#riri

The courtyard rang with laughter. Loud, echoing, sharp enough to sting.

James had Snape dangling in midair, robes over his head, pale legs flashing in the sunlight. Sirius’s bark of laughter carried across the stone, Remus sat with his lips curved into something halfway between amusement and tolerance, Peter was practically choking from how hard he was laughing.

And then Lily laughed.

It was quick, sharp, unexpected — like she’d been caught up in the moment. A flicker of schadenfreude before her expression faltered, before her fury reared up and she turned on James. But you’d seen it. You couldn’t unsee it. The sound of Lily Evans laughing at Severus Snape’s humiliation settled heavy in your chest.

Everyone else was doubled over, gasping, wheezing, clutching at one another’s shoulders like this was the height of comedy. You weren’t laughing. You couldn’t.

Because all you saw was Snape’s face — blotchy, pale, humiliated. His eyes weren’t wide with anger; they were wide with shame. And something in you recoiled.

You had warned them. That morning, when Sirius had gleefully told you about the plan, you’d felt your stomach turn. “Don’t,” you’d said, softer than you meant to. “This isn’t just a joke. It’ll go too far.”

Sirius had winked, brushing it off with that careless grin. James had waved you off, too caught up in his theatrics. Remus had looked at you like he almost agreed, but he didn’t say anything. He never did when it came to the boys.

And now here it was. Exactly what you feared.

“Put him down,” you said, your voice louder than you expected. The laughter quieted just a little, curious glances flicking your way.

James smirked, his wand still aimed at Snape. “What’s the matter, Y/N? He’s loving the attention.”

“Yeah,” Sirius added, “you’ve got to admit, it’s hilarious.”

“Hilarious?” you snapped, your chest tightening. You turned to look at Snape again, trembling in midair, fists clenched uselessly. “Does that look hilarious to you? He’s humiliated.”

“He’s Snivellus,” James corrected, as though that explained everything.

“He’s a person,” you shot back, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. “A person you decided doesn’t deserve dignity. And you’re all laughing like this is fun. It’s not. It’s cruel.”

Silence spread. Sirius’s smirk faltered. Remus’s face tightened, eyes darting away. Peter looked between them like a child watching parents argue.

And James — James looked at you like you’d just betrayed him.

“Oh, come on, Y/N,” he said, voice softer now, coaxing. “Don’t tell me you’re siding with him.”

You shook your head, breath catching. “I’m not siding with him, I’m siding with what’s right. You — all of you — used to be better than this. Or maybe I was too blind to see you weren’t.”

That landed. You saw it in James’s eyes, in the way Sirius’s jaw clenched.

Lily spoke up then, her voice sharp as glass. “Enough, Potter. Put him down.” She sounded furious, but you couldn’t shake the memory of her laugh, the sound that had joined the others for one terrible moment.

And you realized you were done.

When James finally dropped Snape, leaving him to scramble away with his pride in tatters, you didn’t stay by the Marauders’ side. You crossed the courtyard and offered Snape your hand. He stared at you like he didn’t know what to do with it, suspicion and pride warring on his face. But he took it. Slowly.

Behind you, you could feel the weight of four gazes, burning holes into your back.

“You’re making a mistake,” Sirius called after you, his voice laced with something almost desperate.

You didn’t turn. “No,” you said, steady despite the lump in your throat. “I think I’m finally seeing clearly.”

And you walked with Snape. And later, with others — the ones who had been on the receiving end of the Marauders’ laughter, who had always seemed like background noise. You found yourself sitting with them, listening to them. Realizing you weren’t alone.

But the Marauders looked at you differently after that. As though you were a stranger.

And you felt it too.

Because people go from people you know to people you don’t.

It didn’t happen all at once. It never does.

At first, you thought the prank was just a fracture. A crack in something you thought was unbreakable. A fight, harsh words, then maybe apologies later. That’s how it always used to be.

But this time… there was no apology.

James threw himself back into chasing Lily, determined to win her over after the humiliation of her shouting at him in front of half the school. And slowly — painfully — she stopped glaring so much. She started laughing with them again, sitting a little closer, lingering a little longer.

It was your seat she filled. Your place at the table. Your spot on the couch in the common room, where you’d curl against Sirius’s side or steal Remus’s book just to annoy him. You’d pass by and see her there — smiling, vibrant, magnetic — and the boys drinking her in like sunlight.

And you… you were a shadow.

Ravenclaw Tower became your refuge. Books stacked high around you, parchment stained with ink, but you couldn’t drown out the silence. The silence where their laughter used to be. The silence of not being dragged into trouble, or pulled under an Invisibility Cloak, or teased until you were smiling despite yourself.

You started treating them like strangers because it hurt too much to treat them like home. Polite nods in corridors, clipped words when you had to share space, no warmth, no softness. It was easier this way — to pull back before they could push you out completely.

But the thing was… they noticed.

Sirius tried first, cornering you in the library one night. He had that reckless grin plastered on like armor, but his eyes were searching. “What’s with the cold shoulder, love? Too good for us now?”

You’d looked up from your essay, heart aching, and said evenly: “I just don’t know who you are anymore.”

The smile slipped. Just a fraction. He left without another word.

Remus was quieter, watching you from across classrooms, trying to catch your eye. When you wouldn’t, he looked down like it was his own fault. Maybe it was.

Peter stopped bothering. His laughter came easier now when you weren’t around to temper it.

And James… James was the worst of all. Because every time you saw him, Lily was there. Filling the spaces you’d left. And he looked at her the way he used to look at you — like the sun rose and set just for him.

And maybe that was the cruelest prank of all — not the one they played on Snape. But the one time played on you.

At first, no one took it seriously. The Marauders and you, distant? It was laughable. Students had seen you bicker before, sulk for a day or two, even storm off dramatically — but it never lasted. You always came back together, as inevitable as gravity. So when you started sitting at the Ravenclaw table instead of squeezing onto the end of the Gryffindor bench, people whispered that it was temporary. A sulk, a spat.

Even the teachers assumed it would pass. McGonagall once called out partners for Transfiguration and said, “Potter, Y/N,” with a faint smile, as though putting you together would fix whatever stubbornness lingered. You’d both worked in silence, parchment scraping against wood, wands raised without a single word shared. She’d watched you both with a crease in her brow, like she couldn’t quite understand it.

The common room was buzzing, the fire crackling. You were curled sideways in a chair, Sirius sprawled across the rug at your feet, flicking Bertie Bott’s beans into your mouth while James kept score. Remus sat on the armrest beside you, pretending to read, but his lips twitched every time you nudged him with your shoulder. Peter was dozing, quill slipping from his fingers. “Merlin,” James had said suddenly, grinning wide, “we’re going to be legends, you know that?” You’d laughed, tossing a bean at his head. “You’re insufferable, Potter.” Sirius had smirked. “Admit it. You love us.” And you had smiled — that soft, aching kind of smile that only comes when you’re exactly where you belong.

Weeks turned into months, and still you kept your distance. You passed them in the corridors without slowing your step, answered questions in class like they were just any other students. Polite, cool, detached. You refused to let yourself look back.

The whispers grew sharper. “They used to be inseparable,” younger students said as you walked by. “Do you think it was serious? A fight?” You heard your name on their lips more often in reference to what you used to be than who you were now.

Third year — snow was falling in thick, wet clumps on the road to Hogsmeade. Sirius and James ran ahead, kicking up clouds of white, Peter trailing after them with his scarf slipping loose. Remus slowed to walk beside you, brushing snow from your hair with careful fingers. “You’ll catch cold,” he teased. You’d rolled your eyes. “And you won’t?” He’d shrugged and tugged his own scarf from his neck, wrapping it snugly around yours. “I’ll be fine. You, I worry about.” From up ahead, Sirius’s voice cut through the air. “Oi! Stop flirting and hurry up!” Remus’s ears went scarlet, and you laughed so hard you nearly slipped on the ice.

By sixth year, the professors stopped pairing you with them altogether. The distance had calcified, thick and unyielding. Even the castle seemed to accept it — the Marauders and Lily Evans on one side, you on the other. A new shape to an old story. Students said it was odd, but no one questioned it anymore.

Late nights used to be yours. Four boys and you huddled under an Invisibility Cloak, hearts pounding as Filch’s lantern swung past. James whispering strategies for a midnight Quidditch match, Sirius snorting too loud until Remus smacked him, Peter giggling helplessly. You’d pressed your hand to your mouth to stifle your laugh, your shoulder brushing Sirius’s, your other hand steady against Remus’s arm. The thrill of being young and invincible had burned in your chest, brighter than any fire.

The announcement came at breakfast.

You were halfway through buttering toast when Flitwick tapped his goblet with a spoon, voice carrying just enough to silence the hum of Ravenclaw table.

“Prefect patrols will be slightly altered this term,” he said, his tone bright but deliberate. “Owing to… scheduling conflicts, a few of you will find yourselves with new partners. Do check the noticeboard before your next duty.”

The ripple of chatter started instantly, students leaning in, whispering. You didn’t think much of it — not until your name came up.

“Ravenclaw: y/l/n. Partnered with… Lupin.”

The knife slipped in your hand, smearing butter across your sleeve.

Across the Hall, at the Gryffindor table, Remus looked up from his book. His gaze flicked to you for the briefest second before snapping away, as though neither of you had heard what was just said. But the way Sirius nudged him, the smirk James half-failed to hide — it was obvious they had.

The whispers around you were worse.

Wait — weren’t they—?”

“Didn’t they used to be…?”

“I thought she swore she’d never—”

You shoved your plate aside and stood before the whispers could weave themselves into knives. You didn’t need reminding.

Once, that name paired with yours had meant something different. Laughter echoing off the stones, ink-stained notes swapped mid-patrol, the quiet safety of someone who saw you without needing words.

Now it was just strategy. Teacher meddling. A calculated, insulting move.

Later, when you confronted Flitwick after Charms, his eyes had twinkled in that maddening way that told you he thought he was being clever.

“Change is good for the soul, Miss y/l/n. Perhaps you and Mr. Lupin will find common ground again.”

Common ground. As though friendship were a misplaced quill you could simply pick up after years of pretending not to see it.

You walked out of the classroom without answering.

The corridors feel too quiet. You keep your eyes on the floor, shoulders stiff, wand in hand, moving deliberately. Every step echoes off the stone, precise, controlled.

Remus walks beside you, close enough to sense, far enough to not touch. He shifts, flexes his fingers, jaw tight. He doesn’t speak, not yet. You don’t look at him, don’t breathe his name.

“…Should we check the east stairwell first?” His voice is low, careful.

“Mm,” you murmur, eyes forward. No warmth, no inflection, nothing more.

A pause. He adjusts his robes, the faint scrape of fabric against stone sounding impossibly loud. “…Or the west corridor, maybe?”

“West works,” you reply flatly, slow, clipped. Each word is deliberate.

He shifts again. Fingers flex, unclench. He exhales softly, mutters something under his breath you don’t hear clearly. You keep your pace steady. Eyes forward. Shoulder stiff. Heart tight.

“…Window there?” he asks after another long pause.

“Check it,” you reply. Short. Neutral. Almost sharp in its brevity.

His jaw flexes. Fists twitch at his sides. He takes a careful step, then stops. Silence stretches. Heavy, suffocating, dragging. He doesn’t speak again. You don’t either.

Step. Step. Step.

“…Corner ahead,” he says finally, quiet, almost inaudible.

“Turn it,” you say, tone neutral, eyes fixed straight ahead.

Step. Step. Step.

He adjusts his robes again. Small, controlled sigh. Fists clench and unclench. His gaze flickers briefly toward you, but he doesn’t meet your eyes. You don’t notice. You don’t look.

Step. Step. Step.

By the end of the patrol, the silence is thick. Words exist only for the function of walking the halls, nothing else. He’s tense, jaw tight, fists trembling slightly. You’re rigid, heart tight, every word clipped, every breath careful.

Step. Step. Step.

Neither of you speaks beyond necessity. The tension doesn’t break. It stretches, heavy and unbearable, until the patrol ends.

The morning sun slants through the tall windows of the classroom, painting stripes of light across the polished desks. For once, you feel lighter than you have in weeks. No patrols today. No dragging steps through empty corridors, no echoing footsteps pressing against your nerves. Just a normal class. A normal morning. Maybe even a little peace.

You stretch, letting your shoulders loosen for the first time in ages. Your quill taps idly against your parchment as you glance around the classroom, faint smile teasing the corners of your lips. Today could be… nice.

“Ah, good morning, everyone!” Slughorn’s voice breaks through, bright and exaggerated, filling the room like a burst of sunlight. You almost relax completely—until he begins calling out the groupings.

“And Y/N,” he says, his eyes sparkling in that way that always makes your stomach twist, “you’ll be working with… Mr. Potter and Mr. Black. Excellent. A very lively combination, yes, yes.”

Your quill freezes mid-tap. Your chest tightens instantly. “Excuse me?” you say, sharper than you intended. Your voice rings out clear and precise across the row. “You’re pairing me with them?”

Slughorn beams like he’s delivered the best news in the world. “Indeed! I thought a dynamic trio would do wonders for your project. Mr. Potter, Mr. Black, do take good care of our Y/N.”

The warmth of the morning drains out of you like water from a leaky cup. The sunlight feels suddenly harsh. The polished wood of your desk feels too smooth, too bright. You press your lips together, forcing yourself not to scowl.

You glance at James. He’s grinning already, hair perfectly messy, eyes sparkling with that confident charm that usually makes people laugh. Sirius leans casually against his desk, smirk teasing the corners of his mouth. Both of them look exactly the same as they always do. Exactly the same. And you feel your mood splinter into sharp little shards.

James nudges his notebook toward you, grinning like nothing has changed. “So, first step—uh, do you want to handle the first bit, or should I?”

You don’t look up. You tap your quill against your parchment. “I’ll do it,” you say flatly, tone short and precise. No warmth. No hesitation.

Sirius leans over, smirking, trying the same old charm he usually wields effortlessly. “Relax, Y/N. It’s just a project. We’ll make it fun, like always.”

You blink at him once, slow, deliberate. “Fun isn’t my priority,” you reply. Cold. Controlled. He stiffens slightly but doesn’t push further.

James laughs nervously, scratching the back of his neck. “Right, okay… well, uh, I guess we just—”

“Step one,” you interrupt, tapping your quill on the page. “Read the instructions. Then we move.”

Sirius glances at James, his smirk faltering. He mutters something under his breath, low enough that you can’t hear, but the tension radiating from him is clear. James notices it too, shoulders stiffening, grin fading.

They try again. Sirius nudges your notes lightly. “See? Nothing’s changed. We’re still the same team. You’re still—”

“Focused,” you cut him off, tone clipped. Eyes forward. Hands busy on the parchment. “Let’s stick to the project.”

Both boys freeze for a fraction of a second. James swallows. Sirius tilts his head, finally noticing the lack of softness in your voice, the deliberate distance in your posture, the way you refuse even the slightest glance.

“…Y/N....you hv changed..,” James says softly, almost.

You shrug lightly, not looking at him. “I’m the same. Just… focused.”

Sirius exhales, long and sharp, fingers flexing. James opens his mouth again but stops, jaw tightening. They exchange a glance.

“Right,” Sirius mutters finally, voice low. “Okay… we get it.”

James nods slowly, frowning, his usual easy confidence gone. “Yeah. We… we’re not going to pretend everything’s like before, are we?”

You keep your eyes on your work, shoulders stiff. “No,” you say quietly. No more.

The room falls into a heavy silence. Not uncomfortable in the usual playful way, but thick, taut, suffocating. The charm and teasing they usually wield are useless. You’ve made it clear: things have changed, and they finally understand.