they watched Remus and you. They always say this will be the last time. That’s what they tell themselves but the moment they see you pulling Remus into another room during a party or whispering in his ear during lunches and breaks. They see the look on Remus’ face and he grabs your hand telling his friends something had come up. Sometimes they know by the way Remus walks up to you.

You stood for everything they assumed their friend hated, purely because you would’ve been Walburgha Black’s number one choice to marry her eldest son off with. 

You were raised with the pureblood etiquette, speaking prim and proper and not even allowing yourself to use slang as you spoke. You were a Slytherin, and proud to be so. You were crazy smart and you were the image of pureblood royalty, though the cold shoulder you usually gave people and the snarky attitude didn’t exactly make it easy for even those with a pureblood complex to approach you. 

Even if for some bizarre reason their friend had fallen for you, the fact that you liked him back was shocking enough to keep both boys seated on the couch as Peter retold the story for the thirteenth time. 

“I’m calling bullshit,” James said with a shake of his head. “This must be some elaborate prank he’s pulled off.”

“And what? Got her involved?” Remus asked. 

“Maybe it’s someone with a polyjuice potion,” Peter supplied. 

“Or maybe Pads is actually dating her,” Remus said before his nose scrunched up. “Yeah no, he’s definitely up to something.” 

It took less than five seconds to work out where Sirius was with the help of the map that was quickly shoved in their pocket as all three boys began rushing towards the courtyard, so sure that whatever Peter had seen had to be false. 

Because there was no fucking way that Sirius Black was—

All three boys quickly drew to a stop when they noticed you both. You were sitting on a picnic blanket, leaning back on your hands as you nodded along to something. Sirius, however, had his head propped on your lap, talking away as his hands moved animatedly to the point they could have sworn they saw your lips twitch into a smile. 

“Holy shit,” James gaped at the sight. 

“It could still be a prank,” Remus said, though he didn’t know how much he really believed that himself. 

And just when they thought they couldn’t be shocked any further, you leaned down to press your lips against the wizard, his hand coming to grip the back of your neck as he deepened the kiss. 

“Moony, are you seeing this?” 

“I’m seeing this, Prongs.” 

“Right, great because I think I’m gonna faint.” 

What they couldn’t see was the way Sirius’s lips twisted into a grin as he continued to kiss you, his fingers expertly pulling the clip out of your hair until it cascaded around you both. 

“Your friends are still staring,” you informed him, the words whispered against his lips as you began to pull back but he was quick to chase you. 

“Let them stare all they want, love,” he murmured as his thumb lightly brushed over your thumping pulse. “I bet they are fucking confused.” 

“Such crass language,” you hummed. 

Sirius smirked. “Gonna punish me, love?” 

You shook your head in amusement, pulling back fully despite the way Sirius playfully pouted in response. “You wouldn’t be able to handle my punishments, Black.” 

His eyes gleamed at the challenge. “Is that so?” 

“You are all bark and no bite,” you informed him and the boy was quick to scramble up, his hands darting to your sides as he crawled over your squirming body. 

“I can show you just how hard I bite, love, you just gotta ask.”