#mauraders x reader

The Black family had always been bound by blood, but Sirius Black had long since learned that blood was a chain, not a comfort.

He had escaped its pull once — stormed out of Grimmauld Place at sixteen, slammed the door behind him, and sworn never to return. But the irony of fate, as it often did, found its way back to him years later in the form of a signature on parchment.

An arranged marriage.

A peace offering.

A way, his mother’s letter had said, to “restore the Black family’s dignity.”

He’d laughed when he first read it; a dry, humorless sound that didn’t reach his eyes. He had no reason to humor her, no reason to involve himself with the ghosts of his lineage. But the war was ending, the Order was quieter now, and his defiance had dulled with exhaustion. Somewhere between the funerals and the rebuilding, he had stopped fighting everything on sight.

So when the proposal came, a match arranged years ago by family tradition, meant to bind the Black name to another “respectable” pure-blood house, Sirius didn’t tear it up. He didn’t even scoff.

He simply signed.

And that’s how he met you.

You weren’t cruel. You weren’t vain. You weren’t anything the Blacks had been known for. That, perhaps, was the problem. You were polite, careful, quiet — an echo in a house that had once been full of shouting.

The wedding was small, the kind that left more whispers than memories. Sirius had shown up late, smelling faintly of smoke and expensive cologne. You’d worn a soft gray gown that your mother said was “understated but elegant.”

He hadn’t said you looked beautiful.

He hadn’t said anything at all.

Now, months later, Grimmauld Place was too big for two people who barely spoke.

You slept in the same bed. You ate the same dinners. You smiled at the same guests who came to call — old friends, new acquaintances, members of the Order who congratulated you both with a knowing grin. You called him husband in public, the word tasting foreign every time. He called you wife with that easy charm of his, voice smooth enough to make anyone believe he meant it.

But behind closed doors, it was different.

There were nights he reached for you, only because it was expected — because you were his wife, and he was your husband, and that was what married people did. His hands were always gentle, his kisses practiced. But they were never for you. They were obligations wrapped in warmth. When he turned away afterward, falling asleep without a word, you lay awake staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the plaster.

It wasn’t hatred that lingered between you. It was something worse — indifference.

He treated you kindly, almost too kindly, as though afraid to bruise a fragile thing. He asked about your day, but not because he wanted to know. He complimented your dress at dinner parties, but only when someone else might overhear. He never yelled. He never scowled. He never cared enough to.

And yet, somehow, you couldn’t bring yourself to despise him.

Because sometimes, in the smallest, most fleeting moments.. you caught glimpses of the man beneath the distance. The way his voice softened when he spoke of James. The quiet grief in his eyes when he thought no one noticed. The way he always made sure you walked on the inside of the pavement when you went out together, as if protecting you was a reflex he couldn’t suppress.

Those tiny fragments of tenderness were enough to keep hope alive — a cruel, fragile thing that refused to die.

You had been married six months when the silence began to feel heavier than the walls around you. You tried to fill it; with books, with chores, with conversation. You’d talk about the garden you wanted to plant, or the stray cat that came to the window sometimes. Sirius would nod, half-listening, and then disappear into his study.

He was always disappearing.

Sometimes, you’d hear the low murmur of his voice from that room — old friends, most likely. Sometimes Remus, sometimes Order business. You never asked. You weren’t sure if it was your place.

You had stopped expecting warmth. You simply learned to exist in the spaces between his life and yours.

Until one evening, something shifted; not enough to change anything, but enough to make you notice.

It was late, the fire low and the house quiet. Sirius came in from the cold, shaking snow from his hair, his shoulders dusted with frost. You were reading by the hearth, blanket wrapped around your legs, when he paused at the doorway. For a brief moment, he just looked at you — as if seeing you properly for the first time. The flicker of recognition in his gray eyes startled you.

“You’re still up,” he said, voice rough from the cold.

You nodded. “Couldn’t sleep.”

He hesitated, then moved closer to the fire. You watched the light play across his features — the tired eyes, the faint scar along his jaw, the weight he carried like a shadow. He smelled faintly of smoke and winter.

For once, the silence didn’t feel entirely unbearable.

“You should rest,” he murmured after a while. “It’s late.”

“So should you,” you replied quietly.

He almost smiled. Almost.

And then, as quickly as the moment had come, it passed. He turned away, retreating toward the stairs.

“Goodnight, wife,” he said, not looking back.

You closed your book, heart aching at how easily the word wife could sound so empty.

“Goodnight, husband,” you whispered into the quiet.

And though he didn’t hear you, you wished — more than anything — that he had.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

You began to take notice of some little things first.

The way Sirius preferred his tea — black, no sugar. The way he leaned back in his chair when he read, one ankle crossed over his knee. The music he sometimes played in the study, low and scratchy, old records of Muggle rock bands he must’ve picked up in his wilder years.

You didn’t know when exactly you started trying to please him.

Maybe it was the silence, heavy and constant, pressing against your ribs. Maybe it was the small ache that came from watching him laugh at something Remus said, a laugh that never seemed to belong to you.

So, you started small.

You brewed his tea the way he liked it — dark, strong. When you brought it to his study, he barely glanced up from his parchment. “Thanks,” he muttered absently, taking the cup without looking at you.

He didn’t notice the way you’d taken the time to warm the mug beforehand.

Next came dinner. You asked Kreacher to prepare things Sirius liked — roast chicken, potatoes, buttery rolls, dishes that made him nostalgic for the meals at the Potters’ home, before everything went wrong.

When you called him to the table, he was late. You waited, watching the food cool until finally his footsteps echoed down the hall.

“This looks good,” he said with a faint smile, taking his seat. You smiled back, foolishly relieved. But halfway through the meal, you realized he wasn’t really tasting it. He was just… eating. Like it was habit, like you could’ve served anything and he wouldn’t have noticed the difference.

Still, you tried again.

You found a record he might like — one of those old Muggle albums with a guitar riff he always hummed under his breath. One evening, while he sat by the fire with a book, you put it on quietly.

His head lifted a little, gray eyes flicking to you, something almost surprised in them.

“This is… good,” he said softly.

You smiled, heart thudding. “I thought you’d like it.”

He nodded, the faintest curve of his mouth there for only a second. And then he went back to reading.

The record spun on, filling the empty house with the sound of something that used to mean freedom. You sat nearby, pretending to read too, though your eyes stayed on him instead. Watching the way his thumb traced the edge of the page, the way his hair fell into his eyes, the way he seemed entirely untouched by the effort you’d made.

You weren’t expecting gratitude. You weren’t even expecting affection. You just wanted something — a flicker of interest, a trace of awareness that you were trying to reach him. But he stayed the same, polite and distant.

It was almost worse than anger.

A few nights later, you wore something new. A soft dress in a color he’d once mentioned liking, a passing remark months ago that had somehow stayed with you. You joined him for dinner again, nerves making your hands shake slightly as you poured the wine.

He didn’t seem to notice.

His eyes skimmed over you with the same detached politeness he offered anyone else. He asked how your day had been. You told him about the book you were reading. He nodded. That was all.

The next morning, you woke before him. He was lying on his side, turned away, hair messy against the pillow. The light from the window traced the line of his back beneath the sheets. You stared for a long moment, wondering what it might be like to reach out — to touch him just because you wanted to, not because it was expected.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you slipped quietly out of bed, dressing in silence, pretending that the ache in your chest wasn’t growing heavier by the day.

Later that week, you overheard him talking to Remus in the study. You hadn’t meant to listen, you were passing by, tray in hand, but his voice caught your attention.

“She’s been… different lately,” Sirius said, tone uncertain. “Doing things I like. Playing old records. Cooking things I used to eat with James.”

Remus’s voice was low, thoughtful. “She’s trying, Sirius.”

“I don’t know why,” Sirius admitted after a pause. “We both know what this is. I didn’t ask for—” He stopped, exhaling. “She deserves someone who looks at her properly. I can’t force that.”

Your heart sank before he even finished. You moved away before you could hear Remus’s reply, blinking hard against the sting behind your eyes.

That night, you said nothing at dinner. Neither did he.

When he reached across the table to refill your glass, his hand brushed yours by accident. He looked up, startled — and for a moment, you thought you saw something flicker in his expression, something softer than pity, something almost human.

But then it was gone. He drew back, clearing his throat. “You’re quiet tonight,” he said.

“I’m just tired,” you answered, forcing a small smile.

He nodded, as if that explained everything.

Later, when you lay beside him in the dark, listening to the faint sound of his breathing, you wondered if he’d ever notice you for more than the space you occupied — if there was ever going to be a day when being his wife didn’t feel like pretending to be someone else’s ghost.

And though you didn’t mean to, you whispered it into the night anyway.

“I wish you’d see me.”

He didn’t stir.

But in his sleep, Sirius shifted just slightly closer, his hand brushing yours beneath the sheets — unaware, unintentional, but enough to make your eyes sting all over again.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

For the first time in months, Sirius noticed you. Maybe it was because of the humility Remus gave him in conversation that night, or the small whispers of prayer from you that slipped into his mind as he slept beside you.

But he didn't see you properly, not the way a man notices a woman he’s in love with — but in fleeting, unguarded moments that slipped past his defenses before he could reason them away.

It started in the mornings.

He’d come downstairs to find you already awake, hair pinned back neatly, sunlight falling across your face as you poured tea. You’d glance up when you heard him, offering that same quiet smile — the one he’d always taken for politeness. But lately, he realized, it wasn’t polite at all. It was gentle. Earnest. Real.

He didn’t know when he’d stopped believing sincerity could exist in his world.

“Good morning,” you said one day, voice soft.

“Morning,” he replied automatically, rubbing the back of his neck. He hesitated before taking his cup. “You’re up early.”

“I wanted to watch the sunrise,” you said. “It’s clear today.”

He nodded, pretending he didn’t notice how peaceful you looked in that light, like you belonged to something he could never quite touch. He turned away before it could mean anything.

But it did.

He caught himself watching you sometimes. At dinner. In the garden. When you passed him a dish and your fingers brushed. There was no reason for it — no desire, no spark he could name. Just a strange, quiet awareness that had begun to unsettle him.

He’d been trying not to think about what Remus had said the other day.

“She’s trying, Sirius.”

He hadn’t meant to sound cold, but he knew he had. He hadn’t wanted a wife. He hadn’t wanted this. But now that he had it — now that you were here, so careful, so patient — something in him began to shift.

It made him uncomfortable.

Guilt had a way of doing that.

He started noticing details he’d missed before.

How you always tucked your hands into your sleeves when you were nervous. How you hummed softly while reading. How you looked up when he entered a room, like you were waiting for something — even if you didn’t expect it to come.

You never asked for more. Never demanded affection. You simply existed quietly beside him, filling the house with the sound of someone who was trying not to disturb.

He caught himself wondering what it would take to make you smile, really smile. Not the one you gave for the sake of peace, but something that reached your eyes. And then he’d curse himself for caring, because he wasn’t supposed to.

Not like that.

One evening, he came home earlier than usual. You were sitting on the floor by the fireplace, legs folded beneath you, an open book in your lap. You looked up, startled, when you saw him.

“Oh,” you said, standing too quickly. “You’re home early.”

He gave a small shrug, shedding his coat. “Thought I’d give Kreacher the night off from cursing me.”

You smiled faintly. “He does seem to enjoy that.”

For the first time, Sirius chuckled — a real, genuine sound. You blinked, as though you hadn’t heard it before. Maybe you hadn’t.

He moved closer, leaning against the mantel. “What are you reading?”

You showed him the cover. “Something Muggle. A novel about second chances.”

He tilted his head. “Do they get one?”

“I’m not sure yet.” You looked down, tracing the page. “But I hope they do.”

Something about that, the quiet longing in your tone, stuck with him. He nodded slowly, eyes lingering on you longer than they should have.

You turned back to your book, pretending not to notice.

The next day, he found himself in Diagon Alley without a plan. He’d meant to pick up parchment and ink. Somehow, he ended up in a small shop that sold both Muggle and wizarding books. He wasn’t sure why he was there, but when he saw a display of novels near the window, his hand moved before his mind caught up.

He bought one. A simple paperback — something about a woman who wanted to be seen.

That night, he left it on the armchair beside your favorite reading spot. He didn’t say a word. You didn’t mention it either, but the next morning, he noticed the book was gone — and a small vase of fresh flowers sat on his desk in return.

Neither of you acknowledged the exchange. You didn’t need to. It was the first unspoken language you’d shared since your wedding day.

After that, things changed in subtle ways.

Sirius lingered at breakfast a little longer. You waited up for him a little later. Conversations stretched a bit past formality. Once, his hand brushed yours as he handed you a cup, and instead of pulling away, he let the contact linger — a second too long, not enough to be called affection, but enough to make you look up.

He didn’t say anything. Neither did you.

That night, he couldn’t sleep.

He lay awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to your breathing beside him. He thought about your whisper from nights before — the one he’d half-heard in the dark, soft and almost broken.

I wish you’d see me.

He hadn’t meant to hear it. He’d been half-asleep, mind adrift. But he’d heard it, and it stayed with him.

He turned slightly, looking at you in the faint moonlight. Your back was to him, shoulders rising and falling in steady rhythm. You looked peaceful. He wondered if you ever dreamt of something better. Someone better.

He reached out, hesitated, then gently brushed a loose strand of hair from your face.

You stirred slightly but didn’t wake.

“Maybe I do see you,” he whispered.

It wasn’t quite true yet, but it was closer than yesterday.

He lay back, eyes open in the dark, wondering what it meant that he finally cared.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The first thing you noticed was how quiet you’d become.

Not the ordinary kind of quiet that had defined your marriage since the beginning — the polite, companionable silence of two people pretending they were fine. No, this was different. This was the sort of quiet that pressed down like a fog, heavy and endless, swallowing the edges of every word you tried to say.

It wasn’t that you’d stopped trying overnight. It was more like the effort had finally worn you thin.

There had been hope, once. Little, foolish hope — fragile as spun glass. You’d let it grow in secret, fed by small gestures and half-seconds of warmth. The book he left for you, the soft look in his eyes that night by the fire, the way he said good morning with something almost tender behind it. You had clung to those moments like a lifeline.

But days turned into weeks, and the small warmth faded back into routine. He was kind, yes. Always kind. He would hold the door for you, ask after your day, pour you wine at dinner. But kindness wasn’t closeness. It wasn’t love. It wasn’t seeing you.

And maybe, you thought one evening as you brushed your hair in the mirror, maybe it never would be.

You stared at your reflection — the strands falling neatly around your shoulders, the gown you’d chosen carefully because you knew he liked the color blue. You looked… fine. Ordinary. Unremarkable. You wondered if that was what he saw when he looked at you — something decent, polite, unmemorable.

The sound of the front door opening echoed faintly through the hall. Sirius was home.

You straightened instinctively, brushing invisible wrinkles from your dress. It was pathetic, this reflex, the way your body still wanted to impress him, even when your heart knew better.

He came in, shaking off his coat, smelling faintly of the outside — cold air, tobacco, a trace of something smoky. His hair was mussed, his expression tired.

“You’re home late,” you said softly.

“Order meeting,” he replied, voice distracted. He glanced at you briefly, then away again. “You didn’t have to wait up.”

“I wasn’t,” you lied.

He nodded absently, already halfway to the stairs. “Long day. I’ll see you in the morning.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words caught. You just nodded, watching him disappear up the steps. The ache that followed was familiar -- dull, patient, merciless.

That night, when you joined him in bed, he was already asleep. Or pretending to be. You lay on your side, facing away from him, and realized you hadn’t really been touched, truly touched, in weeks. Not since that last night he’d reached for you out of obligation. Not since you’d stopped pretending it meant something.

Something inside you broke quietly, the way glass breaks under water — soundless, invisible, absolute.

The next morning, you didn’t make his tea.

You didn’t wait for him at breakfast or join him in the study. You spent the day in the garden instead, sleeves rolled up, hands in the dirt. The cold bit at your fingers, but the ache was grounding — honest in a way nothing else in that house was.

When Sirius passed by the window that afternoon, he paused. You were kneeling by the rosebushes, brushing soil from your palms, the faintest trace of color in your cheeks. He hadn’t seen you like that before — not the quiet, graceful figure who filled his house like furniture, but someone alive. Someone else.

He almost stepped outside. Almost. But the uncertainty stopped him, as it always did. He told himself you wanted space. He told himself you looked content. He told himself a dozen things to make the hesitation easier.

You didn’t see him watching. You didn’t care if he did.

By evening, you were exhausted — not from work, but from feeling. You had spent so long trying to be good, to be patient, to deserve his attention. And for what? The house still echoed the same way it always had.

When you came in for dinner, Sirius was at the table, a glass of wine in hand. He looked up, startled — maybe because you hadn’t joined him in the morning, maybe because you hadn’t waited.

“You were gone all day,” he said.

You nodded, sitting down without meeting his gaze. “I needed air.”

“Something wrong?”

You gave a faint laugh, bitter and soft. “You’d notice?”

The question hung in the air. He frowned slightly, not defensive, just lost. “Of course I would.”

You looked at him then, really looked, and realized how tired he seemed. The faint lines around his eyes, the weight in his shoulders. You used to think that if he looked at you like that, you’d feel closer to him. But all it did now was make you feel smaller.

“I don’t think you would,” you said finally. “Not really.”

He opened his mouth, but no words came.

You stood before he could find them, gathering your plate. “I’m going to bed.”

“You haven’t eaten,” he said quietly.

“I’m not hungry.”

Your footsteps echoed on the stairs, steady, final.

In your room, you undressed in silence. The mirror reflected someone you didn’t recognize anymore — someone who’d tried so hard to become what he might want that she’d forgotten who she was before.

You thought of the girl you’d been before the marriage, the one who still believed in love, in choices, in warmth that came freely instead of being earned. You wondered if she’d hate you now.

Sirius didn’t come up right away. He sat alone at the table long after the candles burned down, your words replaying in his mind. You’d notice?

It wasn’t an accusation — it was too soft for that. It was worse. It was the sound of someone who had given up.

When he finally came to bed, you were already asleep, or at least pretending to be. He hesitated at the doorway, looking at you the way one looks at something fragile, afraid to touch it.

He wanted to say something. Anything. But he didn’t know where to start. So instead, he sat at the edge of the bed and buried his face in his hands.

You opened your eyes then, just barely — enough to see the shape of him in the dark, hunched and lost.

He didn’t see you looking.

And for the first time, you didn’t feel the urge to comfort him. You just closed your eyes again, letting the distance settle like dust between you.

Maybe it was too late.

Maybe he’d finally started to notice, but you’d already run out of hope to give.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Sirius woke to an empty bed.

The sheets beside him were still faintly warm, the faint indentation of your body visible against the linen, but you were gone. The house was quiet in that thick, unsettling way that meant something had shifted. It wasn’t the usual morning silence — the calm, habitual hush that came before the day began. No. This was absence.

He sat up slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. The space between you felt wider now, heavy with things unsaid.

It wasn’t that he hadn’t noticed you pulling away. He had, in the way one notices a draft under a door, or a missing sound they’d long since tuned out. It had started small: the empty teacup that used to wait for him on the desk, the soft hums that no longer filled the corridor, the way your chair at dinner was often left empty, replaced by a polite note on parchment: Ate earlier. Don’t wait up.

He told himself it was nothing.

That you needed space.

That it was better this way.

But now, standing alone in the kitchen, with no trace of your quiet domestic presence, Sirius felt something sharp twist in his chest — not guilt exactly, not yet, but something close to it.

You had always been there, he realized.

In the rhythm of the house, the steadiness of each day. In the way the curtains were drawn back each morning to let in light. In the quiet meals that appeared when he forgot to eat. In the peace that existed despite him — despite his ghosts, despite the coldness he’d let settle between you.

You hadn’t asked for much. You’d never demanded affection or comfort or truth. You’d just stayed. That was what made it worse.

He remembered your voice at dinner, low and tired.

“You’d notice?”

He had no answer for it then. He still didn’t.

Because the truth was simple: he hadn’t.

He’d built walls long before your marriage, and he’d let you live behind them like a polite stranger, all under the pretense of sparing you — as if indifference was a kindness.

But when had it turned into cruelty? When had he become his own family’s ghost story, a man who could not love the person he’d vowed to protect?

By midday, Sirius found himself pacing the halls. He told himself he was looking for a book, but his eyes kept catching on traces of you instead.

A ribbon left on the windowsill.

A half-read novel by the chair.

A faint scent of lavender that lingered on the air.

He followed it into the garden.

You were there, kneeling among the rosebushes again, wearing that worn cardigan he always thought was too big for you. Your hair was loose today, a few strands caught by the wind. You looked… peaceful, he thought. And that was what scared him most.

“Didn’t think you liked the cold,” he said quietly.

You turned your head slightly, but not enough to meet his eyes. “It’s better than sitting inside.”

He hesitated at the doorway, hands deep in his pockets. “You should’ve woken me.”

“I didn’t see the point.”

The words were soft, but they hit harder than anything she could have shouted.

He wanted to say something, anything, but his throat tightened. So instead, he watched as you stood, brushing dirt from your palms. There was no anger in you, no spark left to fight with. Just quiet exhaustion.

“Y/N,” he started, but you were already walking past him toward the house.

“I’ll have dinner ready later,” you said.

And then, after a pause: “You don’t have to join me if you’re busy.”

He turned to watch you go, a strange panic settling in his chest.

For months he’d thought this distance was safety — that as long as you were polite and calm, things were fine. But now he realized how silence could rot a home faster than any fight ever could.

That evening, he didn’t go out. He sat by the fire instead, alone, his mind restless. The house felt too large without you moving through it. Too hollow.

He thought about the little things you’d done — all the things he’d dismissed without a second glance. The dinners that had been for him. The music that had been his. The small, thoughtful gestures that had gone unnoticed because he’d decided they didn’t matter.

How many had there been?

How many times had he looked at you and chosen not to see?

He thought of you sitting across from him at dinner, wearing that blue dress — the one that had made him pause for a heartbeat before looking away. You’d looked beautiful that night. He hadn’t said a word.

A low ache formed in his chest. Regret, sharp and unfamiliar.

When the clock struck ten, he went upstairs. The door to your room, your room now, he realized, was closed. A line had been drawn, silently but surely.

He knocked once.

“Y/N?”

Silence.

He almost turned away, but then your voice came, quiet and careful: “Yes?”

“I… wanted to say goodnight.”

There was a pause, long enough for him to feel foolish. Then: “Goodnight, Sirius.”

No bitterness. No warmth. Just polite distance, the same tone he’d used with you for months.

He closed his eyes, hand still resting against the door.

He had no one to blame but himself.

Later, lying awake in the dark, he couldn’t shake the thought that this was how people left you. Not in anger or grief — but by degrees. Slowly, quietly, until one day you looked up and realized they weren’t waiting for you anymore.

And maybe that was what scared him most of all.

Because for the first time since your wedding day, Sirius realized he didn’t want you to leave.

Not the version of you who sat across from him like a stranger, but the one who had tried — the one who’d smiled at him in the sunlight and hoped he’d look back.

He’d missed her.

He’d missed you.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The air in Grimmauld Place had grown thick with silence. Not the cold, angry kind that follows a fight, but the kind that grows quietly, like dust settling on things left untouched.

You had stopped trying to fill the void between you and Sirius. The effort had become too exhausting, and each attempt had been met with the same soft, polite indifference that had slowly chipped away at your hope.

He’d always been civil, even kind at times. That was the worst part. Sirius wasn’t cruel. He just wasn’t there.

He sat across from you at dinner most nights, eating quietly, sometimes talking about work or things that didn’t matter. And you’d nod, smile faintly, sip your wine, and tell yourself you were fine with that. Because if you didn’t, you might shatter.

Lately, though, you’d begun to fade in your own home. You dressed simply, you spoke less. The fire in you, that quiet but persistent desire to be seen had dimmed.

You woke one morning before him, lying in bed staring at the ceiling. His arm was draped across your waist, heavy and absent, like muscle memory rather than affection. He looked peaceful, and you almost envied that.

You slipped out from beneath his arm carefully, dressing in silence. You didn’t bother with your hair the way you used to, nor with the perfume he once called “nice.”

You made breakfast. For both of you, as always. But you didn’t wait for him to join. You ate quietly by the window while the sky outside stayed pale and sleepy.

When he finally came down, shirt half-buttoned, hair a mess, you barely looked up.

“Morning,” he said, voice still low from sleep.

“Morning,” you murmured, setting your cup down.

He hesitated. Normally, you’d have smiled — asked about his plans, tried to make conversation. Instead, you stood, placed your cup in the sink, and said, “I’ll be out for a while.”

His brow furrowed slightly. “Out? Where?”

“Just… out.”

And then you left.

That became the new rhythm. You spent your days wandering the nearby streets, visiting small cafés, sitting in bookshops until the afternoon light began to fade. You didn’t buy anything. You just… existed somewhere other than that cold, echoing house.

When you returned, he was often gone, sometimes at headquarters, sometimes out with James or Remus. When he was home, the two of you exchanged words out of habit more than desire.

He noticed the shift, but he didn’t know what to do with it.

He’d catch you humming softly while cleaning the sitting room, only to stop when he entered. You no longer asked him if he wanted tea, or if he’d eaten. You didn’t press your hand against his arm in passing. You didn’t fill the silence with pleasantries.

You’d gone quiet.

And somehow, that silence was louder than anything he’d ever heard.

One evening, he found you in the study, seated by the fire. You didn’t look up as he entered. Your book was open, but your eyes weren’t moving across the page.

He lingered by the door, watching you for a long moment. The firelight made your features soft, tired, distant. You looked… older. Not in years, but in weariness.

“You’ve been out a lot lately,” he said finally.

“I have.”

“Everything alright?”

You nodded once. “Yes.”

He waited for more, but nothing came.

“Y/N,” he said, softer this time. “Did I do something?”

You blinked, finally looking at him. “Do something?”

He shifted, uneasy under your calm tone. “You’re… different.”

You closed your book gently, setting it aside. “I’ve stopped trying, Sirius.”

His brow creased. “Trying what?”

“To be someone you might notice.”

He froze, lips parting, but you went on before he could speak.

“I’ve spent months trying to make this… marriage something more than a name on paper. I tried to make you comfortable, to be kind, to be what I thought you wanted. But it’s exhausting trying to be chosen by someone who never wanted you to begin with.”

He exhaled slowly, guilt flickering across his face, but you weren’t finished.

“I don’t blame you,” you continued, voice trembling despite your effort to keep it steady. “You didn’t ask for this either. I know that. But I can’t keep pretending that this life doesn’t ache. I can’t keep setting a place for you in my heart when you’ve never once stepped inside it.”

Sirius’s throat worked around words he couldn’t form.

You stood, smoothing the front of your skirt. “You don’t need to say anything. I’m not angry. I’m just… tired.”

And with that, you left him in the flickering firelight, the faint scent of your lavender soap fading in the air.

That night, he couldn’t sleep.

He lay awake staring at the ceiling, the same way you had that morning. The bed felt too large, too quiet. For the first time, he realized he hadn’t actually seen you in weeks. Not really.

He thought of the mornings you used to hum while setting out breakfast, the gentle curve of your smile when he came home late. He thought of your perfume, the way it lingered on his robes even when he didn’t notice.

He’d taken it all for granted.

Now, all that warmth had gone—and the house felt like what it truly was: cold stone and obligation.

And Sirius Black, who had once sworn he would never be like the rest of his family, realized with a sick twist in his chest that he had become exactly like them.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Sirius returned home one late afternoon, the sound of the front door closing softly behind him. He didn’t slam it, didn’t curse under his breath about the endless creak of the hinges like he usually did.

There was something quieter about him. Something careful.

You noticed it first in the way his boots didn’t drag against the floors; how his voice, when he greeted you, didn’t echo through the hall like an afterthought.

“Evening,” he said from the doorway of the drawing room.

You looked up from the book in your lap, blinking at him. “Evening.”

He hesitated before stepping in. You could tell immediately that something was different—he didn’t move with the same restless energy, that constant need to fill the silence. Instead, he seemed almost… hesitant.

He looked at you as though seeing you properly for the first time in a long while.

“I saw you walking back from the market earlier,” he said after a pause. “Did you... buy flowers?”

Your brow furrowed slightly. “Yes. Just a few.”

“I haven’t seen flowers in the house for months,” he murmured, glancing toward the vase on the mantle. The lilacs were small, delicate, the faintest trace of life against the gloom of Grimmauld Place.

You didn’t answer.

Sirius shifted, running a hand through his hair. “They look nice,” he said softly.

You nodded. “Thank you.”

The silence stretched thin between you, full of unspoken things.

Over the next few days, you noticed little things, small shifts that didn’t make sense.

The breakfast dishes were washed before you came downstairs one morning. He started leaving earlier, but returned at more reasonable hours. He no longer reeked of smoke and firewhisky. He lingered near the kitchen sometimes, asking if you needed help.

It wasn’t much. But it was something.

And you didn’t know what to do with that.

You had built your own armor, piece by piece. Indifference had become your refuge. Now, suddenly, he was showing cracks in his own, and you couldn’t decide whether to look through them or turn away.

One afternoon, you were in the library, dusting shelves half-heartedly when he appeared in the doorway again.

He stood there a moment, arms crossed loosely, watching you. “You still clean in here?”

“Someone has to,” you replied, voice even.

He smiled faintly. “Suppose that’s true.”

You turned back to the shelves. His footsteps approached slowly until he stood beside you, close enough that you could smell the faint scent of his cologne — something he hadn’t worn in so long.

“You know,” he said quietly, “this house never feels alive unless you’re in it.”

You froze, your hand pausing mid-wipe.

It was the sort of thing he might’ve said once, offhandedly charming— but this time, it sounded earnest.

You didn’t look at him. “You don’t have to say things like that, Sirius.”

“I’m not saying it because I have to.”

You swallowed. “Then why now?”

He hesitated, and for a moment you thought he wouldn’t answer. Then, softly:

“Because I’ve been a fool. And I don’t think I realized how much until you stopped looking at me.”

Your breath caught. Slowly, you turned to face him. His expression was unreadable — no smirk, no easy charm. Just quiet sincerity that unnerved you more than anything.

“I didn’t think you wanted me to look at you,” you said carefully.

“I didn’t know what I wanted,” he admitted, voice low. “But I do know that this house feels colder without you in it. That’s not nothing.”

You stared at him, unsure what to believe. His words sounded genuine, but you’d built too much of yourself around disappointment to trust the warmth too quickly.

So you said nothing.

After a long moment, he nodded once, as if accepting that. “Alright,” he murmured. “I’ll give you space.”

And then he left — quietly, like a ghost who knew better than to haunt too loudly.

That night, you lay in bed on your side, staring at the wall. Sirius came in late but sober, moving carefully so as not to disturb you.

You pretended to be asleep.

You felt the mattress dip as he settled beside you. Then, for the first time in months, his hand hovered uncertainly over your back. It didn’t touch — but it stayed there, as though he wanted to bridge the distance but didn’t yet feel entitled to.

And strangely, you found yourself listening to his breathing.

You didn’t move. You didn’t speak. But somewhere deep inside, something fragile stirred, a flicker of something that was not yet forgiveness, but not entirely indifference either.

In the morning, he was gone again, but the lilacs had been replaced with new ones.

And on the kitchen counter sat a folded note in Sirius’s handwriting:

“I know I can’t undo the years I wasted. But I’m here now. For whatever that’s worth.”

You stared at it for a long time, unsure whether to smile or cry.

Because after all this time, you weren’t sure if it was worth anything at all — or if it might finally be the start of something real.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The house had been quieter lately, but not empty, more like the air had shifted into something waiting.

You could feel it every time Sirius walked into a room — the tentative calm that followed him, like he was trying not to disturb something fragile.

It was strange to witness. For years, you’d grown used to the thunder of his presence: the loud laughter that filled corridors, the careless charm, the weight of his footsteps echoing off stone floors. Now, that recklessness had been replaced by patience.

You didn’t know what to do with patience.

You decided to test it. Not cruelly, not to punish him — but to see if the new calm he wore so carefully was real, or just another mood that would pass like all the others.

It began with breakfast.

You rose early, as always, and made tea. You didn’t expect him to join you — he rarely did — but halfway through your toast, you heard him coming down the stairs.

He looked surprised to see you still at the table. You normally finished before he ever appeared.

“Morning,” he said gently.

“Morning.”

He hesitated, then gestured toward the seat across from you. “Mind if I…?”

You nodded once. “Go ahead.”

He poured himself tea, quiet and careful, and when he reached for the sugar, you noticed something: he’d started taking three spoonful's.

You blinked. “You like it sweet now?”

He glanced up, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Trying to be less predictable.”

You huffed a soft, unexpected laugh — small, but real. And he looked almost startled by it.

The silence that followed wasn’t sharp this time. It was calm, like two people finally learning how to breathe in the same space.

You began noticing him more after that, not as the man you’d built from memory, but as someone different.

He’d fix little things around the house: oil a hinge, mend a loose latch, clean the old family frames that had gathered dust. You’d walk into a room to find him standing quietly, sleeves rolled up, hair falling over his face, muttering at stubborn screws or paint chips.

You didn’t speak much, but you lingered.

One evening, you caught him in the kitchen, sleeves rolled, trying to cook. The air smelled faintly of garlic and smoke. He looked up when you entered, eyes widening slightly.

“I’m aware this looks like a crime scene,” he said, motioning to the pan.

You leaned against the counter. “That’s one word for it.”

“Remus swore I could make pasta,” he muttered, poking it with the spoon like it had personally offended him.

“Remus has too much faith.”

Sirius laughed, properly laughed, and it startled you. It wasn’t loud or wild like before; it was softer, almost shy. He rubbed the back of his neck. “You could always show me how it’s actually done.”

You tilted your head. “You’d let me?”

“I’d beg you, if that’s what it takes.”

So you did. You took the spoon from his hand, brushing fingers by accident, and tried not to think about how that tiny contact made something flicker in your chest.

The nights that followed were calmer. You still slept with space between you, but it didn’t feel like a void anymore.

Sometimes, you’d find him reading in bed when you came in. He’d glance up, offer a quiet “goodnight,” and you’d answer without the cold edge that used to linger on your tongue.

There were no grand gestures, no sudden declarations. Just small moments that began to stitch themselves into the rhythm of your days.

One afternoon, you found yourself walking with him into the garden. The sun had made a rare appearance through the London haze, and Sirius looked almost younger in the light.

He paused beside the lilacs you’d planted, crouching slightly to touch a leaf.

“They’re surviving,” he said, almost to himself.

“They’re resilient,” you murmured. “I think they learned to adapt to this place.”

He glanced at you then, eyes soft. “You’re talking about the flowers, or yourself?”

You felt your throat tighten, but you didn’t look away. “Both, maybe.”

His smile faltered into something sad and fond. “You shouldn’t have had to adapt to me.”

You didn’t answer right away. The breeze rustled the lilacs. “People do what they must.”

He looked like he wanted to say more, but he didn’t. Instead, he stood beside you in the sunlight until the moment felt whole again.

That night, you stood at the vanity brushing your hair. Sirius sat on the edge of the bed behind you, quiet, hands clasped between his knees.

You met his gaze in the mirror for a second — long enough to see hesitation in his eyes.

He rose slowly, stepping behind you. His reflection hovered close, uncertain.

“May I?” he asked, nodding toward the brush in your hand.

Your heart stuttered. You hesitated, then passed it to him.

He began to brush through your hair carefully, gently, as if afraid you might break if he pressed too hard. His touch was slow, deliberate, reverent in a way that made your chest ache.

It wasn’t intimate in the usual sense. It was quiet, almost sacred.

When he was done, he set the brush down and said softly, “You deserve more than what I’ve given you.”

You swallowed hard, unsure what to say. “Maybe,” you murmured. “But I’m still here, aren’t I?”

His breath caught. You stood, brushing past him gently, and slipped into bed.

For the first time in years, when he followed, you didn’t turn away.

You weren’t ready to believe in him fully. Not yet. But you no longer flinched from the hope that maybe, just maybe, he was trying.

And for now, that was enough.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

It had been weeks since Sirius’s quiet transformation began, and though the walls of Grimmauld Place still loomed heavy with its shadows, something in the air had shifted entirely.

You felt it every time he was near, that almost-electric awareness, the ache of something unspoken sitting just beneath the surface. You’d begun to move around each other like magnets, careful not to touch, careful not to draw too close, because you both knew what might happen if you did.

But tonight, the restraint frayed.

The storm outside had rolled in quietly, the kind that hummed low through the walls, making the lamps flicker and the air hum. You were in the study, pretending to read, the sound of rain tapping against the window.

Sirius stood by the fireplace, half in shadow, his shirt sleeves rolled, the amber glow cutting along his jaw. You could feel his eyes on you — not the absent kind of looking he used to do, but something heavy and searching.

You turned a page you didn’t read. “You’re staring.”

He didn’t deny it. “You’ve changed.”

“So have you.”

He smiled faintly, but it wasn’t playful. “Not enough, maybe.”

You looked up then, meeting his gaze. There it was — the weight of years spent circling one another, all the longing and exhaustion and quiet affection tangled into something that finally demanded to be seen.

“Why now?” you asked softly. “Why only start trying when I finally stopped?”

Sirius took a slow step closer, then another, his voice low. “Because I was afraid of wanting something I didn’t think I could have.”

“And what is it you want now?”

He was close enough for you to feel the warmth radiating off him, the scent of rain and smoke in his clothes. He looked down at you, his voice barely above a whisper.

“You,” he said. “But not the way I was supposed to. The way I do now.”

Something inside you cracked — a quiet, fragile thing that had been holding everything in place for years. You rose slowly from your chair, and suddenly, the space between you was gone.

He reached out first, fingers brushing against your jaw as if asking permission. When you didn’t pull away, he cupped your face fully, thumb tracing the edge of your cheek.

“You shouldn’t look at me like that,” you whispered.

“Like what?”

“Like you mean it.”

“I do,” he said, and then he kissed you.

It wasn’t gentle at first, it was desperate, all the years of silence and unspoken words breaking open in one sharp exhale.

His hands tangled in your hair, your fingers caught against his collar, and you kissed him back like you’d been waiting a lifetime to remember how. Lips parted, tongues grazing each others teeth in rushed decisions, hands gripping each other as if never needing anything more in the world.

The storm outside cracked loud against the windows, but neither of you moved from each other.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, both of you breathless.

“I don’t deserve this,” he murmured.

“Then earn it,” you said, voice trembling but sure.

Something in him broke at that , you felt it in the way he kissed you again, slower this time, as though memorizing the taste of forgiveness. His hands slid around your waist, drawing you closer until you could feel the steady, heavy beat of his heart against yours.

You didn’t think. You didn’t need to. You just let yourself fall into the warmth you’d both been starving for.

The book slipped forgotten to the floor. The fire cracked and flared. His lips found yours again and again, hungry, reverent, lingering — each kiss more certain than the last, each breath a confession he couldn’t speak aloud.

When you finally broke apart, neither of you spoke for a long moment. His thumb traced your bottom lip, still swollen from the kiss, and he smiled faintly.

“I think,” he said softly, “this is the first time this house has ever felt alive.”

You pressed your forehead against his chest, closing your eyes as his arms came around you.

For the first time, there was no distance left to bridge.

Now you're crying at your little dining table. Overwhelmed by the decision given to you mere hours ago. There are haphazardly hung Christmas lights and piled up dishes around the kitchen. The overwhelming clutter in your small home wasn't helping you focus on your thoughts. You huffed and raked your hands through your hair. You so desperately wanted to see them—but what would you say? What would they say? You abandoned them in the darkest of times. James, Lily and Peter were dead, Sirius was sent to Azkaban and Remus was left all alone. You knew the lies you'd been told back then were exactly that, lies. It was Peter who sold your best friend and her husband out, not Sirius. That doesn't mean you didn't leave him and Remus on their own when things got tough. You'd be guilty of that for the rest of your life. But could you put that guilt aside to see them one more time?

Sirius gazed longingly at the front door of Grimmauld Place. The others at the dining table stared pitifully or with a confused expression. Molly Weasley sighed.

"She's not coming, Sirius." She said disappointedly and dropped a plate of veg onto the table.

"You don't know that," Sirius remarked dismissively.

"Sirius is right, we won't know until the end of the night." Remus put some roasted potatoes onto his plate. "Besides, the war is over now, perhaps she'll more willing to talk."

"It's been over a decade!" Molly huffed as she sat down. "I love that girl but be reasonable—"

"Who are you talking about?" Harry asked.

Every adult's eyes landed on him. The sudden realisation that Harry had no idea who you were dawned upon them. Such a prominent and important figure in his parents' lives and yet he had been deprived of all knowledge of his family. Of course, that's what you were; family. No matter what happened James, Lily, Sirius and Remus would always see you as family. Even if they never saw you. Your name slipped from Sirius's lips. A fond smile graced his face.

"Was she a member of the order?" Hermoine asked.

"She is more than that Ms. Granger," Sirius took a sip of his drink. Setting the cup down with a clink. "She is a dear friend."

Remus gave the four teens a knowing look. Ron scrunched up his face when he realised what Remus was implying. Arthur and Ginny stifled a laugh at the interaction.

"If things had played out better, you'd be calling her auntie right now."

Harry was immediately ten times more engaged in what Sirius was saying. Anything about his family had him entranced.

"She was a friend of my parents?"

"She is your mother's best friend."

"If you ask me it should've been her to look after Harry." Molly aggressively cut at her slice of turkey.

"If she was his mum's best friend—why didn't she look after him?" Ron asked.

Everyone looked to Remus. The last of your friends you had spoken to. He pushed the food on his plate around whilst contemplating his words.

"Why didn't Dumbledore ask her?" Arthur questioned.

"Dumbledore did ask her." Remus finally spoke. "She said no. She said she couldn't handle it."

He took a deep breath. "After losing her two closest friends, and Sirius her—" he trailed off and cleared his throat. "—being sent to Azkaban for it, really sent her off the rails."

The room went silent. Everyone understands to some extent that you were far too grief-stricken to take on such a responsibility. The sorrowful silence was interrupted as the Weasley twins came crashing down the stairs.

"Would the two of you stop messing and sit down!" Molly screeched as they came tumbling into the dining room, pulling at each other's sweaters.

"What's got everyone so gloomy?" George asked.

"It's Christmas—lighten up!" Fred patted Harry on the back.

"They're right! We should enjoy what we have right now," Arthur muttered with some stuffing in his mouth. "And hope that maybe we can have more."

A comfortable silence fell upon the group. The vague story of a girl once known by some still lingers in the minds of the teens.

DING-DONG

Everyone's head snapped up at the sound of the doorbell. Grimmauld Place was not the place carolers stumbled upon. The feeling of confusion suddenly switched to shock and excitement. Sirius shot up and quickly made his way down the narrow hallway. Remus followed close behind.

"Holy shit this is a mistake." You whispered to yourself as Grimmauld Place stood menacingly before you.

Your boots kicked up snow as you bounced on your feet. Adrenaline rushed through your veins and puffs of air rapidly escaped your mouth. An envelope was clutched in your shaking—not shivering—hands. The address for the home of your long-lost friend is scribbled on the letter within alongside an invitation, declarations of missing and compliments that should be kept private. As you exhaled your shaking hand pressed the doorbell.

You chewed on your lip in anticipation. Snow squelched as you continued to bounce on the balls of your feet. Your fingers began tapping against the envelope and you tried to ignore every thought in your head

"I can't!" You declared to yourself.

Your coat swayed as you spun around and began to head back the way you came—but then the door swung open. You froze. Not from the winter chill but the sound of your name being whispered with such heartfelt devotion and longing.

"You came."

The breeze filled your senses as you turned around. Almost shamefully. You didn't know how to face him. Your long-time friend, a man you fought in a war with, a man who you believed at one time murdered your friends. Yet you claimed to love him. Hogwarts taught you many things but never how to face someone you lost so many years ago.

"I did." Your voice wavered a little, you hoped he would pass it off as the cold.

From the pitiful look he gave you, you knew he knew the truth. He always did when it came to you.

"You already have the invitation, what are you waiting for?" He gestured for you to come forward.

The interaction was awkward and a static guilt buzzed along your skin. Nevertheless, the same smile Sirius brought to your face all those years ago re-emerged. Snow crunched beneath your boots as you walked up the steps. The door softly clicked shut behind you. Warmth immediately wrapped around you. Grimmauld Place didn't give the feeling you had imagined it would based on Sirius's stories. Maybe it was the lack of Death Eaters or the array of Weasleys laughing. Whatever it was the house you'd imagined as dark and dreary proved you wrong with its homely feeling. Remus gave you an excited smile.

"It's nice to see you."

"You too."

You stared at one another for a moment before strongly embracing each other. After a moment you parted and he returned to the dining hall with a smile. Sirius snuck up behind you.

"Don't be nervous, darling." He muttered with a hand hovering above the small of your back.

Sirius wasn't sure what to do. To be honest, he wasn't exactly sure what you were to one another after so long. He loved you, he knew that for certain. You had to still love, or else you wouldn't have come—but the years of silence have him questioning if you love him the same way he loves you. His hand softly settles on your lower back. Sirius huffed a small laugh at the way you shivered, and he guided you towards the dining room. Whispers carried through the walls.

"Who was it?"

"What's got you all smiley?"

"She came."

"She came?!"

"Oh, Merlin! It's a Christmas Miracle!"

"Move! Move!"

Molly swung the door open. Her hopeful expression quickly changed to an overjoyed one at the sight of you.

"Oh—it's so lovely to see you!" She hugged you tightly, motherly even.

She clung to you like you would dissappear any moment. Molly only pulled away at the sound of Arthur clearing his throat. She gave him a displeased look over the shoulder.

"You've gotten taller." He teased.

"I really don't think I have."

"Ah yeah, you have." He smiled. "C'mere."

You hugged Arthur briefly. Molly took your cold cheeks in her hands when you pulled away.

"Oh, you're as gorgeous as ever!" She exclaimed.

A group of unfamiliar late teens peered from the dining hall doorway. Several gingers you could pinpoint as Weasleys, a girl you'd never know before, and a boy with an all too familiar face.

"Oh—these are my boys!" She gestured to two tall and identical boys, and a shorter boy. "George, Fred, and Ron."

"And this is Ginny!" Arthur put a hand on her shoulder.

Two eagerly greeted and the other two sheepishly greeted.

"This is Hermione and—" Remus signalled to the brunette girl and she gave a small wave.

"I'm Harry." He interrupted. "Harry Potter."

He felt nervous to say his own name. He obviously wanted to know you and what you knew about his parents, but it sounded like a sensitive topic.

"Harry Potter?" The room stilled as you repeated his name.

He nodded his head. The adults exchanged concerned looks as you silently stared at the boy. Unlike others, you stared at him, not his scar. You examined his face—his eyes in particular. Your hand slowly reached out, gently lifting his glasses. Just enough so you could get a better look at his eyes.

"They look exactly like your mother's."

"So I've been told."

You smiled at that. Not a tight-lipped smile out of politeness and courtesy, but a genuine one. Harry looked at Sirius in the corner of his eye. What he saw was another genuine smile, with something more.

"This is very touching but the food's getting cold." Fred ruined the moment.

"Yeah I'm starving for hot mash not cold mash."

Molly shushed the twins and herded the children into the dining room. Arthur followed with Ginny, Hermione slipped away from the door not wanting to be in anyone's way. Remus and Sirius watched fondly as you settled Harry's glasses back on his nose.

"Fred's right, the food is getting cold." Remus made his way back to his chair.

Sirus ushered you and Harry through the door and to your seats. Everyone had their designated seats. Arthur, the twins and Molly on one side. Ginny, Ron, Hermione, Harry and Remus on the other. Sirius sat at the top of the table. He motioned to the free seat across from Remus. Molly was already shovelling food onto your plate before you even sat down.

"Don't worry, dear! I still make it the same way!"

You smiled at the warmth you were being wrapped in. Some much for all that anxiety and overthinking earlier. You'd thought maybe you would he belittled for not getting in contact sooner. To be honest, you weren't sure why you hadn't. You contentedly ate the hot meal.

As time passed, everyone began to settle and talk. Your arrival had stunned some into silence. Fred and George quickly got back to bantering, Ginny was teasing Ron about something—Molly was trying to keep everything in order, bless—Arthur and Remus discussed something to do with the Ministry. Harry, Hermione, and Sirius remained quiet. The teens pondered intensely and Sirius silently admired.

"If you have a question you can ask me, you know." You muttered to Harry.

"Sirius said you were my mum's best friend."

"I am."

Hermoine smiled pitifully at your use of present tense.

"What was it like?" He asked. "I mean to—you know—"

"Know them?" You found his words for him.

He nodded with an awkward and solemn expression. You sighed.

"Well, I met Lily first—technically I met James first, but I became friends with your mum first—me and James didn't get along at the start."

"Really?" Hermoine questioned.

"Really." Sirius confirmed. "She scoffed everytime she saw him."

"To be fair, Lily did too." Remus defended.

"Did my parents not like each other when they first met?" Harry looked between the three of you.

You all shook your heads in sync.

"Oh no—not at all—well James certainly fancied her, that was clear." You laughed. "Lily didn't give him much thought for our first few years though."

As the dinner continued you smiled and laughed, recounting stories of your youth and eagerly sharing them with the teen boy.

"Alright!" Molly clapped her hands together, gathering the attention of everyone. "Present time!"

The kids (as Molly still called them) were spread around the sitting room. Colourful paper was ripped and tossed aside as they opened their gifts. The Weasleys got new handmade sweaters to add to the collection, Hermione got a new book series she'd been eyeing in Diagon Alley, Ron; some new Quidditch gear, Ginny; a bit of makeup, and Harry got a broom polishing kit.

"Ron—those are class!" Fred commented.

"What do you say about a game of Quidditch?" George quickly suggested.

The Weasleys raced outside into the cold for a game. Harry got up and followed, but he didn't make it out the back door before you pulled him aside.

"Harry, I—" you hesitated. "I got you something."

He was surprised. Upon your first meeting, you had a gift for him.

"Really?"

"It's not much but—uhm—I thought it would be nice for you to have." You conjured up a vinyl.

"I made it for her." You admitted solemnly. "Her eighteenth birthday, to be precise."

"You made her a vinyl?" His fingers grazed the borders of the vinyl cover; a moving photo of you and Lily.

It was clearly taken by someone else. The two of you were lying in a meadow, flowers in your hair, laughing together.

"I'm sure Sirius has a record player around here somewhere." You muttered.

Harry was too busy analysing the gift. His mother's favourite songs are listed on the back, a glossy black vinyl with her favourite colour decorating the centre inside paired with a handwritten letter.

My dearest Lily,

Congratulations on turning 18! It has been an honour to watch you grow from a smart and sweet girl into an astounding and beautiful woman. I won't make this letter too long (for it may end up tear-stained).

Lily, you are my dearest friend, arguably the most precious person in my life. You've been there for me through the brightest and darkest of times and I am privileged to call you my friend. Not only that but I am so utterly grateful to have been there for you in both your brightest and darkest times.

Lily, I don't know what I would do if you were to disappear. I might go mad without you. So, for every ones sake, I hope I can continue to have you by my side.

Yours truly,

"You can give it a listen to later," You gave him a small nudge. "Go play with your friends." Harry smiled at you and set the vinyl down and ran out the door.

"It was sweet of you to give that to him."

You whipped around to see Sirius leaning against the doorframe. A fond smile graced his face.

"He doesn't have much of Lily." He sighed. "And I know you don't either."

He took a few steps forward and stood in front of you, with his hands in his pockets.

"Well, I at least have memories of her." You locked eyes with Sirius. "He doesn't have that privilege."

Silence enveloped you both. Familiar but uncomfortable. It had been a long time since you'd been alone with Sirius, back then you took any chance you could get to be alone with him. Now you didn't know how to feel. Your heart races and aches for him, but your mind however tells you to flee. It fears the pain of losing someone again. Or rather him all over again.

"Listen..." He whispered your name and cupped your cheek.

Your breath hitched as his thumbs grazed your bottom lip.

"My darling, how I missed you so." Tears prickled the corners of your eyes.

After all these years of tormented and abandonment, he still stared so lovingly at you.

"How can you say that? After everything..." You cried it his palm.

"We all cope differently." He consoled. "You needed to be alone to handle your grief—and there's nothing wrong with that."

Your shoulders shook as you began to sob. "I'd hate me if I were you—"

"—but I'm not you, and that's why I'd still love you even if you'd ripped my letter to shreds." He professed.

You crashed into his chest and threw your arms around his neck.

"Oh, Sirius..." You weeped.

His hand on your cheek slid to the back of your head and his free arm wrapped around your waist, holding you close.

"I was so angry with myself."

He stayed silent awaiting your explanation.

"Even after it all came out—that the Ministry believed you'd gotten them killed I—" You hiccuped. "I still loved you!"

"I felt awful for betraying them and I felt awful for believing that you'd do such a thing!"

Sirius pulled away slightly to wipe the tears cascading down your face.

"That doesn't matter now, what matters is that we're here now—together." He sighed. "You can't fault yourself for believing in me."

You reached a shaking hand up to wipe away the final tear.

"You understand? The way you felt wasn't wrong, it wasn't a crime." You nodded your head in response. "Good."

A more comfortable silence took over once you got the weight off your chest. Sirius still held you closely.

"This may be improper but you look beautiful." He complimented. "Maybe even more than the last time I saw you."

"My face is covered with tears, Sirius." You remarked.

"Still beautiful, darling."

You gave a light laugh. "I think those twelve years really got to you."

"I think they made me even madder for you." His thumb brushed your cheekbone. "All that time without you is what drove me the most mad."

You stared into his grey eyes. Remus and Molly laughed at a joke Arthur made in the other room, Hermione silently flipped through her books on the couch. The Weasley children and Harry were causing a ruckus outside. Laughter and cheating accusations flew through the open window. Sirius's thumb found its way back to your bottom lip.

"May I? For tradition, of course."

You peered above to see mistletoe growing from the ceiling. It certainly wasn't there before, only appearing after Sirius had secretly cast it.

You smiled. "You may."

He leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to your lips. You pulled him back in for a much more passionate one after.

"Glad to see you two making up," Remus commented.

"More like making out." The twins grimaced.

"Merlin! Would you get inside!" Molly huffed.

They scurried inside, broomsticks in hand and snow falling off them.

Seven years of Hogwarts, two years of living with your mates, and not once had you experienced a heat.

It didn’t bother him, not really. It didn’t bother any of them, but they all knew how much it bothered you. The way your shoulders tensed when Lily went into heat, how you’d quietly dote on her with sweet affections, offering soothing touches and cups of tea. But when it came to yourself, you withdrew, closing in on yourself like you didn’t deserve the same attention. You never said it outright, but they could see it- the way you felt left behind, as though your body had somehow failed you. It broke his heart.

They’d tried to comfort you in countless ways. Late-night reassurances, Remus’s soft words murmured over cocoa, James’s hand squeezing yours with that protective and reassuring energy, Sirius teasing you relentlessly until you couldn’t help but laugh, and Lily’s endless supply of comfort. They’d spent nights making sure you knew that even if you never went into heat, even if your body never did what you expected, it wouldn’t change how much they loved you. You were theirs, no matter what. But words only went so far.

Yesterday, everything changed.Remus was the first to notice.

It started small; little things, like the way you trailed after them through the house, never straying too far from anyone’s side. You clung to Sirius’s shirt that morning as he made breakfast, your fingers twisting in the fabric absentmindedly. Sirius had given you a curious look but said nothing, choosing instead to ruffle your hair and tease you lightly about being clingy. Normally, you’d respond with a sassy remark or a playful shove, but this time, you simply leaned into his touch with a quiet hum.

James noticed next. You curled up beside him on the couch, tucking yourself under his arm like you belonged there, and he didn’t question it. He simply wrapped an arm around you, pressing a soft kiss to your temple while Lily smiled knowingly from across the room.

By midday, it was undeniable. You were restless, unsettled in a way none of them had seen before. Your instincts were bubbling just beneath the surface, tugging at you in directions you didn’t fully understand. And by evening, it all came to a head.

The last sign was when Remus got up to move. You’d been half-curled in Sirius’s lap, Remus’s fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns along your ankle. But the moment he shifted to stand, you stared at him, wide-eyed and panicked, as if the simple act of him moving away was too much to bear.

“Hey, it’s alright,” Remus cooed softly, pausing in place. He hadn’t meant to upset you, but the way your eyes began to water sent a sharp pang through his chest.

“I’m sorry.” You mumbled, your voice small and shaky. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Remus whispered gently, stepping closer again. “Come here.” He opened his arms, and you immediately clung to him, pressing your face into his jumper with a sniffle of a cry.

That night, Remus took you to bed with him, and the simple act of being close seemed to calm you. But it was only the beginning.

The next day, it became clear to everyone- this was it. You were going into heat for the first time.

No one said a word, not wanting to put pressure on you. The human body was strange, and any small thing could ruin this. They wanted you to experience it at your own pace, to live through it without the weight of expectations. But by afternoon, as everyone gathered in the living room, it became impossible to ignore.

You’d gotten it into your head that you needed to build a nest. It started with a pile of blankets and pillows in the corner of the room, but no matter how much you arranged and rearranged them, it didn’t feel right. You’d build it up, only to tear it apart moments later, frustration growing with every failed attempt.

Remus had seen it coming- how you were spiraling between uncertainty and instinct, your body and mind at odds with something new and overwhelming. It made his chest ache, watching you struggle to build your nest, tearing it apart moments later as frustration clouded your features. He wanted to reach out, to tell you again that it didn’t matter if it was perfect. That you didn’t need to prove anything to them. You were enough. You always had been.

But he knew better. You needed to figure it out in your own way. Still, he stayed close, crouched beside you, ready to help if you asked.

Lily’s voice was calm and soothing, her fingers brushing through your hair as she murmured reassurances. “It’s okay, love. It doesn’t have to be perfect.”

“But it feels wrong.” Your voice trembled, hands twisting in the fabric of a blanket as though it might somehow yield the answer you were looking for. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“It’s strange the first time,” Lily said gently, her hand never pausing in its soothing strokes. “You’re doing great, I promise.”

You didn’t seem convinced. Remus could see the doubt weighing on you, the way your shoulders tensed under Lily’s touch. It wasn’t frustration anymore; it was fear. Fear of doing it wrong. Fear of not being enough.

“You’re trying too hard,” he said softly, leaning in a little closer. “It’s okay to ask for help.”

“I don’t want to mess it up,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “I just… I want to impress you. I want it to be good. I want to do it right for once.”

The words hit him harder than he expected. You didn’t need to impress them. You didn’t need to be anything other than who you already were. He reached out, gently taking your trembling hands in his own, giving them a soft squeeze. “You don’t have to impress us,” he said quietly. “We already think you’re incredible.”

James knelt beside you, hazel eyes warm with quiet affection. “We’re proud of you,” he whispered. “No matter what.”

Sirius plopped down on your other side, grinning as he draped an arm around your shoulders. “Come on then, what is it?”

You blinked at him, confused. “What’s what?”

Sirius shrugged, voice teasing but kind. “What’s that pretty head saying? What’s it want you to do?”

For a moment, you hesitated. Remus could see the conflict in your eyes, the way you bit your lip nervously. But then, something shifted. You let out a shaky breath, slowly rising to your feet. They all watched in silence as you paused, glancing around the room like you were searching for something. Your fingers twitched at your sides, your breathing uneven.

And then, as though pulled by an unseen thread, you turned and made your way toward the shared room. You hesitated at the door, casting a glance back at them, eyes uncertain, before stepping inside.

Remus followed quietly, stopping in the doorway as you approached Lily’s nest. He didn’t say anything, didn’t want to disturb whatever instinct was guiding you now. He only watched as you reached out, running your fingers over the soft blankets and pillows that made up Lily’s carefully crafted space.

You knelt down slowly, curling into the nest with a soft, content sigh, as though it was the only place you’d ever wanted to be. Lily covered her mouth with her hand, eyes glistening with unshed tears as she took in the sight of you nestled in her space. There was something unspoken between the two of you, something so deeply emotional that it made Remus’s throat tighten.

Of course. Of course, this was where you’d end up.

Was it really all that shocking? You had always been Lily’s girl. Always gravitated toward her warmth, her comfort. It made sense in a way that felt almost poetic, that your first heat would lead you to her nest, to the place where you felt safest.

Noticed you looking, sweetheart ;)

Do you like museums? The one in Hogsmeade is open late tonight. Or we can have a drink or two, no pressure. I’d like to learn about you.

~ James Potter

You felt as though your face had heated by about 100 degrees as you read the note that the James Potter had effortlessly floated to you, hitting the nail square on the head. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t stared at him all semester- his brown hair, his glasses… he was truly perfect in every way, you thought. And on this random Tuesday, some divine spirit had decided it was your time: whether for something good or something horribly embarrassing? you weren’t sure yet.

To be honest, you weren’t even fully aware that James Potter knew who you were. You’d been partnered with his friend, Remus, on a few assignments, but you’d never had a conversation with Potter himself, and he was surely not lacking for female attention.

For a moment, though, you let yourself be hopeful. You smiled at James and nodded quickly, as he floated you over a second note that read, simply, I’ll meet you outside the Three Broomsticks at 7, then. On me.

You smiled again: your friends were surely never going to let you live down the fact that you were going on a date with Griffindor’s Golden Boy, mere days before your houses were set to play against one another in quidditch. You were determined, nonetheless, to let yourself enjoy it.

You made sure to arrive at 7:00 exactly, simply too nervous that being early or late would ruin your chance with the boy you’d been pining after for months. Luckily, true to his word, James was standing right outside that door, and his comfort in the cold weather suggested he hadn’t been waiting long. You smiled at him, and he waved excitedly at you.

“You look stunning,” he said, grinning, as he opened the door for you. “Are you much a butterbeer person? I’m happy to go get our order, if you’re ready.”

“Butterbeer sounds perfect, thank you,” you responded, pulling out a chair at a two person table and laying your coat across the back. “Thank you again, really.”

“It’s no trouble at all, promise. I’ll be right back with that,” he smiled before taking off to the bar.

While he ordered, you let yourself take a moment to process. It was absolutely unreal the number of girls in Hogwarts would hex for a chance at your position, and yet, here you were- a girl he didn’t really know, and yet was lucky enough to catch his attention. It did wonders for your confidence, that was for sure, feeling like a wave of Felix Felicus washing over you, relaxing your shoulders and jaw as he walked back.

“Thank you again,” you smiled gently as he set the butterbeer down in front of you.

“It’s really no trouble. Butterbeer’s probably my favorite treat of all time, I’d have to say. It always makes me feel relaxed after a quidditch game, or a hard exam.”

“You’re a very good quidditch player,” you complimented.

“Thanks,” James grinned. “I like to think so. It’s my absolute favorite, I love flying- not like potions, I despise potions, and anyways, isn’t the point of being a wizard to do wand work? I hardly see the point.”

You laughed then, at James’s ridiculous attitude towards your shared subject, but appreciating and nodding along to his commentary on the feeling and the freedom of flight.

You laughed then. By the end of the date, you didn’t find it so funny. Thirty minutes in, you began to wonder if his voice would ever get hoarse. Or, really, whether he ever got sick of himself. You felt as though you knew everything about him- his family, his friends, the things he hated, what he loved to see most in the great hall, how he felt that the Chudley Cannons were underprojected for the next season as potential winners: which was all very great, really, it was nice to learn about him.

The problem was you could count on 1 hand the number of things he had learned about you. Truly, you could count on zero hands the number of things he had learned about you, with the way you’d yet to get a word in.

Through gritted teeth, you finally said, “That’s great, James, really, but it’s getting a bit late. Maybe we should head back to the castle?” In all honesty, you knew not much time had passed, and your friends would hardly notice you’d been gone at this point, but you weren’t sure how much more of this you could bear.

“Oh, that’s a good point, yeah. I can walk you back, if you’d like?”

“Sure, James. I’d be ok with that,” you sighed, mentally preparing for 10 more minutes of the egotistical whirlwind that was James Potter’s thought process.

Sure enough, that’s what you got, as James prattled about what teams he thought he’d be scouted by next year.

“Not that it really matters, of course,” he added as he turned the corridor towards your house entrance. “I’ll be a millionaire regardless, won’t I?” He grinned again- that stupid, infuriating smirk, that just an hour ago had you melting.

“Yes, well, this is me. I’ve made it very safely and all, so you can… go. Goodnight, James. Thanks for the butterbeer.”

“Of course, goodnight, see you tomorrow!”

He waved feverishly again, as he had at the beginning of your date, and as you climbed the stairs to your dorm you thanked every saint you could think of that he hadn’t tried to kiss you.

“So, how’d it go, mate? Do you like her?” asked Remus, as James settled into bed that night.

“She’s great, honestly. She’s stunning, and so easy to talk to. I’m excited for the second date already- I can’t wait to learn all about her.”

Remus chuckled at that, unaccustomed to his friend’s surprising peace as he came into the room. Typically, after a date, James’s mouth was running at a hundred miles a minute, relaying every single detail until Sirius told him to ‘shut the fuck up before I shove my wand so far up your nose you won’t know where it’s gone’.

“What did you learn about her tonight, then?”, he asked with a smile, prompting discussion.

“Hm? Oh, truthfully, she was very quiet, but that’s what a second date is for, isn’t it?”

Remus’s brows furrowed together as he took in James’s words. “Right. And… what did she learn about you?”

James rattled off several of the things he had shared with you, oblivious to the growing shock in his friend’s eyes and the grit of his teeth as he reached the half way point of his list- nearly two minutes later.

“James,” Remus said shortly, cutting him off. “Do you… honestly think there will be a second date?”

James laughed. “There’s always a second date, silly. Why wouldn’t there be?”

Remus sighed. “Maybe because she was right pissed off with you? I wouldn’t go on a second date with a guy who didn't let me talk, James.”

“It’s not that I didn’t let her talk, it’s just that she didn’t talk, and I didn’t want it to be awkward, so I just kept going and- oh my god. She hates me for sure. Shit, I need to learn how to shut up, Sirius is right, what do I do-”

“Well, firstly,” Remus interjected, “you stop spiraling. And then you send her a letter apologizing for being an idiot so that you can look her in the eyes tomorrow.”

“Right. Ok.”

As you finally settled into bed after recounting the horror of your date with your best friend, the unmistakable tap of an owl’s talon hit against the glass of your window. Opening it, you carefully untied the parchment it carried, reading its contents and laughing quietly to yourself.

Upon further consideration, I have realized that I am the biggest idiot to grace the halls of Hogwarts. While I completely understand if you never want to talk to me again (as you likely had enough of that for one lifetime), I would love to meet you again and get to know you: for real, this time. Maybe we just don’t count this one?

I’ll bring duct tape, if you like. You can slap it over my mouth yourself and I won’t complain.