sunny season.

‘the bisexual who is a complete mess, and they absolutely know and show no mercy.’

MARLENE MCKINNON and SIRIUS BLACK held no mercy for you, like the pride male and his lioness—and you, the unsuspecting rabbit, unaware of the starving predators that creep upon you with each soundless step. And there you were, their little prey, pinned beneath their gazes in a faraway alcove, hidden from prying eyes. It was just you, Marlene, and Sirius. 

Their scents intertwined and tantalizing—an overwhelming mix of cypress, sea salt, orange blossoms, and saffron. Oh, how were you meant to look? One of them was distracting enough. But both at the same time were fatal in the most cathartic way possible. (And let’s be honest, you were irrevocably drawn to them just as they were to you.) Sirius and Marlene wielded a dangerous kind of power. Beauty for everyone to envy—but their eyes for you only. This year, Marlene had cut her once-long blonde hair into layers that brushed her shoulders. Each wisp of hair perfectly framing her jawline and cheekbones. But what you loved most was her eyes. Light cerulean that popped against her dark eyeshadow. Ice that melted whenever she stared at you. If Sirius’s eyes were like a storm, Marlene’s was like staring at the skies. And as she peered at you now, her gaze dipping lower, and lower, from your nose to the bow of your lips—you watched, throat parched, as Marlene grinned at your shy expression. She looked ravenous. 

Sirius, on the other hand, let his hair grow longer. You’d often see Marlene toying with the strands during lunch. (Soon, you’d be tugging at the dark locks as he wrung each sigh and whimper from your lips, Marlene whispering loving words into your ear.) Piercings adorned his ears and near his right brow. Thunder flashed within his eyes and your knees threatened to buckle. You felt the back of his hand brush against your cheek—you nearly shiver from the intimacy of it all. He’d forsaken the school robes again today, and so you had full view of the tattoos around his arms. Dark ink that so beautifully contrasted against his pale skin. You even noticed a hint of cursive Latin creeping from the collar of his shirt. (Later, your hands would trace the constellations and writings on his bare flesh, his chest slowly rising and falling, a sheen of sweat on his forehead from the hours prior. He’d take your hand in his, pressing his lips and unsaid vows to your ring finger.) 

And while they had you cornered at the moment, you had them completely and irrefutably besotted. 

“Are we still on for our date later, dove?” asked Marlene, lashes sweeping over her eyes as she raked her eyes over you. 

You nodded, unable to trust words at the moment. 

Lightning strikes, rain pours—and you were caught in the midst of it all. (But there was nowhere you’d rather be.)

“Good,” muttered Sirius before he captured your lips with his. 

Oh, how your boyfriend and girlfriend would be your undoing and reckoning all at once. 

‘soft, completely oblivious, loud and brash.’ 

“BEAUTIES AND GENTLEMEN, THIS HAS NEVER HAPPENED BEFORE!” Fabian Prewett’s voice resounded through the Quidditch pitch, accompanied by the confused murmuring of the crowd. “GRYFFINDOR’S STAR SEEKER—JAMES POTTER—IS LATE! L-A-T-E! OI, REGGIE BLACK, SURE YOUR LOT HASN’T DABBLED IN A BIT OF FOUL PLAY PRE-MATCH? MINNIE, IT’S A REASONABLE BLOODY QUESTION—OW!” 

You looked over in time to catch Dorcas Meadowes smacking Fabian’s hand away from the charmed megaphone. The frown on your lips deepens, however. “Late?” you echoed, worriedly tugging on your red-and-gold tie. “James is hardly ever late. . . What if something really did happen?” 

LILY EVANS was quick to ease your nerves, taking your hand in hers and softly uttering a warming charm over the both of you. The afternoon sun kissed her freckles as she grinned freely. “Don’t worry, love. He’s fine,” she said—and you had to ignore the butterflies springing about in your stomach. Love. You rushed to tamper down your heart immediately. Love as in friend. Mate. Best mate. Nothing else. You’d be a fool to think otherwise. Especially with James and Lily announcing their relationship at the start of the year. (As they explained how they got together, a pair of honey-brown and emerald-green kept darting to your direction, which had puzzled you then. You had wondered: Did they think you would disapprove? Worse, did they know your feelings for them?) They were rather happy as a duo without you, thank you very much. 

“How do you know that?” you counter, forcefully tearing your gaze away from Lily as you scour the field for a jersey with Potter written on the back. 

Lily nudged your shoulder. “Because he’s shoved Fabian Prewett over to the side and is now currently holding the megaphone.” 

What?

“IS THIS THING ON?” Instead of Fabian’s voice, you heard a sound—a sound you knew well, just as sunflowers knew the skylight. 

Your head snapped upwards to where the commentator and professors usually stayed during matches. True to her word, there James was. Looking straight at the two of you. 

“Mister Potter!” cried Minnie, reaching over to snatch the amplifier from him, but James was quicker. As Seekers are. “What on earth—?”

“—THIS WILL ONLY TAKE A SECOND, MINNIE!” James bellowed into the megaphone, inching further and further away from the Scottish teacher, his hearty laughter bleeding into the springtime air. “I JUST WANTED TO SAY SOMETHING TO THE GORGEOUS ONE NEXT TO MY GORGEOUS GIRLFRIEND!” 

Lily giggled—another sound embedded deep within your heart, as a soul knew its purpose. 

Instinctively, you looked to the person on Lily’s other side. 

She grimaced in mock-offense and smacked your arm. “He means you, dummy.” 

“LILY-LOVE IS RIGHT.” James nodded from where he stood, preening under the attention, his smile widening with each second that passed. “YOU. US. LUNCH. HOGSMEADE. WEEKEND. YES?” 

What. Was. Happening? 

You glanced at Lily with furrowed brows. “All this just to have lunch?” The three of them always had lunch together, you didn’t understand why James went through all the theatrics, and quite literally delaying a game, for something so mundane. 

Lily sighed before pressing her palms to your cheeks. “I am in love with a boy who doesn’t understand what the word subtlety means, and one who is entirely too subtle for subtle.” 

You felt steam blowing out of your ears, freezing at the two words you thought you would never, ever hear from them. “What?”

“IF I WIN, GO ON A DATE WITH US!” James roared with glee, his teammates now dragging him back by his arms, voice fading as he went further and further away. “IF I DON’T. . . WELL, LET’S BE REAL, I’LL BE WINNING THIS ONE.” 

And win he did, despite the thirty-something penalties he earned before the actual match. But James found that he did not care this time around. Not when he had the absolute pleasure of marrying you and Lily years later. 

‘the big, sweet and gentle—with two gremlins.’

“Let’s go over the mission one more time, lovely.” 

“We have been over it nearly a hundred times over, Remus.” You grumbled, fixing your hair as you landed on the streets of Privet Drive, broom in hand. You dared not risk a glance at REMUS LUPIN, who was as tender as he was roguishly handsome. NYMPHADORA TONKS cackled from where she stood by Kingsley Shacklebolt—you flipped her the bird, and she blew you a kiss in return. “Get the boy, slip past the Muggles, return to Grimmauld unnoticed, eat, and hopefully pass out on a bed with my two sexy lovers.” 

Kingsley cleared his throat. 

You grinned, Remus sighed. 

“Shall we get Mister Potter then?” you asked liltingly, smiling innocently as you cocked your head towards the quaint home. 

Emmeline Vance shook her head with an exasperated grin as she passed by you, throwing Remus a glance that most definitely said, “I do not know how you deal with this everyday.” 

Remus shrugged, replying with a weary look that you hoped meant: “with love and adoration only.” 

You followed Emmeline up the front steps, Tonks wordlessly positioning herself ahead of you as Kingsley unlocked the door with a low Alohomora. Remus was behind you, hand gently placed on the small of your back. Then, the door clicked and the search for Harry Potter was set in motion. 

“Listen, darling, we mustn’t be caught by Harry’s relatives,” said Remus, lips pressed close to your ear—and really, how were you supposed to focus? “They’re Muggles. Well, Lily’s sister knew of magic but from what Harry’s told me, they do not take kindly to anything or anyone from the wizarding world.”

“Then the Missus Potter will just hafta forgive me from up in Heaven,” Tonks began, scowling, one foot inside the Dursley residence. “I’ll give her sister one more reason to dislike magic after I’m done with her. Woman to woman.” 

You raised a brow. “That sounds oddly sexual.” 

“I’ll show you—” 

Kingsley cleared his throat. Again. Not before side-eyeing Remus with a hint of sympathy. 

Remus’s shoulders sagged, but you clocked the hint of a smile coming to life. “Tonks, dear, maybe—” 

“HARRY POTTER! OUT YOU GET, LADDY!” You bellowed into the barren entryway, knocking on the cupboard door under the stairs. 

Tonks chortled before cupping her hands over her mouth. “YOU’VE GOT ONE SECOND BEFORE I START TRASHING THE AREA, BOY—THE DECOR IS HIDEOUS!” 

You kicked down the door of the room under the stairs, grimacing in disgust. “Way ahead of you, Tonks.”

“Let’s see if they let a child stay here again after this,” you muttered before ripping the door off its hinges. “Twats. The whole lot of them.” 

A boy with wide, doe-eyes and unkempt brown hair came rushing down the stairs, wand at the ready, bewildered by all the ruckus—and visitors in his aunt and uncle’s home. His eyes landed on the most familiar face. You watched as the doubt in his eyes melted into relief.  “Pr–Profes. . . Professor Lupin? What are you doing here?” 

Remus smiled wearily. “Here to rescue you, Harry boy. We heard about the Dementor attack.”

“And so has a certain part of the Ministry,” Kingsley supplied.

Remus nodded. “Come on, then. Get your things.” 

You had never seen a boy run off so fast. 

Tonks stared up at Remus. “You’d make a good father one day.” 

The werewolf choked. 

(Tonks was right, by the way. He’d cry at the birth of your son, Teddy Lupin, and he would do so again when he held his daughter in his arms. Remus would not bat an eyelash when Teddy’s mouth morphed into a duck’s beak, or when his hair dyed itself to match your colours. And in the years to come after the war, you, Remus, and Tonks would be there to see your children off at the station. An owl with two letters in its clutches—delivering news of their Hogwarts sorting and a note of a happy ending.)

‘we are both jerks and we hate each other, but we love and protect. . . her. (who is far too good for them.)'

BARTY CROUCH JR. and EVAN ROSIER knew the basic laws of magic. It could not bring the dead back to life, create love, or be used to seek immortality. And yet, no one had prepared them at all for just how much the Dark craved the essence of Light. 

“Wretched little thing,” Barty cursed as he crumpled a page from his drawing book. Your face, filled in with charcoal shades and lead strokes, stared back at him hauntingly. Why? What was it that drew him to you—a pitiful Muggle-born with no family prestige to her name? You must have cast the Imperius on him. There was no other reasonable explanation, otherwise. Forced him with an Unforgivable so that his eyes would be drawn to you in the sea of pestilent lions.

Evan was more. . . volatile with his affections. If it could even be called that. To him, at least, you were an obsession. He’d never lay a hand on you, ever—his aggressions only for Barty to take in the quiet of the night, a discordant waltz between two who vied for power and control, a melody of hushed threats whilst leaving bruises on each other’s lips and deep marks on skin—but, oh, how Evan yearned to corrupt your soul. 

A month ago, he had shoved a Ravenclaw into the fieldstone walls, snarling, “Look at her again and I’ll ensure the world forgets you once existed.” Evan drew pleasure from the gangly boy’s quivering lip and unsteady gaze. Just as he and Barty were yours, you were theirs. 

Their most prized possession. 

Evan’s pretty plaything. 

Barty’s muse. 

Theirs. 

You were a Gryffindor prefect, patrolling the halls like the dutiful lioness that you were, always caring for the wide-eyed cubs—Evan hated it most when your attention was ripped from them by a lost yearling with tears in their eyes, but he would not curse the little brat for it, not while you were around, anyway—and assisting the professors with that damned smile on your face. Barty ached to see what other expressions you could make. Perhaps, you were pretty when you cried, too. (And they made you cry often. Hands devilishly wedged beneath your skirt, Evan drinking each gasp and murmur from your lips while Barty left his presence on your neck, hands tightly coiled around your red-and-gold tie.) 

They truly did adore you. No one would touch or hurt you, not while they still lived. They’d tear them from limb to limb if anyone even dared glance at you the wrong way. And if it was the world that threatened to crumble down on you, Barty and Evan would burn everything to the ground.

For you. 

Their wildfire. 

Yet, it was your face that Barty had seen last before he was sent to Azkaban. You who brought him to his knees before his father. You, the traitor who crushed his heart in your palms. Barty would curse, yell, and beg for your name behind the bars, until the memories of you turned him into a madman beyond repair. 

You had been standing beside Alastor Moody when he killed Evan. He thrashed and spat vulgarities at the sight of Aurors—but never at you, his precious darling. He knew you loved him. Them. You had turned away at the last second just as Moody raised his wand. Evan only laughed maniacally in the face of death, your name wilting on his tongue in his last moments. 

In the end, it was you who brought them deliverance. 

Light and dark were never meant to converge, so the three of you learned the hard way. 

‘the mum, the clumsy babie. . . and the asshole.’

“Oh, my heart, what happened?” NARCISSA BLACK rushed to your side, her otherwise icy features now melted with worry as she sat close to you, hands gently pressed to your face as she searched for any other injury. “Who is to blame for this?” 

“There is no one to blame, Cissa,” you replied immediately, knowing your girlfriend’s tendency to fuss. She hummed, unconvinced, before greeting you with a soft kiss. The ice queen’s lips were soft and dizzying. “I just wasn’t looking where I was going, that’s all. Let’s not turn this into a pressing matter because it really isn’t a big deal. If anything, I am the one to blame.”  

Narcissa glanced at the open wound on your knee. “There is blood, sweetling.” She grimaces at the dark shade of crimson against your skin as though it had personally offended her. Narcissa tapped her wand on the graze, a healing charm emitting from her lips. And only when your skin returned unmarked did she let go of her frown. Her gaze sharply cut to the offender. “We will take care of this.” 

“I really don’t—” 

“Do you understand who I am?” LUCIUS MALFOY said as he towered over the poor Hufflepuff. Where Narcissa was snow and ice, Lucius was hurricane and hail. He curled his lip in distaste, hand tightly gripping the boy’s shoulder. “Who my father is? Allow me to explain the situation to you. You’ve just harmed someone under the protection of the Malfoy name. Someone whom I care about dearly, and there are only two in this blasted castle. It is just unfortunate that you happened upon one of them.” His eyes, frigid with ire, swept over the boy. “So what shall it be? Azkaban or your entire lineage wiped from the registries? For I can assure you that either is of no hassle to me.” 

“Lucius!” you hissed, getting to your feet but ultimately held down by Narcissa’s firm grip on your hand. “You are being entirely dramatic! And unreasonable! Emphasis on the unreasonable!” 

“She’s right, Lucy darling,” said Narcissa, far too calm, as though she was in her tea room, unbothered. 

“Thank you, Cissa.” You glared at Lucius. 

“Why erase them from the registry when we can easily have them blacklisted everywhere?” Narcissa continued, straightening her back and gracefully tossing her pin-straight blonde hair over her shoulder. “Make sure no one from their family can find work in the wizarding world, join any organization within society, and be turned away from every store and boutique in Diagon Alley.” She flashed the two boys a smile—as though Narcissa hadn’t cast a snowstorm over the hallway with just her words. “That is how you make sure someone disappears.” 

You swore that Lucius would have dropped to his knees then and there, adoration falling freely from his tongue. (The Slytherins oh-so loved their power, after all—and they’d take power where they could get it.) 

“Have you gone mad, Cissa? Both of you! Honestly!” you nearly shriek—unaware, had you been anyone else, you’d be thrown into inferi-tested waters by now. 

Narcissa arched her brow. “Rather courageous thing to say to a Black.” 

Well, considering Bella. . . You thought. “I didn’t mean it like that and you know it,” you said. 

“You must forgive me, dearest,” soothed Lucius, as though he was talking to a kitten wearing a lace-ribbon collar. “I only want to look out for our beloved.” 

Heat rushed to your cheeks but you would not let them have their way. “If you go through with that, then I will not talk to you for the rest of the year,” you bargained with a pinched exhale, standing firm on your ground, fists clenched at your sides. 

Lucius released his grip on the boy at once, sparing him one last glance. “You are lucky that you happened upon one of the most merciful creatures on this earth.”

“Had it been me, I would have had you Obliviated on the spot,” said Narcissa, sharp grey eyes pinning down the poor, unfortunate soul. “But that is neither here nor there.” 

And that was that. 

The next day, the student body made sure to steer clear of your way, lest they wanted to evoke the protective wrath of two of the most influential pupils at school. 

‘the morally questionable one and the pure beans who ignore this.’

“YOU DID, WHAT?” 

The students crammed in the hallway stop and stare as you grabbed Anatole Mulciber by the shoulders before shoving him up against the wall. 

“Tell me,” you demanded through gritted teeth, fisting the collar of his robes before knocking him into the cobblestone once more. (That was the thing about prissy aristocrats. They thought themselves above drawing blood—for all their obsession with it.) “Tell me what you did to my girlfriend.” 

Before he could even part his lips, you continued, “You know what? It doesn’t matter.” And so you drove your fist to his cheek. 

Again. 

And again. 

When the rage simmered down—however long that was—you blinked and saw that you were standing over Mulciber, staring down at his bleeding nose and bruised cheek. Lucius Malfoy and his lackeys were fast approaching and so you drove the point home by spitting on the ground, disgust evidenced by your sneer. 

MARY MACDONALD, eyelids dusted with bright yellow glitter, freckles sitting atop her dark skin, whispered in horror to the third person in your triad, “Should. . . Should we stop this?” 

She was utterly honoured that you’d go to such lengths to defend her. . . But this would be your fifth detention this month if McGonagall caught you, and not even the Prewett twins lost this much points in a time. Mary loved you dearly—but you had a temper. (Never with them though, she noticed. You held them with such gentleness and fondness in your eyes. Almost as though you were a wholly different person. But, somehow, still the exact same. Love was truly worn with rose-tinted glasses. But if so, Mary did not want to take it off at all.) 

PETER PETTIGREW shrugged his shoulders, flabbergasted, rooted in his spot, nothing else he could do other than watch you curse Mulciber’s name and expel obscenities at him. Merlin, you terrified him more than his Boggart. Sometimes. He just wished he would never have to be on the receiving end of your threats. “I don’t know. . . I don’t think so?” 

“Go near Mary again—go near any of them again and I’ll kill you where you stand, Mulciber,” you rasped, arms now being held back by Dorcas and Marlene. “I’ll gut you bloody, I swear it!” 

Mary paled. 

Peter looked as though he was going to faint—James patted him on the back. 

(“Aren’t you going to dock points for this barbarity?” asked the Parkinson girl in contempt. 

Lily, Head-Girl, raised a brow. “The way I see it, this was an act of self-defense. You’ll find that being a bigot has its repercussions, Miss Parkinson, and that is the ugly truth.” She said this more to Severus, who was standing off to the side—but that was a tale for another day.)

“Matter of fact,” you proclaimed heatedly, ripping yourself from the two girls’ hold. Magic or not, this was nothing compared to a fistfight in a back alley. “If any of you—I don’t give a rat’s arse who your mother or your grandmother or who your bloody grandmother’s cousin-in-law was—if I hear that you’ve used Dark Magic against another student, I will make you wish for death. And I’ll do that without magic.”  

Mary exhaled. A tinge of exasperation mixed with wonderment. She grabbed Peter by the hand—who subsequently turned red. “We should just close our eyes and wait until it’s out of their system.”

“Yeah. . . Yes. . . Sure. . .” Peter spluttered before following behind Mary. 

They loved you, really—but, Gods, were you more gruesome than a Dementor sometimes. (What was a Dementor’s kiss to a lover’s scorned fist?) 

“And while we’re at it—one o’ you keeps stealing from my feckin’ chocolate stash!” They heard you shouting down the corridor. 

“Yup.” Mary nodded solemnly. “That would do it.” You’d be in a mood for the next hour now.