#whimsical!reader

A huff. “You can go first.” 

“No, but you’ll only sleep here,” says James, encouraging him up off the sofa, “and I’ll feel bad, and then I’ll end up showering with you anyway.” 

“Sounds like you just want to shower with me,” Remus mutters. He doesn’t manage the grouchy facade very well, partly because James knows all of his soft spots and partly because he has to muffle a yawn behind his hand as he lets James pull him down the hall. 

As they near the bathroom, James can make out your voice and Sirius’ from behind the closed door, but he falters at the alarm in Sirius’ tone. Remus perks up, too, his bleary eyes focussing as he reaches to push open the door. 

“—were wearing your clothes over this all day?” 

James and Remus enter the bathroom to find Sirius has you pinned and pantsless, sat on the closed toilet lid like a child receiving a scolding. Sirius is carefully peeling a tea towel off of your leg. He looks over at his boyfriends with a despairing expression. 

“What?” asks James. He peers over Sirius’ shoulder, hissing at the sight of angry, blistering skin above your knee. “What happened here?” 

“Apparently,” says Sirius, with the sort of bite James knows is covering a good amount of worry; you don’t look to be taking it personally, “she burnt herself earlier, and decided to treat it herself with a tea towel and—is this honey?” 

You hum complaisantly.

Sirius gawps at you. “Baby, what the fuck were you thinking?” 

Now, you frown. “Sirius,” you chide. 

It’s so severe, coming from you, that James has to swallow a laugh. He sees Remus tuck his tongue into his cheek as he hides a smile. You don’t like for Sirius to call you baby. It’s a long-standing disagreement; you insist that it’s not fitting, on the grounds that you’re a fully matured adult, and no amount of explanation as to the non-literal meaning of the endearment has persuaded you. Sirius has tried out a myriad of others you disliked, including kitten, which you seemed fond of but ultimately rejected, saying you’d prefer he call you cat instead as it would be more accurate. (James laughed, and you looked so adorably perplexed as to why that it had ended with most of your face covered in wet kisses.) 

Now, Sirius sighs defeat while James pats him on the shoulder. “Actually,” says Remus, rubbing his eyes, “some studies have shown success with raw honey as a burn treatment.” 

While Sirius and James both turn to him with bewildered expressions, you appear unsurprised. 

“It’s always worked for me,” you say equably. 

Remus hums, lowering himself to a crouch beside you. “That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t have still said something, dove. It’s only been studied with minor burns. How did this happen?” 

You go a tad sheepish. “I was pouring water for tea and spilled it down my leg.” 

“Right from the kettle?” Sirius looks distraught. His fingers twitch by your wound. “How’d you manage that?” 

“I may have been trying to carry too many things.” 

“May have, hm?” James teases you. 

You look up at him with big eyes, and James melts, reaching for your hand. You intertwine your fingers with his happily. 

“Why don’t we try…” Remus gets cut off by his own yawn. He shakes his head irritatedly. “...a cool bath, to wash off the honey and calm it down a bit?” 

Your lips pucker. “But you have to shower. You’re sleepy.” 

“I’m fine,” Remus denies. 

“What if,” Sirius tries, dropping his voice into a sweeter register, “we let those two have their showers, and you let me put a cool flannel on this while we lay down?” 

His voice is practically dripping honey to make up for his earlier harshness, and James can see now why it’s medical-grade soothing. You go all soft and gooey. 

“Okay,” you murmur. 

Sirius smiles. “Okay, sweetness? Come on, then.” 

You let him help you up, leading you from the bathroom. James feels selfishly reassured that you won’t fall asleep before he gets to you.

“I don’t love the honey idea, but I get it now,” he can hear Sirius telling you. “But why the tea towel?” 

“Well, there weren’t any bay leaves on hand.” 

There’s an offended gasp before the shimmering outline of a man shoots through the ceiling, and the voice Remus heard calls after him, “No no, wait—” 

Remus stalls in the doorway, his pique fizzling into bafflement. The attic is lit by several flickering candles. There’s only one person here now, wrapped in a thick blanket and sitting in front of a chessboard. 

You turn around with a weary look. “Couldn’t you have given him just a moment?” 

“You’re not supposed to be in here,” he says, faltering a bit. He knows you; you’re not even in Gryffindor—you’re not supposed to be anywhere around here. “It’s dangerous.” 

Your brow scrunches. “Because of Nigel?” 

“Because of the ghost.” Remus steps offside of the door, clearly indicating you should exit, but you only frown at him. 

“Well, that’s fairly rude,” you say. 

He holds in a sigh. Remus hasn’t spoken much with you, but he’s heard what you’re like—curious, freethinking, generally quiet, but incredibly stubborn once you’ve set your mind to something. Remus doesn’t fancy having a candelabra chucked at him because you wanted to explore places you don’t belong. 

“His name is Nigel,” you go on, oblivious to his frustration. “I don’t imagine he likes being referred to as ‘the ghost,’ or as an ‘it’. And he’s not really dangerous.” 

“Whatever his name is, he’s well known for being aggressive.” 

“Well, you might be too if everyone only visited to rile you rather than to get to know you.” The look you send Remus is heavy with judgment. “I told him that you weren’t the sort to do that, but then you busted in and scared him off.” 

He hesitates. “You’ve been talking to the—to Nigel?” 

“Sometimes. He still doesn’t like to talk much, but that’s alright. We all deserve for someone to get to know us on our own terms, don’t we?”  

You turn back around to consider the chessboard, and Remus finally pieces it together. He’s embarrassed it took him this long. 

“You’re playing chess with him,” he says, not quite a question though he means it as one. His voice comes out breathy with mystification. 

You hum. “Sort of. I’m not very good, and he’s been playing himself for years.” 

Remus moves closer, considering you. There’s no bruising he can see on your face or your hands where they peek out from the blanket. In fact, you look serene, though that’s likely as much a result of the candlelight as your general disposition. He studies your chessboard. 

“He’s winning,” Remus observes. 

You sigh. “I thought he might be.” 

“Two moves and he’ll have your queen. It’s not impossible, though—you could take his rook to throw him off. Though with that bishop there…” 

He deliberates strategies and alternatives to himself, but when Remus looks up you’re considering him rather than the board. It’s a strange thing, being under the microscope of your gaze; Remus feels at once calmed and breathless. 

“What?” he asks you. 

Your stare doesn’t falter. “Would you like to stay? You could help me play. Nigel might enjoy having a more challenging opponent.” 

He frowns. “That’s not the plan. I’m meant to go back downstairs and bring you with me.” 

“Plans can change,” you say easily. 

Remus tries to firm up his strangely liquidy resolve in preparation of laying down the law, but before he can you go on.

“I’m not leaving before I can say a proper goodnight to Nigel.” Your expression, while calm, is more resolute than Remus can hope to match. “It’s only polite. Anyway, there’s no point in me going if it’s not dangerous up here, and Nigel has been nothing but kind.” 

Remus doubts that, but you might take anything less than an outright spectral tantrum as ‘kind.’ “What if he doesn’t come back tonight?” he tries in a gentler tone. 

“I think he will,” you say, “because I’m sure he’s terribly lonely, but I’m willing to wait if he doesn’t.” You adjust the blanket around your shoulders. “You don’t have to stay. I’m sure the match would be more interesting if you did, though.” 

Remus wrangles with himself. He can’t in good conscience leave you here—whatever bond you’ve formed with the attic ghost, there’s still a chance you might end up hurt—but he also isn’t going to drag you downstairs if you refuse to leave. Eventually he sighs, settling down on the wooden floor. 

“How did you get into the tower?” he asks. 

You lift your blanket to bring it around Remus’ frame, too. Though he doesn’t need it, he accepts the olive branch. “If I told you,” you say, “would you use it to keep me from coming in again?” 

Despite how you’ve kept covered, Remus can feel the cool of your skin. He lets his arm rest lightly against yours to share some of his warmth. “I’m a resident mentor,” he says. “I’m not supposed to allow non-Gryffindors in.” 

A smile flickers like candlelight across your lips as you turn away to consider the chessboard again. “Then I think I’ll wait and see how often you do what you’re supposed to before telling you.” 

“Well, good. It seems you’re going to continue on this way for a while.” 

“Mm.” 

You look back down into his cup. “You have a star in here, too, which is good luck.” 

“Is it?” 

“Yes.” You glance up and catch his amused expression. “Oh, I know what you’re thinking. I won’t tell Sirius, don’t worry.” 

Remus chuckles. He works his hands under your thighs, lifting them to pull you closer. It was crisper than you predicted when you set out today, and you’re wearing Remus’ jumper; it’ll smell like you when you return it. He’s ridiculously pleased at the thought. 

“This divination study must be working,” he says. “Your intuition is getting sharper.” 

You have to recognize his teasing, but you smile brilliantly anyway. “I’ve been practicing.” 

“I can tell.” He rubs your legs idly. It’s really quite humiliating, what you do to him. The first chill of autumn sweeps in, and you warm yourself with Remus’ jumpers; Remus only wants to warm himself with you. If you were available to be draped bodily over him at all hours of the day and night, that’s how he’d have you. “What else do you see, lovely?” 

“Um…” You appear to have gotten diverted with Remus as he has with you, your lip popping out from between your teeth as you refocus. “I think…oh. Are you planning anything scandalous?" 

Remus grins; he can’t help it. “Scandalous? No, not planning it. Can I ask why?” 

“Well, I’m pretty sure that’s a unicorn, which means scandal…maybe in the next few weeks.” 

“Sweetheart,” says Remus, “with James and Sirius visiting their parents, I think the only scandal I could be involved in might also involve you.” 

You blink at him. 

“Have you checked your own leaves?”

“Oh. Um…” You set Remus’ cup down in the valley of your lap, leaning over to reach for yours on the coffee table. In a movement like he’s adjusting in his seat, Remus takes his wand out of the waist of his trousers and flicks it above his cup. It’s gone before you turn back with a furrowed brow. 

“I don’t see a unicorn in mine,” you say, tilting your cup this way and that. 

“What’s that one?” Remus asks. 

When your gaze moves back to his cup, your lips tug before you speak. “It’s a swan,” you say. 

“Hm. And what does that mean?” 

“It symbolizes good luck and a happy love life.” Pleasure warms your voice. “It’s the most powerful love symbol you can find. I’m surprised I didn’t notice it before.” 

“The most powerful love symbol,” Remus muses. “That’s good news, isn’t it?” 

“Yes.” You eye him, too clever to be fully trusting of his guileless tone. 

“Seems accurate to me.” He kisses your cheek, one hand slipping beneath his jumper to coast up your side. His nose bumps yours. “What do you think, lovely, do you think that sounds right?” 

“They’re your leaves.” Now it’s you teasing, but you don’t move your face away from his. “Only you can know.” 

“You don’t think we have a great love?” 

“It might not even be talking about me. You might fall in love with someone else in two weeks and have a great love with them.” 

“It was no problem.” He leans forward for another kiss, but you’re already turning, disappearing into your home. 

He follows you inside, though you haven’t invited him in—sometimes these things simply don’t seem to occur to you; James is learning to interpret your cues. 

“You look lovely today,” he says. 

You send him a curious look. “You always say that.” 

“It’s always true.” 

“It can’t be the same amount of true every time,” you say, finding a place for your acorn on the windowsill above your kitchen sink. You’ve a small collection of things there, from propagated plants to dead bugs to little origami stars. 

“Can’t it?” James asks. 

“My hair never looks exactly the same,” you point out, not arguing so much as musing in the way you’re given to, “and last week when you saw me I didn’t have any spots, but today I have two.” 

James captures you in a gentle embrace, his hand on your cheek. “You’re just as lovely,” he vows, kissing you, “every single time.” 

Your eyes have gone soft and cloudy; you’re easily mollified. “If you say so.” 

“I do.” He kisses you again, smiling. “I have something for you.” 

“Mm, for me?” 

“Who else?” He reveals the gift bag. The tips of his fingers are buzzing with excitement. “Open it.” 

You take the bag, appearing bemused. “It’s not my birthday.” 

“I know that.” 

“Is it a holiday?” 

“No.” 

You look at James, still not opening the bag. “What’s this for, then?” 

“Maybe I just like to give you things,” he says. “It made me think of you.” 

“Oh.” You relax, the mystery resolved. “Because you’re nice.” 

“Sure. Would you just open it, please?” 

“Okay.” You give James a puzzled sort of smile, but part the folds of the bag. “Oh.” Your voice softens as you look inside. “Oh, James, this is lovely.” 

“Yeah?” he asks, suddenly nervous as you draw it out. Up until just this moment, he’d felt nothing but confidence that you would love it, but now he’s unsure. “Do you like it?” 

“Yes.” You turn over the barrette in your hand, expression awed. It’s a dragonfly, larger than life and incredibly detailed, with wings an iridescent green color that shimmer in the light coming in through your kitchen window. “It goes in my hair?” 

“Yeah, but there’s a trick to making it work.” James leans closer, giddy. “Can I show you?” 

You nod mutely, and he leans over, blowing gently on the gift. 

In the palm of your hand, the dragonfly comes to life. You gasp as its wings shift and flutter, the colors becoming even more vibrant. If you look really closely, even its tail is moving, the only still part of it the legs so that they stay fixed in your hair while you’re wearing it. It took a nifty bit of charmwork to achieve that amount of specificity. 

Your eyes are alight with wonder. It’s the sweetest thing James has ever seen, and he knows—if the ministry cracks down on him, if he’s never allowed to practice magic again—he knows he’s done the best thing. 

“It’s beautiful,” you say, softly, as though afraid to scare the creature. “Where did you find this?” 

“Just—at a market.” James tries to sound casual. “It was a pop-up, I think. Cool that they make them like this, yeah?” 

You make a sound of agreement, eyes still on the dragonfly as it begins to settle down. “It’s like magic.” 

James leans over to kiss your forehead. “Want me to put it on for you?” 

Your expression lights up as though the possibility hadn’t yet occurred to you. “Could you? Please?” 

“Of course, lovely. Give it here.” 

You transfer the barrette to James’ hand delicately. He smiles at how preciously you treat it, turning you by your shoulder to fix it in the back of your head. Once he gets it situated—James really isn’t very experienced at styling hair—he draws you into the bathroom so you can approve. 

“Can you blow on it?” you ask when he holds up a mirror for you to see the back of your head, barely leashed excitement in your tone. 

James does, and you make the most elated sound he’s ever heard from you. He laughs as you turn to put your arms around him, his soft-spoken, placid girl nearly jumping with glee. 

“Thank you,” you say, pressing your lips to his. “Thank you, James. No one’s ever gotten me anything so thoughtful.” 

Spencer exhales a laugh. Something you and he have in common is your insatiable curiosity. If there were suddenly a way to go to the bottom of the ocean and explore everything humans have never seen, Spencer would go in a heartbeat and he really believes that you would, too. His curiosity is scientifically-minded, though, based in evidence. You work differently. 

“They’re always discovering things they weren’t expecting down there,” you go on. “Like sea angels. Nobody could have come up with that.” 

Spencer watches you. Your careful fingers, your relaxed posture, the way the afternoon sun tangles in your hair. He’s not sure when looking at you became less about fascination and more about feeding the aching hunger in his chest. 

“You know, there’s some speculation that early human sightings of animals like manatees or dugongs might have inspired stories of mermaids.” You glance up at him, intrigued. Like Spencer around you, you never seem to get upset when he argues. You’re only inquisitive. “Ancient Assyrians believed that Atargatis, the goddess of water and the moon, dove into a lake to take the form of a fish. Because the gods wouldn’t allow her to give up her beauty, they forced her to keep half of her human form.”

Your expression is rapt. “So she was the first mermaid.” 

You phrase it like it’s more than myth. “That’s the oldest known belief of mermaids, yes.” 

“I hope it’s true.” You go back to braiding your flowers. “That’s such a cool story.” 

You say it so contentedly Spencer can’t bring himself to contradict you. It’s not about what you hope is true, an insistent voice in his head cries. But maybe it is. With you, you’re happy enough just to believe in what you hope is true. 

You seem to sense what Spencer is craving, scooting over in the grass so that you’re closer to him. You lay your head on his shoulder. He can feel the warmth of your cheek through his sleeve. 

You say in a placid tone, gaze fixed on some faraway cloud, “Maybe some humans evolved into butterflies, too.” 

Spencer smiles and turns his head, enjoying the tickle of your hair against his chin. “You won’t convince me fairies are real, sorry.” 

“How much of the sky have we explored, Spencer?” 

“I work for the government. If there were fairies, I would tell you.” 

You’re laid on your back under the sun, Sirius between your legs and your skirt pushed up to grant him access to the bright, wet glisten that dwells there. A few strands of your hair have made their way into the creek, but he doesn’t think you’ve noticed. Not with his hands under your rump angling you upwards and his tongue licking greedily up your slit. 

Of all the new and interesting flavors you’ve brought Sirius, this is his favorite. He can’t get enough of you. Of the warmth of your thighs around his face, jumping whenever he detours from his task to nip at one of them. Of the sweet nectar he laps up from inside you. Of the delightful, breathy sounds that keep leaving you. 

“You aren’t saying anything,” he notes as he finds again the small bead at your center. 

You make an amusing noise. “I—I’m a bit preoccupied.” 

Sirius smiles, kissing the bead to get that same noise again. “I didn’t know you could be this quiet.” 

“What do you want me to say?” 

“That you’re enjoying yourself. Are you?” 

“I’m—ah—I’m enjoying myself.”

Your thighs start to tighten again. Sirius gives your bum a pinch so they fall away. 

“That’s nice to know.” 

“You knew already.” 

“Did I? And how might I have deduced that, lovely?” 

“Because I—you—” You trail off into giggles, the sound as sweet as tinkling bells. His funny girl. 

“What?” Sirius asks. 

“Look.” 

He leaves the cavern of your skirt-clad thighs. The muscles of his back ache pleasantly at the stretch after so long being still, and your eyes find his as soon as he comes into view. There’s a dragonfly perched on the tip of your nose. 

Truly, it’s a terribly endearing sight. Sirius thinks he probably falls more in love with you every day, an endless and torturous descent that worsens each time you smile or step carefully over an anthill or bring him flowers you picked in the meadow of his own forest because they made you think of him. If there’s a bottom to his love for you, he hasn’t found it yet. 

But you already know all that; now, Sirius wants to play. He schools his features and gives you a flat look. 

“Not enjoying yourself quite so much, if you’re so easily distracted.” 

“Sirius.” You don’t buy it for a second, tilting your head down to smile at him. The dragonfly flies away, but your eyes don’t follow it. They stay on him, pinched with happiness. “See, now look what you’ve done.”  

“What I’ve done? He was intruding.” 

“That doesn’t seem fair.” You sit up on your elbows to see him better. It seems as though you’re taking a break, but you wet your lips, gaze dropping to Sirius’ as you do. He thumbs some of your wet from the corner of his mouth just to watch your eyes follow the motion. “We’re in his home.” 

“It’s my home, too.” 

“Well, we have to share it.” 

Sirius hums. “I think I preferred when you were being quiet.” 

You turn in Sirius’ arms. He grins down at you, and you press your smiles together in a kiss hello as your own arms wind around his middle. He likes spending a lot of time pressed close together like this; you didn’t know you’d enjoy it so much until you did. 

“I’m looking for chickweed,” you answer him. 

Sirius’ eyebrows raise. Like most of him, they’re beautiful, finely shaped things; you reach up to trace your finger underneath one. Sirius very dignifiedly does not preen over it. “You’re not looking for me?” 

You shake your head, though you both know it’s a lie. You’ve always enjoyed this particular forest, but you visit twice as often since you met him. You’re never not thinking about Sirius, finding things for him, wishing to see him. It’d be embarrassing if he weren’t the same. 

“I was looking for you,” you confide to appease him. 

He tuts softly, a smile curving one side of his mouth. Sirius loves when you’re plain about your feelings for him. He doesn't always return the courtesy, but that’s alright; you can tell that they’re there whether he does or not. He wouldn’t have given you his name otherwise. 

“And what have you brought for me today, lovely thing?” 

“Do I always need to bring you something?” you ask, teasing. “Am I not enough by myself? You never give me anything.” 

Sirius’ eyes flicker with amusement, because this too is a lie. Sirius has given you many, many things. He’s taught you how to listen to the moods of the wind and shown you how to entice butterflies to rest in your palm and brought you unimaginable pleasure one long afternoon by the creek. Not least of all, he’s given you his devotion, proven in a thousand tiny ways. 

You’re unable to conceal your smile as you reach into your pocket, pulling out the rock you picked up this morning. It’s oval, worn to perfect smoothness by the rushing waters of the river you found it near, and a grayish blue that reminds you of Sirius’ eyes (when they stay still for a while, that is). 

Sirius takes the rock from you, studying it. He rubs his thumb across the top. “This is pretty.” 

“It is,” you agree, basking in your own private pleasure. You think he’d still say the same thing even if he did know why you chose it for him, but you enjoy keeping this to yourself. Sirius’ eyes slide to yours like he can tell you’re keeping secrets, but he doesn’t push. 

“Not,” he says, “as pretty as you, however.” His hold tightens without warning, drawing a surprised giggle from you as your bodies come flush together. “You’re more than enough of a gift.” 

You hear the sincerity in his tone and repay it in kind, kissing the corner of his mouth. “I know.” 

Sirius’ eyes squint the way they tend to do when you particularly delight him. Just before he calls you strange or silly or my lovely little oddity. He doesn’t say any of those things now; only, “You won’t find chickweed around here, you know.” 

You frown. “If I knew, why would I be looking?” 

Sirius heaves a great sigh and presses his lips to your temple before loosening his hold on you. He guides you away from your little patch of bushes by your hand, moving with otherworldly grace. “There’s chickweed by the meadow. We’ll find it for you there. Do you use it for something?” 

You nod. “Pesto.” 

His brow furrows. 

“It’s food. I’ll bring some for you to try.” You give him a sweet look. “Thank you for showing me where to find it.” 

A low hum. “What would you do without me?” 

“I don’t know. I suppose I’ll never have to find out.”