anyway, life's good, but sirius kind of feels a bit alone sometimes since harry's taking up so much of james' time nowadays (sirius absolutely adores the kid but you know, everything is suddenly about family. where is the adventure?). since he's reconciled with his little brother (finally) he has the task of finding a birthday present for him, so he's walking around diagon alley, looking for something that could make the little shit happy for once.

and then he sees it, a little bookstore crammed in between two other popular stores. the sign above the door reads blackthorn's books. it doesn't have as many customers as the stores beside it but it looks like a place regulus would adore. sirius walks in and realizes that it's gonna be impossible to find anything in here. he doesn't know a single thing about books, really, and there are books not only on the shelves but stacked in heaps on the floor. it's chaos, but beautiful chaos, if you're into reading and all that, he supposes.

then he sees the man behind the counter. the first thing he notices is the scars. his face and sleeveless arms are covered in them, making him look handsome in this sort of rougish and rugged way. he's sitting down on a stool, reading, and yet he's taller than sirius still. everything is quiet in here, making him feel like he's walked into some seperate world. sirius coughs into his hand and tries to get his attention.

when the man looks up his breath his taken away. he has the prettiest hazel eyes he has ever seen. the man blushes and puts the book down, immediately standing and showing his real height. sirius has to crane his neck to look up at him. he looks adorable as he sheepishly scratches the back of his neck.

Forget || Wolfstar Word count: 1,057

@wolfstarmicrofic @lilldrknesss @ineffablelyqueerwolfstarshipper

Remus Lupin forgets things.

Not the important things—never those. He remembers dates, passwords, obscure footnotes from books he hasn’t touched in decades. He remembers the exact tone of Sirius’s laugh when it’s real versus when it’s performative. He remembers how many steps it takes from the bedroom to the kitchen in the dark.

But the small things slip.

Where he left his glasses. Whether he already fed the cat. If he took the kettle off the stove or only thought about doing it.

Sirius notices before Remus does.

At first, he assumes it’s stress. They’re older now. Life has weight. Some forgetfulness is expected. Sirius makes jokes about it, gentle ones, the kind meant to cushion rather than poke.

“Professor Lupin,” he’ll say, handing Remus his wand, “you dropped this again. Honestly, I worry.”

Remus laughs, because Sirius expects him to. Because laughter is easier than admitting the quiet panic that sometimes flickers when his mind comes up empty.

The forgetting isn’t dramatic. It doesn’t arrive all at once. It drips in.

Remus forgets the name of the shop they’ve been going to for years. Forgets a conversation they definitely had—Sirius is sure of it, because he remembers being annoyed. Forgets what he was about to say mid-sentence and trails off, embarrassed.

“I’m sorry,” Remus says too often.

Sirius hates that part most.

One evening, Remus stands in the doorway of their bedroom, frowning faintly.

“Did we… move the wardrobe?” he asks.

Sirius looks up from tying his boots. “No.”

Remus nods slowly. “Right. That’s what I thought.”

He doesn’t sound convinced.

That night, Sirius lies awake listening to Remus breathe, counting it without meaning to. In. Out. In. Out. Like a spell he’s afraid to break.

The forgetting has edges. Sharp ones. It snags on Remus’s old habits—his tendency to blame himself first, to assume fault where there might only be chance.

“I’m just tired,” Remus insists, when Sirius finally brings it up. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s something,” Sirius says gently. “It doesn’t have to be terrible to be something.”

Remus looks at him for a long moment, eyes tired but steady. “I don’t want to be… difficult.”

Sirius’s chest tightens. “You’re not.”

“I don’t want you to have to—”

“Remus.” Sirius takes his hands, grounding them both. “You don’t get to decide what I’m willing to do.”

Remus exhales, shaky. “I don’t want to forget you.”

The words land hard and quiet.

Sirius presses his forehead to Remus’s. “You couldn’t forget me if you tried.”

That makes Remus smile, just barely. “I have tried,” he says. “You’re rather difficult to misplace.”

They don’t name it. Not properly. There’s a doctor, eventually. Conversations with too many pauses. Words like progressive and monitoring and we’ll see.

Forget is a gentle word for it. It sounds like something you can choose.

Remus forgets the ends of things first. The last line of a poem. The conclusion of an anecdote. Sirius learns to fill them in without making it obvious.

He forgets where he put his notes. Sirius starts putting them back in the same place every time.

Remus forgets what day it is. Sirius writes it on the fridge in big, looping letters.

They build a life designed to catch what falls.

Some days are better than others. Some days Remus is sharp as ever, teasing Sirius over breakfast, correcting his pronunciation of obscure French authors. On those days, Sirius pretends not to notice the relief humming through his bones.

Other days, Remus stares at a book he’s read a hundred times and frowns like it’s written in a foreign language.

“I know this,” he murmurs.

“I know,” Sirius says.

Remus presses his fingers to his temple. “I hate this.”

Sirius sits beside him, shoulder to shoulder. “I know.”

“I don’t want to be someone you have to remember for.”

Sirius turns, eyes fierce. “You are not a burden.”

Remus flinches anyway. Old instincts die hard.

That night, Remus forgets Sirius’s middle name.

He knows instantly that he’s lost it. He feels the gap where it should be, like a missing tooth. Panic blooms fast and sharp.

“Hey,” Sirius says softly, catching his expression. “What’s wrong?”

Remus opens his mouth. Closes it.

Sirius’s heart stutters.

“…Remus?”

“I—” Remus swallows. “I know you. I know you. I just—there’s a word. I can’t—”

Sirius doesn’t let him spiral. He takes Remus’s face in his hands, steady and warm.

“It’s Orion,” he says. “Sirius Orion Black. Named after a constellation and an ego problem.”

Remus lets out a shaky breath. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t,” Sirius says. “That one’s my fault anyway.”

Remus laughs weakly, tears in his eyes. “You always did hate it.”

“Desperately.”

They hold each other for a long time after that. Sirius’s arms are a constant. A promise.

The forgetting continues. Slowly. Unevenly. Cruel in its unpredictability.

But there are things Remus never forgets.

He never forgets the way Sirius smells—leather and soap and something indefinably him. He never forgets the sound of Sirius’s footsteps, the weight of him in the bed, the way he says “Moony” like it’s a secret.

He never forgets that he is loved.

One morning, Sirius wakes to find Remus already up, standing at the window, sunlight catching in his hair.

“Morning,” Sirius says.

Remus turns. Smiles. “Morning.”

There’s a pause. Sirius’s chest tightens, bracing.

Then Remus says, softly, “I know you.”

Sirius crosses the room in three strides and pulls him close, burying his face in Remus’s shoulder.

“I know,” he says hoarsely. “I know.”

Later, much later, when the forgetting takes more than it gives, Sirius becomes the keeper of their shared history.

He tells Remus stories. About school. About the war. About the day they finally stopped pretending.

Remus listens, eyes bright, like it’s new every time.

Sometimes he says, “That sounds like us.”

Sirius smiles. “It is.”

On a quiet evening, Remus looks at him suddenly and asks, “Have I ever loved you?”

Sirius’s throat tightens.

“Yes,” he says. “You do. You still do.”

Remus considers this, then nods. “Good.”

He reaches for Sirius’s hand, grip firm.

“I might forget things,” Remus says. “But don’t let me forget that.”

Sirius squeezes back. “Never.”

And if Remus forgets everything else—names, places, years—Sirius will remember for both of them.

That’s the promise.

That’s the love.

That’s the thing that does not disappear.

"Tell me you didn't have anything to do with this." Regulus' fury was clear from way down the aisle of books where Remus was sitting comfortably. He glances up, face blank. Regulus' hair is as green as his tie.

"I had nothing to do with this," he responds plainly, setting his book aside.

"Don't fucking lie to me," Regulus grumbles, but the gentleness in his eyes gives him away.

Remus shrugs, a coy smile playing at his lips. "Pick one; I can either not lie to you, or I can tell you I had nothing to do with it... But I can't do both."

Regulus huffs, dropping down beside him.

"Or," Remus continues, turning his fingers through Regulus' hair and catching bits of silvery glitter as he does, "I can just tell you it really brings out your eyes - no, really. It suits you."

Regulus rolls his eyes, sitting back.

"How long will it last?" he asks after a moment of silence passes between them.

"Ah…"

Something about the way Remus hesitates causes Regulus to fix him with a sharp look. "How long, Lupin?"

Remus releases a short chuckle, unfazed by Regulus' persistent frustration. "Well, that depends-"

"On?"

"How soon you're kissed."

"What the-"

"It'll resolve itself in a month, or when you're kissed. Whichever comes first. They were going after Snape, originally," he adds, by means of an explanation.

Regulus' lips narrow, and he glances down the aisle of the library.

"Go on then. Let's get it over with."

"Always so romantic," Remus mumbles as Regulus turns back, eyes wrinkling in pleasant anticipation, and caresses Remus' lips with his own.

They remain like that for a moment, neither taking it further, or withdrawing. Both boys' eyes had flickered closed.

It was only as a he felt a tongue dart out to brush his lip, that Remus pulled back in surprise.

"So," Regulus begins, his cheeks an unusual shade of pink. "Am I back to normal?"

Remus holds back on the obvious retort. "Hmm…" he eyes flicker to Regulus' head. "Maybe once wasn't enough-"

He hadn't finished speaking before Regulus' lips were back on his.

This time, when they part, Regulus' hair is a standard shade of black.

He looks suspiciously at Remus, lips puffed and eyes shining under the warm glow of the library lights. There was something else there, too. Something conspiratorial. At last, Regulus understands. "The spell didn't need a kiss, did it?"

“Maybe you should bolt the door shut next time!” Albus yells as he scrambles backwards and books it down the corridor of Malfoy Manor.

Scorpius watches his father and Harry, blue eyes wide with fascination where they’re still joined intimately on the bed.

“Aren’t you going to bolt too, Scorp?” Harry asks him lightly, and he snaps his slack mouth shut before carefully backing towards the threshold.

After he’s gone, Harry collapses on top of Draco in a fit of laughter, while his husband does his best impression of a beet.

“That was—”

“Oh, come on, Draco. It was hysterical.”

“They’re our children—”

“They’re eighteen, and you know they’re shagging each other too.”

Draco sighs, as if the revelation that absolutely was not a revelation at all had taken several years off his life.

@drarrymicrofic prompt: Survive. WC: 216

The courtroom goes pin-drop quiet, jury fixed on the new witness. Potter hasn’t bothered to comb his hair for the trial, Draco notices. Horrendous.

He breathes deep, expecting the worst.

Potter sits, flashes Draco an indecipherable look — one that burns, somehow — and says:

And then Malfoy was there, firm hands pressed to his chest, eyes wide with panic. 

“Shit… Harry, breathe with me, okay? Inhale for five seconds. Come on, I know you can.”

Child || Jegulus (And Harry!) Word count: 1.232

@lilldrknesss @jeggyverses-jegulus-microfic @taylorswiftmicrofic

The first time Harry calls him dad, Regulus assumes he’s misheard.

It wouldn’t be the first time—Harry talks quickly when he’s excited, words tangling together until they barely resemble language. Regulus has gotten good at deciphering it, at picking meaning out of chaos. Still, this—

“Dad,” Harry says again, tugging insistently on Regulus’s sleeve. “Up. Please.”

Regulus looks down at him.

There are biscuit crumbs on Harry’s jumper and something sticky on his fingers—jam, probably—and his glasses are sliding down his nose in a way that suggests he’s been running around far too much and far too unsupervised.

Regulus blinks once. Slowly.

“I’m sorry,” he says, very precisely. “What did you just call me?”

Harry frowns, like this is the most unnecessary question in the world. “Dad,” he repeats. Then, because apparently Regulus is being particularly dense today, he points across the room. “Other Dad’s busy.”

Regulus follows the gesture.

James is halfway up a ladder, arguing with a light fixture like it has personally offended him. “If you’d just turn—no, not like that, I mean—Merlin’s sake—”

The light flickers. James swears.

Regulus looks back down at Harry.

Harry looks back up at him, utterly certain.

There’s no hesitation. No testing. Just a simple statement of fact.

“You,” Harry clarifies patiently, patting Regulus’s arm. “Dad.”

Regulus opens his mouth.

Closes it.

Across the room, James goes very still.

Slowly—far too slowly to be natural—he turns his head.

“Did he—” James starts, then stops, then tries again. “Did he just call you—?”

“Yes,” Regulus says flatly.

James stares at him.

Then, quite abruptly, he starts laughing.

Not subtle amusement. Not quiet satisfaction. Full, bright, unrestrained laughter that echoes through the room and makes Harry grin like he’s done something spectacular.

“Oh, that’s brilliant,” James says, climbing down the ladder with far less urgency than the situation probably warrants. “That’s absolutely brilliant.”

“It is not ‘brilliant,’” Regulus snaps. “It is inaccurate.”

Harry tugs his sleeve again. “Biscuit?”

Regulus pinches the bridge of his nose.

“James,” he says, with the strained patience of someone barely holding onto control, “fix this.”

James, who has made no effort whatsoever to stop smiling, crouches down in front of Harry instead.

“Alright, mate,” he says, softer now, gentler. “What’s going on, then?”

Harry gestures between them like it’s obvious. “Two dads.”

James blinks.

Then looks up at Regulus.

Regulus looks back, expression sharp and unyielding.

James tries—he really does—to keep his composure. It lasts all of three seconds.

“Oh, I’m never correcting that,” he says.

“James.”

“Nope. Not happening.”

“James Fleamont Potter.”

“That’s how this works now,” James says, completely undeterred. “You live here, you help raise him, you read him stories and tell him off when he tries to feed toast to the cat—this is the natural consequence.”

Regulus glares at him. “I did not agree to be called—”

“Dad?” James supplies helpfully.

Regulus goes very still.

Harry, sensing neither tension nor impending argument, beams up at both of them. “Biscuit?” he asks again, because priorities.

James claps a hand over his mouth, still fighting laughter.

Regulus exhales slowly.

Then, because this is apparently his life now, he reaches up, takes the tin down from the shelf, and hands Harry a biscuit.

“Thank you, Dad,” Harry says, already halfway to taking a bite.

Regulus closes his eyes.

James makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like he might start laughing again.

It doesn’t stop.

Regulus might have assumed it was a one-off—a child’s confusion, a moment that would pass as quickly as it came. But Harry is nothing if not consistent.

“Dad, can you help me with this?”

“Dad, he took my toy—”

“Dad, look!”

Each time, Regulus pauses.

Each time, he considers correcting him.

Each time… he doesn’t.

James notices. Of course he does.

He notices everything.

“You’re letting him,” James says one evening, leaning against the kitchen counter as Regulus stirs something in a pot with more force than strictly necessary.

“I am not ‘letting’ him do anything,” Regulus replies.

“You’re not stopping him.”

“That is not the same thing.”

James hums, unconvinced. “You could correct him.”

“I could,” Regulus agrees.

“But you don’t.”

Regulus sets the spoon down with a quiet clink.

There’s a beat of silence.

“…He’ll grow out of it,” Regulus says, though it sounds less certain than it should.

James tilts his head. “Will he?”

Regulus doesn’t answer.

Because the truth is, Harry doesn’t treat it like something temporary. There’s no testing in it, no uncertainty. It’s not a phase. It’s not a mistake.

It’s a decision.

And Harry, for all that he’s small, is stubborn in a way that feels… familiar.

“You didn’t hate it,” James says, softer now.

Regulus exhales. “That’s not the point.”

James pushes off the counter, stepping closer. “Isn’t it?”

Regulus meets his gaze.

There’s something steady there. Something warm and unyielding all at once.

Dangerous, in its own way.

“…No,” Regulus admits, after a moment. “I didn’t.”

James smiles, small and real. “Yeah,” he says. “I figured.”

It becomes normal in the quietest way possible.

Not something they discuss. Not something they define.

Just something that is.

Harry climbs into Regulus’s lap with a book and a determined look. “Dad, read.”

Regulus raises an eyebrow. “Demanding, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Harry says, without hesitation.

Regulus huffs, but opens the book anyway.

Harry settles against him, warm and solid and entirely trusting. His small hand curls into the fabric of Regulus’s sleeve like it belongs there.

Like he belongs there.

Across the room, James watches them.

There’s no laughter this time. No teasing.

Just something quieter.

Something that looks a lot like relief.

Later, when Harry is asleep—sprawled across his bed, one arm thrown over his head, glasses crooked—Regulus lingers in the doorway.

“Goodnight,” he says, softer than usual.

Harry stirs slightly. Mumbles something indistinct.

Then, clearer, drowsy and unguarded: “Night, Dad.”

No hesitation.

No question.

Regulus nods, though Harry doesn’t see it, and closes the door.

James is waiting in the hallway.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches Regulus with that same steady expression.

“Well?” he asks eventually.

Regulus leans back against the wall, folding his arms. “He’s asleep.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Regulus knows.

He looks down the hallway instead, toward the closed door.

“…I didn’t plan for this,” he says.

“Neither did I,” James admits.

Regulus huffs quietly. “He’s very certain.”

James smiles, faint. “Yeah. He is.”

There’s a pause.

Then James steps closer, shoulder brushing Regulus’s in an easy, familiar way.

“For what it’s worth,” he says, “I think he’s right.”

Regulus glances at him. “About what?”

“About you.”

Regulus scoffs, but there’s no real heat in it. “He’s five.”

“And?” James says. “He chose you anyway.”

That lands harder than it should.

Regulus looks away, jaw tightening slightly.

“…He shouldn’t have to choose,” he says.

James shakes his head. “He didn’t. Not really.” A small pause. “He just gave it a name.”

Regulus is quiet.

Because that—unfortunately—feels true.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he admits, low.

James lets out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “Brilliant,” he says. “Neither do I.”

Regulus glances at him.

James grins, softer now. “We’ll figure it out.”

No grand promises.

No guarantees.

Just that.

Regulus considers it.

Then nods, once.

“…Alright,” he says.

And when Harry calls for them the next morning—sleepy and insistent and entirely himself—

“Dads?”

—Regulus doesn’t hesitate at all.