#maraduersera

a/n: i am honestly not sure how to feel about this but if you love it, i’ll end up loving it. Honestly its giving jeff buckley’s yearning.

summary: James Potter touches you like it means nothing. You feel it like it means everything. Best friends caught in the in-between. Too close to be casual, too scared to be honest. It’s all glances that linger too long, hands that almost hold, and words neither of you are brave enough to say. But how long can you keep waiting for someone who’s already halfway yours?

including: Slow emotional, mutual pining, angst, no explicit content or character death

word count: 2k+

James Potter always touches you like it means nothing.

An arm slung over your shoulder. A hand on your arm when he’s laughing too hard at Sirius. His chin on your shoulder as he reads your Herbology notes upside down. You’ve learned to breathe through it. To pretend your skin doesn’t buzz every time he’s close.

You’re best friends. You don’t ruin that.

But it’s hard.

Especially when he curls up next to you on the Gryffindor common room couch and falls asleep halfway through some dull Astronomy chapter you offered to read out loud. His head is on your chest, soft snoring, lips slightly parted. You don’t dare move.

You also don’t sleep.

You stare at the ceiling for two hours and wonder if he hears how fast your heart beats when he’s this close.

⸻

You get good at hiding it.

The longing. The way you look for him in every hallway, laugh a little louder when he’s nearby. The way you watch his hands, his long fingers, calloused knuckles, a freckle on his middle knuckle you once counted just to distract yourself.

He talks about girls sometimes. You pretend not to care.

“You think Smith likes me?” he asks one afternoon, sprawled on your bed eating half your chocolate stash.

You shrug. “Probably. You’re loud. People notice loud.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Do I?” you joked.

He throws a pillow at you. You throw it back.

⸻

One morning, he’s already at your table in the library when you arrive. There’s an extra quill waiting for you, your favorite fruit chews, and a note folded in half.

“Thought you’d forget your stuff. You always do.”

You roll your eyes but keep the note.

You tuck it in your pocket and read it again three times during History of Magic.

He never mentions it.

⸻

Sixth year feels heavier.

He’s taller. His voice is deeper. Lily Evans finally starts looking at him the way he’s always looked at her. It makes your stomach twist.

You hate that you see it. That he doesn’t seem to care as much anymore. Or maybe he’s just tired of waiting for her, the same way you’re tired of waiting for him.

You sit beside him in Transfiguration and pretend it doesn’t mean anything when your knees touch.

You lend him your scarf one day when he forgets his. He forgets to give it back for a week. When he does, it smells like him.

⸻

You tell yourself you’re fine with this.

This limbo. This almost.

He doesn’t say anything, and neither do you.

Because how could you? What would you even say?

“I think about kissing you every time you lean too close.”

or something even better

“I feel like I’m falling in love with someone who thinks of me like a place to rest, not stay.”

You’d sound crazy. Mental.

But worst of all— you’d lose him.

So you smile. Laugh. Let him get close, but never close enough.

You wait. And wait. And wait.

⸻

It changes one night in November.

It’s late. Past curfew. You’re both on the Quidditch pitch, lying in the middle of the grass after James dragged you out for “fresh air and perspective,” whatever that means.

You’re lying side by side, his fingers close to yours. Not touching. Just close enough to feel the warmth radiating like a furnace.

He sighs. “Everything feels like it’s moving too fast lately.”

You glance at him. “What do you mean?”

“I dunno. Lily. School. Life. Everything feels like it’s on the edge of changing and I can’t tell if that’s a good thing.”

You chew your lip. “Maybe it is.”

He turns his head toward you. “What if I don’t want it to change?”

You look at him.

And you say the bravest thing you’ve ever said “Then tell it to stay.”

James blinks.

You keep going, even though your chest feels like it’s caving in. “Sometimes… I feel like I’m standing still and everything else is moving on without me.”

He’s quiet.

And then he whispers, “Mine doesn’t move without you.”

You stare at him. His voice is low. Vulnerable. Like he’s saying more than he knows how to say.

“James—”

“I think about it,” he says suddenly. “Us. Sometimes.”

Your heart stutters. “Oh.”

He laughs softly. “That’s all you’ve got?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “That you think about it too.”

You look down. “I think about it all the time.”

He’s still. Like he’s scared to move, scared it’ll break whatever moment this is.

But then he reaches out — slowly — and takes your hand.

Just that.

Not a kiss. Not a confession.

Just your hand in his.

And somehow, that’s everything.

⸻

After that night, nothing’s different.

And yet everything is.

He still jokes. Still ruffles your hair. Still falls asleep beside you with a book open in his lap. But now, his fingers find yours under the table. His arm lingers around your waist longer than it should. And when he smiles at you, it’s softer.

You still don’t talk about it.

Neither of you are ready.

But when you see Lily Evans look at him and he doesn’t look back, you feel something loosen in your chest.

You’re still waiting.

But it feels different now.

Like maybe — finally — he’s waiting too.

⸻

(James POV)

James Potter doesn’t know when it started.

Maybe it was fourth year, when you cursed Mulciber for hexing his broom and then shrugged it off like it was nothing.

Or maybe it was fifth, when you fell asleep on his shoulder in the library and slightly drooled on his robes and he didn’t even care.

Or maybe it was always there — this quiet ache that sat low in his chest every time you laughed and it wasn’t at something he said.

He doesn’t know.

He just knows it’s getting harder to ignore.

⸻

You’ve always been his soft spot.

He thinks he hides it well. He teases you like he teases Sirius. Shoves your shoulder in the hall.

But he notices things about you that he doesn’t notice about anyone else.

You chew your lip when you’re nervous, even though it annoys you. You hate coffee but drink it every morning needing anything to wake up. You sleep on your side, always facing the wall. You pretend not to care when people hurt you, but you always go quiet after.

He notices.

He wishes he didn’t.

⸻

When he talks about other girls, he watches you.

He doesn’t mean to — he just does.

Watches how your jaw tenses, how your eyes flick down, how you suddenly start organizing your bag like it’s the most urgent thing in the world.

And every time, he feels like the worst person alive.

Because he wants your attention, but not like this. Not through jealousy. Not through hurt.

But if he asked you — really asked you — what would you say?

⸻

He dreams about you sometimes.

He never tells anyone, obviously. Not Sirius. Not Remus. Definitely not you.

But they’re not always romantic. Sometimes you’re just… there. Laughing in the rain. Sitting on the Quidditch stands. Reading upside down with your foot tapping against his knee.

But sometimes, it’s more.

Sometimes, it’s your hand in his, your lips against his throat, your voice in the dark saying his name.

He always wakes up sweating.

⸻

When he finds you on the Quidditch pitch that night, something in him unravels.

He doesn’t plan on saying anything. Just wanted to be near you. That’s always been enough.

But the way you look at him — like you see him, not the version he pretends to be which only makes it harder to lie.

He says everything without saying anything.

“Everything’s changing.”

“I don’t want it to.”

“I think about us.”

And then your hand in his.

Just that.

It should’ve been too small to mean anything.

But it feels like the start of something he’s been running from for years.

⸻

He doesn’t kiss you.

Not because he doesn’t want to — but because he wants it to mean more than almost.

He wants to be sure. Not of you — he’s always been sure of you. But of himself. Of the version of him that’s not just the Quidditch captain or the loudest in the room or the idiot pining after Lily Evans.

He wants to be the version of him that’s worthy of your attention.

And maybe — just maybe — that version is already here.

⸻

Every time you’re near him after that, his whole body feels wired.

Like if you touched him for one second too long, he’d combust.

He doesn’t tell you this.

He lets his hand brush yours under the table. Lets his fingers rest on your knee when no one’s watching. Lets his shoulder bump yours when he sits beside you, like he can’t stand the inch of air between your bodies.

Because he can’t.

But he still doesn’t kiss you.

Not yet.

Not until you look at him like you know.

Not until he’s brave enough to say the thing he’s never said

“It’s always been you.”

⸻

(Readers POV)

It starts with a glance.

You’re in the corridor, laughing with Marlene, and James is passing by. He looks over his shoulder like he always does, like he’s checking you’re still there. Like he can’t help it.

But then Lily catches up to him and links their arms.

He doesn’t look back.

You laugh a little too loud after that.

Marlene notices. She doesn’t say anything.

⸻

Later that night, you’re curled in a chair by the fire, pretending to read. James flops beside you with a sigh and that familiar look — one part affection, one part restlessness.

“Evans thinks I’ve been distant,” he says.

You don’t look up. “Have you?”

He shrugs. “Dunno. Maybe.”

You flip a page. You haven’t read a single sentence.

“Do you want to be with her?” you ask, and it sounds calm, but your knuckles are white on the book spine.

James hesitates. “I thought I did.”

You nod, like it doesn’t cost you anything. “Well. Let me know when you figure it out.”

You stand.

He grabs your wrist.

“Wait—what does that mean?”

You don’t answer. You just look at him — really look — and see it: the confusion, the fear, the same ache you’ve been carrying all year.

“You don’t get to hover near me forever, James,” you whisper. “You don’t get to want me halfway.”

Then you walk away.

⸻

( James’s POV )

She’s pulling away. He can feel it.

Not all at once — no, that would be easier. But piece by piece. The long looks become quick glances. The silence between them stops feeling comfortable.

He misses her in the small ways first.

Misses how she always passed him a sugar quill when he fidgeted. How she said “you’re fine” every time he doubted himself — not in the loud, Gryffindor way everyone else did, but in a quiet, real way that actually worked.

He misses her voice.

He misses her attention.

But he doesn’t say anything.

Because saying something makes it real. And if it’s real, it can break.

⸻

Sirius elbows him one day in the courtyard. “You’re brooding. Stop.”

“I’m not brooding,” James mutters, lying badly.

“You look like you’ve just been dumped.”

James doesn’t reply.

Sirius raises a brow. “Wait—did you? Did you and Y/N—?”

“There was no me and Y/N,” James snaps.

But the words taste wrong in his mouth.

Because maybe there was. Just in a way he never had the guts to name.

⸻

That night, he finds her by the lake.

She doesn’t look surprised.

“I figured you’d show up eventually,” she says.

He runs a hand through his hair. “Can we talk?”

She stays silent.

“Only if you stop pretending you don’t know how I feel.”

James stares.

“I’ve loved you since fifth year,” she says flatly. “And I’ve waited. And waited. And you’ve spent every second dancing around it like it might ruin your perfect little world if you say something real.”

James feels like the wind’s been knocked out of him.

“I never wanted to ruin what we have,” he says.

“Well, you did anyway,” she says. “Congratulations.”

He steps closer. “That’s not fair.”

“No?” Her voice cracks. “You don’t get to hold my hand like it means something and then tell people you’re not sure how you feel.”

James opens his mouth. Closes it.

“I wanted you to say something first,” she says quietly. “Just once. I wanted it to be you.”

Silence.

Then James says, hoarse, “I think about kissing you every time I’m near you.”

She goes still.

“I think about how you smell like cinnamon and ink, and how you laugh when you think no one’s listening, and how I started waiting for you at breakfast even when I wasn’t sure why.”

He exhales. “I’ve been in love with you so quietly for so long I didn’t even realize it until I thought I lost you.”

She swallows. “Then why didn’t you say something?”

“Because I’m terrified,” he says. “But I’m more terrified of never trying.”

A painfully long pause.

Then, finally, she whispers, “Say it.”

“What?”

“Say it. Like you mean it.”

He steps forward. Takes her face in both hands.

I’m in love with you,” James says. “Not just in the way people say it. I mean in the way where you’re the first person I look for in every room. The one I can’t stop thinking about, even when I’m trying not to.

Then he kisses her.

And she kisses him back.

It’s not soft. It’s not careful. It’s everything they’ve held back for years pouring out all at once.

It tastes like relief. Like maybe they were always heading here.

Like they were always going to break just to fall into each other.

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a/n: i wrote this a 6 in the morning…i am running on fumes

☮️ 💛🌈🌸🤟

remus lupin fluff oneshot

ׂ╰┈➤ WARNINGS: sfw, fluff, cute remus moments

౨ৎ hogwarts canon, marauders era :: bestfriend!remus x reader

༄ second person POV :: you/yours , y/n

⭑ word count: 3.1k+

a/n: I would 100% match you with Remus Lupin(marauders era)! He’s very soft spoken, matching with your gentle, sweet, and caring personality. Hufflepuffs love magical creatures and animals, and so does Remus. Remus would also LOVE music, and especially rock/bands like The Beatles! Thank you for your request C:

enjoy <3

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

" blackbirds "

The train came to a slow stop. The autumn atmosphere wrapped around your body as you stepped onto the stone platform.

Waiting passengers buzzed with conversation—office workers taking mild phone calls, parents gently speaking to their nervous children, and teenagers talking about after-school activities.

Muggles, you thought, smiling as you took a deep breath in.

Happy birthday to everyones favorite pisces, werewolf slim shady stan!!

You're my favorite person in my head right now.

*the end of 7th year*

James: I love you guys.

Sirius: Ditto. These have been the best years of my life.

Remus: I will treasure them forever.

FRENEMIES || R.L

pairing: remus lupin x reader

summary: you navigate being frenemies with a certain Remus Lupin. After a teasing incident in Potions you are pushed to your limit

warnings: none

word count: 2k

a/n: i love requests they always encourage me to write so thank you for this! <3

The Gryffindor common room was alive with the crackling fire and the low hum of laughter, a typical Saturday night in late autumn. You sat sprawled across an armchair, your legs dangling over the side, a quill twirling lazily between your fingers as you half-listened to James and Sirius bicker about Quidditch tactics. Peter was hunched over a chessboard, muttering to himself, while Remus—that infuriating boy—lounged on the couch with a book, his amber eyes flickering up every so often to catch you in his line of sight.

You’d known the Marauders since first year, their chaotic energy weaving into your life like an unbreakable spell. James was the brother you never had, Sirius the mischievous uncle, Peter the quiet confidant—and Remus? Well, Remus was the thorn in your side, the one who could turn a perfectly good day into a battle of wits with a single smirk.

“Oi, Y/N,” Sirius called, snapping you out of your thoughts. “You’re spacing out again. Planning your next hex on Moony, are you?”

You shot him a glare, but your lips twitched into a grin. “Only if he deserves it, Black. Which, let’s be honest, is about ninety percent of the time.”

Remus didn’t look up from his book, but you caught the faintest curl of his lips. “Ninety percent? I’m flattered you think I’m that interesting, Y/L/N.”

There it was—the teasing edge to his voice that always set your nerves alight. It had been like this for years: a push-and-pull of sarcastic remarks and sly glances, a game neither of you would admit to playing. Frenemies, James called it, though lately, the line between friend and something more felt dangerously thin.

—

The trouble started a week later, during Potions. Slughorn had paired you with Remus, a decision you protested loudly until Sirius cackled and said, “Better you than me, love.” Remus had smirked, rolling up his sleeves as if he were about to duel instead of brew, and the class had begun.

It was going fine—well, as fine as it could with Remus muttering corrections under his breath—until he decided to take it too far. You’d been chopping moonstone with a bit more force than necessary, muttering about his “know-it-all” attitude, when he leaned over, his breath warm against your ear.

“Careful, Y/N,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing. “You’ll turn the potion into a disaster—and then where will your pride be?”

You froze, the knife slipping slightly in your hand. The classroom seemed to shrink, the air thick with the scent of lavender and his stupidly close proximity. Before you could snap back, he reached over to adjust your grip, his fingers brushing yours, and something in you snapped.

“Sod off it, Lupin!” you hissed, yanking your hand away. The moonstone scattered across the table, and the potion bubbled ominously. Slughorn’s voice boomed from the front, but you didn’t care. Your cheeks burned as you stormed out, ignoring Remus’s stunned expression and the snickers from Sirius.

—

For the next few days, you avoided him. It wasn’t hard—Hogwarts was big enough to hide in if you tried. You skipped meals in the Great Hall, buried yourself in the library, and even endured Lily’s concerned looks without explanation. But the hurt lingered, a sharp ache in your chest you couldn’t shake. His teasing had always been a game, but this time, it felt personal. Like he’d seen too much of you and decided to twist the knife.

You didn’t expect him to notice. Remus was quiet, observant, but he rarely chased after anyone—least of all you. So when you heard the soft knock on your dormitory door late that Friday night, you assumed it was Lily or Marlene. Instead, there he stood, his hair mussed, his tie loosened, looking like he’d run all the way from the common room.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice rougher than usual. “Can we talk?”

You crossed your arms, leaning against the doorframe. “Depends. Are you here to mock me again?”

He winced, and for once, there was no trace of that smug smirk. “No. I… I came to apologize.”

The words hung between you, heavy and unfamiliar. You stared at him, searching his face for the catch, but all you found was a flicker of guilt in those warm brown eyes. Against your better judgment, you stepped aside, letting him in.

—

The room was dimly lit by the flicker of a single candle, the air thick with unspoken tension. Remus sat on the edge of your bed, his hands clasped tightly together, while you perched on the windowsill, the cool glass pressing against your back.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” he started, his voice low. “The teasing—it’s just… it’s how we’ve always been. I didn’t realize it’d gone too far.”

You looked away, out at the starry sky, your throat tight. “It wasn’t just the teasing, Remus. It felt like you were laughing at me. Like I’m some joke to you.”

He was silent for a moment, and when you glanced back, his expression was raw, unguarded. “You’re not a joke,” he said softly. “You’re… you’re everything to this group. To me. I just didn’t know how to say it without sounding like an idiot.”

Your heart stuttered, a warmth spreading through you despite the lingering hurt. “Then why didn’t you stop? Why keep pushing?”

He ran a hand through his hair, a nervous habit you’d noticed over the years. “Because it’s easier to tease you than to admit I’ve been half in love with you since fourth year.”

The confession hit you like a Bludger to the chest. You blinked, your mouth opening and closing as you struggled to process. Remus Lupin—scarred, quiet, brilliant Remus—was in love with you? The boy who’d spent years trading barbs with you, who’d made you laugh and cry in equal measure?

“Say something,” he pleaded, his voice breaking the silence. “Please.”

You slid off the windowsill, crossing the room until you stood in front of him. His eyes followed you, wide and hopeful, and for the first time, you saw the vulnerability beneath his calm exterior. “You’re an idiot, Lupin,” you whispered, a smile tugging at your lips. “A complete and utter idiot.”

He let out a shaky laugh, relief washing over his features. “I know. I’ll grovel if I have to.”

—

And grovel he did. Over the next few weeks, Remus was a changed man—or at least, a man trying to be. He brought you tea during study sessions, left little notes in your books with scribbled apologies, and even endured Sirius’s relentless teasing about his “lovestruck puppy” act. The Marauders watched with amusement, James clapping Remus on the back while Sirius made exaggerated gagging noises.

But it was the small moments that unraveled you—the way he’d brush his hand against yours in the corridor, the soft smiles he’d give you when he thought you weren’t looking. The slow burn of your friendship turned into something warmer, something that made your chest ache in the best way.

One night, after a particularly grueling Transfiguration lesson, you found yourselves alone in the common room again. The fire had died down to embers, casting a soft glow over his face as he sat beside you, closer than usual.

“I meant what I said,” he murmured, his knee brushing yours. “About loving you. I don’t expect you to feel the same, but—”

“I do,” you interrupted, your voice barely above a whisper. “I think I have for a while, too. I just didn’t know how to stop fighting with you long enough to figure it out.”

His smile was soft, almost disbelieving, as he reached for your hand. His fingers intertwined with yours, warm and steady, and for the first time, the teasing fell away, replaced by something real.

“Friends, then?” he teased lightly, though his eyes held a promise.

“More than that,” you replied, leaning in until your foreheads touched. You stayed like that for a moment before leaning in. Your lips meeting his in a soft and chaste kiss and in that moment, with the world outside forgotten, you knew the game was over—and you’d both won.

—

The next morning, the Marauders found you curled up together on the couch, Remus’s arm draped protectively around you as you slept. Sirius let out a dramatic gasp, while James grinned like a proud parent.

“About bloody time,” Peter muttered, and the room erupted into laughter.

And as Remus stirred, pressing a sleepy kiss to your temple, you knew this was only the beginning.

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I’m waiting for the right time… || J.P

pairing: James Potter x reader

Summary: Late one night, you finally confess your feelings to James— only to find out he’s been waiting too.

warnings: tooth rotting fluff

word count: 1.5k

You’re not in love with James Potter. You swear.

You just happen to be in his bed again, wearing his hoodie that still smells like a fireplace and that dumb cologne Sirius gave him for Christmas. You just happen to know that he keeps a chocolate frog in his drawer for bad days and that his left wrist clicks when he rolls it, and he hates it, and you think it’s cute rather than embarrassing. You just happen to stare a little too long at his mouth when he’s talking and sometimes, when he’s not.

Not love. Obviously.

James stretches beside you and the blanket shifts, exposing the pale skin of his hip and that trail of hair that disappears beneath his sweatpants and—nope. Not thinking about that.

“You’re staring,” he says, but he doesn’t look up from his book.

“You’re imagining things,” you shoot back.

He smirks. “Maybe. But you’re still staring.”

You toss a pillow at his face. He catches it one-handed and grins like he knows exactly what he’s doing. And he does. James Potter is a menace like that — cocky in a way that should be annoying but somehow just makes your stomach flip. Loud and golden and warm in a way you want to live inside. He doesn’t realize how he makes you feel. Or maybe he does, and he’s too kind to say anything.

You shift so you’re facing him, head propped on your hand. “You ever gonna finish that book or just pretend you’re reading so you can look hot doing it?”

He closes the book. “You think I look hot reading?”

damn it— you didn’t mean to say that last part

“Shut up.”

“You do! You said it.”

“I didn’t say anything—”

“You said I look hot when I read. That’s what I heard.”

“Merlin, you’re insufferable.”

“And hot.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling, and he sees it. Of course he does. He always sees you in the ways you don’t mean for him to. Just… never in the ways you want.

He stretches again, arms above his head, and it’s ridiculous, really — how casual he is in the way he takes up space. Like this is just another night. Like you haven’t been on the edge of saying something real for weeks now.

“I’ve been thinking about something,” you say, too quietly.

James glances at you. “Yeah?”

You pick at a loose thread on the blanket. “Yeah. Just… you know when you’re waiting for the right time to say something?”

He tilts his head, curious. “What kind of something?”

You shrug. “The kind that might ruin everything.”

He goes still.

And you think ‘this is it.’

This is the moment. The one you’ve been avoiding for weeks, months maybe. All the nights you’ve sat too close on the common room couch. All the times he’s brushed your hand and you pretended it didn’t make your whole body burn. All the times he’s called you love and you swallowed it whole like it didn’t mean something.

“I’m just—” you hesitate, “I’m tired of pretending I don’t feel something.”

James doesn’t say anything at first. And that silence is worse than any rejection. It presses heavy against your chest, makes you want to shrink back and laugh it off, take it all back.

But then he says, “I thought I was imagining it.”

You blink. “What?”

He sits up, hair a mess, cheeks a little pink. “The way you look at me. The way you laugh at my stupid jokes. The way you wear my clothes and stay after everyone else leaves. I thought I was seeing what I wanted to see.”

“You weren’t.”

His eyes meet yours. Soft. Serious. “Can you see me?” he asks, barely above a whisper. “Because I’ve been waiting, too.”

You don’t realize you’re holding your breath until it releases all at once.

“You’re hard to read,” you admit. “And I’m— God, I’m terrified of saying the wrong thing.”

“If you want this,” he says, and he’s closer now, “then the pleasure’s all mine.”

Your heart stutters.

And then you’re kissing him. Or maybe he’s kissing you. It doesn’t matter. It’s clumsy and perfect and warm, and you make a noise in the back of your throat that sounds a lot like relief. His hands slide up your sides, careful and familiar, and you think, Oh.

This is what it feels like when something finally gives.

When the waiting stops.

When someone sees you.

He pulls back just enough to press his forehead to yours. “I wanted to do that for so long.”

“You could’ve.”

“You’re scary when you want to be.”

You grin. “You love it.”

“I do,” he says. “I really do.”

Later, you’ll fall asleep in his arms, legs tangled under the blanket, the rain outside still soft against the windows. You’ll wake up to the sound of Sirius yelling about breakfast and James whispering, five more minutes, love, like it’s always been this way.

But for now, it’s enough to be here.

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a/n: i am obsessed with hamilton and roblox but i am finally back on my tumblr grind

pairing: sirius black x reader

summary: you are a ancient Runes professor who confronts your past when Sirius Black, your former love, reappears after escaping Azkaban.

warnings: none !

word count: 3k

The air in Hogwarts carried a crisp edge, the kind that bit at your knuckles and made your breath catch in your chest. The castle’s ancient stones seemed to hum with secrets, as they always did, but tonight they felt heavier, like they were holding their breath. You adjusted the stack of parchment in your arms, your shoes clicking softly against the corridor floor as you made your way to your quarters after a late night grading Ancient Runes essays. The flickering torchlight cast long shadows, and for reasons you couldn’t quite place, your skin prickled.

You were no stranger to unease. You’d lived through loss, through war, through the kind of heartbreak that left you hollowed out and stubborn as hell. You’d rebuilt yourself, piece by piece, into someone who didn’t flinch at shadows. An Ancient Runes professor, a friend to the remaining Marauder, someone who didn’t need anyone’s pity or protection. But tonight, something felt… off.

Maybe it was the news. Sirius Black, escaped from Azkaban. The name alone had been enough to stop your heart when Remus told you, his voice low and careful, like he was handling something fragile. You’d laughed it off at first, a bitter, jagged sound, because what else could you do? Sirius, your Sirius, the man who’d once held your heart like it was something sacred, was a murderer. He’d betrayed James and Lily, your friends, your family. The world had told you so, and you’d believed it, because the alternative was too unbearable.

But Remus had been quieter than usual lately, his eyes carrying a weight you couldn’t quite decipher. You trusted him, though. Remus Lupin was the only Marauder left who hadn’t shattered you, and your friendship had grown stronger in the years since both of your world’s fell apart. He’d been the one to get you the teaching post at Hogwarts, to sit with you over cups of tea when the memories of laughter and late-night pranks felt like knives. He was your anchor, and you were his.

You rounded a corner, the Astronomy Tower looming in the distance, when you heard it—a soft scuffle, like boots on stone. Your wand was in your hand before you could think, your pulse quickening. “Lumos,” you whispered, the light spilling from your wand tip, illuminating the empty corridor. Nothing. Just the wind, maybe, or a house-elf scurrying about. You exhaled, shaking your head at your own paranoia. Sirius Black was not here. He was out there, somewhere, a ghost from a life you’d buried.

But then you saw him.

He was leaning against the wall, half-hidden in the shadows, his dark hair longer and wilder than you remembered, his face gaunt and haunted. His eyes, though—those grey eyes, sharp and stormy, locked onto yours with an intensity that made your knees buckle. Sirius Black. In the flesh. In Hogwarts. Your wand trembled in your grip, and you took a step back, your heart a riot of fear and fury and something else you refused to name.

“Don’t scream,” he said, his voice low, rougher than it used to be, but still achingly familiar. “It’s me.”

“Me?” you spat, your voice sharp enough to cut. “You don’t get to say that like it means something, Black. Get the hell away from me.”

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t move. “I know you hate me. I know what you think I did. But I didn’t—” His voice cracked, and he took a step forward, hands raised, empty. “I didn’t kill them.”

Your wand didn’t waver, but your resolve did. You wanted to hex him, to scream, to run, but those eyes—God, those eyes—held you in place. They were the same eyes that had once looked at you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the world. You shook your head, forcing the memory away. “You’re a liar,” you said, but the words felt hollow, like you were trying to convince yourself.

“I’m not,” he said, softer now, almost pleading. “It was Peter. Wormtail. He’s the one who betrayed them. He’s the one who’s still out there.”

The name hit you like a Bludger. Peter Pettigrew. The quiet Marauder, the one who’d always seemed a little out of place among the larger-than-life personalities of James, Sirius, and Remus. Dead, they’d said. Killed by Sirius, along with a street full of Muggles. But the way Sirius said his name, the raw edge in his voice, made something in your chest twist.

“You expect me to believe that?” you said, your voice shaking. “After twelve years? After everything?”

“I don’t expect you to believe me,” he said, and there was something broken in his expression, something that made your heart ache despite itself. “But I need you to listen. Just for a minute.”

Before you could respond, a familiar voice cut through the tension. “Y/N?”

Remus. You turned, relief flooding you as he stepped into the corridor, his wand raised but his expression calm, like he’d been expecting this. His eyes flicked to Sirius, and for a moment, you thought you saw something pass between them—something unspoken, heavy with history.

“Remus,” you said, your voice steadier now. “What the hell is going on?”

He sighed, lowering his wand but keeping his gaze on Sirius. “He’s telling the truth, Y/N. I know it’s hard to believe, but Sirius didn’t betray James and Lily. Peter did.”

You stared at him, your mind reeling. Remus, your rock, the one person you trusted without question, was vouching for Sirius Black. The man who’d shattered your world. You lowered your wand, but only slightly. “Explain. Now.”

—

The staff room was quiet, the fire crackling softly in the hearth as Remus explained everything. Sirius sat across from you, his hands clasped tightly together, like he was trying to keep himself from falling apart. Remus’s voice was steady, but his words were a storm—Peter’s betrayal, the Fidelius Charm, the switch, the rat Animagus, the years Sirius spent in Azkaban for crimes he didn’t commit. You listened, your heart pounding, your mind struggling to reconcile the truth with the lie you’d lived with for over a decade.

When Remus finished, the silence was deafening. You looked at Sirius, really looked at him, and saw the toll Azkaban had taken. His once-vibrant features were sharp and hollow, his shoulders hunched like he carried the weight of every lost year. But his eyes—those damned eyes—were still the same. Full of fire.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, and it was the first time he’d spoken since Remus started talking. “For everything. For leaving you. For letting you believe I could ever—”

“Stop,” you cut him off, your voice sharp but trembling. “Just…” you said taking a deep breath “Stop.”

You stood, pacing the room, your arms crossed tightly over your chest. You wanted to scream, to cry, to hit something. You’d spent twelve years hating him, mourning him, trying to forget the way his laugh used to make your heart race. And now he was here, alive, innocent, and you didn’t know how to feel.

“Y/N,” Remus said gently, standing but keeping his distance. “I know this is a lot. But he’s not the enemy.”

You laughed, a bitter sound that echoed in the quiet room. “Not the enemy? Remus, he was everything to me. And then he was gone. Do you know what that did to me?” Your voice broke, and you hated it, hated the way your emotions were spilling out, raw and unfiltered. You hated the fact that you were blaming him. You knew it wasn’t his fault that he was framed.

Sirius flinched, like your words were a physical blow. “I know,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I know I broke you. I broke us. But I never stopped—”

“Don’t,” you snapped, turning to face him. “Don’t you dare say it. Not right now.”

He stood, slow and careful, like he was approaching a wounded animal. “I’m not asking for forgiveness,” he said. “I don’t deserve it. But I need you to know that I never stopped thinking about you. Not for a single day in that hellhole.”

Your throat tightened, and you looked away, blinking back tears. You wanted to believe him, wanted to let yourself fall back into the pull of him, but the scars were too deep. “I can’t do this,” you said, your voice barely audible. “Not yet.”

He nodded, his expression resigned but not defeated. “I’ll wait,” he said simply. “As long as it takes.”

—

The weeks that followed were a blur of tension and avoidance. Sirius was hiding in the Shrieking Shack, with Remus and Harry’s help, and you found yourself caught between wanting to see him and wanting to run as far as you could. You threw yourself into your work, deciphering runes with a ferocity that startled your students, but every quiet moment brought him back—his voice, his eyes, the way he used to pull you close and whisper promises against your skin.

Remus noticed, of course. He always did. One evening, as you sat together in his office, grading papers over a shared pot of tea, he spoke up.

“You’re avoiding him,” he said, not looking up from the essay he was marking.

You sighed, setting down your quill. “Can you blame me?”

“No,” he said, his tone gentle but firm. “But you’re avoiding yourself, too. You loved him, Y/N. And he loved you. That doesn’t just go away.”

“It went away for me,” you lied, your voice sharp. “He was gone, Remus. For twelve years, I thought he was a monster.”

“And now you know he’s not,” Remus said, finally meeting your eyes. “So what are you afraid of?”

You didn’t answer, because you didn’t know. Or maybe you did, and it was too terrifying to admit that letting Sirius back in meant risking the heartbreak all over again.

—

It was late November when you finally went to the Shrieking Shack. The wind howled outside, rattling the windows, and Sirius was alone, sitting on a dusty chair with a book he wasn’t reading. He looked up when you entered, his expression a mix of surprise and cautious hope.

“You came,” he said, standing slowly.

“Don’t make a big deal out of it,” you said, your voice sharper than you intended. You crossed your arms, leaning against the wall, keeping the distance between you. “I just… needed to see you.”

He nodded, like he understood, and maybe he did. “I’m glad you’re here,” he said, his voice soft, almost reverent.

You didn’t know what to say, so you just stood there, the silence stretching between you like a tightrope. Finally, he spoke again.

“Do you remember the night we snuck into the Forbidden Forest?” he asked, a small smile tugging at his lips. “You were so mad at me for dragging you out there, but then we found that clearing, and you started naming the stars.”

You swallowed, the memory hitting you like a wave. “You kept interrupting me to make up your own constellations,” you said, your voice quieter now. “The Great Dog, you called it.”

He laughed, a soft, broken sound. “Yeah. I was an idiot.”

“You were,” you agreed, but there was no venom in it. You took a step closer, then another, until you were standing in front of him. “Why didn’t you tell me?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. “About the switch, about Peter. Why didn’t you trust me?”

His face fell, and he looked away, his hands clenching into fists. “I wanted to protect you,” he said. “If you’d known, you’d have been in danger. I couldn’t lose you, too.”

“You ended up losing me anyway,” you said, and the truth of it hung heavy between you.

He reached out, hesitant, like he wasn’t sure he had the right. “I know,” he said. “And I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to make that right. If you’ll let me.”

You didn’t pull away when his fingers brushed your arm, and that small touch was enough to unravel something inside you. You wanted to hate him, to stay angry, but all you could feel was the ache of missing him, of wanting him back in a way that scared you.

“I don’t know how to do this,” you admitted, your voice shaking. “I don’t know how to trust you again.”

“Then don’t,” he said, his eyes locked on yours. “Not yet. Just… let me be here. Let me prove it.”

You nodded, because it was all you could manage, and when he pulled you into his arms, you didn’t resist. It wasn’t forgiveness, not yet, but it was a start. And as you stood there, wrapped in the warmth of him, the ghosts of the past felt a little less heavy, like maybe, just maybe, you could find your way back to each other.

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“ love’s a game, wanna play? ”

james potter x reader

including : fluff

word count : 1k+

Valentine’s Day at Hogwarts had always been an over-the-top affair. Professor Flitwick charmed pink and red paper hearts to float lazily through the corridors, Madam Pince enforced an even stricter no public displays of affection in the library rule (which never stopped couples from sneaking into the Restricted Section), and Peeves delighted in dropping flower petals—or sometimes actual ink—onto unsuspecting students’ heads.

It was ridiculous. Excessive. Completely overdone.

And yet, it had never mattered much to you—until now.

Because for the first time in your life, you had a secret admirer.

The first note had appeared in your Potions textbook, folded so neatly it was clear whoever had left it had taken great care. The parchment was slightly crinkled, as if it had been held too tightly before finally being placed inside.

“A smile like yours could rival the sun—lucky for us, you don’t burn as bright, or I’d be blinded every time you walked by.”

At first, you assumed it was some sort of prank. Maybe Sirius Black was up to his usual nonsense, or perhaps some lovesick Hufflepuff had gotten the courage to anonymously express their feelings. Either way, you dismissed it as a fluke.

Until the second note arrived.

This one was slipped into your robe pocket between Transfiguration and Charms, folded once with the same careful handwriting:

“If kindness had a sound, I think it would be your laugh.”

The third note came the following morning, waiting for you at breakfast beside your goblet of pumpkin juice:

“I swear the library is quieter when you aren’t there. Even the books miss you.”

By the fourth note, which had been tucked into your favorite quill case, you were officially flustered.

Who in Merlin’s name was doing this?

Who was noticing these small things about you?

And, more importantly… why did it make your heart pound so much?

The answer, of course, came in the form of one James Potter—who, much to your amusement, was not handling the situation well.

“What do you mean someone is leaving you notes?” James demanded, sitting across from you in the Gryffindor common room, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. His hazel eyes, usually filled with mischief, were narrowed in something suspiciously close to jealousy.

You raised an eyebrow, casually twirling the most recent note between your fingers. “I mean exactly that, James. Someone’s been leaving me love notes.”

James’s scowl deepened. “But who?”

You resisted the urge to laugh. “If I knew that, they wouldn’t be a secret admirer, would they?”

Sirius, who had been lounging beside James, smirked in amusement, clearly enjoying his best mate’s unraveling. “Merlin, Prongs, you sound jealous.”

James scoffed, waving a hand in frustration. “I’m not jealous—I’m concerned, love.” He gestured wildly. “What if it’s some creep? Some bloke with terrible intentions?”

You shot him a look. “James. Someone who writes poetry about my laugh doesn’t exactly scream dangerous.”

James ran a hand through his messy hair, looking properly exasperated. “I just don’t like the idea of you getting all these notes from some anonymous git who can’t even sign his name.”

Sirius snorted. “Big words coming from the bloke who’s been carrying his love letter around for two weeks without delivering it.”

James immediately stiffened.

You blinked.

“What?” you asked slowly, turning to James.

James spluttered, his face immediately turning scarlet. “I—I don’t know what he’s talking about.”

Sirius threw his head back, absolutely delighted at the turn of events. “Oh, come off it, Prongs! You’re the worst secret admirer in history.”

You stared at James, your heart hammering in your chest. “Wait.” You sat up straighter, gripping the note between your fingers. “You wrote these?”

James didn’t respond right away. Instead, he let out a quiet groan, dropping his head into his hands. When he finally spoke, his voice was muffled. “Maybe?”

Sirius was howling with laughter now. “Oh, this is bloody fantastic! You’ve been ‘jealous’ of yourself this whole time!”

James groaned again, refusing to lift his head. “I hate everything.”

You, meanwhile, were trying very hard not to laugh.

“James,” you said, reaching out to gently pry his hands away from his face. He peeked up at you through his fingers, looking so embarrassed that it was almost endearing.

You squeezed his hand. “You’re an idiot.”

James exhaled sharply, finally meeting your gaze. “I know.”

“But,” you continued, a small smile tugging at your lips, “you’re a very sweet idiot.”

James perked up ever so slightly. “Sweet enough for a Valentine’s date, pretty girl?”

You hummed, pretending to consider it. “Hmm. Maybe.”

James straightened. “Maybe?”

You grinned, enjoying the way his face lit up. “I might be more convinced if you write me one more love note.”

James groaned dramatically, though there was no hiding the dopey, lovesick smile spreading across his face.

And when Valentine’s Day finally arrived, a final note appeared on your bedside table, written on slightly crumpled parchment in familiar, loopy handwriting:

“I may have been late to the game, but if you’ll let me, I’d love to be the only one writing you love notes from now on.”

And something told you that he would be.

happy valentines day from yours truly, mac <3

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