kei

the video was practically burned into his retinas, setting off an unjust trigger of frustration he’d been holding in. it was almost unbearable — he had to find some kind of way to reaching you just as he did in his dreams because the life of a cuck was never something he’d foreseen as his own reality.

satoru had to get out of japan, it was the only step that would make it possible to see you — and, the only possible way to subside his carnal craving for you. but the thing is, he needed an excuse. he needed a reason to be overseas because no matter how much he joked about giving you the real ‘thing’, and expressing how crazed you make him — that’s not enough reason to fly out, no matter how impulsive he may be.

he had to strategize it, make the reason why he’s in your hometown sound believable. he’d call it an overseas ‘collaboration’. the kind of travel that content creators do for networking purposes, expanding their growth and earning more profits — it was a perfect idea.

“hypothetically speaking… what if, and i mean what if.” satoru’s voice grows in pitch as you hear his excitement over the phone. “not again, toru. i’m tired of your ‘what if’ questions, let talk about something else.” you sigh.

satoru’s been buzzing in your ear for the past few hours about absolute nonsense. first it was about him traveling overseas for vacation, then it was about him “visiting friends” overseas — which never bothered to mention, and now here he was again.

“fine—” he pursued his lips, “last one. what iffffff.” he drags before pausing as you hum in response, but there’s an awkward beat of silence. “what iff?..” you repeat after him, before hearing him giggle like a little boy with a crush.

you raised an eyebrow, listening to satoru on the other side of the phone. the only times you’ve heard satoru giggle like a child was either because his favorite game has finally been released, or because he had something mischievous in mind.

“what if— and this is a hypothetical, okay? but what if i went overseas for a collab?” he utters out quickly, as you hear a grin creep onto his lips. “then i guess you’ll be overseas for a collab? i don’t know.” you respond slightly confused, unsure why’d he even tell you that.

“you’re no fun.” satoru huffs, and it’s safe to assume he was expecting more than just a slightly dismissive response. “i mean… why are you so intent on traveling outside the country?” you ask, “you’ve been mentioning traveling overseas every time we speak on the phone.” you’re talking while trying to figure out why satoru’s so fixated on traveling, before it it clicks to you.

“don’t tell me that collab has you losing months worth of sleep because you just can’t wait to go.” you roll your eyes with cringe, which earns an incoherent groan from satoru.

“you just wouldn’t get it.” his voice softens as he accepts quiet defeat. and it’s unfortunate really, it’s not like he could tell you that the collab would be with you without sounding like a desperate loser.

he sent you a molded figure of his dick two months ago — half jokingly, half hoping that there’s a chance that you’d use it. he honestly thought the odds were against him, until they weren’t. until that sole day he’d find himself seeing you as more than just a mutual friend, but an unfulfilled desire.

“get what, toru?” you let out a small laugh, mixed between amusement and disbelief. “get how you’re basically crushing on one of your mutuals.” you tease just enough to hit that sore spot that’s been slowly killing satoru.

“whaaat? y’ jealous?” he taunts, as if the ache within his chest is inexistent. “definitely not.” you scoff lightly.

“yeah, sureee.” he lets out a laugh. “i’m sure after using my replica, you feel a little territorial over me, no?” he adds, half a playful, half truth as he anticipated your response, but all you do is let out an inaudible laugh.

of course satoru was a menace, he always has been since the day you two became friends — but the one thing you could never get used to was his tactless behavior. either he was stupid, or just abnormally impulsive.

“nah, but i’d definitely get territorial if you’re giving out money to other women on their streams.” you jokingly tease back, but there’s truth hidden between your words before you’re hearing satoru’s laugh break your phone’s sound barrier.

“give me a personalized stream and i’ll have you set for life.” he says over the phone, as if he doesn’t have a downloaded file of you on his phone.

“you’re a college student, toru.” you deadpan your phone as if you’re on facetime. “i’ll indulge in my savings for you.” he replies, soft and stupidly, but only satoru knows there’s a hell of a lot more things he’d do for you.

“yeah, suree.” you drag sarcastically, “goodnight, toru before you make me lose the little brain cells i have left.” you wish him a good night, earning a laugh from him.

“sighhhhh!” satoru sighs the actual word out loud, “you always think i’m joking.” he says, and you can hear the pout in his voice. “but goodnight— i’ll see you tomorrow, love you.” he lets out a smooching sound before ending the call.

—

text from satoru: you home? sent at 7:38 PM

your phone buzzes on the couch’s armrest making you reach across the sofa to grab your phone.

you: no

you: did you bring me another one of your gifts ?? 🧍‍♀️

your fingers tap against screen of your phone, as you’re reaching to put it back down against the armrest before your phone is buzzing again.

text from satoru: WHY ARE YOU NOT AT HOMEE

text from satoru: I HAD A GIFT FOR YOU 😔😔, i was gonna tell you to open the door so you’d be surprised but NOOO you decided not to be home

the texts from satoru are coming in one after another, and you can’t help but giggle because in truth, you actually are home, but it’s not as if he could prove it.

you: 😭😭

you: it’s okay, just take the L tonight ☹️

text from satoru: this is more than a L

text from satoru: I JUST GOT SHOT FIFTY TIMES

text from satoru: BY YOU btw.

you laugh as you rise from the couch, kicking on your slippers before making your way to the front door as you unlock the door — swinging it open, before being met by a towering silhouette as you jolt in surprise.

“oh!” the lower voice exclaims.

“what the hell!?” you practically scream.

“s—surprise..!”

you raise your head to the familiar voice as your gazes meet. “satoru? oh my god?!” you let out the biggest exhale as your body fights off the adrenaline coursing through your body.

there’s no way that — that ‘gift’ satoru was spiraling about would actually be him in physical form. “are you supposed to be my gift?..” you ask shockingly, almost at a loss for words.

“… yes i— WAIT? i thought you weren’t home.” he shouts in realization, as he’s standing awkwardly at your front door. his soft blue eyes roaming all over your face, taking in every little feature as his eyes slowly make their way down before instantly flicking back up once he hears your voice.

“and i thought you were just traveling for your collab.” you purse your lips as the words taste a little bitter on your tongue, which makes satoru grin. “you’re poutin’ because i have a collab coming up?” he teases, before you’re taking a step back in your house and closing the door.

“wait, wait! i’m joking.” he hastily utters, subconsciously stopping the door with his hand before letting go as he scratches the back of his head with an awkward smile. “can i come in?”

—

satoru’s been roaming around every inch of your apartment like a curious puppy. “hmm, so this is your room?” he asks, peeking his head through the door frame.

“you can go in, you’ve seen my room a thousand times on face-time.” you insist as he trails behind you with his mouth parted like this is the most surreal experience ever.

you watch as satoru wanders around, and he’s touching everything within sight before halting at your streaming station. it’s quite a messy setup, the camera stands are fallen on the floor, your camera is tilted against the dresser while still being opened, and to make matters worse. the box you collect all of the toys gifted to you are all inside that box.

and given the curious nature satoru has he’d probably open it up without a thought. you make your across the room, towards the storage box grabbing to put it back in its proper place — your closet.

“what’s in it?” satoru questions, voice soft and inquisitive as he watches you open the closet. “uhh it’s nothing, i just use it to prop up my camera sometimes.” the lie slides off of your tongue, but you can also feel your throat getting uncomfortably dry as there’s a brief pause in satoru’s next words.

“hmm…” his eyes are practically drilling a hole into the back of your head. “i see! so you don’t use the camera stands sometimes, that’s actually smart.” he says lightly, forcing his gaze elsewhere. satoru can’t help, but fixate on how snug and thin your tank top is, or how loose and short your bottoms are.

he’s waited two months — sixty-one days and he’s finally gotten where he’s been yearning go, and there’s absolutely no way he’s going to ruin this moment. not even the bulge slowly growing inside his pants as he shakes his head to keep his thoughts more appropriate.

you finish hiding the box inside the closet, taking in a quiet inhale in attempt to calm your nerves. it was just a dumb storage box that was forgotten to be put away, but it wasn’t forgotten. no, it was satoru’s unexpected presence that made the simplest of things less casual than it should be. plus he’s practically seen your entire collection before, what’s the difference now?

you shut the regaining the composure that was lost as you look over your shoulder to see satoru already looking at you. “what are you looking at, toru.” you groaned, turning on your heels towards your bed before plopping down on the mattress.

“mind if i sit too?” he points to your bed, kicking off his shoes once you hum in response as the mattress dips beside you.

there’s nothing but silence… awkward silence. you honestly never expected things with satoru to ever be this awkward. the two of you were great friends, or great friends online that is. but maybe that weird tension between you both came from the fact that neither of you knew how to act around each other outside of a phone screen.

you steal a glance at satoru only to find him sprawled comfortably against your pillows as if he belonged there. one leg stretched across the mattress while the other bends loosely, his attention seemingly focused on his phone despite the occasional flick of his eyes toward you.

“so did you fly overseas just to stare at me in silence.” you quip with your cheek smushed into your pillow, which makes the corners of satoru mouth curl upwards. “yep, so i could look at the face all day.” he sits his phone down with a grin as you huff.

“seriously though.” you mumble into the fabric of your pillow, “what even is this collab?” you ask making satoru sigh, watching him slouch deeper into your pillow as his shirt rides up his abdomen, exposing the flex of his abs.

“just a collab somewhat outside my skill set.” he sighs, already dreading the conversation. “your skill set?” you repeat after him.

“yeah… rough, and mean.” he says, as if his entire twitter isn’t videos of him rag dolling a fleshlight and his fist. “that’s literally your middle name.” you let out a laugh while satoru lets out a whine.

“no it’s nott.” he sinks further into your pillows again, “there’s no reason to be nervous, toru— unless… you like her or something.” and there’s brief pause before satoru lets out a quiet laugh, though it sounds more nervous than anything.

“what if i did?” he asks.

“then it should be easier i’d assume.” you reply, watching the way satoru’s attention is fixated on your ceiling, “not really.” he replies back.

“why not?” you ask, completely oblivious to it all.

“becausee.. i don’t know.” he drags, throwing his body to the slide to face you as his eyes meet yours as your heart grows heavier.

he’s so close, just within a reach grasp and you can sense the change in satoru’s demeanor as he shifts closer towards you. his gaze flickers down for half a second before returning to your eyes, his lips parting like he’s debating whether or not to cross a line.

“can i ask you something.” he murmurs, as you nod. “sure.”

“want to help me practice?”

—

and maybe that’s how you found yourself straddling satoru. barricading either side of his waist with your thighs — rocking your hips into his, and grinding against the mound of his sweat pants.

“f— fuck…” satoru groans, his hands reach out to grab at your waist. the way you’re roll your hips, and slowly drag yourself against satoru’s bulge has him in a trance of him re-visioning the way you grind on all the silicone didlos you own.

the corners of his lips curl into a grin, “you gonna use me the way you use your toys?” he teases, as if you aren’t the one doing him a favor as his hands wrap around your waist, pressing you closer onto his lap as he pivots his hips up.

you let out a soft exhale which was heavier than expected as the damp fabric of your panties molded into the folds of your lips, making you feel every graze against your clit catching onto the hem of satoru’s sweatpants.

“why not.” your eyes flicker to satoru’s face as his eyes are already drawn upon yours. “i thought you needed my help…” you murmur, rolling your hips deeper against the outline of his sweats, earning a small grunt from satoru as you feel him twitch against you while inching your lips closers to his.

“you’re no different than my toys right now, right?” your breath fans against his parted lips, before pulling back as he lets out a chuckle in remembrance of exactly how crazed you make him feel. “damn, i almost forgot how mean you are to me.” satoru groans almost gutted in complete pleasure, you’d thought he’d already came.

you feel one of satoru’s thumbs tug against the hem of your shorts, indicating to take them off as you lift your hips up in response, feeling him tug them off before tossing them across the room while he’s working himself out of his sweatpants. and you can see exactly how long he’s been waiting for this very moment.

the raging bulge in his briefs are oozing pre-cum. satoru’s mind is absolutely broken, completely empty and thinking about none other than being inside you.

you can even see a little bead form on top of the cotton as satoru’s slender fingers rack down to grab a flesh full of your ass, pulling your lower half flush against him making you both moan to the blissful sensation of less cloth as your clit catches against the prominent vein of his cock.

“mmmh, shit…” he’s raising his hips to match the rhythm of his hands pressing you against him — attempting to fuck you through barricading fabric. “your clit is fuckin’ swollen— bet that’s how hard she gets grindin’ on other dicks, yeah?” satoru taunts, low and mean as he flashes a canine.

and you can feel every inch of his clothed dick dragging in-between your folds, over and over again. your chest is pressed against his, feeling your nipples harden against the material of your tank top from constantly rubbing against it.

your arms wrapped around his neck, letting him mouth words against the column of your throat as your vocal cords vibrate with a gentle laugh. “yeah she does, you jealous?” you mock, referencing a past conversation as satoru’s jaw tightens.

indeed he was, inevitably so. ever since the day he confirmed that personalized shipment overseas to your address — he was more than just jealous. and you can hear satoru grit his teeth before he’s flipping you over, back against the mattress.

the hem of your thin tank rising above your stomach, and the strap falling off your shoulder — feeling the soft strands of satoru’s silver hair brush against your forehead. your lips are parted, letting out a gasp to the sudden shock as you’re practically pinned beneath satoru as he leans over you.

he rises up, snaking his arms across the lower half of his torso before tugging his hoodie over his head, revealing each plane of his abs.

“‘m a little jealous.” he admits with a playful edge, though his actions are the complete opposite as he tosses his hoodie to the side before ducking down.

and your eyes follow his every movement, from the way his hands snake underneath your shirt before traveling down the sides of your waist to your hips.

you let out a small hitch, almost forgetting that this is just practice as his eyes focus on you — fixated on every little reaction he gets out of you. starting with the way your chest rises up and down and how whenever you both lock eyes, you immediately avert yours.

satoru chuckles amused, “do you want me to be jealous?” he murmurs, soft and intrigued before you’re muttering.

“stop going off script.” your lips purse, feeling your body run warm as the gravity of the situation finally dawns on you. satoru halts for half a second, his eyes scanning over you once more before pressing his lips against yours.

his tongue pushing against your teeth, ushering access to the inside of your mouth making you open your mouth as his tongue catches yours. exchanging saliva and making a mess as your feel once of his hands slide between your thigh and his other hand trailing up to cup your jaw, never breaking the kiss.

and there’s barely any time to breathe. not when his tongue is at the back of your throat, spit dripping down your chin as you’re moaning into his mouth from the pads of his fingers ducking into your panties as his fingers work to find your swollen clit.

satoru breaks the kiss, and there’s a little string of salvia connecting you two as you gasp for air.

“there is no script.” he breathes out hoarse, and there’s nothing holding him back now. his eyes flicker down to the hand buried inside your panties before tugging away the fabric, as he nudges your thighs further apart with his knees.

and he almost drools at the sight of your pussy on display. a moment just for him — the moment he’s waited for months on end as he pushes his hips against your bare cunt, grinding his clothed dick against your clit as you moan at the friction.

“there she is.” he groans, almost sounding frustrated by how affected he is. “been waiting fuckin’ months.” he lets your clit throb against his bulge as you shudder.

you throw one of your arms over your face, embarrassed by how much this is affecting you as well before satoru’s grabbing your wrist and pinning your hand to the side.

“c’mon, angel.” he coos, watching your teeth sink into your bottom lip. “don’t be shy, yeah? i know this pussy better than those toys do.” he lets out a quiet, almost guttural groan as if he’s remembering the countless clips he’s seen of you stuffing your pussy full.

his words travel straight to your core making your hole involuntarily twitch as you knit your eyebrows. “you talk too much.” you say quiet, and breathless before his other hand is taking your other hand and guiding it towards his pelvis, making you palm at his bulge through his briefs as he’s humping into your hand with a breathy laugh which quickly dissolves into a groan.

“feel it?” he grinds deeper into your hand, and you can feel the warmth of his stiff cock twitch against your palm as you nod. “that’s what you do to me.” he drags your hand near the band of his briefs as one of your fingers catch the hem of it, before he’s making you tug the band down freeing himself as his dick instantly springs out and slaps heavy against his lower abdomen with a groan.

“been hard the second you opened that door— almost gave me blue-balls.” he whines with a pout as his eyes drop down to the unfathomable size difference between his dick and that tiny hole he’s gonna stretch open.

and your mouth drops because there’s no way he’s going to fit inside of you. it looked physically impossible, satoru’s dick was even bigger than the molded replica he had made for you.

your throat runs dry, and you swallow hard as your fingers brush against satoru’s pelvis. “t—that’s too big…” you stammer out before pushing against his lower half as he’s swatting your hand away, before pulling you into him as his length slides in between your folds, gathering slicks as the head of his dick grazes against your clit making you both moan in unison.

“yeah?” he responds, voice shaky because there’s no disagreeing with that — not when he practically dwarfs you in every physical way possible. he watches the way his cock drags back and forth through your folds, slowly dragging down near your entrance before ghosting over it with a strained moan.

“toru…” your voice trembles a bit. you’re trying to mentally and physically prepare yourself for what’s to come as satoru uses his free hand to cup the back of your knee, pushing it towards your chest.

“yeah, baby?” he hums, rocking his hips closer against your entrance that’s squeezing around nothing. and all he earns is silence from your nervousness as he lets out a reassuring grin while unpinning your wrist with his other hand. “just relax f’me.” he drags his hips down, lining up flush against your entrance.

“m sure you’ve been stretchin’ yourself out on replicas for me this whole time.” he teases, his eyes locking onto yours. “look at me, pretty girl.” he tilts your chin gently towards him as he leans in.

“been wanting to see how pretty you look taking me for months.” he murmurs against your lips, before slowly rocking his hips into yours as the head of his cock slips past your entrance making you wince.

“crap…” satoru breathlessly chuckles, sounding a little delirious, his head dropping to your shoulder as he realigns himself with your entrance. “just one more time, angel.” he whispers, nudging his hips into yours as the tip of his dick finally sinks in.

“f- fuckk, fuck!” you choke into a whimper feeling yourself get split apart as the pressure slowly stretches you out. your hands find any kind of leverage as one of your hands claws into the back of satoru’s neck while the other digs into his bicep.

“mmmghh, you feel so—” satoru groans against your shoulder, hips stuttering for a second as if he can’t handle it — sinking deeper into you, until he’s pelvis flush against your bum as your back arches off the mattress.

his hands snake tight around your waist, engraving moon-shaped crescents into your skin his movements pause because this is the vision he’s replayed in his head a million times over.

the decision of taking his sweet time with you, and making passionate love until you’re saying ‘i love you’ —or fucking you raw until the sun comes up and you’re screaming his name.

the halt in his movement gives you time to better accommodate around his length. though the burn is still there, and your pussy feels indescribably full as the head of satoru’s cock nudge sweet against the sensitive spot inside of you.

a moan escapes from your throat, and your canines are sunken into your bottom lip. this is the moment satoru’s dreamed about, even fucked his palm to the thought of just how warm, and tight you’d feel wrapped around his dick. he lets out a low, strained groan beginning to rock his hips forward.

maybe he should be gentle with you, and watch you slowly fall apart on his dick — but that’s not the way you used his dick on stream.

satoru’s rhythm picks up, his thrusts getting meaner, and his strokes getting longer as he begins snapping his hips into you.

“shit— you’re taking me s’ good…” his lips part into a gasp as he watches the way your pussy swallows him whole with every thrust that has your body rocking up and down beneath him.

every roll of his hips causing your walls to involuntarily squeeze around him. “t— toru…” you whimper, thighs trembling within his hold as his cock drags in and out of your hole.

“mmm, that’s my name.” he hums, swallowing a moan. his eyes roaming every inch of your body before finding your face. your eyes are glossy, and your bottom lip is swollen from gnawing at it. “gonna let ‘toru fuck you the way he’s been dreamin’ about, yeah?” satoru lets out a shaky exhale.

his grip tightens around the back of your knees, as he’s shifting his position in a way that drops most of his weight onto you forcing your knees against your chest.

you choke at the sudden fullness, your eyes flicking down to see a small bump in your lower stomach. you couldn’t even talk, satoru was so deep inside of you in ways no toy could. one of your palms trail down to push against satoru’s lower abdomen, feeling the flex of his abs.

“see that?” satoru grins, pupils blown wide at the sight of him deep inside of you. his hand sliding over your stomach while pivoting his hips at an angle to hit deeper against that sweet spot that makes your toes curl.

“that little toy never reached this deep, did it?” he taunts, pressing his palm against the bulge in your stomach, making your breath hitch and your walls choking around his cock earning an escaped whimper fall from satoru’s lips.

his hips are basically moving on their own. snapping into yours as he practically pounds your pussy into the mattress. “fuckk— can’t stop.” he chokes, each thrusts sloppier than the last as you throw your head back moaning his name.

“yeah, yeah— thaat’s ittt.” he drags, as he slowly begins to lose himself. “mmhngh— keep milkin’ me just like that…”

the head of his cock is repeatedly pressing against that wet, spongy spot inside of you. “nngh, toruu!” you whine, each stroke makes your stomach feel weird and your core tighten in a way that makes your bladder swell as euphoric waves course through your veins.

you can feel satoru twitch inside of you, his hips stuttering with each thrusts. he’s ducking his head down, burying his face into the crook of your neck and panting against your skin.

the sound of bare skin slapping against each other, and the exchanges of whimpering and moaning bounce off the walls. “s-shit… hated watching those streams knowin’ it wasn’t me.” he grits, panting against your neck.

“should’ve been me.” his voice quakes, muttering into your skin, almost sounding frustrated by it as he drools against your neck. “i should’ve been the one making you feel this good, not some fuckin’ toy.” he moans into you, and his pelvis flush against yours.

his dick nuzzling sweet against your cervix. your breath catching in your throat with your mouth open, “fuck, fuckk— ‘m cummingg!” you shriek. your legs shaking in satoru hold, as your nails rack desperately against satoru’s back as your spine lifts off the mattress.

your body seizing at the orgasmic wave of pleasure shooting throughout your body as your vision flashes white. a plethora of broken whimpers spill past your lips, eyes shut tight — feeling every drag of satoru’s dick against your sensitive walls as he chases his high.

“‘m close.” he exhales, as your pussy strangles his dick, milking him with every thrust as he feels himself involuntarily spill inside of you. his hips are slamming into yours, thrust gut-deep before nuzzling his length as deep as possible into your pussy as his cock swells inside of you before pulling out.

instantly spurting cum onto your stomach as he grinds against your body as you’re both moaning, trying to catch your breaths.

you let out somewhat of a incoherent sigh as satoru collapses on top of you — sticky bodies flush against each other.

“so…” you sigh, snaking one of your hands against the back of satoru’s head, running your fingers through his soft locks as his arms wrapped around your torso.

“are you ready for your collab.” you ask, muscles feeling like jelly as you play in his hair. “yeah.” he hums absently, “i can go more rounds…” he breathlessly laughs.

“wanna use my camera, or yours?”

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‘the bisexual who is a complete mess, and they absolutely know and show no mercy.’

MARLENE MCKINNON and SIRIUS BLACK held no mercy for you, like the pride male and his lioness—and you, the unsuspecting rabbit, unaware of the starving predators that creep upon you with each soundless step. And there you were, their little prey, pinned beneath their gazes in a faraway alcove, hidden from prying eyes. It was just you, Marlene, and Sirius. 

Their scents intertwined and tantalizing—an overwhelming mix of cypress, sea salt, orange blossoms, and saffron. Oh, how were you meant to look? One of them was distracting enough. But both at the same time were fatal in the most cathartic way possible. (And let’s be honest, you were irrevocably drawn to them just as they were to you.) Sirius and Marlene wielded a dangerous kind of power. Beauty for everyone to envy—but their eyes for you only. This year, Marlene had cut her once-long blonde hair into layers that brushed her shoulders. Each wisp of hair perfectly framing her jawline and cheekbones. But what you loved most was her eyes. Light cerulean that popped against her dark eyeshadow. Ice that melted whenever she stared at you. If Sirius’s eyes were like a storm, Marlene’s was like staring at the skies. And as she peered at you now, her gaze dipping lower, and lower, from your nose to the bow of your lips—you watched, throat parched, as Marlene grinned at your shy expression. She looked ravenous. 

Sirius, on the other hand, let his hair grow longer. You’d often see Marlene toying with the strands during lunch. (Soon, you’d be tugging at the dark locks as he wrung each sigh and whimper from your lips, Marlene whispering loving words into your ear.) Piercings adorned his ears and near his right brow. Thunder flashed within his eyes and your knees threatened to buckle. You felt the back of his hand brush against your cheek—you nearly shiver from the intimacy of it all. He’d forsaken the school robes again today, and so you had full view of the tattoos around his arms. Dark ink that so beautifully contrasted against his pale skin. You even noticed a hint of cursive Latin creeping from the collar of his shirt. (Later, your hands would trace the constellations and writings on his bare flesh, his chest slowly rising and falling, a sheen of sweat on his forehead from the hours prior. He’d take your hand in his, pressing his lips and unsaid vows to your ring finger.) 

And while they had you cornered at the moment, you had them completely and irrefutably besotted. 

“Are we still on for our date later, dove?” asked Marlene, lashes sweeping over her eyes as she raked her eyes over you. 

You nodded, unable to trust words at the moment. 

Lightning strikes, rain pours—and you were caught in the midst of it all. (But there was nowhere you’d rather be.)

“Good,” muttered Sirius before he captured your lips with his. 

Oh, how your boyfriend and girlfriend would be your undoing and reckoning all at once. 

‘soft, completely oblivious, loud and brash.’ 

“BEAUTIES AND GENTLEMEN, THIS HAS NEVER HAPPENED BEFORE!” Fabian Prewett’s voice resounded through the Quidditch pitch, accompanied by the confused murmuring of the crowd. “GRYFFINDOR’S STAR SEEKER—JAMES POTTER—IS LATE! L-A-T-E! OI, REGGIE BLACK, SURE YOUR LOT HASN’T DABBLED IN A BIT OF FOUL PLAY PRE-MATCH? MINNIE, IT’S A REASONABLE BLOODY QUESTION—OW!” 

You looked over in time to catch Dorcas Meadowes smacking Fabian’s hand away from the charmed megaphone. The frown on your lips deepens, however. “Late?” you echoed, worriedly tugging on your red-and-gold tie. “James is hardly ever late. . . What if something really did happen?” 

LILY EVANS was quick to ease your nerves, taking your hand in hers and softly uttering a warming charm over the both of you. The afternoon sun kissed her freckles as she grinned freely. “Don’t worry, love. He’s fine,” she said—and you had to ignore the butterflies springing about in your stomach. Love. You rushed to tamper down your heart immediately. Love as in friend. Mate. Best mate. Nothing else. You’d be a fool to think otherwise. Especially with James and Lily announcing their relationship at the start of the year. (As they explained how they got together, a pair of honey-brown and emerald-green kept darting to your direction, which had puzzled you then. You had wondered: Did they think you would disapprove? Worse, did they know your feelings for them?) They were rather happy as a duo without you, thank you very much. 

“How do you know that?” you counter, forcefully tearing your gaze away from Lily as you scour the field for a jersey with Potter written on the back. 

Lily nudged your shoulder. “Because he’s shoved Fabian Prewett over to the side and is now currently holding the megaphone.” 

What?

“IS THIS THING ON?” Instead of Fabian’s voice, you heard a sound—a sound you knew well, just as sunflowers knew the skylight. 

Your head snapped upwards to where the commentator and professors usually stayed during matches. True to her word, there James was. Looking straight at the two of you. 

“Mister Potter!” cried Minnie, reaching over to snatch the amplifier from him, but James was quicker. As Seekers are. “What on earth—?”

“—THIS WILL ONLY TAKE A SECOND, MINNIE!” James bellowed into the megaphone, inching further and further away from the Scottish teacher, his hearty laughter bleeding into the springtime air. “I JUST WANTED TO SAY SOMETHING TO THE GORGEOUS ONE NEXT TO MY GORGEOUS GIRLFRIEND!” 

Lily giggled—another sound embedded deep within your heart, as a soul knew its purpose. 

Instinctively, you looked to the person on Lily’s other side. 

She grimaced in mock-offense and smacked your arm. “He means you, dummy.” 

“LILY-LOVE IS RIGHT.” James nodded from where he stood, preening under the attention, his smile widening with each second that passed. “YOU. US. LUNCH. HOGSMEADE. WEEKEND. YES?” 

What. Was. Happening? 

You glanced at Lily with furrowed brows. “All this just to have lunch?” The three of them always had lunch together, you didn’t understand why James went through all the theatrics, and quite literally delaying a game, for something so mundane. 

Lily sighed before pressing her palms to your cheeks. “I am in love with a boy who doesn’t understand what the word subtlety means, and one who is entirely too subtle for subtle.” 

You felt steam blowing out of your ears, freezing at the two words you thought you would never, ever hear from them. “What?”

“IF I WIN, GO ON A DATE WITH US!” James roared with glee, his teammates now dragging him back by his arms, voice fading as he went further and further away. “IF I DON’T. . . WELL, LET’S BE REAL, I’LL BE WINNING THIS ONE.” 

And win he did, despite the thirty-something penalties he earned before the actual match. But James found that he did not care this time around. Not when he had the absolute pleasure of marrying you and Lily years later. 

‘the big, sweet and gentle—with two gremlins.’

“Let’s go over the mission one more time, lovely.” 

“We have been over it nearly a hundred times over, Remus.” You grumbled, fixing your hair as you landed on the streets of Privet Drive, broom in hand. You dared not risk a glance at REMUS LUPIN, who was as tender as he was roguishly handsome. NYMPHADORA TONKS cackled from where she stood by Kingsley Shacklebolt—you flipped her the bird, and she blew you a kiss in return. “Get the boy, slip past the Muggles, return to Grimmauld unnoticed, eat, and hopefully pass out on a bed with my two sexy lovers.” 

Kingsley cleared his throat. 

You grinned, Remus sighed. 

“Shall we get Mister Potter then?” you asked liltingly, smiling innocently as you cocked your head towards the quaint home. 

Emmeline Vance shook her head with an exasperated grin as she passed by you, throwing Remus a glance that most definitely said, “I do not know how you deal with this everyday.” 

Remus shrugged, replying with a weary look that you hoped meant: “with love and adoration only.” 

You followed Emmeline up the front steps, Tonks wordlessly positioning herself ahead of you as Kingsley unlocked the door with a low Alohomora. Remus was behind you, hand gently placed on the small of your back. Then, the door clicked and the search for Harry Potter was set in motion. 

“Listen, darling, we mustn’t be caught by Harry’s relatives,” said Remus, lips pressed close to your ear—and really, how were you supposed to focus? “They’re Muggles. Well, Lily’s sister knew of magic but from what Harry’s told me, they do not take kindly to anything or anyone from the wizarding world.”

“Then the Missus Potter will just hafta forgive me from up in Heaven,” Tonks began, scowling, one foot inside the Dursley residence. “I’ll give her sister one more reason to dislike magic after I’m done with her. Woman to woman.” 

You raised a brow. “That sounds oddly sexual.” 

“I’ll show you—” 

Kingsley cleared his throat. Again. Not before side-eyeing Remus with a hint of sympathy. 

Remus’s shoulders sagged, but you clocked the hint of a smile coming to life. “Tonks, dear, maybe—” 

“HARRY POTTER! OUT YOU GET, LADDY!” You bellowed into the barren entryway, knocking on the cupboard door under the stairs. 

Tonks chortled before cupping her hands over her mouth. “YOU’VE GOT ONE SECOND BEFORE I START TRASHING THE AREA, BOY—THE DECOR IS HIDEOUS!” 

You kicked down the door of the room under the stairs, grimacing in disgust. “Way ahead of you, Tonks.”

“Let’s see if they let a child stay here again after this,” you muttered before ripping the door off its hinges. “Twats. The whole lot of them.” 

A boy with wide, doe-eyes and unkempt brown hair came rushing down the stairs, wand at the ready, bewildered by all the ruckus—and visitors in his aunt and uncle’s home. His eyes landed on the most familiar face. You watched as the doubt in his eyes melted into relief.  “Pr–Profes. . . Professor Lupin? What are you doing here?” 

Remus smiled wearily. “Here to rescue you, Harry boy. We heard about the Dementor attack.”

“And so has a certain part of the Ministry,” Kingsley supplied.

Remus nodded. “Come on, then. Get your things.” 

You had never seen a boy run off so fast. 

Tonks stared up at Remus. “You’d make a good father one day.” 

The werewolf choked. 

(Tonks was right, by the way. He’d cry at the birth of your son, Teddy Lupin, and he would do so again when he held his daughter in his arms. Remus would not bat an eyelash when Teddy’s mouth morphed into a duck’s beak, or when his hair dyed itself to match your colours. And in the years to come after the war, you, Remus, and Tonks would be there to see your children off at the station. An owl with two letters in its clutches—delivering news of their Hogwarts sorting and a note of a happy ending.)

‘we are both jerks and we hate each other, but we love and protect. . . her. (who is far too good for them.)'

BARTY CROUCH JR. and EVAN ROSIER knew the basic laws of magic. It could not bring the dead back to life, create love, or be used to seek immortality. And yet, no one had prepared them at all for just how much the Dark craved the essence of Light. 

“Wretched little thing,” Barty cursed as he crumpled a page from his drawing book. Your face, filled in with charcoal shades and lead strokes, stared back at him hauntingly. Why? What was it that drew him to you—a pitiful Muggle-born with no family prestige to her name? You must have cast the Imperius on him. There was no other reasonable explanation, otherwise. Forced him with an Unforgivable so that his eyes would be drawn to you in the sea of pestilent lions.

Evan was more. . . volatile with his affections. If it could even be called that. To him, at least, you were an obsession. He’d never lay a hand on you, ever—his aggressions only for Barty to take in the quiet of the night, a discordant waltz between two who vied for power and control, a melody of hushed threats whilst leaving bruises on each other’s lips and deep marks on skin—but, oh, how Evan yearned to corrupt your soul. 

A month ago, he had shoved a Ravenclaw into the fieldstone walls, snarling, “Look at her again and I’ll ensure the world forgets you once existed.” Evan drew pleasure from the gangly boy’s quivering lip and unsteady gaze. Just as he and Barty were yours, you were theirs. 

Their most prized possession. 

Evan’s pretty plaything. 

Barty’s muse. 

Theirs. 

You were a Gryffindor prefect, patrolling the halls like the dutiful lioness that you were, always caring for the wide-eyed cubs—Evan hated it most when your attention was ripped from them by a lost yearling with tears in their eyes, but he would not curse the little brat for it, not while you were around, anyway—and assisting the professors with that damned smile on your face. Barty ached to see what other expressions you could make. Perhaps, you were pretty when you cried, too. (And they made you cry often. Hands devilishly wedged beneath your skirt, Evan drinking each gasp and murmur from your lips while Barty left his presence on your neck, hands tightly coiled around your red-and-gold tie.) 

They truly did adore you. No one would touch or hurt you, not while they still lived. They’d tear them from limb to limb if anyone even dared glance at you the wrong way. And if it was the world that threatened to crumble down on you, Barty and Evan would burn everything to the ground.

For you. 

Their wildfire. 

Yet, it was your face that Barty had seen last before he was sent to Azkaban. You who brought him to his knees before his father. You, the traitor who crushed his heart in your palms. Barty would curse, yell, and beg for your name behind the bars, until the memories of you turned him into a madman beyond repair. 

You had been standing beside Alastor Moody when he killed Evan. He thrashed and spat vulgarities at the sight of Aurors—but never at you, his precious darling. He knew you loved him. Them. You had turned away at the last second just as Moody raised his wand. Evan only laughed maniacally in the face of death, your name wilting on his tongue in his last moments. 

In the end, it was you who brought them deliverance. 

Light and dark were never meant to converge, so the three of you learned the hard way. 

‘the mum, the clumsy babie. . . and the asshole.’

“Oh, my heart, what happened?” NARCISSA BLACK rushed to your side, her otherwise icy features now melted with worry as she sat close to you, hands gently pressed to your face as she searched for any other injury. “Who is to blame for this?” 

“There is no one to blame, Cissa,” you replied immediately, knowing your girlfriend’s tendency to fuss. She hummed, unconvinced, before greeting you with a soft kiss. The ice queen’s lips were soft and dizzying. “I just wasn’t looking where I was going, that’s all. Let’s not turn this into a pressing matter because it really isn’t a big deal. If anything, I am the one to blame.”  

Narcissa glanced at the open wound on your knee. “There is blood, sweetling.” She grimaces at the dark shade of crimson against your skin as though it had personally offended her. Narcissa tapped her wand on the graze, a healing charm emitting from her lips. And only when your skin returned unmarked did she let go of her frown. Her gaze sharply cut to the offender. “We will take care of this.” 

“I really don’t—” 

“Do you understand who I am?” LUCIUS MALFOY said as he towered over the poor Hufflepuff. Where Narcissa was snow and ice, Lucius was hurricane and hail. He curled his lip in distaste, hand tightly gripping the boy’s shoulder. “Who my father is? Allow me to explain the situation to you. You’ve just harmed someone under the protection of the Malfoy name. Someone whom I care about dearly, and there are only two in this blasted castle. It is just unfortunate that you happened upon one of them.” His eyes, frigid with ire, swept over the boy. “So what shall it be? Azkaban or your entire lineage wiped from the registries? For I can assure you that either is of no hassle to me.” 

“Lucius!” you hissed, getting to your feet but ultimately held down by Narcissa’s firm grip on your hand. “You are being entirely dramatic! And unreasonable! Emphasis on the unreasonable!” 

“She’s right, Lucy darling,” said Narcissa, far too calm, as though she was in her tea room, unbothered. 

“Thank you, Cissa.” You glared at Lucius. 

“Why erase them from the registry when we can easily have them blacklisted everywhere?” Narcissa continued, straightening her back and gracefully tossing her pin-straight blonde hair over her shoulder. “Make sure no one from their family can find work in the wizarding world, join any organization within society, and be turned away from every store and boutique in Diagon Alley.” She flashed the two boys a smile—as though Narcissa hadn’t cast a snowstorm over the hallway with just her words. “That is how you make sure someone disappears.” 

You swore that Lucius would have dropped to his knees then and there, adoration falling freely from his tongue. (The Slytherins oh-so loved their power, after all—and they’d take power where they could get it.) 

“Have you gone mad, Cissa? Both of you! Honestly!” you nearly shriek—unaware, had you been anyone else, you’d be thrown into inferi-tested waters by now. 

Narcissa arched her brow. “Rather courageous thing to say to a Black.” 

Well, considering Bella. . . You thought. “I didn’t mean it like that and you know it,” you said. 

“You must forgive me, dearest,” soothed Lucius, as though he was talking to a kitten wearing a lace-ribbon collar. “I only want to look out for our beloved.” 

Heat rushed to your cheeks but you would not let them have their way. “If you go through with that, then I will not talk to you for the rest of the year,” you bargained with a pinched exhale, standing firm on your ground, fists clenched at your sides. 

Lucius released his grip on the boy at once, sparing him one last glance. “You are lucky that you happened upon one of the most merciful creatures on this earth.”

“Had it been me, I would have had you Obliviated on the spot,” said Narcissa, sharp grey eyes pinning down the poor, unfortunate soul. “But that is neither here nor there.” 

And that was that. 

The next day, the student body made sure to steer clear of your way, lest they wanted to evoke the protective wrath of two of the most influential pupils at school. 

‘the morally questionable one and the pure beans who ignore this.’

“YOU DID, WHAT?” 

The students crammed in the hallway stop and stare as you grabbed Anatole Mulciber by the shoulders before shoving him up against the wall. 

“Tell me,” you demanded through gritted teeth, fisting the collar of his robes before knocking him into the cobblestone once more. (That was the thing about prissy aristocrats. They thought themselves above drawing blood—for all their obsession with it.) “Tell me what you did to my girlfriend.” 

Before he could even part his lips, you continued, “You know what? It doesn’t matter.” And so you drove your fist to his cheek. 

Again. 

And again. 

When the rage simmered down—however long that was—you blinked and saw that you were standing over Mulciber, staring down at his bleeding nose and bruised cheek. Lucius Malfoy and his lackeys were fast approaching and so you drove the point home by spitting on the ground, disgust evidenced by your sneer. 

MARY MACDONALD, eyelids dusted with bright yellow glitter, freckles sitting atop her dark skin, whispered in horror to the third person in your triad, “Should. . . Should we stop this?” 

She was utterly honoured that you’d go to such lengths to defend her. . . But this would be your fifth detention this month if McGonagall caught you, and not even the Prewett twins lost this much points in a time. Mary loved you dearly—but you had a temper. (Never with them though, she noticed. You held them with such gentleness and fondness in your eyes. Almost as though you were a wholly different person. But, somehow, still the exact same. Love was truly worn with rose-tinted glasses. But if so, Mary did not want to take it off at all.) 

PETER PETTIGREW shrugged his shoulders, flabbergasted, rooted in his spot, nothing else he could do other than watch you curse Mulciber’s name and expel obscenities at him. Merlin, you terrified him more than his Boggart. Sometimes. He just wished he would never have to be on the receiving end of your threats. “I don’t know. . . I don’t think so?” 

“Go near Mary again—go near any of them again and I’ll kill you where you stand, Mulciber,” you rasped, arms now being held back by Dorcas and Marlene. “I’ll gut you bloody, I swear it!” 

Mary paled. 

Peter looked as though he was going to faint—James patted him on the back. 

(“Aren’t you going to dock points for this barbarity?” asked the Parkinson girl in contempt. 

Lily, Head-Girl, raised a brow. “The way I see it, this was an act of self-defense. You’ll find that being a bigot has its repercussions, Miss Parkinson, and that is the ugly truth.” She said this more to Severus, who was standing off to the side—but that was a tale for another day.)

“Matter of fact,” you proclaimed heatedly, ripping yourself from the two girls’ hold. Magic or not, this was nothing compared to a fistfight in a back alley. “If any of you—I don’t give a rat’s arse who your mother or your grandmother or who your bloody grandmother’s cousin-in-law was—if I hear that you’ve used Dark Magic against another student, I will make you wish for death. And I’ll do that without magic.”  

Mary exhaled. A tinge of exasperation mixed with wonderment. She grabbed Peter by the hand—who subsequently turned red. “We should just close our eyes and wait until it’s out of their system.”

“Yeah. . . Yes. . . Sure. . .” Peter spluttered before following behind Mary. 

They loved you, really—but, Gods, were you more gruesome than a Dementor sometimes. (What was a Dementor’s kiss to a lover’s scorned fist?) 

“And while we’re at it—one o’ you keeps stealing from my feckin’ chocolate stash!” They heard you shouting down the corridor. 

“Yup.” Mary nodded solemnly. “That would do it.” You’d be in a mood for the next hour now. 

You, on the other hand, are wondering why this idiot finds it so necessary to be cheeky. Your hands block his blows and strike when the window opens. But this foe isn’t like all the others you’ve dealt with. 

“You sure do pack a punch.” He grins, dodging another one of your swats as he steps back. “Maybe getting in my way wasn’t the best idea?”

Dickhead!

Your fist cracks his jaw hard enough for you to feel it in your knuckles. It won't affect him that much, you know that. However, the pain is so worth it to see that bewildered look on his face. And the slight blush that dusts his cheeks.

“Aw, did you bite your tongue?” You gibe, dropping to slide your leg under his to throw him off balance. “Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to blabber while fighting!”

Somehow, somehow in ways that rattle you, he stumbles back, burgundy eyebrows wiggling as he bares his canines in a smile. “A little taunting doesn’t hurt.”

A little taunting. A little. 

You have to laugh. It bubbles out of you in a disbelieving huff, then a low chuckle, growing in hysterics as you rise to your feet. He flinches back, he actually flinches at the sight and his ears— the fluffy ones on top of his head— twitch too, leaning back the more you stagger close. His biceps are tense, veins bulging against his skin, practically itching to engage the moment you strike him with an attack. 

“Just a little taunting, right?” The smile stretching your lips is wide enough to make your cheeks ache. “Then take this!”

You aim for his gut and almost make the strike, but he intercepts. He catches your hand, his grip gentle but firm. Good.

In a heartbeat, you’re quick to pivot on your feet and spin back to aim your free arm, elbow-to-face. To a chiselled, pretty-eyed, soft-lipped face. But Valko catches on, his clawed hand already raised to block your elbow from breaking his nose.

He tackles your arm, locking it behind you to keep you from moving. “Smooth,” he says, his tone genuine in his sentiment. “I didn’t think the Hunters trained their own this well.” 

If it weren’t for the lack of distance between you, you’d be cussing him out and writhing hard enough to free yourself. The thing is, you can’t help yourself to not do it. His breath falls on your nape so soft and warm it feels like a caress. Your eyes flutter, for a mere moment, entranced by how close he is; enchanted by his grip, so firm yet so hesitant to press too hard. 

Your defences soften, sensing that he’s literally looming over you with his height. He’s fucking huge, those muscles in his arms could rival the size of your own thighs— you’d need a more thorough look for that. Waves of heat brush off him directly onto you, toasting you up like a heater in the middle of winter.

“Did you bite your tongue?” He hums. You can literally hear him pout from his high lilt. Fucking tease. A soft, bristly tail brushes your leg, curling up your calf and tensing up your muscles as you squirm.

“Was thinking about biting yours off.” You struggle in his grip, butting your head against the base of his neck, pulling a gasp from his lips— and not for the reason you’d think.

His hesitation is more than enough leeway for you to move. You jab your elbow in his gut and pivot as soon as his grip loosens, turning to face him with your hands shooting right towards his neck. You both tumble down to the wet tar road, his body cushioning you as he groans from the impact.

“Are you insane— hrrrk!” You squeeze his neck tight. The jump of his pulse becomes frantic beneath your fingers as you press him down, your knees bracketed over his hips.

“If that’s what we’re calling an instinct for defence, then by all means.” You snarl, slowly squeezing tighter. A choked gasp coughs out of him as his golden eyes flutter and start to roll back.

Shit.

It can’t be that tight of a hold, you haven’t started interrogating him yet. 

Ever so slowly, you loosen your hold to grace him with enough air to breathe. The joints in your fingers barely twitch to ease your grip on his windpipe and, in a single blink, his hand clamps down completely over yours and presses down harder.

“Don’t back out when you’re in so deep.” He wheezes. He can’t stop himself from giving you his signature grin even in this state. It infuriates you almost as much as it titillates you.

“Oh, you are insufferable!”

Despite the fact that you’re on top of him, Valko crunches his weight and curls upwards until your noses are just a breath away from bumping. He nudges his head away, leaning to your ear. “Look, I was trying to help…”

Valko’s breath catches in his throat, and he slackens for a split second, his head bowing to your neck. Right beneath your fingers, his pulse jumps through his veins.

Sniff.

It’s like his whole body freezes up and relaxes, following a single instinct in response to something you can’t notice. 

Sniiiffff. His sculpted nose cards up your scalp, deeply inhaling all the way to the soft shell of your ear. And when he finally releases that breath after a tense, bated ten seconds, a soft moan slips out.

“What… are you doing?”

“Your scent.” His whisper brushes down your spine. You can feel something gently pressing against your crotch that wasn’t there before. Your hips circle around it, familiar with the hard tenting ridge greeting you, a knee-jerk reaction as natural as breathing.

“Mm-mm.” You push at his chest, curving your hand from his neck to his nape as he hits the ground, taking you with him. His hands find purchase in your hips, pressing you down onto the throbbing erection beneath you.

It seems you’ve reached the peak of your game for the night. Your dear wolf won’t be able to hold on if you keep going like this.

“I’m sorry, baby.” Valko takes your wrist and presses his nose right there, dragging his flaring nostrils across your skin. 

The muscles of his jaw tick beneath the neon street lights, his soft lips parting as his brows twitch. He pouts, tongue poking out to lather your bare skin in his saliva. “You just smell incredibly… good.”

“Val,” You relax completely on top of him, lightly smacking his chest. He’s too cute for you to chastise. “We were almost there.”

“I know,” He sighs that pathetic sigh of his, similar to when he nerds out on something you already know. Poor man loves to impress you. “But you’re so hot when you choke me. Can’t expect a wolf not to react to his mate.”

He grinds his hips upwards, emphasising his point. His cock must be fully hard by now. You can feel it twitching to be freed and reunited with the warmth of your pussy. 

“Not to mention how wet ya must be.” It’s now a continuous rhythm, up and down, slow, gracious rolls of his hips into yours to let the electric pulses between your arousals meet. “It smells divine. Wanna drown my face in ya.”

A gust of the night breeze flows through your clothes, whispering a warning of incoming rain. Valko naturally runs hot. The cold wouldn’t bother him nor you. So long as you remain close to him, of course. 

Valko, like every other time, does not let anything get between him and you during your fun hours. He won’t let a sliver of light pass through you if he had anything to say about it. He definitely won’t let a few lucky witnesses change the tempo— if anything, it’s a compliment to find themselves witnessing him fornicate with his mate.

“The roads are busy tonight.” You murmur, tracing circles on his broad chest, over his heart. 

“Bustling with people.” Valko agrees, nodding his head so eagerly it makes you laugh.

“This alleyway isn’t that secluded from the main road. Anyone could walk by.”

“I think I recall you choosing where we’d play around with our scenario— ow!”

“Say that again for me, baby,” You croon with loving eyes, all while you pinch and twist his ear. “Couldn’t hear you over your tail slapping the road.”

“It is not— ow! Quit it!“

“Sorry, what was that?” You twist harder to hear him whine and jut his hips up harder, and that gives you all the confirmation you need. 

Control turns into a concept, curling into the air like smoke. Valko rubs circles into your hips, smiling through the tantalising agony of your teasing. Little by little, he guides your hips back and forth over his own, slotting the slit of your clothed cunt above his length. Just like that.

“We.” He hisses, tongue darting out to collect the drool running down his chin. “You and I chose a risky spot, baby.” He fondles the plush flesh of your ass, letting it ripple in his hands as he pats it. “But it wouldn’t be a first.”

“Yeah?” You follow his rhythm, letting the worry ease away for the thrill to rush in. Thank goodness you opted to wear a skirt. “It’d be such a shame if we put it to waste.”

“Say it like that again.” Valko snarls.

Has he realised how much you enjoy it when he snarls? Probably not. It does something carnal to you, it makes you feral like him whenever he’s in the midst of a rut. Between wanting to tear off his clothes and kissing him senseless, you genuinely can’t pick.

So Valko chooses for you. 

“Let’s make the best of it then.” His lips are on yours in a split second, nipping you with his sharp canines exactly how you want it. His skilled hands hike up your skirt, soothing your skin with the heat of his hands as the cool air makes you arch into him.

Down wanders your hand, over the huge muscle of his chest, raking your nails down his sensitive peaked nipples. Valko takes in a sharp breath as you pinch one, rubbing it in small, rough circles.

“Is teasing really necessary?” He groans against your lips, taking the lower between his teeth to graze. Maybe he should make you bleed a little and drink it right from you like the last time. He wants all of it, your nectar. In every form. 

“You like to do it,” You lick his teeth as he bites you, and hiss when he sucks the small crimson drops out. Your hands wander down his abdomen, tracing over each ridge until you find the cool metal of his belt.

Clink.

“Consider it poetic justice.”

His laughs fill the nighttime air with unrestrained glee, a contrast to how gentle he is turning you over to your back. His lips find every open patch of skin, sucking and licking his way back to your face.

“Smells like you got new perfume,” Valko’s muffled voice notes, nuzzling into your neck for what won’t be the last time tonight. Your legs hook around his waist with ease, your skirt hiked up well above your hips. 

His pants and boxers are shoved down his thick, muscular thighs with haste, and his cock springs out so hard that a steady stream of precum slides down the jugular vein running down his shaft. It’s practically steaming, proudly bobbing towards your pulsating cunt like a compass to its true north.

The power of a mate’s scent has always been known as an excessive stimulant to the senses, which Valko understands. To experience it in practice, even after being with you for months, is still so jarring. He wants to be engulfed in everything that is you. 

“Is it?” 

“Hmm?” You’d been so blissed out by the sheer heat of his cockhead glossing your lace-covered entrance that you weren’t listening. There's no way you can be blamed for it, especially when you’ve got Valko all over you like this!

“You.” Valko licks a long stripe up your neck to your jaw, moaning at your taste. “Smell.” His nose rubs all over your cheek, deeply inhaling your natural aroma. “Ravishing.” 

The gusset of your lacy panties hooks over his finger for him to push aside, and he finally moves. 

No matter how often you have sex, the sheer size of him will always make your eyes widen with a pitched gasp. It’s a homecoming of its own lewd design, heavy with its thickness stretching you beyond your mind’s capacity to keep up.

It always takes a minute for you to adjust, barely letting yourself move lest you wish to feel his length nudge every sensitive spot it touches. 

“S’it too much?” Valko huffs, his pretty gold eyes wide. The vein on his temple bulges as you clench around him.

“Perfect.” You pull him closer, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, lapping the drool dripping down the corner of his lip. “Might just cum like this.”

He pulls his hips back slowly, dragging each inch of him out until the bulbous tip remains. “Can’t have that, can we?”

He slams his hips into yours, stuffing his cock balls-deep, leaving no space for anything that isn’t him. Moans slip from your lips lustily, punctuated by each deep thrust as Valko picks up the pace. Your neck gets speckled with sharp bites and heated licks, his breath hot and fanning your skin. 

The rumble of the nighttime traffic turns into pure noise, a trivial concern second to the spine-shivering pleasure of hearing Valko’s husky, raw groans right in your ear.

“So loud tonight, Ko.” You coo, but your hypocrisy is palpable. 

“Not gonna be quiet when you—“ Valko draws his cock back only to swiftly prod as deep as he can go, his heavy sacks roughly rubbing against your mounds. “—are trying to milk me dry.”

His thrusts turn pointed, constantly pounding in that same delicious spot and that makes your eyes roll back in lascivious glee. Every bounce of impact has you skid across the tar and Valko pulls you back to him, hands tight on your waist.

You’re bunching your hands up his top, reaching to claw and scratch the taut muscles from his waist, to his shoulders, marking him in you until he bleeds. “Ssss—oh my—“ Valko hisses and pulls himself up to sit on his heels. 

Angling his hips forward, he pulls you on him, raising your rump so high that your back is stuck in a mean arch. He’s back at it, driving his fat cock in and out of your weeping cunt like a piston, relishing the noisy squelches you make for him as he slides right back into your warm, sopping cavern.

“You’re gulping me up,” Valko jerks his head to the side, burgundy hair plastered to his forehead. “Don’t wanna let me leave, do you?”

Barely a short distance away from you, the blinding shine of headlights halt and a car door bangs shut. Low murmurs from two— no, three people catch your wavering attention. You should seriously be quiet, avoid being seen. You really, really should.

But Valko’s so deep inside you, circling his hips ‘round yours nice and slow every time he bottoms out. You can feel him twitching and throbbing, you can feel that mushroom tip bumping each soft crevice of your walls so precisely that you can’t silence the ecstasy he pulls out of you.

Dammit, he needs to feel you cum around his cock. The only thing he can clearly envision is your pretty face going slack, your smooth back arching, your voice pitching up so high only he would be able to hear it. 

Merely thinking about it has even more spit slobbering down his chin. Now he has to achieve that at least three times. Fuck the nocturnal snoops lurking by. Neither of you are gonna stop. 

They can get a front seat on how a wolf makes his beloved mate cum hard enough to feel like he's in rut.

The noises are getting louder now. Your heart is pounding your chest, anxious with the nerves and the sick desire to be seen with your Valko. What would they do about it?

“…think this is the right way…”

“You sure we aren’t lost?”

“Course I’m sure—“

“Wait. Do you guys hear that?”

Droplets of rain bounce on you, slowly sinking into the fabric of your clothes. Impeccable timing for a shower of rain to come pouring in.

“I told you we should have taken the umbrella!” One voice complains as heavy shoes and heels on gravel crunch closer. Neither of you stop— if anything, you do the opposite.

“Relax.” The other says. “We just need to check if the club’s here, and we’ll be fine.”

“Guys, do you not hear that squelching noise—“

“It’s raining, you’re probably hearing things again.”

“I don’t think I’d be hearing moans.”

“You seriously need to stop listening to those boyfriend audios.”

You raise your leg, pressing it against Valko’s side, and he quickly hooks it over his shoulder. “Val, ohh— we’ve got visitors… passing by.” You tease, barely able to speak through the hiccups breaking through each word.

“Let them come.” Valko throws his head back, groaning so loud you can’t tell if he’s deliberately getting louder or if he’s close. 

The telltale signs rush in hastily, his constant rhythm faltering. “Baby— baby!” His thumb finds your clit and presses down, rubbing your sensitive bud in wet circles as his thrusts grow sloppy. “Can you cum for me? Need to feel you, need you—“

You crane your head back, turning it just a bit to see three pairs of legs planted on the tar by the corner turning right in the direction of your copulating forms. The looks of pure shock on their faces are too blurry from the rain for you to see, and yet your back’s arching at the thought of it. You can’t help yourself, you have to writhe and jut your hips for more. 

“What the—“

“Holy shit.”

A low, animalistic growl from Valko sends them sprinting back to their car, cussing their disbelief into the air before the engine bursts to life. The dull shine from the headlights disappear not long after, leaving only the crimson shine of the neon lights above you.

“Oh, fuck!” He laughs wildly into the air, skin steaming despite the cool pelts of rain hitting him. His hands rub soothing circles on the swell of your thighs, tugging you closer. “Was that good? I felt so territorial, had my blood boiling seeing them stand there.”

All you can do is nod enthusiastically. You’d been at a loss for words up to this point, with moans and breathless sighs being your only communion to him. Though Valko is fluent in your lustful cadences and joyously obeys your every command.

Scream after a sharp thrust? He’ll do it ten more times, each time harder than the last.

Hum serenely when he stops to kiss you? He’ll slip his tongue in and have you taste him.

Pull his hair? He’ll moan so loud he might as well start howling.

“Oh, so — hah— fucking good. Want your knot—“ You push your fingers into Valko’s mouth before he can speak. “Why can’t it be a fucking full moon— oh…Val—ah! Want you so swollen and full inside you can’t pull out."

“Mmphh—“ His cock slips out completely, hips still bucking into yours without a second thought. The hot, crying, dusty pink tip of his gorgeous, hot girth keeps on tapping your clit with a trail of precum keeping you together. 

“Would turn the fucking moon for you, make myself go into rut.” He laps at your fingers, grazing each one with his sharp teeth. “Fuck I’d do it all just to hear you scream my name.”

“You’d do that for me, Ko?” You pout, your hips already sore from bucking back and forth to keep his cock inside. “You’d be such a good boy—“

“ ‘m I not being good already?” His golden eyes are already starting to glow bright. “Thought I was givin’ it to you how you want it? Is my cock not deep enough?”

Those large, hot hands grab at your soft globes, hiking you higher up his muscular, corded thighs. You can barely see his face from how the air that leaves his kiss-swollen lips instantly condenses.

You’re both completely soaked— from the rain, from your sweat, from the sheer arousal pooling out of you both. The sensation of cold is a tickle to you; Valko’s body heat is more than abundant, amplifying the hot burn rushing through you.

“Valko, want you back inside.” You moan, veering your hips up to catch his cock as he grinds, but you miss. And this stubborn wolf humps your thigh instead. He keeps going at it, pressing himself deeper into your flesh, moaning as if pure bliss rests upon you— which it does.

“Is my thigh that good?” You tease, rubbing your ankle by his jaw. The groan that rumbles through his chest vibrates right down to your cunt, gushing out another fountain of slick nectar.

“Every part of ya is,” Valko moans. “Wanna paint you with my cum, with my spit, until ya smell only me.” His hips quiver as the underside of his fat girth rubs your soft, plush skin, slathering you in his pre. You can practically smell it over the rain— he wants you to smell like him.

“It’s more than good,” Valko traces the lightest shapes over your swollen red clit, pressing down in short pulses in tune with his humping. “Love that everything smells like you. But the source is better.” 

His fingers trail down the path of your puffy lips, squeezing them, then collects your slick from your cunt and brings his fingers to his nose. Sniff. 

Sniiiiiifff. He sucks your milky juices right off his fingers, moaning at the taste. “Fucking delicious.”

Then his fingers slip right into you, three thick fingers, and pump in and out while his cock rubs on your thigh. You arch, drawn tight and ready to burst the second he curves his digits exactly where they should be.

“Valko!” 

“Uh-huh.” He nods into your calf, scenting you before he sinks his teeth into you. You yelp from the shock, the pain quickly easing into pleasure as your climax rushes to you in a raging tempest of need.

“You’ll praise me if I put it back in, right?” He nudges his cock on your entrance, missing with every fucking thrust. “Call me a good boy?”

Placing all your weight on one arm, you shoot up and grip his jaw. “You’ll have to prove it, and right now you’re being the opposite.” You take his cheek between your cheek and bite hard. “But you can make up for it. I’m feeling very generous tonight.”

Valko’s chest rumbles with a low, gruff growl. “Harder.” His fingers slip out of you and plunge back in harder, curling up faster than before. “I’ll be good, just hold me harder.”

You squeeze his square, slack jaw and bite harder. “Put it in.”

“Yes, baby, oh fuck yes.” His fingers are out instantly, leaving your cunt gaping and clenching for him. But you don’t even get to whine from the loss— he fills you up just as fast with his cock, pulling you into his lap so every inch of him is completely inside.

“Ohhh, good boy.” You cry out, hips instantly circling above him as he bounces you up and down his cock in time with his thrusts. “So precious… mhm, right there!” 

You’re both babbling and clinging, rutting wild and without restraint. Every kiss you share is wet with your thick saliva and the cool rain, the steam rising from Valko’s heated tanned skin mixes with your breathless pants. “So big and strong, my Valko— more!”

“Ya choking me.” Valko smiles into another biting kiss, full of your tongues sliding over teeth. He guides your hand down and presses on your pelvis. Each rut, each grind, has his length pushing and bulging out. The print of him on your hand and his own covering yours completely might be your breaking point.

“Love being good— hnn!” Your foreheads press together, breaths mingling as the world fades to only you and him. You and Valko, that is all there is. “Love you, I love you.”

“Mmh, ‘nd I love you—“ The affirmation triggers the coil to finally snap, releasing a flood of blissful heat. “Fuck!”

You clamp down on him firm and tight, your rain-soaked body tenses up completely in his arms as your nails claw down his face and neck— so tender yet so unrestrained. His creamy sap bursts in hefty pulses, hot and thick, his hips bucking up so much mushroom head keeps butting it.

There are no words that exist other than your name and Valko’s. There is no sense other than that of recognising him and he, you. 

Without a single thought in mind, you're both still clawing visible skin, tugging at your clammy clothes, dragging your hands down each others’ faces. The sensation alone soothes the violent pounding of your chest, letting the haze of carnal passion simmer away.

“Wanna stay like this forever.” Valko nuzzles you, hot to the touch, and holds you close. The mere act of flexing his biceps around your waist moves his half-hard cock just a little, jolting breathless croons from you.

“We’ll get sick.” You gently object, poking and prodding his cheeks until a snort bubbles out of him. “Aren’t you feeling cold?”

Valko pouts, pressing sloppy open kisses all over your face. You’re so mean. It’s just a little rain! Since when has the weather stopped him? “I feel like that’s a joke.”

“Might be.” Stroking circles onto his broad back, you let your short pause drag. Let him think you’re considering it. “If you’re up for it—“

The speed that he lights up almost gives you whiplash. His tail slaps the wet tar road, his shaft already thick and twitching in you, ready for another electrifying round. “Can we do it again?”

The wedding was a punishment in and of itself. Aerion couldn’t wipe off that sneer in his face. He seemed somewhat satisfied with how beautiful you looked at that moment. But everyone from his family to the court can tell this whole match - this wedding - you - have slighted him and there is nothing you can do to not feel so small against him. Even as you share a dance, there is no warmth, just duty. 

The bedding was extremely painful. Made you almost wish you weren’t a maiden; there was no time for you to undress with the prince laying you on the soft mattress. Climbing on top of you, his breath reeking of wine. He tugged down his pants, lifting your gown; there was no gentleness as he thrusted in and out of you. You couldn’t muffle your sobs, hand reaching to grab his arm to anchor yourself. And when the deed was done, you just stared up at the ceiling, unable to hear the words he spoke to you before leaving.

The night was a haze with all the days blurring together. Aerion had kept his distance since, it’s not long before you felt like a ghost wandering the halls. Newlyweds were the talk of the court, whispers were exchanged of the sad bride you were becoming; gossip you pretend doesn't bother you. It didn’t help that your husband would just walk in front of you, taking quick steps, and at first you tried to keep up with him, but your sore legs served as a reminder, so you remained far behind. Breakfast and supper were spent by yourself in silence, unless his family took pity on you and invited you to sit with them. 

You have learned to put up with your husband, a fate you didn’t anticipate, but what else were you to do but tolerate it. Even when Aerion wasn’t angry, it always seems as if he’s mocking you. Lessons didn’t elude you, as your septa taught you; you were polite, courteous, laughing when it called for it, even tried to ask of his family’s history, anything to make the marriage more bearable. 

Your husband still visited your chamber and you knew exactly what he wanted. Who were you to deny him? You could only cling to his shoulders as he thrusts into you. Times he would push your nightwear up, exposing your nips to the cold air, whimpering when his fingers touched and squeezed your breasts. His pace all the brutal, but with each visit, the pain eases and your sobs slowly turn into moans as you learn to enjoy it.

Aerion has good days, they are rare, but you learned to cherish them when they came. One could swear he enjoys hearing himself talk. You learned not to contradict him, for your husband is a man built with pride that when you gently corrected him; a misplaced name or he confused a minor house. The prince will snap at you and you’ll be given the cold shoulder for the rest of the day. If there is a crowd, he’ll even make a joke at your expense. 

Every word felt like walking across glass. He is not a fool; Aerion knows every second that passes is you trying so desperately to please him. How your sweet words feed a little more and more into his vanity and when you call him my prince, something in him twitches. It all pleases him in ways he doesn’t fully understand, even in a twisted sense, arouses him. He knows you have no family nearby to protect you, no allies to speak for you, only the Targaryen prince who no one dares to defy. 

Your husband who once looked at you as if you were nothing more than the air he breathed has begun to be seen more often. The quiet hours you had grown accustomed to are now shadowed by his presence. He would ask of the book you're reading that seems to preoccupy you so much, only to hum dully in response. And when you are allowed at court, able to finally exchange pleasantries with the other ladies. Your husband can’t help to corner you as soon as you take your leave, asking what has you in such good spirits. There is tiny amusement in seeing his brows furrow when you say it’s just idle talk.

Visits to your bedchambers have become so frequent, you grew to expect it. Acting gullible to his gaze while you arrange your hair in front of the mirror, pretending not to know what he’s here for either. You’ve grown shameful in how you seem to look forward to it.

It was all for duty, your only worth was to give him heir. But surely duty isn’t running through his head as you feel so good, your tight cunt squeezing his cock. It’s like it was made for him and only him. He says. And as you wrapped in the sheets, covered in sweat; you hum as he speaks on the weather, some foolish gossip he heard or an upcoming tourney. He stays the night, snoring softly beside you. 

There are other nights where your husband visits because he’s restless, complaining of his family or whichever lord happened to offend him that day. He lets you pour his wine as he rambles on. He would dare not say he simply came seeking your company. His eyes follow as you light the candles, he comments on it, of course, asking why don’t you leave it to your servants instead, not long before you feel the familiar tug at the laces of your night dress. Demanding you undress and you know better than to refuse.

Sometimes he asks if you miss your family. When you admit you do, confusion flicks across his face. You have risen in station, married to a Targaryen prince; a maiden’s every dream. Aerion finds himself more annoyed than he should whenever you mention how you miss your home.

You belong to him now, your place remains by his. It doesn’t matter how tedious or late such events are. You remember all too well how furious he was when he asked where you were and he was informed you had returned to your chambers, too tired to stay. Aerion bursted into your place later in the night, blaming you for his foul mood, he had to entertain some drunk old fool all alone. As long as he is there, you must accompany him, is that not what wives do for their husbands.

Just like his love, Aerion must be the most jealous man you have ever crossed paths with. There can be no reasonings; it’s like wildfire, it spreads and there’s nothing you can do but wait for it to die down. You are stuck in its path, having to just endure it.

When tournaments are held, you are seated among the royal family watching your husband. There is no definitive proof but you feel his gaze flicker at you through the steel of his helm. And there is the semblance of proof, when he lifts his visor and you’re met with a smug smile meant only for you.

Before the tournament begins or after it, he demands you to be in his tent. He acts like he doesn’t need your praise or sweet words of encouragement. When it’s all over, he comes to you still in armor, the smell of blood, sweat and dirt clinging to him. The dirt of the field stains your gown when he pulls you close, insisting you should celebrate his victory, his mouth clashing into yours.

You’ll never forget the day when one simply asked for your favor. He was a boy from some minor house. And even if your husband was in denial of any feeling of attachment he had towards you. The mere act was seen as an insult, you pitied the boy long before and the gods must have been cruel to make him face your husband next. When Aerion struck, he didn’t target the shield but rather the legs of the horse. The boy was flinged from his horse landing face first into the ground, you gasped along with the crowd. Even from a distance, you can see the boy’s face all bloody and mangled as they dragged him away.

Aerion’s jealousy has become the talk across king’s landing, yet no one dares to say it out loud. A glance from another man across supper will have him feel a sick rage of jealousy. Tightening his hold on the goblet and you feign as you can’t feel his other hand gripping your thigh beneath the table. He’ll even squeeze your fingers a little too tightly when he thinks you’ve spoken to some other lady-in-waiting for far too long. The only reason his wrath is so restrained is due to his father. 

Aerion pretends he is above it all, acting indifferent but it burns in his eyes. His jealousy sometimes can seem ridiculous even childish yet you are always there to reassure him. Yes, Lord Tyrell made you laugh, but no one can ever be as charming as him. Yes, you spoke with lady Royce for a while, but no one is more of a pleasant company than him. You’re even careful not to clap too eagerly to another during tourneys, according to your husband, none of them could perform as well as he does. 

Your servants have gotten used to lowering their eyes when entering your chambers. The prince has become a common sight,  laying beside you, chest bare, an arm draped around you and hair tangled. If you shift, he stirs as well. An unfortunate lesson was taught when you left your husband waking up alone, for you were informed your maid ran out in tears; met with a foul mood Aerion during breakfast time. 

Aerion also being drunk is another common sight. He is far more affectionate, clinging to you. Yet you are still careful, his temper is still unpredictable, his jealousy if even possible is more intense, and his words are much harsh. Sometimes he looks at you, almost like he is bewitched, brushing your hair aside so he can take a better look.

Aerion cannot not touch you now. A hand will trail up your arm or toy with a strand of your hair yet in the same breath, Aerion insists he has no care for you. He’ll not hold your hand even when he wants you to follow, gripping your wrist instead. Do not try pushing his hand away unless you want a furious Aerion. His affection is, in many cases, rough. Gripping your face when he wants your attention or when he’s kissing you. The servants try not to stare when they are dressing you and see the hickies and bites laid across your skin.

Aerion would rather face a terrible death than admit he seeks your approval. He’ll tell stories or a jest and his head turns you, waiting for your laugh or nod. Aerion also surprisingly knows when something is wrong, it can’t be because he watches you so often. He knows how you twist your ring when you’re anxious or how you seem more lost in thought when nervous. He’ll ask, sounding more irritated than concerned. Aerion wishes to fix it, but his version of doing so is finding someone to blame for it then taking it out on them. 

Silence treatment is a death wish. It didn’t matter what Aerion did. Using silence as your weapon will drive this man mad. You remember all too well when he threw a cup at the wall right beside your head when you refused to answer him. Aerion didn’t apologize, he never does. He simply moved on with the day, as if nothing had happened. 

Aerion loves to spoil you. Dressed in his house colors, your dresses sewed with silks, hair pinned with adorned clasps. The first gift was a necklace with a dragon pendant, his sigil. He jests the gifts made you less plain beside him, yet his eyes linger with hunger whenever you wore them. But heaven forbid you wear anything from your own house or worse, do the offense of wearing someone else’s gift. No he doesn’t care if it was a family gift, he’ll throw it out the window or in the open sea without you knowing. 

And yet, with all of this. Aerion swears it’s not love. He is too proud for that. Love is a weakness. Love is for fools and singers. He can easily replace you. Find another lady from wherever who can do the simplest task of warming his bed and bearing him heirs. Yet Aerion finds himself noticing how your eyes twinkle in the moonlight, what rings you like to fiddle with when you are nervous, and your soft scent of lavender that lingers even when you leave. 

There was a time when fever struck. It seemed simple at first. Aeron didn’t even seem all that concerned, but when you became bedridden, and there was a slim chance of you not making it out – Aerion began to panic. He was truly unruly, the maesters were threatened while they worked, the servants were accused of poisoning you. There was such a scene, Maekar himself was forced to intervene, forcing his son from your bedside so the maesters could actually do their work. Dragons do not die of weakness, he kept telling himself. You must not. You will not. And when the fever finally broke, the realm seemed to let out a sigh of relief. Maekar was even unsure if you had tamed his son or drawn him deeper into madness. 

There is no separating you and Aerion. What began as a cold, loveless marriage had turned into something you are unsure what to call. For now, the man, the prince you married will never claim he loves you, and he’ll always remain cruel. But you know he would kill for you. He will force a lord into his knees if he was to make a joke of your expense. He not only wants you, desires you, but he needs you, like the flower needs the rain. You must only say the word and he’ll fulfill it and maybe that is all what a person wants. And with nothing else to do, you have grown to also care and love this cruel man. 

Some might call it bitterness, envy, or frustration for a girl – obviously single – to say she hated Valentine’s Day. You were a girl, you were single, and you did indeed hate Valentine’s Day, however, it had nothing to do with frustration or bitterness. Perhaps a tiny bit of envy, but nothing too alarming. In fact, if it weren't for Sirius, the date wouldn't have any impact on your life at all.

Speaking of Sirius, he was living proof that if some kind of god or divine providence existed, he clearly had his favourites. Look at the facts:

Sirius was a very handsome lad.

Sirius was one of the Marauders.

Sirius was charismatic.

Sirius was on the Quidditch team.

Sirius was the top Transfiguration student in your year.

Sirius was your best friend.

And Sirius was also the man you were sordidly in love with.

You listed all these problems attributes in your mind, reminding yourself they were part of what composed your misfortune.

Due to Sirius's reputation being widely known throughout Hogwarts, among both boys and girls, this was a difficult time of year for you. Every year, Sirius drowned in love letters – some of which turned into howlers when he snubbed them – boxes of chocolates (which he never ate for fear of being poisoned by some kind of Love Potion), or was cornered in every nook of the castle with different types of public declarations that left everyone present cringing when the person was rejected.

All these facts made you dislike Valentine’s Day. However, what made you truly loathe the date was the constant reminder that you were too much of a coward to admit your feelings to him. You stayed by his side every year, watching different people take the initiative to do what you always wanted, only to be cordially rejected with a wicked, utterly charming smirk that only he could pull off. Even when rejected, it seemed hard to stay heartbroken after receiving a smile like that, you supposed.

No. You were better off as his "great friend," thank you very much. At least that way you could see all his facets and receive – in some way – his affection, even if it wasn't romantic.

Which didn't mean you didn't feel bothered, because even though he rejected most people, Sirius flirted as naturally as breathing, and you had to watch in silence as he made "commitments" with some of his admirers, even while making it clear he couldn't return the feelings they were willing to give.

You also knew that, to some extent, Sirius loved the attention. However, at certain moments – like Valentine's Day – it could be rather exasperating even for someone like him. And that was exactly why you had a rather exasperated Sirius on your heels now that February was fast approaching.

Stepping back a bit for context: it was evening, and you were sitting on one of the sofas in the Gryffindor Common Room. Lily was in front of you on the floor while you braided her long red hair. Remus was sitting on a sofa nearby, and James was lying next to him, tossing a miniature version of a Quaffle up and catching it.

You were relaxed in a silence interrupted only by James’s occasional chatter or a student passing by toward the dormitories, listening to the rain falling outside and the crackling of the fireplace. Just as you began to feel sleepy, the portrait hole swung open and someone walked into the room with heavy footsteps.

"I’m telling you, Pete," Sirius said as he marched in, turning his head back to his friend following close behind. "These girls are going to be the death of me..."

You looked up from Lily’s hair and turned toward him. "Hello."

"Hello, Pips." Sirius stopped and scanned everyone gathered around the sofas and Lily on the rug. "Ah, everyone’s here. Thought you’d be in the dorms by now."

Lily barely suppressed a long yawn at the word "dormitory." "Actually, I was just thinking about heading up." She put a hand to her mouth and turned to you. "You have magic hands. I nearly nodded off right here on the floor with you messing with my hair."

James finally sat up, making room for Sirius, who practically threw himself onto the sofa next to him and Remus. "What were you and Pete talking about?"

"Oh, well. The usual," he said, folding his arms behind his neck to lean back. "Girls."

Peter laughed as he sat on the rug a bit closer to the fire. "Phoebe Howard tried to slip a Love Potion into Padfoot’s pumpkin juice."

James bounced in his seat, abandoning the tiny Quaffle. "And what gave it away this time?"

"The smell," Sirius replied, scowling as he remembered the strangely familiar fragrance.

You let out a laugh at the expression on his face. "I’m glad Professor Slughorn’s teachings are actually coming in handy."

"What I don't understand is how anyone in our year is capable of brewing Amortentia," Lily huffed with indignation.

"You’ll find that a girl desperate for our Padfoot’s attention is capable of anything, my dear Lily," James said, placing a hand on Sirius’s shoulder.

"What’s so interesting about having a boyfriend who’s completely inebriated on a Love Potion? Not to mention the whole moral context and consent... it’s a bit creepy," you questioned, crossing your arms over your chest.

Lily made a sound of immediate approval, leaning her arms on her knees. "Exactly! Thank you! That’s what I’ve been saying since I found out Love Potions existed. I mean, hello? It’s bizarre, to say the least."

"As if any of those nutters care about that," James commented, earning a sharp look from Lily, which made him raise his hands in quick surrender. "Not that I agree! I’m just saying... the competition for Padfoot is cutthroat. Desperation makes people lose their minds, and Valentine’s Day is almost here, so..."

Sirius rubbed his eyes and let out a heavy sigh. "Ugh. Valentine’s Day... I’m exhausted just thinking that I’ll have to sniff everything I put in my mouth for the next few days."

"I can be your taster," Pete offered enthusiastically, likely eager to eat the tons of chocolate boxes Sirius would receive.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you, Pete," you warned him. "Most of those potions don't usually end well, assuming they were even brewed correctly."

Remus finally looked up from his book and aimed his gaze at Sirius. "You know this inconvenience is entirely your own fault, don’t you?"

"You don't have to rub it in his face, Remus," Lily said, and you turned to him, trying to hide the satisfying smile blooming on your face.

"Oh, come off it. I just like to have a bit of fun. It’s not my fault if people get the wrong idea."

Remus rolled his eyes. "It’s not that they get the wrong idea, they know exactly what you’re like, Padfoot."

Sirius raised an eyebrow, confused. "And?"

"And they think you’re a welcome challenge," you continued.

"I can fix him," Lily added ironically.

"Wait a minute, what do you mean 'fix'? What’s there to be fix–"

"The point is, Padfoot, you flirt and snog way too much. And since you’re a popular bloke, everyone thinks they have a chance to finally snatch you up. Something like that," Remus interrupted, sighing and looking back down at his book.

"Well, that’s just my nature. Not much I can do about being naturally attractive and charismatic."

"Then you’ll just have to accept that you have some very difficult days ahead," you pointed out.

"You’re mean, Pips." He winked at you, his tone exaggeratedly dramatic. "You used to be kinder to me."

"What a load of rubbish! I’m not mean. I’m the one who helps you most while you’re constantly getting into trouble, one mess after another." You blinked in surprise. "I’ve even used my influence as a Prefect to get you out of your scrapes."

"As Head Girl, I shall say nothing about that, but know that I have an opinion," Lily commented, looking your way with a sharp gaze.

"Well, right now you don't seem to care one bit that your best friend might end up in the Hospital Wing after being poisoned by some Love Potion brewed in a teapot and strained through someone’s knickers."

"Again, entirely your fault," Remus noted, still not looking away from his book.

"You lot are cruel," Sirius pouted.

"You want to know something, Padfoot?" James stood up, walking over to where Lily was sitting and putting an arm around her shoulders. "If you had a girlfriend, like me, you wouldn't have to worry about any of this. I haven't received a single letter since I started going out with Lily."

"And I should hope not," Lily murmured, looking at her boyfriend.

You swallowed hard at James’s comment. Seeing Sirius be a flirt and hit on anything that moved was hard, but in your opinion, seeing him with someone – dating, committed – made everything feel much more solid and deep. Something difficult to change. It was as if it proved you’d never have a chance with him. Was it a feeling you should be proud of? Not in the slightest.

"Padfoot? Dating?" Peter mocked, looking between James and Sirius before gesturing with his head toward you. "It’s easier to see her dating than Padfoot."

"Oi, what’s that supposed to mean?" You raised an eyebrow and put a hand on your hip.

"Erm – " Peter choked.

"Actually, you’ve just given me an excellent idea."

"Oh, here he goes," Remus sighed, smiling in anticipation of whatever Sirius was about to say.

"I’m going to get a girlfriend."

You felt your smile falter slightly.

"Wait a minute," Peter held up a hand toward him. "I thought the whole point of this discussion was that you don't want to date anyone."

"I don't need to date for real," Sirius explained. "I just need someone to carry the honour and make the girls leave me alone."

"Right." Peter looked at his friend with scepticism.

"And is anyone daft enough to agree to be part of this mess just to save your skin from a bunch of desperate girls?" Lily scoffed, leaning her head on James’s shoulder.

You saw a wicked grin spread across Sirius’s face from ear to ear as his eyes shifted focus. Everyone else’s gaze left his face and fell on you as they realised what he was implying, and when you finally understood, you immediately moved to deny it.

"No, absolutely not." You shook your head. "Pete, are you sure Phoebe didn't manage to get him to drink that potion? There must be something wrong with his head."

Sirius let out an enthusiastic sigh before standing up and throwing himself onto the sofa next to you. "You’d be perfect! You’re one of my best friends, you’re always with me, and you know me better than any other girl. People will just assume we’ve... eventually fallen in love."

You had eventually fallen in love with him. Perhaps that was why your brain was trying so hard to warn you to follow logic. This couldn't bring you any good, you clearly loved him, and he was willing to pretend he did too just to scare off a bunch of silly girls who, just like you, had ended up liking the wrong boy.

"No way. We can't assume the whole school is that stupid."

"Please, Pips," Sirius leaned closer, the scent of leather and sandalwood that always accompanied him invading your senses and making your heart give a painful lurch. "It’s a perfect plan. No one will question it. We’re already always together, we even go to Hogsmeade together sometimes. We can do it again, we just need to keep up appearances for a few days."

"It’s not that simple, Sirius," you argued, trying to ignore the weight of his arm now resting on the back of the sofa behind your head. "And what happens when Valentine’s Day is over? Do we just 'break up' and go back to normal?"

"Exactly!" He snapped his fingers. "We can say it didn't work out, or that we decided we were better off as friends. It’s not like that doesn't happen."

"How many girls you've dumped are you still friends with?" Lily asked sceptically.

Remus finally closed his book, his expression oscillating between amusement and concern. "You do realise this could backfire spectacularly, don’t you?"

"What on earth could go wrong?" Sirius shrugged dismissively. "At most, people will know I’m no longer... how shall we put it? Operational? And honestly, who better to be my 'girlfriend' than my best friend?"

James let out a loud laugh, messing up his hair even more. "Be careful, Padfoot. These sorts of games don't usually end well. Someone always ends up getting screwed."

"Nothing to worry about, Prongs," Sirius insisted, turning those grey, pleading eyes back to you. "Pips, please. I’ll buy you all the chocolate frogs you want. I’ll do your Transfiguration homework for a month."

You looked at Lily’s hands, which were still entwined with James’s. The contrast between their real relationship and the charade Sirius was proposing was almost cruel. Of course, he wasn't aware of that. You looked at his face again – that shameless face that seemed to depend on your answer – and then you weighed your options. Accepting meant having everything you ever wanted: his touch, his proximity, being his girlfriend, even knowing none of it was genuine for him. On the other hand, you’d have to watch Sirius go on dates and receive gifts and declarations of love all day long, and the idea of seeing him surrounded by people desperate for his attention again was equally unbearable.

You gave a long sigh.

What an egotistical fool you were, weren't you?

"Two weeks?" you asked in a whisper, your voice wavering slightly.

"A month," Sirius promised, a victorious smile beginning to sprout on his lips. "We need to last a bit longer if we want to be convincing. After that, you 'dump' me and I go back to being Hogwarts' most coveted and miserable bachelor."

"I’m going to regret this," you muttered, covering your face with your hands.

"You’re a saint, that’s what you are," Lily said, standing up and offering a hand to help you up too. "I don't need to warn you that I don't agree with this and think it won't end well, do I?"

"Well, I think it’s a bit late for that, I’ve already agreed," you replied somewhat apprehensively.

"Not that any of you would listen to me anyway," she murmured more to herself than to you.

The Common Room slowly emptied. Remus said goodbye with an encouraging nod, and James and Lily headed up the dormitory stairs, whispering flirtations to each other as if no one else was watching. Peter had already gone up too. In the end, it was just you and Sirius before the dying embers of the fireplace.

Sirius stood up without moving away from you. He stopped in front of you, one hand in his robe pockets, looking strangely less playful now that there was no audience. His other hand reached for yours, holding it lightly.

"Thanks, really, Pips," he said, his voice lower and huskier. "I know it’s quite the ask."

"It’s fine, Sirius." You pulled your hand back and gave him a small smile. "As long as you don't make me look like a fool," you tried to joke, though the only feeling you could filter through right now was apprehension.

"Never," he winked, and before you could react, he leaned in and pressed a chaste kiss to your temple. A friendly kiss, you told yourself. Still, the spot where his lips touched your skin felt like it was burning. "Be ready for breakfast tomorrow. You won't want to miss the debut of Hogwarts' newest couple."

You watched him walk up the stairs with that remarkable confidence he possessed. You stood there, alone in the silence of the hall, lightly running your fingers over the spot where he had kissed you. Sirius was focused on getting out of the sight of the girls of Hogwarts, and well... if that’s what he wanted, you would definitely make it work.

What wouldn't you do for him, after all?

As it turns out, things rarely – actually, maybe never – go according to plan, and perhaps Sirius’s "genius" idea to put you under his spotlight left him on the verge of discovering a hard truth, both about his own old reputation and your newly discovered one.

The morning after the night in the Common Room, you’d barely had five hours of sleep. Every time you closed your eyes, the feeling of Sirius’s lips against your skin returned to haunt you, and the idea of having to pretend to be his girl made you nervous with both anticipation and despair. By the time the other girls started waking up, you were already awake, staring at the canopy ceiling and mentally rehearsing all the ways this plan could fail miserably.

It was so tempting to back out now.

You took longer to get ready this time, trying in some way to put more effort into your appearance. When you went down to the Common Room trying to look as natural as possible, your hands were shaking slightly as you adjusted your Gryffindor tie. Sirius was already there, leaning against the table near the portrait of the Fat Lady, chatting distractedly with James. The moment he saw you, his face lit up with a devastating smile that, if you weren't used to receiving it, would have made you faint right then and there.

"Morning, babe," he said in a voice loud enough for the students heading out to breakfast to hear.

Before you could respond, he stepped closer and, with all the naturalness in the world, draped an arm over your shoulders, pulling you gently toward him and leaning down to kiss your cheek.

Your eyes went as wide as Bludgers and your face instantly turned beet red.

"Sleep well?" he asked, lowering his tone just enough to create an illusion of intimacy as they began walking toward the Great Hall.

"I-I- I, I... I-I– " you stammered back, feeling the heat of his body radiating against yours through his robes.

"Stay focused, love," he whispered with a wink.

"Oh my god," was all you were able to mutter.

The entrance into the Great Hall went more or less as you’d imagined. The usual hubbub of hundreds of students seemed to dim and then swell as you walked past the tables, appearing much more intimate than ever. Sirius kept his arm around you in a way he obviously never did, he also tilted his head occasionally, pretending to whisper something funny in your ear, which forced you to laugh and, consequently, look like the luckiest girl in the castle. Ah. If only it were real. At the moment, you felt more like the most pathetic girl to ever set foot there.

When you reached the Gryffindor table, he didn't sit between Remus and Peter as usual, he tucked himself in right next to you, letting your thighs touch under the table while still keeping his warm hand on yours.

"Milk?" he offered, pouring a mug for you even before serving himself.

"Thanks," you murmured, feeling dozens of eyes burning in your direction.

"Anything for you, love."

Across the table, James and Lily watched the scene with expressions that couldn't be more contrasting. James looked like he was holding back a laugh, while Lily watched you with an arched eyebrow, clearly worried about how well you were – or weren't – able to separate reality from the illusion you were creating.

Of course, some more persistent people wouldn't believe so easily that the great Sirius Black had finally entered a relationship just by seeing him getting cozy with a girl – even his best friend – since that was a somewhat recurring scene. And well, someone sooner or later had to put it to the test.

"Hi, Sirius." A small, somewhat uncertain voice rose behind you. If your memory was right, it was Phoebe Howard. She was clutching a copy of A Guide to Advanced Transfiguration to her chest tightly and seemed to be fighting her own desire to hex you while trying to maintain eye contact with the boy beside you.

"Hello, Phoebe. Morning," he replied, tossing a grape directly into his mouth as naturally as he would answer anyone else.

She stood there for a few seconds, smiling to herself just for receiving a "good morning" from Sirius Black, before snapping back and speaking again.

"It’s... well. I was thinking. You’re the best Transfiguration student in our year and I – I... I haven't been doing very well..."

"She’s doing well enough in Potions," you suppressed a laugh hearing Peter comment quietly and mischievously to Remus.

The girl continued, "I just wanted to know if I could ask you for a... study session... in the library this weekend." Her voice seemed to diminish with every word.

Sirius’s grip on your shoulder tightened subtly. He didn't look at Phoebe immediately, instead, he tilted his face toward you, smiling in a way that would make anyone believe you were each other's entire universe, before turning to her again with a slow, lazy expression.

"That’s very kind of you, Phoebe. But I’m afraid my weekends now belong entirely to my girlfriend," he announced, putting an arm around your shoulders and resting your head on his shoulder. "And honestly, I can barely concentrate when she’s around, I might not be the best person to teach you." Sirius said, and the conviction in his voice was so strong that even you felt a flutter in your stomach. It was almost as if he meant it.

Phoebe wilted visibly at his words. She flicked her gaze between Sirius’s arm around you and your own face, the latent envy in her eyes fighting against the obvious sadness of being rejected. Unable to say anything else, she let out a muffled sound and turned, fleeing toward the Ravenclaw table with her ears burning red.

You almost felt sorry for her – until you remembered that just the night before she had almost spiked your best friend's drink – and Sirius? Well, Sirius looked very pleased with himself. He had just gotten rid of Phoebe Howard and announced – to whoever hadn't reached that conclusion yet – the fact that you two were dating.

He could have easily gone to Slytherin with that attitude, you thought.

────୨ৎ────

In the days leading up to Valentine’s Day, life at Hogwarts became a blur between friendship and performance. Sirius took his role seriously, you supposed. Which was somewhat funny because, in the end, it all boiled down to physical contact – holding hands, cuddling in public, brushing his lips against your cheek or temple now and then. As for the rest, he didn't need to memorise your class schedule to find you because he already did that most days. He didn't need to get used to carrying your books because he rarely let you carry them anyway, the exceptions being the result of your own insistence. And during meals, he didn't need to discover what you liked to eat because he always made sure you had the best portion of your favourite food.

And Sirius found himself surprised by how much he was enjoying this routine. How incredibly easy and lovely it was to be in a relationship with you, even if it wasn't completely real. Before long, he thought it might be fair to give some credit to the lads who chose to date because, contrary to what he imagined, being with you in such an affectionate and intimate way proved to be no sacrifice at all. He was happier in these few days than in any date or snogging session he’d had in months, and it seemed to the rest of the school that Sirius Black was finally domesticated. The girls now kept a safe distance while you and he sat together in the courtyard, you positioned between his legs with your head resting on his chest while pretending to study.

"You’re a good actress, Pips," Sirius whispered, his fingers playing with a strand of your hair. "Who would’ve thought there’s so little time left until Valentine’s Day and Pete hasn't eaten a single spiked chocolate yet?"

"And have you received any to give to him?"

He turned his head to look at you. "No, I don't think so. At least not yet. Can you believe it?"

You laughed, though there was a twinge of anxiety in your voice. "Well, things really do seem calmer, but we’ll only know for sure if all this – " you gestured toward yourself and then him " – wasn't a massive waste of time when Valentine’s Day actually arrives."

"Details, details," he murmured, leaning in for a quick kiss on the top of your head.

There was almost no one around, and you were left wondering why the display of affection was necessary. In truth, he seemed to be quite enjoying kissing you lately and did so frequently, whether there were people nearby or not – to your purest joy or darkest doom.

"I can tell, by the way things are going, that everything is working out exactly as I planned. Look at us. We’re natural. I think I could get used to this."

You looked down and averted your gaze. All this time and all these caresses were wrecking your emotions. You felt like an idiot for playing this role, while at the same time feeling completely happy and comfortable with all the affection he was showering on you. You also felt you were starting to lose sight of the thin line that separated your love from friendship and kept your heart contained in all your interactions with him. In short, you were so screwed.

And of course, as mentioned about nothing in life ever going according to plan, that wasn't even the only problem.

While Sirius delighted in the peace acquired by your "relationship," something was shifting around you.

You could say his popularity had always worked as a smoke screen of sorts, which for you wasn't a bad thing, as you weren't a very extroverted person to begin with. It was comfortable to be just another girl, and the people whose opinions mattered to you knew your value well enough, you were sure of that. However, now everyone seemed to be finally seeing you in a strange way. Or at least the male portion of Hogwarts.

The first evidence appeared when an unknown owl landed in front of you carrying a note and a rosebud.

"What’s this?" Sirius asked, eyebrow arched.

"I don't know. I’m not expecting anything," you said, looking at the back of the envelope.

Lily didn't even wait for you to find out who had sent the letter before snatching it from your hand. "It says here it’s from Thomas Menken," she broke the seal and opened the envelope to read the contents. "He says he’s always admired you and that, if things aren't serious between you and Sirius, he’d love to take you for a Butterbeer."

Sirius scowled and snatched the letter from her hands. He read it again as if he didn't believe what he heard and let out a short, dry laugh. "Thomas Menken? That Beater who couldn't hit a Bludger if it were on his nose? The nerve." He crumpled the paper. "Clearly he’s spent the last few days with his head up a Thestral’s arse. Didn't he see we’re together?"

"It’s a fake relationship, Sirius," you reminded him.

"It’s not as if he knows that," he grumbled, his voice rising. "What’s with him, hitting on someone else's girlfriend..."

But Thomas was only the beginning. In the breaks between classes, boys who previously only interacted when necessary, now stopped to chat with you, giving compliments for even the most mundane things you could imagine, which certainly threw cold water on Sirius’s mood. He went from relaxed to a sort of territorial dog, extremely furious with life.

"What did Stebbins want?" Sirius hissed as the blond lad who had stopped you at the corridor entrance walked away, practically spitting his name.

"He just wanted to know if I had the notes from Professor Slughorn’s last class. It was nothing," you replied.

"He’s been staring at your backside since you appeared, and he isn't even in Potions this year," Sirius growled, putting an arm possessively around your back and pulling your chair closer to his. "Tell him you’re busy if he approaches again."

"Why would I do that?" you murmured, trying to gently disentangle yourself from his grip. "He was perfectly polite. Besides, the notes are mine, I’ll lend them to whoever I want."

"You’re very naive, Pips. Honestly," he rolled his eyes, his face still set in a scowl. "You think they’re interested in your notes? They’re interested in you. And trust me, boys are trouble. All of them."

"Funny you should say that" you retorted with a sarcastic smile. "Seeing as you’ve been, technically, the biggest trouble in this school since day one."

"Exactly!" he exclaimed, as if you’d just proven his point. "They’re trying to play my game. I know exactly what goes through a bloke's head when he starts complimenting even the way a girl blinks. Believe me when I say the last thing he wants is to study. He wants an excuse to be near you."

"And why would that be such a big problem? I should be happy. You should be happy. I thought the plan was working. The girls aren't bothering you anymore, are they? Why all this moodiness? We’re going to break up eventually."

"Yes, it’s working wonderfully for me, and look like it’s the case for you too" he admitted, though his voice didn't sound happy at all. "Now I have to deal with half the male population of Hogwarts lurking around you like nifflers after gold. It’s irritating. They’re not good enough for you."

"Well, I don't know what happened, but it’s not my fault if I’m suddenly interesting. You’ll just have to learn to deal with it," you joked, trying to ignore the way his gaze seemed to burn your skin. "Think of it as training for when we go back to normal. You’ll be so used to pretending to care that you’ll be an excellent real boyfriend for someone one day."

Sirius’s face turned strangely serious for a moment. The lazy tranquillity vanished, and he watched you in a silence that seemed to last an eternity. Before he could say anything, however, Daniel Lloyd from Ravenclaw stopped in front of your table.

"Hi," he said, ignoring the death stare Sirius threw his way.

Brilliant, Sirius thought. Another one.

"I heard you, Evans, and Lupin are organising a study group for the O.W.L.s. I’d love to join, if there’s a spot."

You felt Sirius go rigid beside you. His hand, which was resting on the back of your chair, moved to your shoulder, his fingers closing with a possessive firmness.

The funniest thing was that Lloyd seemed to genuinely just want to study.

"Sorry, Lloyd," Sirius interrupted before you could open your mouth, his voice coming out as a low, dangerous growl. "The study group is full. And she’s going to be very busy with me... studying other things."

Daniel blinked, surprised and visibly embarrassed, and took a step back. "Oh... right."

As soon as he moved away, you turned to Sirius, indignant. "Why did you say that? Now everyone will think – "

"What? That we do couple things?" he replied, looking much happier after having scared off another of your ‘admirers’’. “We’re in seventh year, Pips. I’m sure they’re all big enough to know what a couple does behind closed doors. That’s why I repeat: boys are trouble, love. As far as I’m concerned, I intend to keep all of them well away from you."

You let out a long sigh before standing up to leave. "Right, right. If you say so."

────୨ৎ────

When Valentine’s Day morning finally arrived, Sirius entered the hall with an air of almost absolute triumph – if it weren't for the bloody nuisances that had swarmed you over the last few days. Moreover, no love potions, no howlers. James had proven himself a man of great wisdom indeed.

He sat beside you, exuding satisfaction.

"Peace," he sighed. "Pips, you’re saving my life."

"It better have been worth it," Lily mocked, holding a copy of The Daily Prophet as she read it. "All this work just to avoid saying no to a bunch of girls is a bit pathetic, frankly."

Sirius pulled you onto his lap, resting his chin on your shoulder. "Think of James begging you for a date since third year, Lils, then imagine fifteen of him doing it at the same time for an entire week."

Lily couldn't help a grimace, and Sirius smirked.

"Yeah. That’s why it was worth every second."

You continued to eat before the chaos of letters and presents descended upon the hall, which didn't take long, as minutes later the sight of owls flying in carrying parcels filled the castle. Sirius didn't expect any birds landing on his table today, but his eyes widened when nearly a dozen owls began circling over your head. Coloured letters, small packages, and even flowers fell onto your plate. He almost regretted saying too soon that the plan had worked, swallowing a comment only upon seeing that most of the parcels were addressed to you and not him.

"What’s all this?" James asked.

"Looks like someone has a few secret admirers," Lily commented, giving a knowing smile in your direction.

Sirius’s good mood soured instantly. He watched with a clenched jaw as you opened a box of Honeydukes chocolates with a card that read: "To the most beautiful girl in all of Hogwarts.  –  S.S."

"S.S.? Stephen Stebbins again?" Sirius grumbled, his voice exuding a dense, dangerous irritability. "Hundreds of girls in the school and he’s acting cute with the ones who have boyfriends? It seems someone needs a serious lesson in boundaries."

He started to stand up, fists clenched and gaze fixed on the Hufflepuff table, where Stebbins was smiling distractedly. You acted fast, grabbing firmly onto his robe sleeve and pulling him back onto the bench.

"Sirius Black, sit down this instant," you hissed, flashing a warning look that made him hesitate. "Do you want to end up being expelled? It’s just a box of chocolates. I’m not even going to eat them!"

"He has no right to send them to you," he growled. "He knows you’re with me. That’s the second time he’s sent you something knowing that. What’s his problem? Is it some sort of sick fetish?"

"It’s just a gesture, Sirius. It doesn't mean anything, at least not to me," you whispered, leaning in so only he could hear. "The plan is to make people believe we’re a couple. Honestly, it’s convincing that you look so bothered by it, but I don't think it’s appropriate for people to think you’ve turned into a possessive brute."

Sirius huffed, crossing his arms over his chest and throwing one last death glare in Stebbins’s direction before turning back to you.

"Now, finish eating. If we leave now, maybe we can get to Defense Against the Dark Arts without you trying to fight half the Great Hall."

He resisted but ended up gulping down his mug of coffee and standing up, gathering his things with evident impatience. The transition to the corridor, however, didn't bring the relief you’d expected. As soon as you crossed the doors, Sirius’s nightmare became a constant reality. On the way, you were intercepted every ten yards.

When you were nearly reaching the staircase, a Hufflepuff boy ran up to you, ignoring Sirius as most of them seemed to enjoy doing.

"Wait!" he shouted before putting a hand on your shoulder. "I just wanted to know if you got my card. And if you’re free next weekend in Hogsmeade – "

Sirius stepped forward, his body positioning itself between you and the boy, brushing the intruder's arm away from you. His grey eyes were now as dark as a storm.

"What the bloody hell is with you lot? Of course she isn't free," Sirius said, his voice coming out as an impatient growl, his hand instinctively going to your waist, gripping it firmly. "She’s with me. Are you fucking blind?"

"I know she’s with you, Black," the boy replied with a mocking smile at Sirius. "But everyone knows you don't stick with anyone for long. I’m just keeping my place in line."

Sirius’s face went pale with fury. The plan had worked well. Too well. Now, the girls were leaving him alone, and the bloody boys had decided to make his life a living hell. Apparently, he had exposed to everyone how incredible you were, and now everyone wanted to take you from him.

Feeling Sirius’s tension and hatred – which you judged to be much more understandable now, especially since you yourself were furious at how that insolent boy had referred to you, as if there were indeed a "line" of guys you’d be with – you thought it best to intervene, placing yourself between the two before Sirius could strangle the boy..

"I appreciate the kindness, but what makes you think I’d be with you even if I weren't with Sirius?" you questioned in a serious tone, and the boy looked rather embarrassed.

"W-well, I just thought since Black – "

"He is my boyfriend. I am with him now. I love him, and even if he didn't want anything with me, I still wouldn't go out with you. Are you capable of understanding if I say it like that, to your face, or do I need to draw it for you?"

The three of you dipped into an awkward silence, however, you wouldn't say anything else and wouldn't allow Sirius to speak either. Not until the boy apologised or left.

"Right, erm... Sorry to have bothered you." He finally backed away, his face scarlet and his gaze turned to the floor before leaving.

Sirius didn't seem in the mood to stay there for another minute either. He pulled you away so quickly you almost tripped. He didn't stop until you were in an empty niche behind a suit of armour. Impatiently, he pinned you lightly against the wall, hands resting on either side of your head while he sighed deeply, his breath short.

"Place in line?" he repeated, sinking his head onto your shoulder, his voice husky and laden with possessiveness. "They think this is some game of taking turns? That I’m just going to let you go when this month is up?"

"Sirius... what? What are you talking about?" you started.

He finally lifted his head, matching his gaze with yours.

"Exactly what you heard." He brought one of his hands to your face, holding your cheek softly. "I don't think I’m going to be able to let you go when this month is up."

Your gaze darted away from his for a second before returning to meet the grey orbs scanning every detail of your face. "But- But you agreed. One month, and then I dump you."

"I was an idiot, as usual," he admitted, forehead leaning against yours, eyes closing. "I was the biggest idiot in the history of Hogwarts. I thought it wouldn't be anything more than normal. Spending these days being your 'boyfriend,' but... Pips, I think in these days I realised how all this time you... I- I can't even stand these blokes looking at you. I can't stand seeing you open those letters without wanting to hex every brat in that hall."

He opened his eyes.

"You’re not thinking straight," you whispered, without pushing him away. "You only feel this way because these boys are bothering you- "

"No, just listen to me," he interrupted. "All this time, I was so comfortable with you by my side under this label of friendship and I... I don't think I understood how I felt about you until I had to pretend to be your boyfriend." He stopped for a moment, letting out a laugh and a sigh before continuing. "Imagine my surprise when I realised I barely had to try. I think it was already latent in me all this time. Call it instinct, fate, whatever you want." He let out another low, guttural laugh. "We’re so natural together... You always make everything so light, so perfect... It’s hard to imagine when you aren't with me, and it’s painful too."

You felt his thumb caressing your skin while his warm breath ricocheted off your face. "I just needed to give my instincts a chance and be able to touch you, hold you..." he stopped momentarily, staring at your lips before wetting his own "...kiss you."

You couldn't suppress the shiver that ran through your entire body like an electric current.

"But even if not everything was pretend, I don't want to pretend anymore," he whispered against your lips. "At all."

You had nothing to say. Your eyes were focused on his face, and you felt your ears ringing, trying to record every word he said in your mind.

When his lips finally met yours, the sensation was different from what Sirius was used to. It was full of softness and tenderness. And he was certain he was surrendering, as if all your sweetness was invading him and messing him up inside. It was as if all the kisses he’d ever given didn't cause a third of the sensations that a single kiss of yours did. And then, feeling the greed and the urge for more, the kiss deepened. Now it was hungry, laden with years of silent desire and the newly discovered possessiveness he had desperately felt over the last few days. Your hands slid up his broad shoulders and wrapped around the nape of his neck seeking balance, your own legs had already given away.

The kiss continued for what felt like an eternity, Sirius’s hand still holding your face and his lips still exploring yours restlessly. With a husky vibration, Sirius ended the kiss and lightly lifted your head to look into your eyes.

You felt your head spinning like a carousel, the world around the armour niche appearing to have dissolved into blurs of light and shadow. The girl who had spent years guarding that secret as if she were covering up a murder seemed to have lost herself somewhere between Sirius’s firm touch and the softness and skill of his lips.

"Sirius..." you whispered, your voice coming out shaky and frail. You felt dazzled, as if you’d just stepped out of a dream too vivid to be ignored.

"Yes, my love?" He smiled, seeing the completely disconcerted and adorable state a single kiss had left you in.

"I... I don't know what to say."

"You don't have to explain anything to me."

"No, I do. I want you to know too." You fixed your gaze on his eyes. "It was so long spent convincing myself that this would never happen that... I thought I was alone in this. Completely alone."

His gaze softened, a pang of remorse crossing his grey eyes.

"Did you know I only agreed to all this because, just like you, I hate Valentine’s Day?" You let out a low, shaky laugh. "But my reasons are even worse than yours. Every year, I was dying of envy of every girl who had the courage to give you a card or ask you out while I just stood there like an idiot."

Sirius ran his thumb over your lips again before you continued. You still felt his eyes fixed on yours.

"I thought if I were with you this time, I wouldn't have to watch that again."

Your breathing began to normalise, but the sparkle in your eyes betrayed how dazzled and shocked you still were. "I didn't want you to pull away from me," you confessed.

"But I don't want to pretend anymore either, if you’ll have me. I wasn't pretending when I accepted your hugs. Or every time you held my hand in the corridor," you smiled affectionately at the memory. "I always had to fight to remember how to breathe. I’m doing it even now."

It was Sirius’s turn to laugh at the comment.

"So, if you’re saying you don't want to pretend anymore... know that I never wanted to. It was always you for me."

Sirius let out a sigh of relief that seemed to come from the depths of his soul, breaking into one of those smiles that made you fall even deeper for his infinite charms, filling his lungs with air and exhaling slowly.

"I’m going to burn every single one of those letters," he murmured, bringing his face close to yours again, making you let out a happy giggle.

"And all those Honeydukes chocolates?" you asked, eyes shining.

"Well, Pete can have those. I suspect he’s rather disappointed I didn't receive anything this year."

You laughed again before he locked his lips onto yours once more.

You stepped out from behind the armour minutes later, hair slightly dishevelled and faces flushed. As you walked back toward the Great Hall, Sirius entwined his fingers in yours firmly, chin held high, wearing the most satisfied smile Hogwarts had seen on a Marauder since James Potter started dating Lily Evans.

And you thought to yourself that maybe Valentine’s Day wasn't so terrible after all.

------------------------------------------------

English isn’t my first language, so I apologize for any typos or weird phrasing.

So, this was supposed to go up the day before yesterday for Valentine’s Day, but with uni classes starting back up, I’ve been a bit swamped. I still really wanted to share something for the date, though! I got a little carried away and it ended up being nearly 8k words lol. I hope it was worth it! Happy Valentine’s Day! ❤️

Sirius hated Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place.

And there was an irony in the fact that, as a boy, he had run away from this very house to James's, convinced he couldn't survive another single second here. Irony in realising he had fled because he couldn't bear life in that dark house, overflowing with resentment and bitterness. He had run because he'd spent his life trapped in his own home, imprisoned by his own family.

And now, he was trapped in the exact same place once more.

The Blacks were long gone, but the wretched feeling the house gave him never eased.

Of course, compared to Azkaban, there was a certain level of comfort. A soft bed, a few of his old books he'd managed to hide from Walburga, hot meals. He was also fortunate enough to no longer deal with Dementors, though Kreacher's constant muttering served as a decent substitute for psychological torture.

Not long ago, he had managed to contact Albus, offering to turn this godforsaken hole into something useful by making it the new Headquarters for the Order. Perhaps having people fighting for the right cause constantly coming and going might make him view it less like a nest of vipers and more like a home. Especially since, by Dumbledore's orders, he had to avoid going outside, avoid being seen, avoid going on missions.

Sirius didn't know what his purpose was now that he was "free". He felt utterly useless, living off the charity of others who were out there risking their lives, hunting for the one who should have been in his place all these years while he rotted in this filthy house.

Still no sign of Wormtail. He found himself remembering Dumbledore's last letter.

Merlin. Was it really too much to ask for something to do? Was he truly such an incompetent wizard in their eyes?

He was still slumped in the armchair in the drawing room when he heard someone apparating outside. He grabbed his wand and sat up straight. Sirius knew Dumbledore was the Secret-Keeper of the place, but after all these years, a little extra caution wouldn't hurt.

Moments later, he heard the click of the front door lock, the turn of the handle, and then the sharp, rhythmic clicking of a heel against the wooden floorboards.

"STAINS UPON THE NOBILITY OF OUR NAME! BLOOD TRAITORS IN MY HOUSE!"

Brilliant, he thought. Walburga had heard too and seemed wide awake now, screeching her atrocities loudly enough to be heard all the way to the Thames.

Sirius tucked his wand into the waistband of his trousers with an irritated sigh and strode toward the entrance hall. His loudmouthed mother’s shrill voice gave him splitting headaches, and he’d already asked people to enter the house quietly, otherwise she'd scream for hours on end. In truth, he'd probably prefer a Dementor’s Kiss over enduring the old hag's shrieking. As he walked, his teeth ground together, and his steps grew heavier on the floorboards. His anger toward the old portrait, however, vanished the second he saw you.

You were standing in the middle of the hall, struggling desperately with the heavy, dusty velvet curtains to cover the portrait. Your hair was slightly damp from the drizzle outside, and your dark woollen coat still hung from your shoulders, half-open, revealing the formal clothes you wore to work at the Ministry.

"Just... shut your bloody mouth... you miserable old hag..." you muttered through gritted teeth, your voice strained and muffled by physical effort as you yanked the heavy fabric, fighting to hide the slight embarrassment of waking the old witch.

"Let me help with that," Sirius said.

His voice, rough and deep, seemed to startle you. You gave a sharp flinch, letting go of the curtain for a split second. Sirius took two quick strides forward, positioning himself right behind you. He stretched his long arms over your shoulders, gripping the velvet firmly and yanking it closed over the frame in one swift movement.

Walburga’s screams were abruptly muffled, reduced to a low drone behind the heavy cloth.

Sirius hadn't stepped back yet. He was still standing right behind you, so close you could feel the heat radiating from his body. It was always strange for both of you to be in the same room, after all, a lot could change in fourteen years, even for two people who had been engaged before the disaster with the Potters and his imprisonment.

It had been such a confusing storm of emotions when the Order summoned you again. Sirius had escaped Azkaban nearly two years prior and still hadn't sought you out. Of course, there could have been a dozen reasons for that, and during the year he broke out, most people still believed he was indeed guilty of James and Lily's deaths. Somehow, you had never been able to believe it, even when Dumbledore himself advised you to move on. But then, if Sirius wasn't to blame, why had he never come back for you? Had the agonising years in Azkaban managed to erase you from his heart?

When Dumbledore’s summons finally arrived, you instinctively knew he would be there. You were only more certain when you stood before the house at Grimmauld Place.

Just thinking of the possibility of seeing him again threw you into a spiral of feelings that could hardly be put into words. The immense longing echoing in your chest was the strongest of them, but the uncertainty of his state of mind was just as powerful. There was also the desperate, aching passion that fourteen years apart hadn't been able to extinguish – but there was fear and doubt too, which time had only watered to grow.

When you finally saw Sirius Black again for the first time in all those years, standing in one of the drawing rooms of that massive house, surrounded by the other members of the Order, you couldn't run to him like you thought you would. You couldn't even cry, though you felt like you might burst with emotion at the sight of him. All you managed to do was exchange a few awkward, clumsy words, barely looking each other in the eye. You even remembered Molly's teasing the following day, whispering to you, "Given how you two used to be, I thought you'd throw yourself at him the second you saw him." Well, that was what you had thought you’d do, too. But how do you interact with a fiancé you were separated from for over a decade? You can't just pick up where you left off. What had changed? Who had he become, when even you weren't the same person anymore?

No. You didn't have the courage to do anything. Not that day, and not in the days that followed.

And Sirius? Well, it was a torture shared by both of you. Fourteen years. Fourteen years since he was ripped away from his own life, from everything you two shared, from wedding plans, and even from the warmth your body brought to his soul. Sirius knew you must carry a deep wound from his imprisonment. He imagined you must have spent all this time questioning his true intentions, believing he was a murderer – after all, even Dumbledore had given up on him. He feared you might even feel disgusted with yourself for ever having given your body and soul to such a vile man. Even though the truth had come to light, how could he dare believe things would remain the same between you? How could he believe that someone who had likely spent the last decade nurturing the thought of him as a killer could still love him? Perhaps not even he would do that.

Sirius had a cowardly dread of seeing repulsion, fear, or hatred in the eyes of the woman he loved most. From his perspective, when you walked through that door for the first time weeks ago, his heart beat so violently against his ribs it felt ready to break the bone and leap toward you. In his mind, all he wanted was to run, sweep you into his arms, and kiss you until the world vanished. But when your eyes met amid the other Order members, all you two could manage was a few stuttered, formal words, lacking even the courage to hold each other's gaze for more than two seconds. Unable to face one another, when you used to share a loud, physical relationship where personal space barely existed and passion was a delicious game between you. But how could he touch you now? What right did he have to your body or your love? He was no longer the bold, reckless twenty-two-year-old. What if you were only there out of duty? What if you didn't want what was left of him anymore?

So, the two of you remained like strangers.

Back in the hall, slowly, you turned to face him, closing the distance between your bodies even further. Your eyes met in the dimness of the corridor, lit only by the weak glow of a wall bracket.

Sirius swallowed hard, his grey eyes tracing the contours of your face. He wanted to raise his hand, touch the curve of your jaw, and pull you to him. His arms twitched with a subtle movement, his fingers flexing, but he hesitated.

You noticed his hesitation, and your chest tightened with your heavy longing. You felt just as desperately how much you wanted to hold him. You wanted to wrap your arms around his neck, cling to him tightly, and bury your head there, breathing in his scent. Would it still be as intoxicating as it was all those years ago?

"Hi, Sirius," you whispered, your voice cracking slightly at the end.

"Hi," he replied, the gravelly depth of his voice vibrating straight down your spine. He took a half-step back, creating a safe distance, and shoved his hands into his trouser pockets–a defensive tic he’d had since his Hogwarts days. "You... I haven't seen you in a while. Is the Ministry keeping you busy?"

"Yes. A lot of paperwork and import reports for the committee," you lied partially, not wanting to bore him with the bureaucracy of your day, though the truth was you were only trying to delay your return to this house. "It’s been a long day."

"I imagine so," Sirius nodded, casting his eyes to the floorboards for a second before focusing back on you. "You've come for the meeting, I suppose?"

You looked around, searching for any sign that anyone else had arrived. "Yes, has everyone else arrived?"

"Not yet. You're the first, as always. Even if you are later than usual."

You wiped your dusty hands on your coat, averting your eyes. "Force of habit. Believe me, I'm not in the least bit excited to discuss Dolores Umbridge and Fudge's delusions."

Sirius nodded, still keeping his distance, though his pupils drifted back to you for a fraction of a second.

"The drawing room is... a bit warmer. I was in there. Left a fire going in the grate. If you like... we could have a drink until the others get here."

You looked at his hands hidden in his pockets, remembering how those very hands used to be so possessive and warm against your skin. The desperate need to be near him, even under the awkward guise of two strangers who knew each other far too intimately, won over.

"I’d love that," you said softly.

You walked past the hall and made your way to the drawing room in silence. The room was bathed in shadow, illuminated only by the reddish glow of the embers in the fireplace. On the old, ornate coffee table, a bottle of Firewhisky was already half-empty next to a single, heavy tumbler. Sirius walked a bit further to the kitchen cabinet, grabbed another matching glass, and returned to pour you a generous measure, sliding the glass across the dark wood of the table before sitting on the sofa.

You took off your damp coat, draping it over one of the sofa arms, and sat down beside him, misjudging the physical proximity so that your knees almost touched over the upholstery.

You held the glass, feeling the warmth of the Firewhisky seep into your cold hands. Sirius swirled his own drink, his eyes fixed on the amber liquid, his jaw clenched as he seemed to battle his own thoughts.

Feeling awkward under the heavy silence, you looked down at your drink before downing the entire shot in a single gulp.

Sirius seemed to be amused by this.

"I remember you used to hate Firewhisky," he remarked suddenly, a bitter, nostalgic half-smile tugging at the corner of his thin lips. "You said it tasted like goblin piss."

A faint laugh escaped your lips, breaking the tension slightly.

"Yes, well. Things change in fourteen years. I suppose this sort of drink gets a bit more tolerable as we get older. Though I do still think it tastes like goblin piss."

"And you drink a lot of goblin piss, do you?"

You gave his arm a playful swat, laughing. "Oh, stop it, you know what I meant."

Sirius let out a short, breathy laugh – a sound so rare lately that it felt foreign even to his own ears. The movement crinkled the corners of his grey eyes, momentarily softening the exhausted, hardened expression that years of imprisonment had carved into his face.

"You're out of luck with this one. Mundungus brought it, Merlin knows where from," he said, leaning his head back against the sofa, though his eyes didn't leave you for a second. "The last time I had a whisky this bad was during our first winter in the Greenwich flat. Remember? None of us knew how to cast a proper warming charm, and it was, what? The coldest week of January?"

A soft, genuine laugh finally slipped from your lips. "I remember that," you murmured, feeling the warmth of the whisky start to spread through your chest, relaxing your tense shoulders. "Nothing could faze you back then, could it? I told you buying that rubbish was a waste of sickles."

"Oh, come off it, it was aged at least-"

"Sixty years? Yes, I remember you saying that," you interrupted, still laughing. "No wonder you bought it from some other Mundungus type."

Sirius laughed. "Now that I think about it, one gulp of Skele-Gro would have tasted much better."

"It did nothing but give me the worst hangover of my life, and you swore it would help warm us up."

"And it did work," he shot back, a flash of playful arrogance crossing his eyes – a perfect ghost of twenty-two-year-old Sirius. "Though I admit the whisky was just a pretext. We didn't end up needing any warming charm after what we did on the living room floor."

Your cheeks flushed hot instantly at the memory. That night, the freezing flat had been entirely forgotten beneath the heat of his skin, in the rhythm of how you used to love each other on the floor of that tiny room, taking your time. Two young, newly engaged people, driven by an uncontrollable physical hunger for one another, consuming every inch of that shared space.

"We were so reckless," you whispered, a nostalgic smile forming, only to wither as the silence threatened to return.

You poured yourself another and took a slow sip of the whisky, trying to focus on the heat of the drink to ignore the fact that Sirius's leg was only inches from yours. The warmth radiating from him seemed to pierce through the fabric of your clothes, emitting a magnetic pull that drew you in like a moth to a flame.

Sirius watched the movement of your throat as you swallowed. His eyes traced down the line of your neck, where a tiny trickle of whisky had slipped past your lips, glistening against your skin. He felt the fingers of his free hand twitch against his knee. The urge to reach out, trace that damp path, and lick it from your skin was almost unbearable.

He still remembered the texture perfectly, how you would gasp softly when he kissed that exact sensitive spot just below your ear. The muscle memory was pure torture. His hands knew precisely where to grip, where to caress. Would you still arch into him if he touched you like that? Would you still feel the same?

Merlin, he wanted to know so badly.

"You ought to dry your hair," he said, his voice dropping an octave, losing its lighter edge and turning low, intimate. "You'll catch a cold."

"I'm fine. The whisky is keeping me warm," you replied, lifting your face to look at him.

As you did, the distance between you seemed to vanish. Your eyes locked onto his mouth, onto the contours of those lips you had kissed so many times before.

Sirius noticed your gaze. He held his breath, his jaw tightening as he fought the primal urge to throw all caution to the wind, pull you onto his lap, and sink back into the familiar physical rhythm you once shared. He felt like a teenage boy all over again, wanting to feel the weight of your body pressing against his. Merlin, what was happening to him?

To mask his own desperation, he let out a dry chuckle and gestured with his glass toward your formal clothes.

Think of something else. Say something else. Anything.

"You look far more serious in that uniform," he teased, though his voice was thick with a rasp that betrayed the humour. "Quite the proper witch now."

Your mouth fell open in mock outrage. "Excuse me! I have always been a proper witch."

He scratched his bearded chin, a smirk playing on his lips. "I don't know about that. But you certainly look the part."

"And you haven't changed a bit. Still the samecorny charmer who thinks he's incredibly cool."

"Corny charmer? Since when am I a corny charmer?"

"Since when are you not?"

"Oh, come off it, we both know I'm still extremely cool. In fact, now that we're older, I feel like I'm the only cool adult whenever we meet up."

You let out a scoff, though in truth you agreed with him. "Keep dreaming."

He chuckled, shaking his head, crossing his arms as his gaze softened with nostalgia. "But seriously, an exemplary Ministry of Magic employee. Who would have thought?"

"Honestly, what is so hard to picture about that?"

Sirius laughed again. "Nothing. Don't take it the wrong way, it's just... I keep remembering how it used to be." Bad idea. Do not go there, he thought, yet he couldn't stop himself from pushing on. "I remember when you applied and got the job, right before... well, before everything happened. You came home in an outfit very much like this one. So proud."

You felt your heart skip a beat at the direction the conversation was taking. Again.

"I remember," you whispered, your voice suddenly fragile.

Sirius hesitated before continuing, and you felt his eyes trail down your skirt to your legs, hidden beneath sheer tights. "It took me exactly two minutes to scatter all your new paperwork across our kitchen floor and strip you bare on top of the table," he murmured, his grey eyes darkening, fixing back on yours with a raw, unfiltered honesty. "You were cross because I'd crumpled the parchment from your new boss..."

But I didn't complain when he made me forget my own name half an hour later.

The explicit mention of that intense intimacy, of the times when your routine was constantly interrupted by the urgent need to possess one another, made your spine shiver. The elephant in the room, which had been growing for weeks, seemed to drain the air from the place, making it so hard to breathe.

Instinctively, you shifted slightly on the sofa, seeking support, and your knee brushed directly against his.

The physical contact, however minimal and suppressed by layers of clothing, acted like a high-voltage electric shock, leaving both of you in a state of semi-paralysis, though neither of you pulled away. The simple touch of your legs seemed to burn, sending a wave of heat straight to your lower abdomen.

Why did I come here again? you asked yourself. Your reasons for coming seemed like distant memories, while the sensation of Sirius Black devouring you felt more vivid than ever, even if it had happened years and years ago. How is this even possible?

Sirius swallowed hard, his chest rising and falling visibly. The teasing was over. Of course, it was entirely his fault. He simply couldn't hold his tongue. Not when everything he said was exactly what was playing on his mind. He looked into your eyes, and the vulnerability mixed with raw lust there was almost painful to look at.

He whispered your name, his voice rougher still, his hand releasing the glass as he reached toward your face.

But the touch never came as another loud crash echoed from the entrance hall.

"FILTHY HALF-BREEDS! BLOOD TRAITORS!"

The old hag's voice echoed through the walls once more, shrill and grating as ever.

You jerked back with a start, your senses suddenly snapping back, left breathless by the pounding of your own heart. Sirius merely closed his eyes, clenching his hovering fist tightly as he let out a sharp breath. The sheer fury of having your moment ruined made him want to smash the bloody glass on the floor, shattering it completely. His jaw clenched so hard that a vein throbbed visibly at his temple before he finally let his hand drop heavily onto his thigh.

Masculine voices and heavy footsteps muffled Walburga’s screams as the curtain was pulled shut firmly by someone else outside.

"Sorry about the racket, Sirius! The door latch got caught on my overcoat," Remus Lupin's calm voice echoed from the corridor, approaching the drawing room along with Kingsley Shacklebolt's firm footsteps.

The two of you pulled apart instantly. You gripped your near-empty glass with trembling fingers, fixing your eyes on the dying embers, while Sirius leaned back against the sofa, running a hand through his hair to shake off the irritation that had fallen over him like a bucket of ice water. By the time Lupin and Kingsley crossed the threshold, the air between you had turned completely cold.

"Ah, you're here already?" Remus noted, his gaze darting quickly between you, the glass in your hand, and Sirius's excessively rigid posture.

"Yes. Wanted a break from all the paperwork," you lied, forcing a steady, professional tone that didn't match the storm raging inside you. Obviously, you wouldn't admit that you’d spent the last few days buried in work just to distract yourself, and now had nothing left to do.

"Excellent, then we can begin as soon as Moody arrives," Kingsley said, his deep baritone filling the room as he headed towards the kitchen.

After that, the meeting went on for two hours.

More Order members arrived, and the dining table in the kitchen was soon packed. You sat at the opposite end from Sirius, sharing space with Tonks and Mr Weasley. Sirius remained at the head of the table, but he didn't seem as present as he usually tried to be to make himself useful. He had adopted a familiar posture of boredom, resting his chin on his hand, grey eyes hooded, pretending to listen to the updates on Hogwarts while his focus remained entirely on you.

Whenever you were asked to speak about the import committee's movements, you could feel his gaze burning against your skin. When you gestured, Sirius fixed his eyes on your hands, when you tucked a stray hair behind your ear, his jaw clenched.

You tried your absolute best to stay focused as well, but the warmth of him that still felt imprinted on your skin made it difficult to concentrate on the tedious details of wizarding bureaucracy. You actively avoided each other. Sirius directed no comments to you, and you didn't seek his approval for any of your points. To any casual observer, you were simply old acquaintances.

When the meeting finally adjourned, you stood up to leave immediately. Molly tried to get you to stay a little longer. She couldn't hide her gaze darting between you and Sirius, and though she never said anything outright, you could tell she was still trying to rekindle whatever you two once had. But her maternal instincts and will to help weren't enough to make you stay, and you said your goodbyes to everyone. As you passed Sirius, who was leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, you held your breath. Your eyes met for a single fraction of a second – a fleeting glimpse of hunger, frustration, and longing.

"Goodnight, Sirius," you said quietly.

"Goodnight," he replied, the rough timber of his voice sending one last shiver down your spine before you stepped through the door and apparated away.

-----------------------------

The footsteps of the last Order members to leave Grimmauld Place had long since faded, and even Kreacher had retreated to his den of rags beneath the kitchen sink.

Sirius was alone. Again.

He walked up the stairs to his old bedroom. The posters of motorbikes and girls in bikinis stuck to the walls were symbols of his teenage past, and now they felt like nothing more than pathetic relics of a boy he would never be again.

He collapsed onto the four-poster bed, tossing and turning as he tried his hardest to fall asleep. He hated his sleepless nights, they gave him far too much time to think, much more than he wanted. Tonight, there was only you whenever he closed his eyes.

Sirius could still smell your scent lingering on his own fingers. He raised his right hand in the dim light, staring at his pale, calloused palm against the weak street light filtering through the dusty window pane. That was the hand that had almost touched you earlier. "If he tried, he could still remember the texture of your skin perfectly.

A violent surge of frustration rose in his chest, making him growl in anger. He felt his entire body tense, his cock hard and aching beneath his rough trousers, reacting to the memory of seeing you earlier, of the trickle of drink slipping down your neck, and the way your body had tensed when you talked about the old days.

Fourteen years. He had spent fourteen years locked in a cell where the only thing beyond the instinct for revenge keeping him sane was the image of your face. He had survived the madness by remembering how you gasped when he kissed you, how your nails clawed at his back when he took you.

Unable to bear the agonising tightness of his trousers any longer, Sirius muttered a low curse and reached for the buttons. He undid them with slightly trembling, impatient fingers, sliding his hand beneath his underpants until his pulsing, fully erect cock was free.

The moment his hand closed around the hot length, a shaky, hissed breath escaped his clenched teeth. He shut his eyes tight, and on the dark screen of his mind, it wasn't his own hand touching him. It was yours.

He imagined your soft, cool fingers wrapping around him, the touch he craved so desperately, the one that would make him gasp and groan. Sirius began to move, sliding his calloused palm along his length in a firm rhythm. With every stroke, he recalled the look of pure, restrained lust you’d given his mouth. He could clearly picture the curve of your hips, the way your skirt rode up slightly when you shifted on the sofa.

He whispered your name to the empty room, the broken words sounding like a prayer, rasped from his dry throat.

Then he quickened the pace of his hand. He could feel the waves of pleasure that the firm, rhythmic friction sent straight to his lower abdomen. He arched his back slightly against the mattress, his chest rising and falling in rapid, noisy pants. In his desire-frenzied mind, he was pulling you onto his lap, feeling the weight of your body, hearing your soft whimpers echo against his ear, just like it used to be.

He remembered before. The rug on the living room floor. How your hips moved against his, the warm, tight wetness that welcomed him. The wet, obscene sounds. The memory was so vivid he could almost swear he felt your fingernails scratching his shoulders.

The pleasure surged like a violent tide, pooling at the tip of his length with an almost painful intensity. Sirius squeezed tighter, forcing a feverish, relentless pace. His hips lifted slightly off the bed in involuntary spasms, seeking a release that seemed long in coming after being deprived of touch for so many years.

His breathing turned into rapid gasps. He was right on the edge. He surrendered completely to the vision of you beneath him, hair messy and spread across the sheets, begging him to fuck you at last. The memory of how good you were to him. Always so good to him. His beloved. His fiancée.

"Fuck..." he muttered, his voice entirely shattered.

With a few more rapid, tight, desperate strokes, the climax hit him hard. Sirius seized on the bed, his thighs and abdominal muscles tightening violently as he came. A low, hoarse, purely animal grunt was ripped from the depths of his chest, echoing off the walls of the room as he spilled his hot cum over his fingers and stomach.

He lay motionless for long seconds, his heart hammering against his ribs, his hand still loosely gripping himself as the last spasms of pleasure subsided.

Slowly, Sirius opened his grey eyes.

The room was still dark. The bed was still cold. The smell of sex and sweat mingled with the damp mustiness of Grimmauld Place. And he was still alone. He looked at his dirty fingers, feeling an even deeper void settle inside him.

He cleaned himself up with a lazy charm, buttoned his trousers back up, and turned onto his side to face the peeling wall. The act would satisfy him for a short while, but it wouldn't be enough. He knew the hunger would return even worse the next time he saw you. And worse the time after that, and the time after that. Until he became a complete slave to his own passion and succumbed entirely, confronting you, perhaps even begging you to end his agony in the most pathetic way imaginable. He knew, in the depths of his soul, that he wouldn't be able to keep his distance for much longer.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

English isn’t my first language, so I apologize for any typos or weird phrasing.

First time writing NSFW and I have absolutely no idea how it reads, but I hope it’s okay! I’ve been wanting to write this story for a while now, and it really needed this level of sexual tension, it wouldn’t have worked any other way so I had to push myself out of my comfort zone a bit. 💦 (Even though I didn't manage to make it as smutty as I originally imagined... but part two is on the way, and that's where I’ll really have to step up my game! 💀)

“Sorry.”

“No, it’s okay,” he sends you a small smile. “Your reward for getting that swot into cardio again.”

You turn a tad bashful at this. “He’s very easy to annoy,” you note. “One would think that dating you would make him irresistible to ragebait.”

A startled laugh puffs out of him. “What’d you do this time?”

“I just pointed out that studying Latin is pretty unnecessary,” you say lightly, fiddling with a berry. “That’s all. He said he needed to take a walk.”

Sirius laughs. “Yeah, that tracks,” he leans over his forearms, “You’ve been giving him a run for his money, lately.”

Your answer comes in the form of a one shoulder shrug, as you tend to do lately when words fall short. 

While things have gotten better between you and Sirius, there are moments like this one where he feels like he’s taking a step back instead of forward. You still tend to retreat to yourself, but not as often. Remus has helped in that aspect, opening conversation about the current book you’re reading when he runs into you in the hallways. Lily, too. Offering entertaining commentary about her love life and forlorn feelings about missing her girlfriend now that she’s back in full force at the castle. 

The only constant in your current secluded life, though, is Prongs. 

Sirius has realized that you’ve grown deeply attached to James’ horse. He sometimes catches you at the stables after your training in the early hours, feeding the horse and brushing his hair in quiet contemplation. Sometimes, when he’s feeling particularly bold, he tries his chances to join you in a ride around the forest. 

That had been his approach when he got back from the city, to try and get you alone to personally talk with you about Regulus. But, truthfully, Sirius still isn’t completely sure where he stands with you to breach the subject in a way that won’t make you close off again.

He pops the last blueberry into his mouth, stalling to muster up all his courage. 

You clear your throat. “James invited me to one of his meetings abroad.”

“He did?” he asks, startled.

“Yeah,” your voice quietens, blueberry-stained fingers tapping at your knees. “Said we could try and sightsee after it’s over.”

Sirius doesn’t know where he stands with James, either. He doesn’t know how to properly answer your confession. It doesn’t help much that you look visibly confused about opening up about it as well. 

A somber expression passes over your face as you press your crossed legs to your chest. “I don’t know if it’s a good idea,” you say quietly, looking around the gardens and the trees instead of meeting Sirius’ gaze. “I thought the tabloids and the press would die down by now.”

It’s enough of a confession to make Sirius take the leap of faith. He pushes himself into a sitting position, not slouching and straight as he angles to fully face you. Your face remains slightly troubled as you play with the grass, but still look up at his sudden movements.

He clears his throat. “I have to tell you something.”

All you do is nod, wetting your lips nervously like you’re bracing yourself for something. Like you can already tell, by his tense posture, that this conversation will take a turn. Sirius doesn’t know if it will be for the worse or the better.

“When I went out the other day… I went to the city,” he says, slowly. He scratches at his jaw, his hand moves up to brush the hairs off his face. “I went to see Regulus.”

Your face slackens, eyes flaring in a sudden strike of dread. “Is he okay?” you ask quickly, words stumbling with your urgency. “Did something happen?”

“He’s okay,” he says immediately. “They’re both okay, him and Junior.”

Your shoulders loosen, but just a smidge. Sirius feels an ache in his chest, studying you silently as you try to control your breathing into calming down. He’s sure your heart probably skipped a beat and plummeted all the way to the ground. 

“It’s just…” he hesitates. “He wanted to talk to me about something.”

Realization quickly clouds your previous worry. “Is this about the statement he wanted to make?”

Sirius blinks. “You know about that?”

“Yeah,” you shrug again, with one shoulder. “He called me the other day to explain.”

“And… and what do you think?”

“It’s whatever.”

Sirius feels his eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “It’s whatever?” he repeats.

“Yeah,” you say, though your expression sours as you look away. “With Regulus I’ve learned that it’s best to just accept the plan without asking questions.”

“y/n.”

“It’s true,” you shrug, feigning nonchalance. But your arms tighten around your legs. “It’s better this way. I’m sure whatever he’s planning will end up backfiring, anyway.”

He sighs. “That’s the thing,” he sucks in a breath, wetting his lips nervously. “He won’t do anything.”

This gets your attention. “What?”

“He won’t do anything unless it’s all of you three on board. Those were his exact words.”

“Us three?” 

“Junior said the same. If you’re in, he’s in.”

You go silent again. 

Sirius tries to ignore the anxiety tingling at the tips of his fingers at your slow but evident emotional withdrawal as you look around the gardens. Your hands continue fiddling with the grass, though their movements grow in momentum as fast as your thoughts start running inside your head.

You let out a quiet scoff, shaking your head. “For fuck’s sake,” you mutter softly. Mostly to yourself. “A moment of peace. That's all I ask. Just one small moment where I don’t have to worry about anything, about statements or press or if Regulus is still cross with me but also worrying if he’s taking his medicines. To not worry if everything will eventually settle down, if I will ever return to my normal life. Just one fucking moment of peace–and I can’t even have that.”

“You don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to, y/n.”

“That’s not–” you cut yourself off, sighing deeply as you drop your forehead to your knees. “It’s not that I don’t want to do anything or… give up. I just thought Regulus would simply go ahead and get that done.”

“A few months ago, maybe,” Sirius allows. “But he was very clear about his intentions to include you and Junior in this decision.”

“Jesus Christ," you tap your forehead over your knees. Countless times like you wish you were hitting it against a hard surface instead. “And here I was entertaining that bloody romantic escape with James.”

“You can still go, if you want.”

You raise your head just enough to send him a look. “Don’t be condescending with me.”

“I’m not!” he frowns. “It’s just… Look, when Regulus asked me to go, he actually meant to ask for my help. For this… if you agreed. And I will. I have my PR team at the ready, they will make sure this doesn’t get blown out of proportion, we can control this. And you can go with James, they won’t bombard you with questions or try to talk to you or interview you.”

“You think that’s what I’m worried about?”

Sirius blinks again. “It’s not?”

“No,” you shake your head, deflating visibly as you finally let go of your legs. Your hands return with its dutiful fiddling with the grass, now stained with remaining blueberry juice. “I’m worried about her. About what she will do if we release this statement.”

This does suck the air out of his lungs. Sirius suddenly feels the pang in his chest increasing in intensity the longer the silence stretches between you. His throat bobbles with endless words that he knows will be useless to put your mind at ease. He knows that, in your paranoid mind, whatever outcome they plan will fall short with your cunningly evil mother.

“She can’t hurt you anymore, y/n.”

You let out a bitter scoff. “Yeah, I thought that too, and look where that led me.”

“No, I mean. Literally,” he explains. He clears his throat when you try to stifle your piqued interest in his words. Sirius shifts his position, channeling all his confidence. “Let’s pretend we do release this statement, however it goes. Whatever story it tells… If she tries to put out the fire it creates, it will only backfire for them. Because now the world knows you’re alive, and the rumours about the reason you and Regulus escaped have never been stronger than ever. Everyone already suspects. You think our mother would ever jeopardize her precious legacy by trying her chances to get back at you?”

“She could.”

“y/n, she doesn’t have a leg to stand on. Evan is just a contingency plan to hide the fact that Slytherin is crumbling down. That the monarchy is losing all its power and importance.”

You look away, slowly lowering your legs into a crisscross position. “I don’t know if that’d be enough to stop her.”

“Maybe not,” he concedes lightly, tilting his head sideways as he weighs the pros and cons. “That depends on what you decide with Reg and Junior.”

You pause, toying with a piece of grass between your crossed legs. Sirius only leans back over his forearms, granting you a moment of peace and space to sort through your own pros and cons to this statement plan.

After a long stretch of silence, you finally look up. Though your eyes wander away from his gaze, focused on the trees and the pines surrounding you.

“Did Regulus tell you about the night we escaped?”

Sirius feels his heart abruptly skipping a beat at your question. The jumble of feelings clogs at his throat in a sudden rush, and he fails at swallowing it down.

He shakes his head. It’s all he manages to answer. But you don’t seem to mind.

“We had everything perfectly planned. Barty would plant the distraction. I helped him stitch a few pieces to cover our marks. Regulus managed to convince Kreacher to help,” you look down at your hands, lips twisting sideways into a sad little smile. “And yet.”

He tries to swallow the lump in his throat again, albeit a little more desperately this time.

You suck in a shaky breath. “When Barty said he’d plant a distraction, we didn’t know it would be him,” you continue. “He started a fight at the barracks with multiple soldiers, they all took turns having a go at him. But, well… you know him. He managed to stand his ground enough to make it a whole thing, and he managed to slip out before they could realize the person that started the whole fight was nowhere near.”

“His plan was to start a riot in the barracks?”

“He said it’d be enough to distract both his father and the rest of the soldiers at guard,” you explain. A bitter laugh puffs out of you at the memory. “But of course, it had the opposite effect. The soldiers stood to attention, they were more vigilant. That’s when it all went to shit.”

Sirius looks away, chin digging at his shoulder.

But you only take a steadying breath. “One of them ambushed us near one of the gardens. He just… tried to drag Regulus with him, but well–of course Barty turned into a literal animal at that. It got quite ugly very quickly.”

You discard the piece of grass to your side, finding a much better grounding mechanism in pushing at your cuticles. Sirius desperately tries to take your silence as a chance to gather his own thoughts, his feelings that are fighting to escape in shaky puffs of breath.

“I didn’t know what else to do,” your voice quietens, pressing rather harshly at your thumbnail. “The soldier was just holding Regulus in a headlock, he couldn’t breathe. And Barty was just… he didn’t move, he could barely even open his eyes.”

Sirius feels desperate, too. But for different reasons.

“I just… It felt like the only option at the time. Still does,” a pause. Then a stuttering intake of air. “I think I killed him.”

A beat.

“W–What?”

“I can’t be sure. I just… I hit him with the first thing I found, and he didn't move. He just laid there, unconscious and bleeding.”

Sirius screws his eyes shut. “y/n…”

“I’m so sorry.”

“No, don’t–” he says, stern but gentle. He shakes his head, forcing himself to look for your wandering gaze. “Don’t you dare apologize for defending yourself.”

“I could’ve chosen a less vicious way to go on about it.”

“y/n,” protectiveness forces the lump to slide right down his throat without much effort. “You said it yourself. It was the only option, who knows what would’ve happened if you hadn’t reacted quickly.”

You don’t speak at first, slowly sliding down into your own shame spiral as you press at the small dot of blood in your tender thumbnail.

Sirius inhales deeply. He’s scared to ask. “And… What happened then?”

“We, um,” you wet your lips nervously. “Reg and I managed to drag Barty the rest of the way out to the east gardens. Kreacher was supposed to wait for us there, but I suppose our mother held him back for something. He just left us a small bag of things we’d need to escape. Passports, train tickets… lots of money. And some family jewels.”

He nods at each of your listings, eyes staring hard at your nervous hands trying to tame the dots of blood that keep poking out of your hurt nails.

“Then we just… left,” you say, finally. In a deep exhale of air, like you’re letting the story settle at the same time as your heart does. Sirius suspects that if he focuses hard enough, he can pick up on its thundering sound. “We didn’t look back.”

You go eerily silent after that. When you look up to gauge his reaction, your expression slackens enough to pull him out of his spiraling thoughts. He doesn’t even realize he’s crying until you reach closer to thumb at his damp cheeks.  

Sirius swallows thickly, but you’re quicker. “We didn’t even look back to check if he was alive,” your eyebrows twitch. 

He sniffles. “Is that…” when his voice catches, he clears his throat. “Is that what you’re worried about, too? That she can use this against you?”

“I… well,” you drop your hands. They find each other as you wring them over your lap. “I didn’t until now… with how real it all feels.”

“You know what I think?”

You send him a quick look, one that, despite your best intentions to hide it, is full of hopeful anticipation.

“I think you should do it. Tell the world about what pieces of shit they are.”

“What?” you blink, visibly startled at his outburst. Sirius notes that you don’t seem defensive though, your head tilts very slightly to the side in piqued interest. 

“They built their entire legacy on silence, on people too scared to take a step back, or to say anything,” his jaw clenches. “The worst thing you and Regulus could ever have done to that frail legacy is escape, being alive and away from them.”

Your eyes take a calculating look at this, staring straight at him like you’re deep in thought. The only tell of your apparent overthinking is your teeth viciously chewing at your lower lip. Sirius takes a steadying breath for himself, dabbing at his cheeks with the back of his hands even though you’ve managed to clean off all his tears. It’s enough of a grounding movement to ease some calm into his previously rattled heart.

You swallow thickly, throat bobbling as you turn your head very slightly to meet his gaze. “Okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you nod. “I’ll talk to them about it–see what they have in mind.”

Sirius nods, and you mirror it with a similar resolve. 

“But,” you say suddenly, voice firm but gentle. “If we’re going to do this, I’m not going away again. If Regulus is sure about this, we’ll do it here. At the castle.”

…

You’re starting to hate your decision as the car pulls up into the first gate. It continues the drive deeper into the castle grounds until it stops by the second gate, where it stalls just the same amount of seconds your own heart stutters.

You slip away from the window before you can stress yourself into a heart attack. 

“Fuck,” you whisper under your breath, looking down at your shoes and your jeans and the perfectly ironed shirt you didn’t even know it could look this nice. “Fuck, fuck, fuck–”

Remus looks up from his book. “Everything okay?”

“I think this was a bad idea,” you say instead. An almost answer. “Why did I agree to this?”

“You set the rules, actually,” he supplies unhelpfully, flicking a page. His eyebrows furrow in concentration as he tries to read your messy writing in the margin of your book, a random annotation. 

You shake your head. “Why did I set these sodding rules, then?”

“I thought you said you were tired of moving around?”

“I was,” you turn to rest your forehead against the window. “Still am,” you amend after much thought. 

“Okay, then.” Remus hums, reaching for his pen in a nonchalant manner. “What did you mean by ‘thoughtful exploration of morality and the dilemma of murder’?”

“What?”

He points at the book. “You mean it as one thing being an answer to the other or…?”

“Remus,” you unstick your forehead from the window to look at him. “What are you talking about?”

“You told me you needed the distraction,” he offers easily, uncapping his fountain pen to scribble at the margins. “I thought that’s why you moved our lesson to this hour?”

“I think it’s becoming quite obvious that I haven’t got a single clue of what I want,” you mumble, forcing your legs to take you away from the window. Remus returns to your battered copy of Crime and Punishment with a concentrated frown. “And yes.”

“Hm?”

“I meant it as murder is always thought of as something ugly and that deprives us of humanity, but is it really ugly when you’re being forced into it by someone that lacks it?” you lean back on the chair, elbows braced over the arms as you rub at your forehead. “It was just a musing psychological bit,” you explain then, too tired to get into the real meaning of your notes.

“That’s interesting,” he says to himself, turning back to your book and eyes searching for that specific bit in the margins. “I like that.”

You raise your face from your palm. “You do?”

“Of course,” he closes the book. “And I like that it’s a psychological bit that keeps popping up in your annotations. You said the same thing about the Creature.”

“That’s because the Creature kept pursuing humanity despite it being born from sin–Victor only created the Creature out of his own pursuit of greatness, which ultimately led him to losing his humanity.”

Remus considers you for a second.

“What?”

“I think,” he shifts in his chair, setting the book down to talk to you properly. “that you’re brilliant.”

You scoff. “You’re just saying that because I’m your boyfriend’s sister.”

“I can make my own opinions despite my emotional involvements, thank you,” he laughs.

You roll your eyes.

He tries another approach. “I thought it even when you were Evan to me. I still do. Even more, actually.”

His honesty instantly disarms you, and you scramble to save face. “Even when you called me scrawny?”

Remus’ face breaks into a smile. “Yes,” he nods, pocketing his pen. “And even when you kept calling me Femur, for some reason.”

You look away, feeling an embarrassed blush creep warm your cheeks and the tips of your ears. “Stop bringing that up.”

“I’m just pointing out my train of thought,” he shrugs. “I’ve always thought of you as someone very intelligent. It has just gotten more obvious over time, that’s all.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Is this another one of your attempts to distract me?”

“Maybe,” Remus laughs. “Is it working? Or should I revert to Dostoevsky?”

You part your lips to speak, but in a cruel twist from fate, your sensitive ears pick up on the car pulling up just outside the window. The gravel crunches under its weight as you scramble to the window to take a look outside. And, lo and behold, Barty steps out of the car with tense shoulders. He pauses to give the castle one big run through with his perceptive and paranoid eyes, making a point of smiling at you when your eyes meet from the window. Regulus steps out a beat later, less confident as he tests the feel of his cane over the gravel. When he follows Barty’s gaze, you flinch away from the window like it burnt you. 

Remus stands, careful in his movements as he rearranges the reading materials you discussed in your impromptu lesson. The room fills with thick silence, occasionally broken when his posh shoes click against the marble floors. You remain still staring out the window with your heart up your throat.

After a beat, there’s a faint knock at the door.

“Come on in,” Remus says, still busy shelving the books. He sends you a fleeting glance over his shoulder as the door opens. “Hi, Pete,”

Peter walks in with a little nervous smile, nodding curtly at Remus and then at you. His eyes flicker from each of you like he can’t still quite understand what he’s done to land him in this situation, to mediate this supposed reunion between siblings.

“Hello,” he says, clasping his hands formally in front of him before turning to you. “Your brother and…” he hesitates.

“And Barty?”

“Yes, and Mr. Crouch,” he nods with more confidence at your help. “They’ve arrived and have been successfully shown to their chambers.”

Remus turns to you, expectant. When you don’t offer an additional answer to your tentative nod, he clears his throat. “Thank you, Pete.”

Peter lingers just a few seconds by the door before walking out with a relieved exhale, one you almost miss if you weren’t so attuned to every little sound and movement out the door. When it clicks shut behind him, you slump back in the chair, face pressed against the palms of your hands.

“You know,” Remus starts, pausing to cut a quick glance at you. “Stalling will only make it worse.”

“I’m not stalling,” your voice comes out muffled as you continue hiding your face. “Just… I don’t know why I’m so scared.”

“I think,” he taps at the last book on the shelf before turning to you. “it would be weirder if you weren’t.”

You sigh, finally dropping your hands to look up at him. “I don’t like being scared. It’s just Regulus.”

“It’s just Regulus, yes,” he agrees easily, leaning over the back of the armchair to consider you. His lips tug up in a sideways smile. “But things have changed.”

“That’s a bloody understatement–I feel like a character in a weird cartoon,” his smile spreads into an amused grin. “I’m sure Wallace and Gromit got into less trouble.”

This brings a startled laugh out of him. “That’s true, if you were Wallace,” he jokes, shoulders loosening when your own lips twitch into a sideways smile. “But I fear Gromit’s arc is most similar to this.”

The door opens, and Sirius slips in before you can come up with an answer. His eyes scan each of you with a curious glint like he’s trying to gauge the mood in the room.

“Is your lesson finished?”

Remus nods. “Yes,” he spreads an arm open, and Sirius steps into the side hug wordlessly. “We’re talking.”

“About?”

“That I’m Gromit,” you say from your seat, chin digging at your palm as you study them silently.

Sirius tilts his head in question. “What?” he turns to you, then to Remus. The boy laughs at his puzzled reaction. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Ignore her–she’s having second thoughts. Keeps using humor to cope.”

“Ah,” Sirius nods. “Then you’re definitely Gromit.”

A laugh puffs out of you at this, and Sirius’ only smile spreads at the sound. You wave him off as you slump back in the chair. “Thank you for the validation, I suppose.”

“Anytime.”

You roll your eyes at him. Fondly. Looking away to hide your useless attempts at keeping your smile at bay–Sirius doesn’t have such qualms as he studies you with a smirk.

It slips just enough to study you silently, and a silence settles in the room as you stare each other down. You pass a finger over your lips in a pensive manner, forcing your mouth into a straight line.

Sirius inhales deeply, feeling a tad better when Remus squeezes his back reassuringly. “They’re okay, didn’t really ask many questions about this whole arrangement.”

“Who?”

He sends you a look, similar in its sentiment to the one Remus does when they turn to you. “y/n.”

You groan. “Must I go now?”

“Now I didn’t say anything about going right now,” Sirius says. “Just letting you know, they didn’t really ask about seeing you. No pressure.”

“And this doesn’t feel like you are pressuring me.”

“I’m not.”

You part your lips to speak, but Remus beats you to it. “Alright,” he turns to Sirius. “No one is pressuring anyone. Now–what did you need, love?”

Sirius takes the bait. In fact, he turns to you like he didn’t just take it but enjoy it. “I came to see Gromit.”

You roll your eyes again, pushing yourself up to leave the room. “Don’t expect me to entertain your bit for a little longer,” you take your book, pressing it to your sternum as you walk to the doors. “Shall we pick this up tomorrow?” you ask Remus.

“Of course,” he nods, smirking at you. “No stalling.”

“Jesus Christ," you mutter, trying to appear like you’re talking to yourself as you open the door. “You two deserve each other. Twats.”

They both gawp at your jab, and you close the door behind you before they can get a snarky retort out. Your hold around the book tightens as you force your legs to move, guiding you through the hallways you slowly (and against your will) have grown used to. 

Steps interrupt the silence somewhere deep in your side of the wing, and you feel your heart up your throat when shadows follow–one undoubtedly carrying a cane and taking tentative steps. Thankfully, the door to your room manifests itself in your brisk walk and to save you from a potential disaster.

You slip into your room with a stuttering heart, back pressed against the door to control your breathing. The shadows pass by from the light filtering under the doors, whispers follow and you screw your eyes harshly to channel all your bravery. All your courage to open the door.

You throw the book to the bed before swinging the door open, quick in your movements before you can regret it. Regulus jumps in surprise at the sound and movement where he’s passing by, his hand tightens around the cane and Barty pulls him closer as a reflex at the disruption.

He blinks. “y/n.”

“Hi,” your voice is a startled exhale, like it wasn’t you the one who willingly opened the door to face him. His eyes glisten when they find yours, and you force your gaze to Barty before your legs and heart can give out. “Barty, hi.”

Barty doesn’t have such qualms to keep his relief contained as he nearly stumbles on his hurried scramble to hug you. His arms come around you tightly, and he bends backwards in your hug with the momentum of his excitement.

You let yourself feel the warmth and relief flood your veins at his hug, tentatively wrapping your arms around his shoulders. It’s no one’s surprise when tears prickle at the corners of your eyes when he puts you down, stepping back slowly and only to give you time to gather yourself. 

Barty sniffles very, very softly. Almost unnoticed to the untrained ear. “Hi,” he laughs, and you feel the ache in your chest again. “Sorry, it’s just… I thought you were cross with me.”

“Why would I be?” you frown.

He doesn’t answer, turning to look at Regulus instead. You follow his gaze with a lump in your throat, meeting your brother’s gaze.

“Hi,” you send him a small smile. 

“Hi,” he echoes, his throat bobbling nervously as he fiddles with his cane.  

A silence engulfs you, thick and full of unsaid words. You brush a few strands of hair behind your ears, a nervous habit that makes Regulus’ lips part, eyebrows crunching together in sadness. His fingers twitch by his leg to do the same, anxiety tingling at the tips of his fingertips.

“I… um,” he clears his throat.

“This is… my room, would you like to come in?” you ask tentatively.

Barty’s lips twitch in an almost smile, eyes flickering between you and Regulus. “I’m actually quite exhausted from the drive,” he says, giving Regulus a reassuring kiss at the side of his head. 

Your insides fill with dread as he does the same to you, though his lips linger a second longer before he steps back. His face is adorned with a reassuring smile as he takes a backwards step away until he turns around. It isn’t until he turns the corner that you let out a strangled exhale. 

“y/n–”

“You–”

Regulus clears his throat, wetting his lips nervously. “Sorry, um–you first.”

You only spread an arm to the door, and his lips part in surprise as you tilt your head in an inviting manner. It takes a painful awkward beat of silence before he follows you inside.

It takes less for him to hug you as soon as the door clicks shut. 

”I’m so sorry,” he whispers in a wavering tone, it pulls at your heartstrings as his arms tighten around you. “I’m sorry–” he says again, almost in a pleading manner when you remain frozen in shock.

Your throat clogs at his broken voice. “Reg–”

“I didn’t mean it. Any of it,” he continues, voice growing in agony the longer you take to accept his hug. 

But your brain is lagging, and so is your tongue and your body as you process his words. His pleading apology. 

“I’m so sorry,” his voice quietens. “You went through hell and back to make sure I was okay–secure. You did everything for me and I turned my back on you when you needed me the most–I’m so sorry, y/n.” 

He hides his face in your shoulder, and it isn’t until you start feeling the dampness of his tears on your shirt that your arms finally move to their own accord. They slot perfectly as you wrap your arms around his shoulders, throat constricted with all the pain it’s kept locked since the last time you’ve seen each other. This unchains another fit of sobs from him, breath warming your shoulder with every intake of air as he tightens his embrace around you. The cane clatters against the marble floors where he’s dropped it.

“It’s not your fault–it never was,” he whispers, pulling back, to your rotten luck, at the same time a sob escapes your lips. His eyebrows crunch together when another one follows. But he doesn’t hug you back until he gets to say his piece, to bare his heart and soul open with endless apologies he wouldn’t mind if you reject them. “I… I got quiet, and I let the voice–her voice speak louder. I let them get to me and I took it on you for something that was never meant to be your fault. You… you were finally happy, and they twisted that to hurt you. And I aided on that.”

Your eyebrows pinch together. “Reg, no–”

He shakes his head. “I did. But I don’t have any excuse for doing it–I lashed out and acted without thinking, only about me and my humiliation. I made it your problem when you already had a shit-ton of weight over your shoulders–and it’s not fair. It wasn’t fair of me for turning it on you.”

“You were hurting and embarrassed, and–”

“And those were my feelings to handle. Not yours,” his voice takes conviction with each of your arguments. But Regulus won’t let you dig another hole for yourself in order to lift him up. He won’t. “I made you carry my shame along with yours.”

“I don’t mind, Reg. You know I never do,” you sniffle. 

“Sometimes I wish you could,” his hands move to your shoulders, palms pressed against the damp fabric of your shirt. Damp with his tears. “You’re my sister–not my keeper or caretaker. And at some point both of us forgot that. I’m sorry, y/n. I really am.”

“It’s okay,” your voice cracks, so does his heart when your throat bobbles with a trapped sob. 

“It’s not, and that’s okay, too. I handed you off to Sirius like you weren’t my problem, and that was fucking insensitive of me–even more with all the abandonment you’ve suffered.”

“You too–”

“But you never did that to me. You stayed, you quit your jobs to take care of me, and… and you packed your things and cut your hair–your fucking hair, to go out and seek help for my treatment. You did all that for me, and you always came back–you always made sure to be there for me…” his voice catches, face twisting in pain as tears prickle at the corners of his eyes. “And I threw that to your face–fuck, I’m so sorry, y/n.”

You look down, feeling the sobs trapped in your throat shredding their way up. Regulus sucks in a breath when you nod your head very slowly, tears beginning to trail down to your cheeks at the movement. 

You part your lips to speak, words stuttering and trying to come barreling out your mouth. But all it happens is that the sobs come out instead, loud and unadulterated in their pain. Regulus only pulls you closer, harshly screwing his eyes shut with each shaky intake of breath you take. A beat later, tears begin dampening his jumper. 

His hand travels to the back of your head, tentative as his fingers thread through your uneven ends and overgrown hair–it trembles with each of your sobs against his shoulder, and he hugs you tighter until you can feel his cracked heart against yours. 

When you step back, unwillingly really, Regulus feels his heart plummet all the way to the floor at the sight of your red-rimmed eyes and broken stare. He supposes he’s not doing any better himself, by the look of sad realization that crosses your face.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, sniffing quietly. “It’s okay if you don’t–”

“I know,” you answer, lips twitching into a watery, barely there sideways smile. “But I forgive you.”

“y/n–”

“I told you that if you changed your mind, you knew where to find me… and you’re here.”

Regulus sucks in a breath, nodding slowly. You thumb at the rogue tear that slides down all the way to his jaw. Your palm shakes with his faint sniffle at your touch.

He wets his lips nervously, tasting the saltiness. “And you said you didn’t take your love with you,” he whispers in fear. 

You smile. “I didn’t,” you sniffle. “I love you, Reggie.”

He feels himself smile, relief slowly filling his chest and his heart. “I love you, too, y/n,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

Your answer comes in the form of another tight hug.

…

Sirius is sure you’re one more second away from biting a hole into your lower lip, red with tender skin and dried blood that you kept causing with your anxious nibbling. He turns to give the room another lap, eyes flickering from his siblings’ tense demeanors to Barty’s tightly crossed arms and Remus’ hunched back as he continues reading the drafts for the supposed statement.

“Okay,” he says after a beat of thick silence. He sets his fountain pen aside after the countless annotations and edits he’s written in the margins. “It’s not so bad, but we must change quite a few things to make sure this doesn’t get twisted.”

You bring your fingers to your hair, brushing them behind your ears. “It can? Get twisted?”

Remus hesitates. “Yes,” he nods, but is quick to put all of you at ease. “But that’s why we’re here. We’ll make sure it’s perfect so that can’t happen–make it fool proof, if you will.”

Regulus nods. “Okay,” he passes a hand through his hair, the other remains tapping at his cane in an absentminded manner. “That’s all we want.”

Sirius rejoins you with his hands braced over his hips, eyebrows furrowed with resolve as he takes the draft from Remus. His eyes skim through the page, stopping to read and try to understand his boyfriend’s messy scribbling about his ideas for edits and changes.

“We have to write it again.”

“What?”

He turns the page for everyone to see. It’s full of notes.

Remus cringes, reaching for it again. “It’s not bad, per say… but most of the things said here, the wording can get confusing very easily. It opens the door for different interpretations.”

They both turn to you three with expectation, and the room is momentarily sucked into silence as you share a look with your brother and Barty. 

It’s the same look you shared that same dinner when the plan for your escape was decided. When you first stepped out of the train to your new home country. When you first moved into your shared flat. Hell, even when Barty stood behind you at the kitchenette sink with the scissors in his hand and your heart up your throat. The same look when a decision has been agreed to, by the three of you. 

You turn back to Sirius, whose crossed arms are so tight his knuckles are white around his forearms. All it takes is a simple nod from you to prompt him into moving. He sends Remus a look before walking out the room to find Peter and most of his PR team. In the same wave of motivation, Remus stands to reach for a couple of tomes and constitutions at the very back of the library. 

As they each move to gather and find everything and everyone to kickstart this plan to regain your shared agency, your hands find Regulus and Barty’s arms with an anxious seek for reassurance. They let you hold onto them as they sit by either side of you in the posh loveseat. 

When Sirius returns, it’s not only with his PR team and Peter, he carries a large encyclopedia under his arm. He’s careful with his movement as he places it over the table between you, eyes taking a solemn look as he gauges each of your reactions.

“Reg, Junior–this is Peter Pettigrew,” he says in a polite tone. Peter nods curtly at each of them, though his eyes flare when he turns to Barty.

Barty smirks. “We’ve met–hello,” he says. Peter flushes a crimson red at his antagonistic tendencies. “Sorry I made my friend throw you out of his pub.”

“You’re quite alright,” he manages to say, nodding again for good measure. 

You nudge at Barty’s side in a placating manner before turning to Sirius, whose gaze has morphed into pure amusement as he looks between Barty and Peter. You shrug one shoulder at him. 

“Well,” he clears his throat as Remus rejoins him to place the books next to his encyclopedia. “Shall we?”

Regulus’ head snaps up from the table to meet his gaze with a raised eyebrow. “Why’d you bring that here?”

“Yeah, how is a swotty encyclopedia supposed to help?” Barty asks.

Sirius doesn’t provide an answer, only reaches for it to open it with a smirk. All it does is bring a tense silence to the room when you three lean closer to peek inside what appears to be a box full of papers, clippings and documents. A photograph stands out, and your eyes cut back to Sirius in realization. The same one taken in the train station when you were still in your disguise, the reason it all came crumbling down months ago. 

“This is where I’ve kept all the records that helped me with my investigation to get to you,” he explains, clearing his throat. “I reckon it could be of help.”

He shares a look with Remus, and it all begins soon after. 

Introductions are made with every member of his PR team. In return, they ask questions and rectify facts with each of you to begin drafting options for your joint statement. Each passing moment and conversation is as tense as the next one–but very reassuring as well, that they’re so keen in helping you find the right words and angles to tell your story.

Servers come and go with trays and trays of coffee and tea, each downed before it can hit the table with your predisposed stress and anxiety with each passing hour of this meeting. Someone asks Barty about his father. Someone else asks Regulus about what happened in his accident. Someone asks you about your hair and the reason you cut it, the story of your disguise to get into the palace. The only question they all skirt past is about your escape. 

Sirius had ordered beforehand to not go through those facts–that he would provide the information and story himself to his team to save you, Regulus and Barty from having to open that wound again. 

Remus accepts the page from one of the assistants, pausing the sip of his coffee to read it silently. He gestures for the pen to write and scratch sentences before passing it to Sirius and the rest of the team. It’s all a collective effort.

You’re starting to feel cramps in your fingers with the tightness of your hold around your teacup, but it’s all that has managed to distract your anxious hands from tugging at your hair or wringing together in your lap. A quick sideway glance at your brother is all you need to know he’s not doing better off at taming his own anxiety. From your other side, Barty is leaned back over the chair with nonchalance as he animatedly retells his anecdotes of training you and Regulus growing up.

“How’s this,” an assistant says. “It has long been public knowledge that Prince Sirius Black sought asylum abroad–”

“Our brother,” you say meekly, especially when all eyes turn to you in the room. Sirius’ are far more intense than the rest. 

The assistant blinks in surprise. “Pardon?”

You feel Regulus’ hand squeezing your elbow in reassurance before you clear your throat. “It has long been public knowledge that Prince Sirius Black, our brother, sought asylum abroad. It sounds better.”

Sirius parts his lips in surprise, heartstrings tugging when his eyes flicker between you and Regulus. 

The moment is cut short by the assistant’s hum, followed by an echo of similar sounds as the rest of the team join together to rewrite your note. Remus sends you a knowing smile as he sets his coffee down. 

You look down at your elbow, and follow the path up until you meet Regulus’ gaze with a little smile of your own. He only shakes his head with a throaty laugh, smile spreading when you nudge at his side. Both your smiles spread when you turn to meet Sirius’ own from across the table. 

Questions are asked, and he’s shepherded around the room with each of the assistants and Peter who ask him to rectify facts and statements to finish off yet another draft for the statement. 

When it’s done, and Remus reads it aloud to taste the words and finality of the story, it goes without saying that no more tweaks or corrections are needed. 

It’s done.

It takes an embarrassing beat for all of you three to get your thoughts and feelings in order when it’s printed out and handed in copies to each of you. The original sits on the table, fountain pen at the ready to be signed by each of you.

You clear your throat, wetting your lips nervously as you scan the document. Barty is the first one to stand to take the pen, he signs it wordlessly but with tense shoulders. Regulus gives your elbow yet another reassuring squeeze before he accepts the pen from Barty to sign his name as well.

When he hands it to you, you only suck a steadying breath before taking the pen. It shakes very, very faintly to the untrained eyes as you take the statement to sign it. Your eyes lift slightly to skim through it very quickly.

For many years, our absence has been explained for us. Recent public and political statements regarding our lives, our existence, our health, and our character compel us to speak directly and provide correction. 

We were not hidden from the public eye, nor hidden by the Crown for reasons of health, stability or protection. We left Slytherin as minors because remaining was unsafe. Any narrative suggesting otherwise is a reconstruction made without our consent.

Regulus Black’s injury, which has been shared and publicly discussed without his permission, is the result of premeditated violence. It does not define his capacity, nor does it justify stripping him of any titles, autonomy or dignity.

y/n Black has been described as unfit due to alleged nonconformity of appearance and conduct. These claims rely on material taken out of context and deliberately misrepresented. Choices made in private, under conditions of concealment and survival, are now being reframed to serve political explanation that did not exist at the time.

Bartemius Crouch Jr. was not an accessory nor a mere bystander to our departure. He left alongside us under similar conditions. Like us, he was a minor. Like us, he was acting as a desperate escape from harm.

It has long been public knowledge that Prince Sirius Black, our brother, sought asylum abroad. What has not been acknowledged is that his departure, like ours, was driven by the same circumstances. Our paths diverged, but the reasons did not.

We are not opposing tradition, nor attempting to rewrite history for advantage. We are simply correcting the record where it has been shaped to justify silence and conceal abuse.

We did not disappear. We were not protected.

We escaped.

Any narrative that requires our suffering to be reframed as anything other than this truth deserves scrutiny.

This statement is not issued to provoke further speculation, but to establish truth where it has been deliberately obscured. 

You look back down at your name, and take a breath before signing it with quick and simple movements. The knot in your chest loosens as you stand straight, setting the pen aside when Peter carefully reaches to take the page. He gives it one last run through before nodding curtly at you three and then at Sirius. With all the approval in the room, Peter takes the statement inside his leather portfolio and guides the PR team outside the room. 

When the door clicks, you only let your face drop to the palm of your hands. The room is quickly filled with tense silence as the adrenaline of the moment comes crashing down.

A few hours later, the statement is released.

You laughed too, though your focus lingered on James a moment longer than it should have. His shirt had ridden up, exposing a lean stretch of stomach, and the easy way he sprawled back against the headboard made heat curl in your belly. You shifted slightly, hoping neither of them noticed.

Of course, Sirius noticed everything. His grey eyes cut to you, then back to James, and his grin only widened. “You’re staring, love.”

Your cheeks warmed instantly. “I am not.”

James leaned forward, eyes dancing with mischief. “Oh? Staring at me, were you?”

It was ridiculous how casual they could be about it, how they teased without shame. But the air had shifted—charged, heavy. Sirius leaned in, voice low and playful.

“Can’t blame you. He does look good, doesn’t he? Bet he tastes even better.”

James chuckled, shaking his head, though color had risen high on his cheeks. He looked at you, then at Sirius, then back again—testing, daring.

“Well then,” he said slowly, almost as if amused at himself for saying it, “maybe we should let her find out.”

The room went quiet except for the thrum of your heartbeat. Sirius raised a brow, reclining back like a king waiting to be entertained. “Go on, sweetheart. Show us how bad you want it.”

James smirked at you like he already knew your answer. His long fingers toyed absently with the hem of his shirt, waiting. You swallowed hard, then slid off the bed and onto your knees between his legs. The carpet scratched faintly under your skin, but the heat of the moment drowned it out.

James spread his thighs, lazy and inviting. “That’s it, love. Always so good for us.”

You glanced up at him, breath catching when his hand brushed over your hair—guiding, not forcing. Sirius shifted in the chair, smirking like this was the most entertaining thing he’d seen all week.

“Don’t be shy now,” Sirius drawled, swirling the bottle in his hand. “You’ve had your eyes on his cock all night. Might as well make yourself useful.”

Heat rushed through you, shame tangled deliciously with want. James unbuttoned his jeans with an easy flick, pushing them down just enough for his cock to spring free—thick, flushed, already half-hard from the teasing.

You licked your lips. James caught it, chuckling low in his chest. “Merlin, you’re eager. Go on, then.”

You leaned forward, taking him into your mouth, warm weight filling your tongue as you slid down slowly. James groaned, hand threading into your hair as he tipped his head back against the wall.

Sirius laughed under his breath, eyes glittering. “Look at you, Prongs. All red in the face already, and she’s barely started.”

James let out a shaky breath, trying and failing to sound casual. “Yeah, well—” His words broke off into a grunt as you sank deeper, hollowing your cheeks. “—She’s bloody good at it, isn’t she?”

You glanced up through your lashes, and the sight made James’ hips twitch. He tried to reply to something Sirius said, but every shift of your mouth, every swirl of your tongue, dragged another curse out of him.

“Not going to last long with that mouth,” Sirius teased, lounging back. “Bet she could make you beg in under five minutes.”

James’ laugh came ragged now, cut off by another groan as you sucked harder. His hand tightened in your hair, guiding your rhythm, and he looked down at you with glassy eyes. “Fuck, sweetheart… you hear him? He’s jealous.”

“Jealous?” Sirius grinned lazily. “Hardly. Just waiting my turn.”

Your lips stretched around him, the heavy heat of James’ cock filling your mouth as you slid down slowly. The taste of him coated your tongue—salty, warm, intoxicating. His thighs tensed under your hands, and when you swallowed around him, his head hit the wall with a dull thud.

“Fuck—” James hissed, chest heaving. His fingers tangled deeper in your hair, not pushing, just keeping you close. “You’re too good at this.”

You hummed around him, the vibration making him curse again. His cock twitched against your tongue, precome slicking your lips as you pulled back to lick a long stripe up his shaft before sinking down again.

From the chair, Sirius whistled low. “Listen to him—already falling apart. You’d think he’d never had his dick sucked before.”

James shot him a glare through heavy-lidded eyes. “Shut it, Pads.” His words faltered when you bobbed faster, cheeks hollowing, saliva slipping down your chin. “Bloody hell—she’s… Merlin—”

Sirius’ grin widened. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, watching the way your head moved in James’ lap like it was the only show that mattered. “Careful, love. Keep going like that and he’ll be spilling down your throat before I get a taste.”

Your cheeks burned hotter, but you didn’t stop—you wanted James trembling. You wanted Sirius watching. So you wrapped your hand around the base of James’ cock, stroking what your mouth couldn’t take, while your tongue traced circles under the head.

James bucked helplessly, a strangled laugh escaping him. “She’s trying to kill me, Pads—fuck—look at her.”

“I am looking.” Sirius’ voice had dropped lower now, darker. “Look at those pretty lips stretched around you. She’s perfect like this, isn’t she?”

James’ hand flexed in your hair, tugging just enough to make you whimper. His gaze dropped to your wet, swollen mouth working over him. “Yeah,” he groaned, “she’s perfect.”

Sirius shifted in his chair, and when you glanced sideways, you caught the unmistakable outline straining in his trousers. His grin was wolfish.

James gave a breathless laugh, thrusting shallowly into your mouth as his eyes flicked to Sirius. “Told you you’d get jealous.”

Sirius stood at last, lazy like a predator who’d been patient too long. He set his bottle down with a clink and crossed the room, boots heavy against the floorboards.

“Shift up,” he murmured to James, though his eyes were on you.

James, dazed with pleasure, obeyed—leaning back against the headboard, legs spread wider to give Sirius room. You pulled off James’ cock with a wet pop, lips swollen, chin slick. Before you could catch your breath, Sirius crouched in front of you, thumb sweeping across your lower lip to smear the shine.

“Messy little thing,” he said with a grin. “You like it, don’t you? On your knees, mouth full of cock, both of us watching.”

Heat rushed through you, but you didn’t answer—just parted your lips, tongue darting to chase his thumb. Sirius chuckled, dark and approving.

James groaned above you, fisting the sheets. “Pads, stop teasing. She’s driving me mad.”

“Oh, I’m not the one teasing,” Sirius replied smoothly. Then his hands caught your waist, strong and unyielding, and he hauled you up onto the bed.

You landed on your back across the sheets, breathless, as Sirius sprawled down beside you, clothes taken off. His lips brushed your ear, voice low and deliberate. “Here’s how we’re going to play this: I want you on my face, sweetheart. James on my cock. Both of you giving me something to feel.”

The words alone made you ache. James’ eyes went wide, his chest heaving. “You—you want me—”

Sirius laughed and smacked his thigh. “Yeah, Prongs. Don’t act shy now. You’ve been eyeing me up for years.” His grin softened into something filthier. “And I’ve been waiting to fuck you.”

The tension snapped like a whip. James stared for a beat too long, then dragged a hand down his face and muttered, “Fuck it.”

He moved fast, shoving his jeans the rest of the way off and climbing over Sirius with a mixture of nerves and hunger. Sirius lay back, cock already hard against his stomach, watching James with a smug little smirk.

“Good boy,” Sirius teased, voice vibrating with satisfaction. Then his hand slid up to beckon you closer. “And you, darling—up here. Sit that pretty cunt on my mouth.”

Your pulse thundered. James’ cock gleamed with spit, his body tense above Sirius, and you knew exactly what Sirius wanted: both of you tangled, grinding, desperate, with him caught in the middle.

And God, you wanted it too.

James froze above Sirius, straddling his thighs but not lowering down yet. His hands hovered awkwardly at his sides, fingers twitching like he didn’t know where to put them. His cock was flushed and dripping, so obviously aching, but his face was caught between disbelief and arousal. “Merlin’s sake, Pads, are you sure about this?”

Sirius tilted his head back against the pillow, hair spilling wild around him. He looked like sin incarnate, stretched out and waiting, grin lazy and wicked. “Look at me, Prongs. Do I look unsure?”

James’ gaze flicked down, taking in the hard length pressed against Sirius’ stomach, the way he lounged like a man utterly in control. James swallowed hard. “Bloody hell…”

“Relax.” Sirius reached up, brushing his hand along James’ thigh, the touch casual but electric. “You’ve trusted me with everything else. Trust me with this too.”

You knelt nearby, watching the push and pull between them, your own skin prickling with want. James glanced at you, and your breath caught at the raw uncertainty in his eyes.

“You really want this?” he asked, voice rough.

“Yeah,” you whispered, throat dry. “More than anything.”

That seemed to tip him. James let out a shaky laugh, running a hand through his messy hair before bracing himself over Sirius again. “You’re a fucking menace, Padfoot.”

Sirius smirked, eyes glinting. “And you love me for it.”

He guided James’ hips down with a firm grip, lining him up. James gasped when the blunt head of Sirius’ cock pressed against him—his whole body shuddering, torn between tension and need.

“Easy,” Sirius murmured, stroking his thigh soothingly. “Breathe, Prongs. Take it slow. I’ve got you.”

James let out a hiss, half-frustrated, half-desperate. “Fuck…”

“God, you’re beautiful like this,” Sirius went on, his voice soft but soaked with hunger. “Easy, love.”

You bit your lip, thighs rubbing together. James’ breath came faster, his cock twitching hard in front of you as Sirius coaxed him down inch by inch. The stretch had him trembling, his hands fisting the sheets on either side of Sirius’ head.

“Good boy,” Sirius praised, voice ragged now. “That’s it, ride me slow. Feels better than you thought, doesn’t it?”

James groaned low in his chest, nodding but not trusting himself to speak. His whole body arched, caught between pain and pleasure, while Sirius’ grin turned feral.

Then Sirius looked past James—straight at you. His tone dropped, dark and commanding. “Now, darling. Get up here and let me taste you. Let him watch while you ride my face.”

Your whole body buzzed as you crawled up the bed. Sirius’ hands caught your hips, guiding you over his chest and facing James until your knees planted on either side of his shoulders. He looked up at you with that wolfish grin, lips already parted.

“Sit,” he ordered.

You lowered slowly, heart hammering, until his mouth pressed hot and eager against you. The first swipe of his tongue made your thighs tremble, and then you were sinking fully down onto him, his tongue pushed deep.

“Oh—fuck—” You leaned forward, bracing your hands on his abs for balance, body rocking helplessly against his mouth.

Before you, James let out a strangled moan. You blinked up, dizzy with sensation, and nearly lost yourself at the sight: James straddling Sirius’ hips, head tipped back, his cock hard and dripping while Sirius filled him inch by inch.

His chest heaved, muscles straining as he rode down, and Sirius groaned into your cunt at the same time, the vibration shooting straight through you.

James looked down at you then, face flushed, hair sticking damp to his forehead. His voice broke on a laugh. “Fucking hell—we’re really doing this—”

You reached forward, wrapping your hand around his cock. The slick heat of him pulsed against your palm, and his whole body shuddered.

“Don’t stop,” he gasped, eyes locked on yours. “Please—don’t stop.”

You leaned forward, lips wrapping around the swollen head, sucking him deep while Sirius devoured you from below. James nearly collapsed, a guttural noise tearing from his throat as his hips jerked between your mouth and Sirius’ cock inside him.

“Christ—she’s—fuck—” His words cut off, replaced by gasps and curses. He fisted your hair tight, guiding you down his length, eyes glassy with pleasure.

Beneath it all, Sirius groaned against you, his tongue relentless, his cock buried in James. Every thrust of James’ hips pushed him deeper into both of you, the whole bed shaking with the rhythm.

“Look at us,” Sirius rasped between licks, his voice muffled against your cunt. “My two favorite people, falling apart on me.” He sucked your clit hard, making you cry out, before adding, “Ride me, Prongs. Make her choke on it while she soaks my face.”

James obeyed with a desperate sound, bouncing harder on Sirius’ cock. His moans grew louder, rougher, as he fucked himself down while you swallowed him greedily, drool slicking your chin.

The room was filled with the wet sounds of your mouth, Sirius’ tongue, the slap of James’ thighs. You were a mess together, tangled and hungry, each movement setting off the next until it felt like all three of you would break at once.

James’ rhythm grew frantic, thighs trembling as he fucked himself down on Sirius’ cock. Every drop of slick made the thrusts smoother, every bounce driving a groan out of him. His head lolled back, neck flushed red, chest gleaming with sweat.

“Fuck, Pads—” James gasped, voice wrecked. “You’re—too big—”

Sirius growled into your cunt, the sound vibrating through you. He dragged his mouth up your slit and nipped lightly at your clit, making your hips buck against his face. Then he pulled back just long enough to rasp, “You can take it, Prongs. You’re taking it so fucking well. Look at you—riding me like you were made for it.”

James’ answering moan was strangled, desperate. His grip tightened in your hair as you swallowed him down again, the head of his cock hitting the back of your throat. He couldn’t decide which sensation to chase—your mouth milking him or Sirius splitting him apart from below.

Drool and spit ran down your chin, dripping onto Sirius’ chest. Your eyes watered, but you stayed on him, loving the way James’ whole body shuddered when you gagged around him.

“Bloody hell,” James groaned, thrusting shallowly into your mouth, each movement desperate but shaky. “She’s—shit, Pads, she’s going to make me—”

Sirius cut him off by sucking your clit hard, tongue circling, his hands pinning your hips down to his face. You screamed around James’ cock, the vibration sending him into a frenzy.

“Good girl,” Sirius praised against your cunt, his voice muffled, drenched in filth. “Drown me, sweetheart. Fuck my mouth while he fucks himself on me.”

You rocked harder against him, smearing your slick over his sharp cheekbones as his tongue worked mercilessly. Your thighs trembled, nails scratching at James’ hips for balance.

James’ eyes dropped to you, wild and glazed. The sight of you grinding on Sirius’ face while his cock stretched your throat made his hips stutter violently. “I can’t—fuck—I’m gonna—”

“Don’t you dare pull out,” Sirius snapped, still lapping at you. His free hand smacked James’ arse sharply, making him jolt. “Give it to her. Down her throat. Make her swallow every drop.”

James cursed loud, hips slamming forward. You gagged and moaned at once, tears slipping free, and the raw sound of your devotion made him groan deep from his chest.

The three of you moved like a machine now—James bouncing helplessly, Sirius grinding into him while tonguing you open, you choking and drooling as you sucked James with everything you had. Every thrust, every lick, every swallow wound the tension tighter and tighter.

It felt dangerous, overwhelming, inevitable.

James was unraveling fast. His thighs shook where they straddled Sirius, every downward drop forcing a guttural moan from his throat. You could feel it in the way his cock pulsed against your tongue, swollen and throbbing, begging for release.

But Sirius wasn’t about to let either of you finish just yet.

He tore his mouth from your cunt for a moment, lips shiny with slick, and snarled up at James. “Slow the fuck down, Prongs.”

You whimpered—actually whimpered—at the sudden loss of Sirius’ tongue beneath you. James’ hips jerked like he couldn’t help himself. “Pads, I—please, I can’t—”

“You can,” Sirius snapped, grip tightening on your thighs. James moaned helplessly, eyes fluttering. “You’re going to take it at my pace. Not yours. Mine.”

His hand slid from your hip to James’, gripping so tight his knuckles whitened. Sirius guided him, forcing a slower grind down his cock, deeper and more deliberate, until James was keening with every inch.

“Look at him,” Sirius growled, eyes flicking to you. “Fucking gorgeous like this. Can’t decide if he wants to fuck your throat raw or beg me to split him open.”

Your lips slid off James with a wet pop, saliva stringing between your mouth and his cock. You stroked him slowly, deliberately cruel, watching the way his stomach clenched. “He looks like he wants both.”

James cursed, shoving into your fist, but Sirius wrenched his hips back down with a brutal snap.

“Don’t let him off easy, sweetheart,” Sirius ordered, voice low. “Tease the fuck out of him. Make him work for it.”

So you did—kitten licks along the tip, a shallow suck, your tongue tracing just under the head while your hand gripped the base tight. James nearly sobbed, torn between grinding down on Sirius and begging you for more.

“Fuck—fuck, you’re both evil—” James gasped, sweat dripping down his temples. “I can’t—don’t stop—oh, bloody hell—”

Sirius’ lips were back on you then, tongue stabbing deep, pulling out and tracing circles around your clit. You cried out, clutching James tighter as your hips ground helplessly against Sirius’ face. His growl vibrated through you, sending shocks up your spine.

James stared down at the sight of you writhing above Sirius, your thighs trembling as he devoured you. His cock twitched violently in your hand. “She’s gonna—she’s gonna come, Pads, look at her—”

“Not yet,” Sirius rasped against your cunt. “I want her dripping all over me before I let any of us finish.” His tongue circled mercilessly, his hands clamping your thighs so hard you’d bruise.

You were shaking, pleasure boiling over but never tipping, because every time you got close, Sirius shifted his rhythm—slowing, dragging it out, making you beg.

Your voice broke. “Please—Sirius, please, I need—”

He laughed darkly, slick dripping down his chin. “That’s it, darling. Beg. The more you beg, the sweeter it’ll taste.”

James was no better, reduced to a trembling mess above him, biting his lip so hard it bled. His cock was iron-hard in your hand, veins throbbing. He tried to fuck your fist but Sirius forced him down slower, stretching him deeper until James cried out, eyes rolling back.

“Christ,” Sirius groaned. “I could keep you both on the edge all fucking night.”

And it felt true—none of you had come yet, but every nerve was lit up, strung tight, wracked with too much sensation to handle. The air smelled of sweat, spit, and sex, every breath heavy with it.

You were drowning together, and Sirius held all the strings.

Sirius’ grip on James’ hips was merciless, holding him down even as James writhed, desperate for more friction, more speed, more anything. His cock leaked freely in your fist, smearing slick down your fingers as you teased the head with feather-light licks.

“Pads,” James whined, voice cracking, “Please, let me—fuck, I’m gonna—”

“Not yet,” Sirius cut him off sharply, biting at your inner thigh hard enough to make you gasp. His tongue licked over the sting immediately after, smug. “Neither of you are coming until I say so.”

You shivered, every muscle strung tight, hips jerking against his mouth. His tongue dragged slowly, lazily, like he had all the time in the world to ruin you. Every time you thought he’d let you tip, he changed pace, pulling back to blow cool air across your soaked folds until you were sobbing with need.

James was no better, trembling, eyes squeezed shut. His thighs quivered where they straddled Sirius, sweat dripping down his flushed chest. He tried to chase your hand with shallow thrusts, but you slowed your movements cruelly, matching Sirius’ rhythm. Every stroke of your fist stopped just before the head, making him choke on a moan of frustration.

“Fuck, fuck, I can’t—” James babbled, his head dropping forward until his sweaty curls brushed your cheek. His voice was wrecked, ragged. “I need to come, I’m begging you, please—”

Sirius only smirked up at him from between your thighs, lips glistening, chin slick with your wetness. “Look at you,” he rasped, tongue flicking your clit just long enough to make you cry out. “Both of you—already fucked out and you haven’t even given me what I want yet.”

“What—what do you want?” You gasped, clutching at James’ biceps for balance.

He moaned, sucking your clit hard until your vision sparked, then pulled back just long enough to snap, “I want you to break. I want Prongs to break. I want to drag you both through it so many times you forget how to breathe.”

James’ cock twitched violently in your fist at those words, his whole body shuddering. He buried his face against your shoulder, teeth scraping your skin. “He’s gonna kill me,” James groaned, voice muffled. “Fuck, Pads, you’re gonna kill me.”

Sirius laughed low, dangerous, and pulled you down harder against his face, burying his tongue inside you until you screamed. At the same time, he thrust up into James with a brutal snap of his hips, forcing a strangled sob out of him.

It was too much. Too slow, too deep, too relentless. You were both teetering on the edge, writhing, begging, broken open under Sirius’ hands.

Your thighs were shaking so violently you thought they might give out, but Sirius’ grip was iron. Every flick of his tongue had your whole body jerking, and every sharp grind of his hips beneath James made the bed creak. You could hear James’ desperate little whimpers right in your ear, breath hot against your skin as he tried and failed to hold himself together.

“Pads,” he croaked, voice gone raw. “I—I can’t hold it—”

Sirius growled against your cunt, sending another shudder ripping through you. He pulled back just enough to speak, lips wet and swollen. “Both of you. Together. Don’t come until I tell you. When I say, you let go. Understand?”

You nodded frantically, tears streaking down your cheeks, while James gave a broken, “Y-yeah—” though his cock twitched violently in your hand, dripping all over your knuckles.

Sirius’ grin was wicked. “Good little pets.”

Then he stopped teasing. His tongue moved with brutal precision, sucking your clit like he meant to rip the orgasm out of you, while his hips slammed up hard into James. The sudden change tore screams from both of you—James’ moans ragged against your ear, your cries muffled against his shoulder.

“Now,” Sirius snarled, voice guttural, command vibrating through both of you. “Fucking come for me.”

The words were a detonator.

You shattered with a scream, your thighs locking around his head as wave after wave of release broke you open. His tongue never stopped, devouring everything you gave, dragging your orgasm out until you thought you’d pass out.

At the same time, James fell apart in your hand, his cock pulsing violently as he spilled hot down your wrist and Sirius’ abs. He sobbed against your neck, muffling his cries in your skin as his whole body convulsed.

Sirius groaned, hips bucking up into James, the sound nearly lost beneath both of your cries. The tight heat around his cock finally dragged him over the edge, and he spilled deep inside James with a guttural snarl, holding both of you locked against him while he shook with it.

The room spun, thick with panting breaths and the smell of sex.

You collapsed forward, forehead pressed against James’ shoulder, your body boneless. James trembled above Sirius, chest heaving, his curls damp with sweat as he clung to you.

Beneath you both, Sirius lay sprawled like a satisfied king, hair wild, lips glistening, eyes heavy-lidded but smug.

“Well,” he drawled after a long, shaky silence, his voice rough with use. “That… was bloody brilliant.”

James let out a laugh that cracked halfway through, muffled against your skin. “You’re—insufferable.”

“And yet,” Sirius smirked, giving James’ arse a lazy squeeze, “you’ll both be begging me for more tomorrow.”

You couldn’t muster a reply—James hadn’t even finished trembling when Sirius shifted under the both of you. His hands, firm on your thighs, slid down to squeeze your hips before shoving you off his face until you were pressed chest-to-chest with James. The movement forced James to stay seated on Sirius’ cock, every inch still buried deep inside him.

James whimpered, his whole body flinching. “Pads—wait—I can’t—”

“Oh, you can.” Sirius’ voice was low and dangerous, his grin all teeth. “You’re still hard. Look at you—dripping all over my stomach and twitching like you want more.”

You felt James shudder against you, caught between overstimulation and want. His cock was flushed, swollen, smeared with his own release—but Sirius wasn’t wrong. He hadn’t softened at all.

Sirius tilted his head, catching your dazed eyes. “Sweetheart. Don’t think you’re off the hook either. I want you on him—ride his cock while I fuck him open. Let’s see how much our precious Prongs can take.”

Your stomach clenched, a hot bolt of desire sparking through you even though you were still trembling from your orgasm. “Sirius—he’ll break—”

“That’s the point.” Sirius shoved his hips up sharply, making James cry out with a strangled sob. “I want him ruined.”

James clung to you desperately, face buried in your neck, but the noise he made wasn’t protest—it was wrecked, needy, desperate. His cock twitched against your stomach like it was begging.

Sirius grinned like a wolf who’d cornered his prey. “Hear that, sweetheart? He’s begging without even speaking. Come on. Sit pretty on him for me.”

Your hands shook as you reached between your bodies, guiding James to your entrance. He was slick with spit and come, sliding easily against you. James whined when the head nudged your folds, trembling like he’d come again just from that.

“Easy,” Sirius coaxed from below, though his tone dripped with dark amusement. “Let her sink down slow, Prongs. Feel every inch of her while I split you wider.”

You braced yourself on James’ shoulders and lowered. The stretch of him filling you was almost unbearable with how sensitive you still were, but the look on James’ face made it worth it—his head thrown back, lips parted, a moan torn straight from his chest as you sank down around him.

“Fuck—fuck—she’s—Merlin, Pads, I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.” Sirius’ hands tightened bruisingly on James’ hips, dragging him down harder onto his cock just as you bottomed out. The three of you groaned together at the sensation—James trapped between you both, cock buried in your cunt, Sirius buried in him.

You clenched around James involuntarily, and his whole body shook. “Too much,” he gasped, though his hips jerked helplessly up into you. “It’s—it’s too much—”

Sirius laughed darkly, snapping his hips up in a brutal thrust that made James choke on a scream. “Too much is exactly what you need.”

You caught James’ face in your hands, forcing him to look at you through tear-bright eyes. “Breathe, love. Just breathe.” You rolled your hips slowly, grinding on his cock while Sirius fucked him from below.

James’ moan broke, high and shattered. “Bloody hell—she’s—tight—fuck, Pads, I’m—”

Sirius smirked up at both of you, sweat dripping down his temples, eyes feral. “That’s it, Prongs. Take it like a good boy. Her cunt squeezing you, my cock wrecking you. You’re ours now.”

James’ nails dug into your back as he sobbed against your shoulder, hips moving despite himself. You could feel every brutal thrust of Sirius through him, every twitch of his cock inside you, every ragged breath against your neck.

And Sirius wasn’t letting up. He set a relentless pace, using James like a toy, forcing his body to fuck into you even when James thought he couldn’t take any more.

Your own pleasure built again shockingly fast, nerves fried but desperate, every movement setting your clit against James’ v-line. You moaned into his mouth, kissing him through the mess of it, and his answering whimper was almost broken.

“She’s—she’s squeezing me—Pads, I’m gonna—fuck, I can’t stop—”

Sirius chuckled dark and sharp, fucking up into him harder. “Don’t stop. Spill inside her while I fuck it deeper into you. Make a mess of her cunt for me.”

James screamed against your lips, and you knew neither of you would last.

James’ cry tore through the room, desperate and helpless, his cock jerking inside you as he spilled hot and thick, pulse after pulse painting your walls. His whole body convulsed between you and Sirius, but Sirius didn’t stop—not for a second.

“That’s it, Prongs,” Sirius growled, snapping his hips harder, driving himself deeper into James’ trembling body. “Come for her, and I’ll fuck every drop back into you.”

You felt it—felt James still pulsing inside you, even as he whimpered brokenly against your lips. He was gone, already past the edge, but his hips kept moving anyway, helplessly rutting into you as Sirius forced him into a brutal rhythm.

“Sirius—” you gasped, overwhelmed yourself, your cunt fluttering wildly around James. “He—he’s not stopping—”

“Good.” Sirius’ voice was feral, sweat dripping from his hairline, eyes wild as he pounded up into James with vicious precision. “He’s not allowed to stop. Not until he breaks.”

James sobbed, high and wrecked, his nails raking down your back as another orgasm tore through him too soon, his cock twitching violently inside you. His whole body shook with it, a strangled noise caught in his throat as he gave in, spilling again despite the tears streaking his flushed face.

You moaned at the feeling, at the sight of him unraveling so completely. “He’s—Merlin, he’s still coming—”

“Because he’s mine,” Sirius snarled, dragging James down harder onto his cock, fucking up so hard the bedframe rattled. “Ours. He’ll come until there’s nothing left in him.”

James’ head lolled against your shoulder, his eyes glassy and unfocused, but his body kept giving—every sharp thrust from Sirius forced another ragged sound, another twitch, another helpless spurt inside you until you were shaking on him, pushed over the edge yourself with a scream.

You clamped down around James’ cock, dragging him deeper into your orgasm, and he convulsed beneath you, completely undone. Sirius groaned at the way James tightened around him, slamming up one last brutal time before burying himself to the hilt, spilling hot into him.

For a moment, the only sound was the wet slap of skin, the ragged chorus of moans and cries, and then the collapse—James finally going boneless, trembling violently, his body utterly spent.

He sagged into you, barely conscious, his breaths shallow little gasps against your skin. Sirius held him in place with a possessive grip, chest heaving, a wolfish grin still plastered across his face.

“Look at him,” Sirius panted, eyes glittering as he stroked his hands down James’ sweat-slick sides. “Ruined. Beautiful. Could fuck him for days like this.”

James let out the faintest whimper, incoherent, and his lashes fluttered as if he couldn’t even hold his eyes open.

You brushed damp curls from his forehead, kissing his temple softly even as your own body shook. “He’s done, Pads,” you whispered, voice gentle where Sirius’ was cruel. “You’ve broken him.”

You had learned how to brew Wolfsbane potion long after graduating Hogwarts and during the first wizarding war. Life outside its walls had offered a fragile kind of privacy, a quieter place where Remus no longer had to vanish in order to transform. 

Yet even that careful structure, built painstakingly between the two of you, had begun to feel increasingly insufficient, as though time itself were eroding whatever small mercy you had managed to construct.

The potion still did its work in the most technical sense. It kept the wolf from fully claiming his mind, from tearing away whatever fragment of recognition remained at the height of it. But it did nothing for the body. 

By morning, there was always blood seeping through his wounds to the point where recovery no longer felt like healing, only preparing himself to endure it all again next month. 

And over the years, that pattern had not lessened. It had only intensified.

It had begun to feel, in a way neither of you spoke aloud, as though the more he endured it, the more it demanded in return. Healing took longer. Recovery left deeper scars. 

Remus understood, that none of this came from a lack of effort on your part. You had been meticulous in your care, learning the potion and refining it until it reached a consistency that could be trusted. 

You prepared for each moon days in advance, arranging everything with precision. You stayed with him through the transformations in your Animagus form, close enough that he would not wake up alone.

Afterward, you remained without needing to be asked. You tended to him through the days that followed with attentiveness. You even made sure his wounds were cleaned and treated, his potions brewed and adjusted as needed, and every small change in his condition was observed with care.

It was not that your efforts fell short. It was that the situation itself had begun to exceed what care alone could contain.

There were moments, when Remus found himself entertaining thoughts he disliked almost immediately. 

The idea that perhaps it would be easier if the Wolfsbane failed entirely, if there were no partial awareness left to endure, no memory of what had happened after each transformation. The thought never lasted long enough to settle into anything resembling desire, because even in its most detached form it carried consequences that were impossible to ignore.

Especially for you.

So he kept it contained, as he did most things that felt heavy to speak of outloud.

Later, after another full moon, the flat carries the faint, lingering scent of iron and crushed herbs that no amount of cleaning removes. You find Remus curled beneath several layers of blankets, his body drawn inward in a way that suggests he’s in pain more than usual. 

The light coming through the window makes his condition easier to read than he would prefer; bruising spreads across his skin in uneven patches, some fading while others remain dark enough to look fresh, and overlapping scars trace older patterns beneath newer damage. 

Even the freckles you once pointed out to him at Hogwarts, tracing them across his shoulders with fondness, have begun to disappear into the accumulation of all his recent scars

You step closer without hesitation. “Remus,” you murmur, voice softened as you crouch beside him. “Are you sure a heating charm won’t help? It might lessen the bone aches, love.”

He exhales through his nose, and shifts slightly beneath the blankets. “I’m alright,” he says.

You spend the rest of the night tending to Remus, cleaning blood from his split skin and binding clawed-open scratches while dark bruises bloom violently across his body beneath your healing charms. 

By the time you manage to feed him a few spoonfuls of soup, exhaustion has already begun dragging him under completely.

He feels a little better, or at least better enough to convince you that sleep will handle the rest. That has always been the hope after transformations. A good night’s sleep. A few days of recovery. Another potion. Another full moon survived.

The night ends with you fluffing the blankets securely around him before climbing into bed beside him yourself, exhaustion pulling you under quickly enough that you fall asleep believing Remus has done the same. 

Remus spends the entire night awake, silently crying in pain.

He knows everything that used to work does not anymore when it comes to easing it. The truth is one cruel, harsh thing: he is getting worse.

And if you do not notice the tear tracks left across his pillow the next morning, well, you remain none the wiser.

─── ⋆⋅ ⏾⋅⋆ ───

During their years at Hogwarts, Remus had gone through every full moon with the help of James, Sirius, and Peter.

Though that had been a lifetime ago now.

Back then, before the war took James and Lily, before Sirius was imprisoned for murdering Peter, things had been simpler. Not easy, but simpler in a way Remus found himself aching for more often lately. 

The full moons had still been painful then. He remembered far too many important moments spent curled up in bed in the boys’ dormitory or recovering beneath the sharp medicinal smell of the Hospital Wing while Madam Pomfrey fussed over injuries that never seemed to shock her anymore. 

The slow splitting of bone beneath his skin, the horrifying stretch of transformation, the knowledge that society viewed creatures like him as dangerous and unworthy; none of that was new.

One thing had been different, though.

The pain had been less.

The irony of it almost made him laugh sometimes, because if someone had told seventeen-year-old Remus Lupin that the transformations would someday become worse, that his body would continue finding newer and more unbearable ways to suffer long after adulthood, he was fairly certain his younger self would not have endured it nearly so long.

Standing at the kitchen counter making tea later that evening, Remus found himself relishing the memory of how much easier it used to be, even when those years had still been filled with pain. 

There was a particular sort of bitterness in realising your old suffering had once been the better option. It left him wondering whether, a decade from now—assuming he survived another decade at all—he would look back at this version of himself and wish for this pain instead.

The thought settled heavily in his chest as his eyes drifted across the small home the two of you had built together.

Everywhere he looked, there was evidence of a good life.

Photographs from Hogwarts lined the shelves, moving portraits of him and his friends grinning after graduation, Lily laughing somewhere in the background while James nearly knocked Sirius over trying to celebrate. 

Another frame held a much younger Remus sitting stiffly beside Lily while she carefully placed newborn Harry into his arms, his expression caught somewhere between terror and awe. 

There were pictures from the years after James and Lily died too, quieter and sadder ones, the first photograph ever taken of you and Remus together where neither of you quite looked like yourselves yet. Then came the later years. Harry growing older. Summer holidays spent in this very house. Scarves abandoned over chairs. His spare glasses left forgotten on tables. A broom leaning carelessly near the back door after Harry had visited last.

Evidence.

Evidence of love. Of survival. Of family.

Your yarn basket sat beside the sofa exactly where you always left it, overflowing with tangled wool and half-finished crochet projects. A collection of horribly misshapen mugs crowded the kitchen shelves because neither of you could ever bring yourselves to throw them out after you made them together one winter.

Remus stared at all of it and suddenly felt sick with guilt.

Because what sort of person looked at a life like this and still thought, I cannot keep doing this anymore?

The thought stayed with him for the rest of the evening, settling heavily beneath his ribs while exhaustion slowly wore down what little patience he still had left.

So when the argument finally happened later that night, it had really only begun with a careless slip of the tongue.

“How are you feeling?” you had asked gently from across the kitchen while Remus sat at the table nursing a cup of tea gone lukewarm in his hands. “Do you want me to make something for the pain, love? Or maybe I could—”

“There’s nothing you can do to help,” Remus had snapped, the words coming out far louder and sharper than he intended.

The silence afterward had been immediate.

You stared at him from across the kitchen, your expression caught somewhere between confusion and hurt, as though the outburst had physically struck you. Remus looked away almost instantly, jaw tightening the moment he realised what he had done.

“Well,” you had said after a moment, your voice noticeably more restrained now, “sorry for trying.”

“That isn’t what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean, Remus?”

He exhaled heavily, dragging a tired hand across his face. “Forget it.”

“No, because you don’t get to bite my head off for asking if you’re alright and then tell me to forget it.”

“I said it came out wrong.”

“And I’m asking you to explain it properly.”

The exhaustion already sitting heavily in his bones made patience difficult to hold onto. Remus pushed his tea aside with more force than necessary before leaning back in his chair, visibly agitated.

“There isn’t anything you can do,” he said again, quieter this time but no less tense. “That’s all I meant.”

You let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “You say that as though I’ve been trying to fix a bloody cold.”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Remus said, sharper than intended, the words coming out clipped with exhaustion rather than real anger. “Bloody hell, that’s not what this is.”

“Then what are you saying?” you asked, frustration finally bleeding through properly now, no longer softened by patience. “Because every month you pull further away from me like I’m doing something wrong and I’m trying to understand where I’ve gone wrong here, Remus, I just don’t get it. You won’t let me help you, and if I am doing something wrong then just tell me so I can stop.”

Remus immediately shook his head. “You are not doing anything wrong.”

“You act like I am.”

“I don’t.”

“You do,” you shot back, voice rising slightly. “You barely speak to me after transformations unless I drag answers out of you, and half the time you won’t even tell me where it hurts. You just sit there pretending you’re fine until you can’t anymore, and I’m left trying to figure out what’s changed every single time because you won’t say it out loud.”

His expression hardened slightly. “What exactly do you want me to say?” 

“The truth would be a good start.”

Something bitter flickered across his face at that, quick and involuntary. “The truth?” he repeated more quietly now, almost as if testing whether it was worth saying at all. “Fine. The truth is I’m tired.”

“So am I.”

“I know that.”

“Clearly you don’t,” you snapped before you could stop yourself. “Because I have spent years trying to help you through this, through all of it, and lately it feels like you resent me every time I do. Like I’m making it worse just by being here and trying to help you get through it.” 

“Well, I didn’t fucking ask you to spend years taking care of me!” 

The second the words left his mouth, he regretted them. Your face crumpled for half a heartbeat before anger rushed in to replace it.

“Right,” you said tightly. “Because that’s the problem here, Remus.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Remus said at once, shaking his head slightly as if he could undo it by force. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

“No,” you replied. “Apparently I don’t, because you refuse to actually say what you mean. You just say these things and expect me to somehow translate them into something else, and I can’t do that anymore, Remus. I can’t keep guessing what version of you I’m speaking to every time something goes wrong!”

The argument only escalated from there, both of you too exhausted and emotional to pull back once it had begun.

“You shut me out constantly now,” you said, your voice louder than before as you set your mug down against the counter with a sharp clatter. “Every single month I watch you suffer through this and you act like I’m some stranger hovering around you instead of the person who’s been beside you through all of it.”

“You think this is easy for me?!” Remus snapped.

“I think watching you slowly destroy yourself while refusing to talk to me about it isn’t exactly easy for me either!”

“That’s not fair.”

“Neither is this!”

The words rang through the kitchen harshly enough that both of you fell silent for a second.

You looked furious now, but beneath it Remus could still see the hurt sitting there untouched.

“I don’t know what else you want from me,” you admitted, your voice cracking slightly despite your effort to keep it steady. “I’m trying my best, and somehow lately it still feels like I’m failing you.”

“You are not failing me because there’s nothing left to help!”

Your arms folded tightly across yourself as though holding yourself together. “James, Sirius, and Peter could help you through transformations,” you said quietly now. “You always talk about Hogwarts like the four of you got through it together, so clearly they managed something right that I can’t.”

Remus physically flinched at that.

“It isn’t about you not being enough,” he said through clenched teeth.

“Then why does it feel like it?” you demanded. “Because every time I try to help you lately you tense up like I’m doing you more harm than good.”

“That’s not what’s happening.”

“Then what is happening, Remus?” you asked, sharper now, because the uncertainty was starting to feel worse than the argument itself.

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Because the truth sounded too horrible once spoken aloud. That his body was getting worse faster than either of you realised. That every transformation hurt more than the last. That no amount of love or care or healing could stop what lycanthropy was slowly doing to him. And perhaps worst of all, that he had started wondering whether there would eventually come a point where surviving it simply was not worth the pain anymore.

Instead of saying any of that, Remus looked away from you and said bitterly, “You cannot keep acting like there’s some solution to this, Y/N.”

Your face fell immediately.

“I never thought there was a solution,” you said quietly. “I just thought I was helping.”

Eventually, the two of you spent nearly an hour apart cooling off in different corners of the house, the earlier shouting leaving behind the sort of silence that felt raw rather than peaceful. Remus remained in the kitchen long after his tea had gone cold, staring blankly at the dim light above the sink while guilt settled heavier and heavier in his chest with every passing minute.

In the end, he was the one who came back first.

You were sitting curled up in bed when he stepped quietly into the room, still looking exhausted, shoulders slumped with defeat that made him seem younger than he was. The anger had long since drained out of him, leaving only regret behind.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly after a moment, his voice rough from exhaustion and shouting alike. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”

You looked up at him immediately, hurt still lingering faintly across your face despite how quickly you always tried to hide it from him.

“I just wanted to help.”

“I know.” Remus sat carefully beside you, every movement betraying lingering pain no matter how much he tried to conceal it. “And you are helping. Merlin, you help more than anyone ever has.”

Even if it was becoming less true every month.

You softened almost instantly at that, the tension in your shoulders finally easing as you leaned into him. Remus wrapped an arm around you automatically, holding you close while you settled against his chest, your fingers absentmindedly tracing the old scars scattered across his skin where freckles had once been more visible years ago.

“It scares me when you shut me out,” you whispered quietly.

Remus closed his eyes for a moment. “I know.”

“You’re going to be okay,” you murmured after a while, more to reassure yourself than him. “We’ll figure it out. We always do.”

He felt something inside him twist painfully at the certainty in your voice.

By then, you had already forgotten most of the argument entirely. You believed him when he said your care was helping. You believed the exhaustion would pass the way it always had before. You believed Remus was okay, or at least that he would be.

Somehow, your kindness hurt him more than your anger ever could.

Remus genuinely did not understand why you tolerated him and all the endless complications that came along with loving him, even—especially—the ones you did not know about.

─── ⋆⋅ ⏾⋅⋆ ───

It had been nearly a week and a half since the previous full moon. Usually, this period served as recovery time for Remus, where you helped him slowly settle back into his regular routines and day to day life before the next transformation arrived to tear through it all over again. 

It was always a tumultuous stretch of time for him because although his body would gradually improve; the physical pain easing little by little with each passing day, the mental burden only seemed to worsen in its place.

It was a Friday, which usually meant you and Remus would head out for one of your little dates with Harry and his boyfriend Draco, a pairing Remus still struggled to fully accept despite how many years had passed. 

(He had insisted for ages that Draco was a “weird” fit for Harry, though he had never once stood in the way of Harry’s happiness. At this point, the stubbornness of it had become almost amusing).

Now, however, Remus stood in front of the full length mirror in your shared bedroom, supposedly in the middle of getting dressed, though he had not moved in several minutes. 

Half dressed and exhausted already, he could see every flaw reflected back at him with painful clarity. Every scar. Every faded freckle buried beneath damaged skin. The bruises still linger faintly yellow and purple along his ribs. Loose skin. The slight softness now settled around his stomach from the weight he had gained over the years.

And really, Remus could not help but feel like throwing up.

He looked repulsive; he looked like a monster wearing the shape of a man.

The thought struck him so violently that his breath caught somewhere in his chest, and suddenly he was crying before he even fully realised it had begun, harsh sobs forcing their way out of him as years worth of self loathing finally cracked open all at once. 

There was so much disgust festering inside him that he no longer knew how to contain it. So much bitterness and exhaustion and loneliness that had nowhere to go except inward, rotting quietly beneath his ribs month after month after month.

Because really, his entire life had become nothing more than a series of arithmetic checks designed to ration what little energy he had left: If I leave the laundry until tomorrow, then maybe I will have enough energy to cook dinner tonight. If I visit Harry this weekend, I will probably spend the following day unable to get out of bed. If the temperature drops tomorrow, my joints will ache worse. If it rains, the old injuries in my back will flare again.

If. If. If.

Everything had become a calculation.

It was exhausting constantly trying to predict whether his own body would betray him from one day to the next, and worse still was the humiliating awareness that half the time the calculations failed him anyway.

A few weeks ago, you had caught him sitting far too long at the kitchen table, quietly trying to plan the coming days around a stack of apothecary receipts and potion ingredients, and had teased him for treating something as simple as rest like a timetable. (“Remus, you don’t have to schedule everything like it’s an exam revision plan,” you had said, smiling as you leaned over his shoulder. “Merlin’s tits, do Muggles seriously plan their entire lives like a to-do list?”) 

Remus had laughed along with you at the time, forcing out some amused remark while something ugly twisted sharply in his chest. You would never have to think about these things. You would never understand what it was like to ration your own life in increments because one missed recovery day meant everything else unravelled after it; because agreeing to see someone meant paying for it in pain later, because even rest itself had to be carefully budgeted or it stopped working at all. 

Still, he had memorised every detail listed there anyway. He added all of it into the endless equation running through his head every waking moment now.

How badly will it hurt tomorrow?

It never truly helped, but the illusion of preparation gave him something dangerously close to control, even if that control was entirely fabricated.

The bedroom door suddenly swung open before he could stop crying properly, and you stepped inside still talking before you even looked at him.

“I swear the washing machine has a personal vendetta against me,” you rambled distractedly. “It ruined my dress completely, the threads along the sleeves are all coming apart and now I’ve nothing to wear tonight unless I—”

You stop abruptly once you notice him standing there.

Your eyes flicker from his tear stained face down toward the sweater clenched tightly in his hands, the old knit fabric stretched a little too tightly now across his frame.

“Oh,” you say quietly, immediately gentler. “Love, if it’s too uncomfortable I can charm it a little looser for you.”

And somehow, pathetically, that tiny act of kindness became the final thing that shattered him completely.

Remus broke apart with a noise so wounded it frightened even himself, sobs tearing violently out of his chest as he bent forward, one shaking hand pressed hard against his mouth as though trying to physically force the sound back down.

You were beside him instantly. “Oh, love, hey, hey, what’s wrong?” you murmur frantically, hands cupping his face before moving to steady his shaking shoulders. “Breathe for me, sweetheart. Remus, breathe. What happened?”

He could not answer.

“Remus, listen to me,” you continued gently, clearly trying to piece together what had upset him so badly. “Y’know it’s normal to gain a little weight in your thirties, right? You’re fine, really, the sweater probably just shrunk a little in the wash and—”

That only made him cry harder.

Because he was not crying over the extra weight.

God, he wished it were only that.

He wished this entire breakdown could be explained away by something as ordinary and fixable as weight gain or tiredness or stress from work. He wished he could simply laugh weakly and let you reassure him and move on from it like any normal person would. 

Instead, the tears kept falling harder and harder no matter how much he tried to stop them, humiliation curling painfully in his chest because he knew you still did not understand what he was actually grieving. 

Everything hurt.

It all hurt so much.

Remus had spent his entire life in pain in one form or another, but there had once been spaces between it. Small mercies; periods where recovery felt possible, where he could almost pretend the transformations had not left permanent damage behind each time they tore through him. 

Lately, though, it felt as though those spaces had disappeared entirely. The pain no longer arrived only with the full moon. It threaded itself through ordinary moments until even standing at the kitchen counter making tea could leave his back aching badly enough that he needed to sit down halfway through. 

And the worst part was how normal it had all started becoming. 

Remus could no longer remember the last time he had experienced a day completely untouched by discomfort. There was only manageable pain and unbearable pain now, and lately the line separating the two had begun narrowing in ways that frightened him. 

It was exhausting living like that.

Exhausting having to calculate every outing, every chore, every responsibility against how much pain it would cost him afterward. Exhausting pretending he was coping better than he truly was because the alternative meant watching concern settle into everyone’s faces all over again. Exhausting knowing his condition was getting worse while everyone around him still spoke about it as though recovery remained possible if he simply rested enough or took the right potion or waited for things to improve.

Things were not improving.

That was the part he could no longer force himself to ignore.

The wolf was destroying him slowly, and Remus had become painfully aware of it in ways he could not explain aloud without terrifying both of you.

A selfish part of him wanted everything to simply stop for a little while so he could finally rest, properly rest, without having to calculate and ration and recover endlessly. He wanted to wake up without immediately assessing what hurt that morning. He wanted enough energy to finish the mountain of unfinished work piling up around him. He wanted to be the person everyone around him believed he still was.

And somewhere beneath the panic clawing viciously through him, Remus knew some of this was simply the panic attack dragging him downward into its familiar spiral of despair.

Remus just wanted to be gone, whether that meant dying or disappearing or simply ceasing to exist for a little while. Anything, anything, so long as he no longer had to feel this way anymore. 

Your voice continues drifting toward him through the panic, gentle and grounding and desperately trying to pull him back, though for several horrible moments it does not seem to reach him at all. 

Remus can still barely breathe properly, his chest tightening painfully as tears continue spilling down his face no matter how hard he tries to stop them. The room around him feels distant and warped at the edges, every thought inside his head collapsing into noise until suddenly your hands are cradling his face firmly enough to force his attention back onto you.

“Remus,” you whisper shakily, your thumbs brushing beneath his eyes. “Look at me, love. Please look at me.”

And he does.

The second your arms pull him against your chest, something inside him completely breaks apart.

A sob tears out of him so violently it frightens even himself. The sound is rough and wounded and horribly animalistic in a way that makes humiliation immediately claw through him afterward because it does not sound human anymore. 

He can feel the way his breathing keeps hitching uncontrollably against you while you hold him tighter instead of recoiling, your hand moving shakily through his hair while you whisper soft reassurances against his temple.

“What’s wrong?” you ask quietly. “Remus, talk to me.”

For a few seconds all he can do is cry harder.

Then eventually, brokenly, he whispers, “I can’t do this anymore.”

You pull back just enough to look at him properly, immediate concern flashing across your face as you rush to reassure him.

“It’s okay,” you say quickly. “We don’t have to go see Harry and Draco tomorrow, love, it’s alright. I’m sure they’ll understand if you’re not feeling well enough—”

Remus shakes his head almost desperately before another sob catches painfully in his throat.

“No,” he chokes out. “No, it’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

His hands shake violently where they clutch weakly at your sleeves.

“I just can’t do this anymore,” he cries. “All of this, I can’t—I can’t keep—”

The realisation slowly drains the colour from your face. Remus watches the exact moment you understand what he actually means.

Without a word, you carefully lower both of you onto the floor until you are sitting together against the side of the bed, Remus half collapsed against your chest while he struggles to breathe through the sobs still wracking through him. Your arms remain wrapped tightly around him, one hand gripping his almost desperately now as though you are frightened he might disappear if you let go.

“It’s gotten worse,” he finally admits through broken breaths. “So much worse.”

You stay silent, letting him speak.

“It hurts every day now,” he whispers. “Every second. I wake up hurting and I go to sleep hurting and sometimes it feels like my body never recovers properly anymore.” His breathing stutters unevenly. “The transformations are worse and recovery takes longer and the pain doesn’t leave afterward like it used to. I thought it would pass, I thought maybe I was just exhausted or stressed or getting older but it just keeps getting worse.”

Tears continue slipping down his face faster than he can wipe them away.

“My knees hurt all the time now,” he admits shakily, the confession sounding pathetic enough to make him hate himself for it. “My hips ache after every full moon for days afterward and sometimes my hands shake so badly I can barely hold things properly and I’m so tired all the time.” 

A horrible, humourless laugh breaks weakly through another sob. “I keep trying to adjust to it and then it gets worse again and I have to learn how to live in my body all over again because this keeps becoming my new normal and I don’t know how much worse it’s going to get.”

By the end of it, he can barely get the words out at all.

Your own tears have begun falling quietly somewhere during his rambling, though you continue holding him through all of it, your thumb rubbing shakily across the back of his hand while he cries into your shoulder.

“Love,” you whisper brokenly once he finally falls silent. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Remus squeezes his eyes shut.

“I knew something was wrong,” you continue softly through your own tears. “I’m not a bloody fool, Remus. You’ve been shutting me out for months and refusing to tell me what was happening and I kept thinking maybe I was doing something wrong somehow, but you could’ve told me.” Your voice cracks painfully. “I would’ve been there for you.”

“I didn’t want to burden you,” he mumbles weakly. “Didn’t want to ruin whatever image you still had of me. At least the half decent one.”

You lean forward carefully and press a soft kiss against his damp cheek before resting your forehead against his.

“Remus,” you whisper, “I love you. Not whatever version of your body you think you’re supposed to be.” Your fingers intertwine more tightly with his. “Bodies change, love. Mine has changed too. That doesn’t make you harder to love.”

Remus cries quietly for a long while after that.

When the two of you finally crawl into bed later that night, his hips still ache, his knees still throb painfully beneath the blankets, and every joint in his body still feels bruised and raw from years of damage that no longer heals cleanly.

The pain has not disappeared.

Neither has the fear.

Though for the first time in months, the ache inside his chest feels just a little less unbearable than before.

─── ⋆⋅ ⏾⋅⋆ ───

And as it turns out, the road toward being okay is a tumultuous one, painfully non linear in all the most ordinary ways.

It takes time for Remus to learn how to ask for help when he needs it instead of silently enduring until he reaches a breaking point. It takes time for you to learn not to immediately offer help every time you think he might need it, because sometimes the loss of independence stings worse than the pain itself. 

Most of all, it takes time for the both of you to learn each other all over again, for you to recognise the moments where he does need help even when exhaustion leaves him too tired or ashamed to verbally ask for it.

Eight months later, the two of you have fallen into something that cannot quite be called easier, though it is no longer as unbearable as it once was either. The pain still exists. Remus still has bad days where getting out of bed feels impossible, and the full moons still leave him aching for days afterward in ways neither of you can truly fix. 

There are still moments where frustration gets the better of him, where pain and humiliation twist together until they come out harsher than intended.

(“I can do it myself,” Remus had snapped once while trying to stand from the sofa after a particularly bad full moon, exhaustion making his hands shake with the effort. “I’m not a fucking toddler.”)

Other times, though, there are moments that would have once been unimaginable to him, moments where he finally lets himself ask for help.

(“Can you help me up?” he had whispered one winter morning after his knees locked painfully beneath him halfway down the stairs, his voice thick with embarrassment. “Please. I just… I can’t do it right now.”)

And there are some rare times where Remus had stopped pretending he was fine when he clearly was not, and you had stopped trying to fix every part of his pain, understanding now that sometimes all he needed was someone willing to sit beside him through it. It did not make the lycanthropy easier, nor did it stop him from getting worse, but somehow carrying it together made it easier for Remus to survive.

Slowly, very fucking slowly at that, Remus begins pulling himself out from beneath all the burdens that have haunted him for years. Not perfectly and not all at once, but enough that he starts noticing the difference in small moments before he notices it anywhere else.

He begins accepting what has happened to him and what continues happening to him in this painfully mundane life of his.

Because that is the thing about chronic suffering in the end. Most of it is not a cycle of great torture. It exists in ordinary moments. In aching joints while making tea. In needing help buttoning a shirt after a difficult transformation because his fingers hurt too badly to cooperate. In learning how to build a life around pain without allowing pain to become the only thing life contains.

More often now, Remus finds himself staring at the photographs scattered throughout your shared home, though the feeling they stir in him has changed. Once they had filled him with grief for everything he had lost and guilt for all the times he had wanted to surrender beneath the weight of it. 

Now they bring peace, or something close enough to it.

The memories of everyone he has loved and lost no longer feel solely painful. James and Lily smiling brightly from moving photographs, Sirius finally free and laughing so hard during Sunday tea that he nearly spills his drink across the table, even Peter lingering painfully at the edges of memory despite everything that happened; all of them remind Remus that his life has contained something meaningful enough to grieve in the first place.

It is bittersweet in a way he suspects life often is.

The glass is not entirely full, nor entirely empty either, and for the first time in years Remus finds himself capable of accepting that perhaps it does not need to be one or the other.

He has come a long way from the quiet, scrawny twelve year old boy crying in Madam Pomfrey’s office after full moons because he could not understand why this had happened to him. 

He is no longer the twenty one year old standing shell shocked at James and Lily’s funeral believing he had lost all three of his best friends in a single night. 

He is no longer the twenty five year old convinced he was ruining your life simply by remaining in it. 

He is not that thirty eight year old lying awake wishing he could die just so the pain would stop for a little while.

Now, Remus finds solace in the people who remain.

In meeting Minerva every once in a while and sharing grief neither of them ever fully learned to put down. 

In listening to Luna ramble happily about all her strange adventures across both the wizarding and muggle world with the sort of sincerity only Luna could possess. 

In sharing tea with Tonks while she animatedly complains about work and laughs halfway through her own stories. 

In watching Harry build a bright, beautiful life for himself despite everything that should have destroyed him. 

In accepting Draco slowly and reluctantly at first before eventually recognising the great devotion with which he loves Harry.

Most of all, Remus finds comfort in you.

In your patience. Your stubbornness. Your quiet insistence on loving him through every ugly complicated part of being alive.

And these days, when Remus looks around the home the two of you built together, his chest no longer twists with guilt alone.

Now it twists with gratitude—because somehow, impossibly, he found a group of people so deeply convinced he was lovable and worthy of care that they spoon fed the belief into him for years until eventually, one day, he finally learned how to feed himself.

And it is at that point, almost two years later, that Remus realises this had been the point all along.

Not on some grand life changing day either, nor during one of the dramatic moments he once believed revelations were meant to arrive within. 

The understanding comes to him quietly on an ordinary evening while he lays stretched across the sofa with your legs tangled absentmindedly with his own, watching you knit some sort of ridiculous mug warmer for his tea that he already knows he will treasure for the rest of his life simply because you made it.

You continue rambling softly about his upcoming birthday, asking what sort of gift he might want this year despite Remus insisting repeatedly that he truly does not need anything.

“It doesn’t have to be something big,” you tell him while counting stitches distractedly. “I just want it to be something you’ll actually like.”

“I’ll like whatever you get me.”

“That is not helpful at all.”

A smile tugs faintly at his mouth despite himself.

“You made me that scarf three years ago and I still wear it constantly,” he points out lazily.

“That scarf is falling apart.”

“And yet I continue wearing it.”

You laugh softly at that before finally looking up at him properly, and the expression on your face nearly undoes him where he lays.

Because your eyes are so unbearably full of love that it feels as though the feeling itself might spill over and drown him entirely if he stares too long. 

You look at him with such uncomplicated affection, such complete certainty, that sometimes Remus still struggles understanding how a person like you can exist at all. It is as though you carry some endless bright thing within yourself and insist upon turning it toward every monstrous, complicated, ugly part of him until even he cannot help but stand inside its warmth eventually.

And unexpectedly, his ribs twist painfully around his lungs, though not with the familiar agony of transformation. This ache arrives differently, softer and deeper all at once, and the realisation settles over him so suddenly it nearly steals the breath from his chest.

Just like his ribs twist and split beneath the full moon to form something monstrous, they twist for you too.

Just like his heart clenches in pain, it also clenches whenever he looks at you.

The feeling is not the same, and somehow it is exactly the same.

Because the wolf is made from his flesh and bones no matter how much he despises it, and love is too. The worst parts of him and the best parts of him come from the very same place. They exist within the same body, beneath the same battered ribs that have endured both agony and tenderness so profound it frightens him sometimes.

It reminds him suddenly of Eve being created from Adam’s ribs, of love itself being born from flesh rather than separate from it.

And perhaps that is what finally frees him; the thing he has hated most throughout his entire life is made from the very same parts of him capable of love.

The same ribs.

The same heart.

The same body.

For years Remus believed the wolf had made him fundamentally unworthy of being loved properly, as though suffering and monstrosity somehow cancelled out tenderness. Yet here you are beside him still, years later, knitting ugly little mug warmers and arguing with him over birthday presents and looking at him with enough love to make his chest ache from carrying it.

And so, Remus accepts it.

All of it.

He accepts the wolf even as he continues hating the pain it causes him every month. He accepts the scars carved into his body and the exhaustion that still follows difficult transformations. He accepts the strange fragile joy of being loved so thoroughly despite all the parts of himself he once believed impossible to live beside.

Most importantly of all, he accepts himself.

Remus feels almost foolish for only now stumbling upon something human beings seem to have instinctively known since the beginning of time: that accepting the love you are given requires accepting yourself enough to believe you deserve to receive it in the first place. That fear has a way of blinding people not only from happiness, but from recognising love even when it sits directly before them. That the entire point of loving another person is to allow yourself to be loved in return despite how frightening and vulnerable and immeasurable that exchange truly is.

Slowly, Remus reaches for you.

You pause your knitting immediately when he tilts your chin upward gently before leaning down to press a soft kiss against your lips. The expression you wear afterward is so fond it almost makes him laugh.

“I love you,” he whispers quietly.

You smile instantly, warmly, beautifully, as though hearing those words from him will never become ordinary no matter how many years pass between you.

“I love you too,” you whisper back with such overwhelming sincerity that he feels his chest tighten all over again.

His ribs contract once more beneath the feeling, though this time it is not from pain.

And although Remus knows they will ache again soon enough because of the wolf, knows another full moon will eventually arrive as it always does, he finds himself breathing through the feeling instead of fearing it.

His ribs are constant reminders of every pain he has endured, of every person he has loved, and of every ounce of love somehow returned back into his hands despite everything he once believed made him unworthy of receiving it. They ache with old grief and survival alike, though somewhere within that ache lives the proof that he was loved through all of it anyway. 

Remus Lupin has lived a hard, complicated, painfully ordinary life.

Though for the first time in a very long while, when he looks at it now, he realises it has also been a life filled with love. 

And finally, after all these years, he wants to keep living it.

─── ⋆⋅ ⏾⋅⋆ ───

Though the comments only stay up for a few moments before they’re scrubbed clean, with the posters receiving warnings from the faculty about spreading harmful rumors, they still send you spiraling. Not just for Caleb who still doesn’t seem to understand the gravity of the situation despite this shitstorm, but for yourself too. People are asking questions about you, their curiosity to know more about this older sister that has fractured the image of the DAA golden boy is dangerous. If any of this leaks beyond the academy and reaches your coworkers at the Hunter’s Association, your job could be in jeopardy. The thought alone makes your blood run cold.

Caleb tries to tell you that none of it means anything and that it will all blow over soon. It fucking drives you up the wall. How can he still downplay the severity of the situation? People know now! Your lives could be ruined forever! What will it take for him to finally get it?

But to your shock and utter disbelief, he’s mostly right.

After the initial flood, the comments taper off. The deletions and warnings do their job. What remains are only occasional stray remarks here and there, quickly dealt with. Caleb has no shortage of admirers, and they quickly take over the narrative, painting him as the victim of haters who can’t compete with him, can’t have him, or are simply jealous of him.

Soon, the tide shifts back in his favor and his fans fawn over him even more for oh-so-bravely weathering this hate campaign. 

Caleb relays all of it to you in the hopes of convincing you that it’s all over now, but you know better. You know these things never truly die. You know people are still talking about you, just amongst themselves and behind his back.  But he doesn’t care. If anything it’s as if the idea of it spurs him on. He doesn’t shy away from mentioning you. He talks about you even more openly now, daring anyone to question him. Nobody does. And his college life carries on as usual. 

But you can’t do the same. 

Those comments were only a taste of what your life could become if your secret is found out. You would spend the rest of your days plagued by judgment and suspicion, even if no one ever learns the full truth—that seed of doubt is like a weed, once its roots have dug in, it’s impossible to get rid of.

If this ever breaches the confines of campus gossip and gets into the real world, would you be able to hold on to the few friends you've managed to make for the first time in your life? If Tara or Simone hear about this, what will they think of you? Will they understand why you’ve had to do it or will they absolve themselves of you? Will you be able to find a partner? How would anyone tolerate such rumors about their lover? Especially when all they need is to take one look at how Caleb behaves around you for all their suspicions to be confirmed? 

Yet despite it all, you know you can’t solely blame Caleb for this. You know this mess is as much your fault as it is his. You should have told him no that night. You should have ended the call as soon as you realized where he was and what he was doing. But you were hurt, your pride was wounded, and some ugly, starved part of you had wanted to be wanted so badly, you were blinded by it.

But it’s not just that. You shouldn’t have started any of this in the first place. The problem is, you can’t even pinpoint when it truly began. Agreeing to jerk him off that first time had pushed the floodgates wide open, but the water had been rising long before then. He had told you as much. Had it started in your teenage years? In childhood? Had the current always been there inside him, waiting to sweep you under? Or had you been the one slowly feeding it, drop by drop, until it could no longer be contained?

Your thoughts rise and churn, turning more tumultuous by the day, and yet Caleb isn’t the slightest bit phased. Once the worst of the storm had passed and he was still standing tall, he stopped trying to calm you. His tone shifted from flippant reassurance to reckless excitement, maybe even triumph.

“See, jie?” He says happily, pulling you into his arms with a bright smile. “Even if they know about us, nothing bad will happen. We can be together. No one will stop us. I’ll make sure of it.”

Your stomach drops. Nothing bad will happen? Is being ostracised as incesteous freaks nothing bad? Is the chance of losing any existing or potential meaningful relationship outside of each other nothing bad? Is spending the rest of your life whispered about, judged, and isolated nothing bad?

“I don’t want that, Caleb.” You answer in frustration. This is not what he’s supposed to learn from this. He’s meant to realise how wrong this is and snap out of it, not grow bolder in his delusions. “I don’t want to live a taboo life. I don’t want people smiling to my face and cursing me behind my back.”

“So this is what it’s really about, huh?” His tone turns accusatory. “It’s not about me or what’s best for me. You’re just ashamed of what being with me will bring.”

And so what? Are you not allowed to not want to be a pariah? Is that such a terrible thing to him? Must you throw everyone and everything else away to make him happy? You would lay your life down for him in heartbeat, but to be forced to live in ridicule and isolation… that may be too much for you to bear, even for your precious didi. 

“It’s about both of us.” You snap back defensively, “You’re fine with this now, smug even, but how long are you going to tolerate being ridiculed? Being abhorred? Having everyone look at you like you’re some disgusting freak?”

“Forever.” He says without hesitation, his gaze burning into yours. “As long as I get to have you.”

Guilt wells up in you at his simple answer. You hate yourself once for making your little brother this way, and twice for then not being strong enough, or selfless enough, to sacrifice everything for him the way he wishes you would. 

But this is for him. He may think he wants this now, but years down the line he will come to resent you. He will see everything he’s lost—all the love, relationships, and community he could have had, and he will hate you for it. And then neither of you will have anyone else to turn to. Your anger and bitterness will build and build until you—

You rub your forehead, a pounding headache throbbing behind your eyes. “I don’t have time for this. I need to get ready for my work social.”

“Then let me come with you.” He springs up quickly. 

“No.” You hiss at him with all the ferocity of a cornered kitten. “This is my work, Caleb. I can’t let you fuck it up.”

He regards you with offense, his jaw tightening. “You think I did it on purpose? I wouldn’t have even been there if you hadn’t forced me to do it under the threat of leaving me!”

“Oh, cry me a river, Caleb.” You retort, your frustration and guilt making you more unkind than you’d ever wish to be to your baby brother. “You could have controlled yourself until the next day. But that’s impossible for you, isn’t it? Golden boy Caleb can’t go a single day without getting off to his big sister.”

He barks out a bitter laugh. “I controlled myself my entire life living around you while you were flaunting your tits and ass in my face.”

You flush hot, the emotions burning through you so fierce they all meld together, kicking your instincts into overdrive. Here he goes giving voice to your worst fears again—It's all your fault. You did this. You've broken him and now you can't fix him. Dammit, why won't he let you fix him?

“Well, if you were fucking normal, you wouldn’t have been looking!” You lash out at him in your frenzy. 

“Normal?” He breathes out with a strained smile. “What am I then, jiejie? A freak? A disgusting pervert? Is that how you see me?”

The fire in you wanes and almost gutters out. “No, baby, you know that’s not what I meant—”

“But the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, jie.”

You flinch back. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“If I’m a freak, what does that make you, jiejie?” His smile turns cruel. 

“Don't.” You warn shakily. You can't handle this right now, but Caleb doesn’t stop pushing. 

“You’re the one who raised me.” He says it like he’s delivering your sentence. 

“Stop it, Caleb.” You bite out, voice rising with panic.

“What kind of sister lets her brother sneak into her bed at night?” 

“You were having nightmares.” You justify yourself. What’s wrong with providing your baby brother comfort? Maybe it was more intimate than what most other siblings would have done but how could you have been expected to turn away his scared little face? 

“What kind of sister helps her brother shower into his teens?” He counters, and your breath hitches. Your defense sounds more tenuous this time. “You refused to clean up after basketball unless I helped you!”

He cocks his head to the side, and his teeth glint like fangs within his gleeful smile. “What kind of sister lets her baby brother suck on her tits?”

You feel yourself choke. The memories come flooding back unbidden. You had almost forgotten all about that, blocked those memories out of your psyche for the sake of your sanity, and hoped the years had stolen his away too. But the world isn't so kind, and neither is Caleb. 

You… you had both been so young. You weren’t sure what you were doing. You didn’t know the first thing about caring for yourself, let alone a baby brother. All you knew was that Caleb was prone to anxious fits. He would cry and cry sometimes over the littlest things. You knew from a young age that the only way to shut him up was to give him something to occupy his mouth. You’d witnessed it in the way he would suck at his own thumb, soothing himself despite your grandma's discouragement. He had been much too old for that even back then, but he never outgrew it, perhaps because as a baby he never got to experience the comforts that only a mother can provide, and he had to make do with what he's got—Josephine who was too old to give him what he needs and you who were too young to know what that was. 

For a long while he had contended himself with his self-soothing, but as he grew older and his world filled up with more than just you and your grandma, there were more things to stress him out—fear of failing a class, or losing a game, or someone else stealing your attention from him… 

And suddenly he didn’t know what to do with himself anymore. His thumb was a poor substitute for the nurture he needed. In his frustration, he started biting down on the digit, and pulling at his nail, trying in vain to calm himself down. When you had seen that first drop of blood, you’d panicked, replacing his finger with yours, and braced for the pain. But it never came. He didn’t bite you. Instead he sucked on your finger gently, and slowly settled down. 

You should have stopped there but the way he had looked at you then, like you were the solace he had been seeking, had you doing it again and again. For a long time, it worked like a charm, though you had to do it behind your grandma’s back after she scolded you harshly the first and only time she caught you doing it.

Until you started middle school and had to leave him behind to go to a different school. He fell into one of his fits again, worse than any you’d ever seen, and neither your fingers, nor endless promises of walking him to school, picking him up, and spending every after-school hour and weekend with him could calm him down.

Caleb had cried so hard, his face had turned red and his tears had gone dry, yet he still wouldn’t stop. You held him in your arms and rocked him for what felt like hours with no relief. His tears and saliva had soaked completely through your shirt when his listless mouth found one of your nipples through the fabric and latched on. Suddenly, he had quieted down, distracted with his desperate, hungry suckling as if he’d be able to pull something out of you if he tried hard enough. You would have said something—you should have said something—but he had cried so much, he had worn both of you out and you were just happy that you’ve finally managed to make it better. So you just held him close, stroking his hair and whispering that everything would be okay until he finally went to sleep.

For some time after that, it became your well-kept secret, your last ditch solution to calm him down, the only thing that could soothe his anxious fits when all else failed—though he had tried many times to get under your shirt at the smallest inconvenience or upset. 

Deep down, you always knew it was wrong. That's why you made sure your grandma never found out about it. The shame had burned hot in your chest even then. But it worked so well! He always became so calm, sweet, and obedient in your arms whenever you allowed it to him. He listened to you. He went to school. He did his homework. He attended his practice. It was like your secret weapon, and you used it more often than you’d like to admit. 

You only stopped when one day he had sighed into your chest and said something unthinkable. 

“You knew what you were doing.” Caleb scoffs, “You made me this way… mommy.”

Your hand flies up before your mind can catch up. Your palm meets his cheek with a loud smack, his head snapping to the side from the force. For half a second, he stands there frozen, head tilted to the side, a red mark blooming on his cheek. Then his head whips back around and he surges forward, kissing you hungrily, almost violently, as if he’s avenging himself. 

You push at his chest, trying to shove him away, but he’s stronger than you and it takes everything in you to get him off. His knees hit the bed as you push him back, and he topples onto it. You try to step back, but before you can escape, his arms fly out and grab onto you, pulling you on top of him on the bed.

“I am exactly how you raised me, jiejie.” He tells you miserably, “Why are you running away from me?”

You slap a hand over his mouth to silence him, but he opens his mouth and kisses your palm filthily. “Stop it.” You demand, almost pleadingly, but he ignores you, grabbing your hips and pushing you down against his hard cock. 

“This is what you’ve always done, Caleb.” You hiss down at him bitterly, “You never let me say no. You keep pushing and pushing until I give you what you want.”

He moans against your palm, as if proud of his doing, and his hips roll up again, rubbing his hard cock against you shamelessly.

“Are you listening to me?” You ask desperately, begging to be heard, but he just stares up at you with heavy, needy eyes—wanting, wanting so much from you, always wanting. 

“Fucking listen to me!” You snap, anger and despair taking hold of you, awakening your darkest thoughts and giving them grotesque shape. They puppeteer your body, making you surge forward and wrap your hands around his throat. 

For one terrible second you feel relief as he finally stops, his eyes flying wide open in shock. You’ve done it. He’s finally looking at you. He’s finally listening to you. 

“Jiejie?” He chokes out, and the vibrations of his voice, of the air struggling to pass through his windpipe, shock some sense into you. You blink and the haze of fury melts away to reveal your baby brother’s face, and what you see there—shock, worry, confusion, fear—smothers every tendril of rage licking up your body, freeing you from its murderous blaze.

You fling yourself away from him and stumble to your feet with a horrified gasp, your hand burning where it had just gripped his neck.

“I need to go.” You wheeze, your entire body shaking. But Caleb stops you, his fingers locking around your wrist as he too rises, chasing after you like a moth to flame. “Take me with you.”

“I already told you no.” You tell him raggedly. Please, please, get away from me. Just this once. 

“I won’t make a scene, I promise.” He begs pitifully, still seeking comfort in you despite the unforgivable pain you've inflicted. “Please… I can’t be alone right now. Not after this…” His hand drifts up to touch the sides of his neck where your fingers had been moments ago. “I’m scared, jie.”

You heave in a choked cry and reach out to cradle his face in your hands, your knees buckling when he flinches ever so slightly. 

“I would never hurt you.” You vow, guilt strangling you the same way you'd strangled your baby brother. “You know that. You just… frustrate me so much.”

He shakes his head. “You want to kill me.” 

“No!” The word bursts out of you in scream as if it could banish the troubling thoughts away. “No, never!”

“You keep pushing me away.” He insists, tears gathering in his eyes like storm clouds breaking the skyline. “That’s killing me.”

“Baby, stop it…” You plead, drowning under his tears. 

“If you leave me, I’ll die.” He tells you, his voice surprisingly steady in its condemnation. “You know that, jie. You know I can’t live without you.”

“You’re being so unfair.” You lament. All you want is a good, well-adjusted, happy life for him—a normal life where he has a lover and a sister that aren't the same damned woman.

“I don’t care about fair. I only care about you.” He says as if you ever needed to hear that. You knew it all too well, that Caleb will continue to fight that perfect future you dream for him every step of the way. 

_______________________

To your surprise, Caleb is on his best behaviour at the gathering. His tears have dried, leaving his pretty eyes shiny and full of stars, and his broken voice has taken on that boyish, inviting lilt that disarms everyone who meets him. 

He’s dressed up in one of his nicer shirts and a pair of tailored dress pants. They’re nothing fancy but you’re not used to seeing him in something other than his sweats and tanks or cargo pants with a million pockets and three jackets on, and you don’t like the way this unfamiliar outfit shows off his physique. The shirt emphasizes his broad shoulders and muscled arms and the fitted pants draw attention to his thick thighs and round bottom. Even his hair is slicked back neatly, revealing his forehead and thick eyebrows, and you wonder what the purpose of the new look is. 

To you, he still looks like your baby brother putting on a grownup’s skin, but to others he must look like an alluring young man they could sink their teeth into, because they gravitate towards him like flies. Most of them content themselves with stealing glances they think go unnoticed, however some braver ones—or perhaps more idiotic—gawk openly, while a brazen few come up to speak to him directly. 

Your coworkers take to him faster than they ever did to you, and you swallow back the complicated emotions that bubble in you in response, and that you refuse to name.

For most of the night, he stays close by your side, chatting up your coworkers who come up under the pretense of wanting to talk to you, only to end up directing most of their attention toward him. And when they learn he’s your brother, they coo and fawn, praising you for raising such a charming, well-mannered young man. 

Caleb keeps one arm wrapped securely around you the whole time, his smile growing wider with each compliment, and his chest puffed out as if he’d achieved some secret goal he’d set out to prove. 

“I like playing brother and sister more than boyfriend and girlfriend. But I think I’d like it more if I could kiss you right now.” He whispers in your ear the moment the two of you are left alone. “They wouldn’t mind right? Your friends all love me.”

“That’s not funny, you little shit. You promised you’d behave.” You scowl at him. So that’s why he’s dressed like this and acting this way. He thinks your friends liking him as your brother will make them accept him any more as your lover. It’s almost endearing how delusional he can be sometimes, his way of thinking so child-like it makes you wish you could protect him from his own misguided beliefs. 

“Besides,” You say with a sickening sense of deja-vu. ”They’re not my friends.” 

“Really, what about Tara? I thought she was your best friend.” He pushes back, recalling all the times you’d told him about her. “She loves me too. You saw how she invited me to come along on the camping trip next month.” 

“I’m going to text her tomorrow and tell her you can’t make it after all.” You glare at him.  Really, what was he thinking accepting her invitation? That he’ll impress them all so much, they’d overlook the fact that he’s your brother? That he’d be so amazing, they’d congratulate you for being with him? 

“But I want to come.” He whines. 

“And I said no.” 

“But jiejie—”

“I’m going to get a drink.” You snap at him, already turning away. He immediately starts to follow, but you put a hand out to stop him, pointing to the floor where he is standing. “Stay here.” 

“Jie—” He pouts but you don’t wait to listen to his whining. 

It’s probably not the smartest idea to leave him unsupervised and surrounded by a bunch of your coworkers, but you desperately need that drink if you’re going to survive the rest of the night and the whirlwind of emotions that bringing him into the your workplace have conjured up… and it’s not just because you’re afraid of what he might do and how he could cost you everything if he so wishes, but also because he’s once again invaded the one place that belonged only to you. 

Your little brother has never really been good at letting you have anything that didn’t also involve him. 

“So that’s your little brother, huh?” Simone’s voice makes you jump out of your skin as you’re pouring yourself a drink, and you almost drop the cup to the ground.

“Yeah.” You mutter, a little unfriendly, not really in the mood to discuss him when you’ve finally managed to get a couple of minutes away from him.

As if she can hear your thoughts, she laughs. “He’s… clingy, isn’t he?” 

You snort in response. “What gave it away?”

“Well, for one, he’s currently staring at you like a dog waiting for its owner outside of a shop.” 

You throw a glance back towards him, and his sad face perks up for a second as your eyes meet before you force yourself to look away. 

“He seems like a good kid.” She continues, and you feel a pang of guilt in your chest as you almost contradict her. Instead, you force out a small smile. “Yeah… he is.”

“Is everything okay?” She frowns, finally noticing your gloomy mood, and you kick yourself internally for failing to control your emotions.

“Yeah. He’s just a bit of a handful.” You wave her concern away. What can you even tell her? That he was a good kid up until he started demanding you give your body to him? That you don’t know how to control him anymore? That… your own little brother scares you a little bit?  

Instead, you plaster on a bright, fake smile. “But you’re not wrong. He’s like an overexcited puppy—very needy and high maintenance. He wouldn’t even let me come today if he didn’t tag along.” You spin it in a humorous way and she laughs again. “If he’s that needy, why don’t you get him a girlfriend so he’ll bother her instead?”

“Believe me, I’ve been trying.” You mutter, and pretend it’s the drink you’re sipping on that is the cause of your sour expression. 

“Is he into jiejies?” Her question catches you off-guard, and you choke on your drink, the alcohol burning your nose as you cough. “What?”

“Does he like older women?” She repeats with a knowing smile that almost brings you to your knees. But then she continues, “Because if so, I think Christine is trying to gobble him up.”

You snap your head to where she is looking to see your brother cornered by Christine, one of the Captains at the association, her hand gripping his bicep and her tits practically shoved against his chest. 

“Better go save him before the poor boy has a heart attack.” 

You barely hear Simone’s amused voice over the ringing in your ear. You discard your glass, uncaring that it topples over and ruins the tablecloth, and march quickly towards them. 

“Didi, there you are!” You exclaim, tiptoeing up on your already high-heeled feet to wrap an arm around his shoulders, pulling him down in an exaggerated sisterly manner. “What are you up to, you little rascal?” 

“Jie…” He whines as you mess up his hair. “Stop.”

But he’s smiling down at you, happy to have your attention again. You stare up into his bright eyes, his height still taller than you even with the uncomfortable hunch you’ve forced him into, and suddenly you’re pushing his hair down, fixing it back into the boyish banged look he has always sported, your anxiety only settling when he’s all patched up and back to being your baby brother. 

The sound of someone clearing their throat makes you jump, but Caleb’s own hands around your waist stop you from pulling away from him completely. That’s fine. You’ll let him have this for now. You have more important things to focus on, like pinning the older woman down with a fake smile.  

“Oh, hey Christine. I see you’ve met my baby brother.” You tell her pointedly, hoping she'd get the hint to back off.

"Oh, he’s your brother? I didn’t know.” She lies horribly, and you fight to keep the ugly scowl off your face. Bullshit. Caleb has been proudly proclaiming to anyone and everyone who will hear him that he’s your little brother. No way she didn’t know. 

“Gosh, you’re a pair of good looking siblings, aren’t you?" She chirps, and you don’t miss the annoyance in her eyes at you interrupting them, before her gaze flits back towards Caleb, sliding up and down your brother’s figure brazenly. And god how you wish you could throw your body over him to hide him away from her lecherous eyes. "Bet you're as popular with the ladies as she is with the guys."

You feel Caleb tense against you. 

"Is that so?" He turns towards you, still smiling but you can see the start of a fire in his eyes. "Are men bothering you, jiejie?" 

And suddenly you feel like you’re the one being warned.

"She's just flattering me." You wave your hand in the air, trying to dispel the tension you feel building up. But Caleb isn't satisfied with that answer, and Christine keeps running her mouth, "Nonsense. She's such a heartbreaker, your big sister. She’s got so many admirers but they’re all too scared to approach her because they know she’d coldly brush them off.”

What the hell is she talking about? Men don't approach you because you're not the type of girl they like. You’re not fun and bubbly like Tara, and you’re not cool and charismatic like Simone. You're not sweet or nurturing either—it’s hard to be when all your supply of those goes towards caring for your full grown brother. You just go to work and focus on your job and get on with your day. The only men who ever talk to you are Xavier and Nero, and that’s probably because they have to.

“Now I know why. She is just too busy spoiling her little brother.” The woman laughs obnoxiously, and you feel queasy by how close her little joke is to the truth. “Maybe I can keep her brother busy so she can finally have time to date."

"She's not interested." Caleb says curtly, no longer smiling. "She needs to focus on her work. And I also need to focus on my studies. I'm still in college, you know."

Despite her cluelessness, whether real or feigned, Christine gets a little thrown off by the sudden change in Caleb’s demeanor—sudden for her anyway. But it seems she doesn’t know when to quit. 

"But you're an adult, right?" She asks shamelessly, "Besides, she already seems to have her eyes on someone."

"Who?" Caleb barks, all pretense gone now, and you feel a dragging sensation in the pit of your stomach that you know isn’t just your nerves. 

Christine’s smile turns anxious, and you know she must feel it too. But she has no fucking survical instincts because she keeps going. "Xavier, her mission partner. They're always together, talking secretly about god knows what. The sparks are definitely flying."

"We're just discussing mission details. It’s classified intel." You interject, but the stupid woman rolls her eyes and winks at you. "Suuuure. Missions. Is that why you were grinding against him at the club the other day? Did his—ah!”

Her eyes widen as you feel the force of Caleb’s Evol crushing down on all of you. 

“We have to go!” You squeak, grabbing his arm and frantically attempting to pull him away, every step heavy as if you’re wearing boots of lead. “Caleb, stop it!” 

But he’s not looking at you. Instead, his eyes are darting all around, searching the crowd for a face he doesn’t know. “Which one is he?” 

“Don’t.” You plead with him, gripping his arm tightly. “Caleb, this is my workplace. You’re making a scene.”

"Oh, I haven’t even started yet, jiejie." He spits out and finally looks at you, his gaze dark and spiteful. "You wanted me to date so you can be free to fuck him, huh?"

You gasp, panic flooding your veins as a few curious heads turn in your direction. You quickly press your palm to his chest, catching him off guard and forcing him to resonate with you, allowing you to finally move him. You yank him toward the nearest exit, muttering hasty excuses to your concerned friends about your brother not feeling well and you needing to take him home right away.

The second you’re out of the main hall and away from prying eyes, Caleb pushes you against the wall, his breathing comes out fast and heavy as his large frame cages you, like a rabid animal waiting to pounce. 

“Did you fuck him?” He demands, the rage in his voice making you tremble, and you shake your head vehemently. “No.”

But your denial doesn’t calm him down. 

“Let him eat your pussy?” He asks and you flush. “No!”

“Sucked his dick?”

“Caleb, no!” You whisper furiously, mortified at his wild imagination that is getting him all worked up. “I did none of that!”

“Just grinded against him in front of all your coworkers?” He spits out and you cower, suddenly not feeling so righteous anymore. 

“We were just dancing.” You insist weakly, the fear of being caught by one of your coworkers with your little brother in this compromising position, and the mortification at having been caught by Caleb for your drunken fuckup twisting together so tightly around your throat until it’s hard to breathe. “She‘s exaggerating.”

“So you were dancing with him.” He latches onto the wrong part, his eyes narrowing down at you. “Why?”

“It was a work outing, just like this one. Everyone was dancing.” You try to justify yourself but Caleb will not let this grave sin against him slide. “You could have danced with Tara or Simone. Why did it have to be him?”

“I don’t know!” You lie, all the humiliation from that night flooding back in. “I was drunk, okay?”

“You were drunk?!” Caleb barks, incredulous. “You know how useless you get when you drink. Why the hell would you do that around strange men? What if you were so out of it, you didn’t even know what he was doing to you? What if he took you home and fucked you while you were passed out?”

“Is that why you used to try so hard to get me drunk?” You bristle, refusing to let Caleb chastise you. He has done so much worse than drink and rub against a coworker. He has forced you to defile him again and again, and now he’s mad at you for the one thing you shouldn’t feel guilty for. 

“And what if I did?” He sneers, not even denying it. 

You falter, shocked at how brazen he’s being. ​​”That’s disgusting, Caleb.” 

“That’s what I am, isn’t it. Disgusting.” His lips curl around the words bitterly, “But this isn’t about me. This is about you getting wasted and rubbing your ass against some other man in front of everyone.”

“I told you I didn’t do that!” You lie through your teeth. This is about him. Everything in your life has always been about him, even your stupid decision to dance with Xavier. 

A strange expression suddenly takes over your brother’s usually sunny face, and you have nowhere to run as he leans down, trapped as you are between him and the wall, unable to escape from the darkness in his eyes and the unsettling smile on his lips. “You think he’ll still want you if he finds out what you’ve been doing to me?”

You gape at him. What is he saying? Doing to him? Everything that has happened between you was to try to contain his desires. You didn’t want any of this. He made you. But who would people believe? The precious, little brother who loves and trusts his jiejie so much or the reclusive, unfriendly older sister who never had a man in her life and barely has any friends? You had to have been the one to latch onto him, to blind him so he can only see you, to sink your claws into his heart so it bleeds for you, to break his bones so he could only crawl into your arms. 

“Are you threatening me, Caleb?” Your ask, your voice wavering. “How could you?” 

“You’ve left me no other choice.” He says it like it hurts him more than it hurts you. 

“You’re unbelievable.” You hiss at him, feeling your heart stutter at his betrayal, and you know it would rather stop all together than believe he’d ever do such a thing to you. “After everything I did for you. I let this go on for so long because I didn’t want to hurt you, and now you’re threatening me?”

“Liar.” He snarls, “You’re hurting me! You don’t give a shit about me!”

“What are you talking about? I do!” You whisper harshly, “I care about you so fucking much!”

“You left me!” He cries, “You abandoned me again and again, and every single time I was the one who had to run after you. I was the one who followed you to your college apartment, and I was the one who followed you here, even though it takes me hours to get to you and back, yet I still do it every single week just so I can see you!”

“I didn’t ask you to!” 

“I know! Because you don’t care about me!” He says, eyes wild now as if he actually believes his own words. And you don’t know if you should be hurt for him because you’ve somehow made him doubt your love towards him or hurt for yourself because he refuses to see all the things you’ve done for him. “You never even tried to contact me after our fight. Would you have never talked to me again if I didn’t reach out first or if I refused to get into the DAA?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” You scoff, “You’re my brother.” 

“And you sent me away!”

“So you could pursue your dream!” 

“My dream means nothing without you.”

“Don’t say that.” You protest. It can’t all hinge on you and this forbidden love. There has to be hope still. You need to believe it, otherwise you don't know what you'd do with yourself… or him. 

“Do you love me?” He asks and your reply is instantaneous. “Of course, I do.”

“Then how could you bear to force me to be with someone else?” 

“Because ours is a different kind of love.”

“Then I don't want any other.” He says with conviction, “You can be everything for me. You are everything for me.”

You shake your head. “Caleb, please. I am your sister. I can only ever be your sister. You need to get that through your head.” 

He scoffs and looks away for a moment, the pain clear on his face even with his head turned away.

“Baby—”

His eyes snap back to yours, and you take in a shuddering breath at the vulnerability you suddenly see in them. “Do you find him attractive?”

You hesitate for half a second too long. “I—”

His face twists in anger. “Did you let him touch you?”

“I told you, I didn’t.” You lie again. 

“How can I trust that?”

“Caleb, me and Xavier aren’t even together.” You try to convince him but he snorts derisively. 

“And we’re apparently not together but you’re letting me touch you.” He mocks, and as if to make his point, a hand comes up to palm your breast as he presses his body flush against yours. “If you’re letting your own brother touch you like this, why wouldn’t you let a man you find attractive do it too?”

“That’s low, Caleb.” You growl and try to push him away but he doesn’t budge. He’s using your over-indulgence of him against you, treating you as if you’re just giving it away to anyone, and not like it’s taken everything in you to give him what you thought he needed because you love him that much. 

“Do you love him? Is that it? You found someone better and now you're throwing me away?” He interrogates you, and the fury and pain you see in his eyes almost pull you under. “What do you like about him? Is it the way he looks? The way he treats you? His voice? His profession? I can change. I can be anything you want me to be, jie.”

But you can never not be my brother. 

“I don't love him.” You insist, pained at seeing the way your little brother is so willing to mangle himself in order to try to fit into a mould he thinks you might want. “We barely even talk, Caleb.”

“That’s not what that woman said.” He mutters accusingly and you frown. “It’s what I’m telling you.” 

But like anything you’ve tried to tell him lately, it goes into one ear and out the other. 

“I won’t let you make a fool out of me, jie.” He shakes his head, a mirthless smile twisting his lips. “I only hooked up with that woman because you forced me to. That doesn’t mean I’ll let you fuck around with other men.” He spits out, his gaze hardening. “If I find out you’ve been with him, I’ll—”

You feel it before he even finishes his sentence… the harsh, oppressive weight of his Evol pressing all around you, making your spine creak, your muscle ache, and the air in your lungs feel like water.

“I haven’t! I won't!” You proclaim frantically, not trying to defend your right to a hypothetical date you know would only end in disaster.

“Prove it.”

You look up at him helplessly, and croak out, “How?”

__________________________

“Caleb, please, I promise, nothing happened.” You plead, laid back on your bed with nothing but your underwear on. The same underwear he’s now tugging down your legs. 

“I don't believe you.” He grunts, peeling them off completely. The moment they’re off, you instinctively press your legs together, a rush of embarrassment flooding through you. But Caleb’s hands grip onto your thighs and shove them apart. “Let me see, jie.” 

You bite your lip and look away, squeezing your eyes shut as your heart hammers wildly in your chest. For a long moment, he’s completely silent. All you can hear is his heavy, uneven breathing as he stares down at your exposed pussy. You can feel tears stinging your eyes, moments away from flowing freely, exposing your shame to his greedy eyes as bare as he’s exposed your body. 

He hates it. He doesn't like how you look. He’s disgusted by you. 

But then his voice comes out soft and awed. “You're so pretty, jiejie. Better than I ever imagined.” 

You gasp, daring to sneak a glance at him, fully expecting to see a mischievous smile on his face as he mocks you. But he’s not looking up at you at all. Instead, he’s staring down between your legs like a starving man. 

“Look how wet you are.” He bends down, his warm breath ghosting over your sensitive skin, sending tingles racing up your spine. “Is that because of me? Or him?” 

You bite down on your lip harder, and stay quiet. 

“Tell me, jie. He demands, and you feel his fingers digging into the flesh of your thighs. “Or I’ll be really mad.” 

You shiver, recalling his threat from earlier. Swallowing harshly, you taste your own blood, metallic and nauseating, just the same as your shame. “It's you, didi.” 

A pleased sigh escapes him. “I knew it. I know you want me just as much as I want you.”

You feel yourself drowning in self-loathing as his fingers trace over your slick folds, unable to deny your unforgivable desire when the evidence of it is right at his fingertips that spread you open so he can commit every debauched inch of you to memory. 

“So pretty for me, jie.”

“Just get to it.” You squirm, your cheeks burning with a flush that spreads down your neck and into your chest at how closely he’s staring at this very intimate part of you—a part of you that no one else has seen before, and yet once again you’d given it away to your little brother. 

“So demanding.” He huffs as if you’re the one who wants it. But you don’t dare contradict him. You just lay there quietly and wait to be vindicated so you can finally put this behind you. You’ll never try anything with another man again, not until Caleb has moved on and whatever this is between you is dead and buried six feet under. 

Caleb gathers your slick on his fingers, coating them generously before pushing one inside of you slowly, only managing to get to the first knuckle before it meets a tight resistance that makes him groan low in his throat.

“Fuck, you’re a virgin.” He breathes, and you can hear both the relief and arousal clearly in his voice. 

“There you go. I'm untouched.” You mutter in resignation, feeling so mortified and helpless at having had to prove it in this humiliating way. But it's your fault really. You should have never danced with Xavier. And you should have raised your brother better. 

“You should be touched. You’re perfect. Prettier than any pornstar. I knew you would be.” He sighs dreamily. 

You open your mouth to scold him but you're cut off when he lowers his head between your thighs, his mouth descending on you eagerly, his lips enveloping your slick folds and his tongue dragging along the full length of your pussy. 

You feel more than hear him groan in appreciation, his lips and tongue working to lap up every drop of your arousal as if just that could sustain him for the rest of his life. 

“Caleb!” You squeak, flustered by the sight of your little brother between your legs, kissing your pussy the same way he kisses your lips. 

He looks up at you, not shying away from staring you dead in the eyes as he pulls his face back every so slightly so you can see how his tongue sticks out to flick at your clit, the wet sounds of his saliva and your juices squelching in your ears. 

“Baby, baby, wait—” You plead out, feeling yourself hurling towards a nauseating orgasm. You cannot handle the way he looks up at you, so blissful and hungry like he’s finally where he wants to be, and you fucking hate how sinfully arousing he looks doing it. 

Will any man ever want you as much as he does? Did you do this to him because deep down you knew it would be the only way to get the love and attention you so desperately needed? Is this a trap of your own making?

“Didi, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!” You cry out as you cum, soaking him in more of your sin. But Caleb is not interested in your pathetic pleas for forgiveness. He feeds on your guilt and arousal like a ravenous beast come to collect your soul. 

And he keeps feasting even as your shameful cries of pleasure turn to sobs of pain. “Please, didi, stop, it hurts.”

It all hurts so much. 

He finally pulls back with a whine, taking his mouth off your pussy so he can climb up to kiss your lips, feeding you your own sin, the taste of it sour and bitter on your tongue but Caleb moans around it as if it’s the sweetest nectar.

“Baby, it hurts.” You repeat, whimpering when you feel his finger continuing to prod at your hymen, pressing against it again and again as if to make sure it’s still there.

“Yeah? It’s because you’re so tight, jie.” He blames you once again. “So tight I don’t know how you’ll fit my cock.” 

You squirm uneasily, trying to get away from his persistent finger. “Stop it, Caleb. I don’t like it when you talk like that.” 

But he’s not listening. He pushes your hips down with his palm, keeping you still. “It’s okay. I’ll make it fit. I was made for you,” 

And then he’s reaching for his pants, fumbling with the zipper in his haste as he stares hungrily at the spot where part of his finger disappears into your heat. 

“Caleb, no!” You cry out in panic and try to snap your legs shut, but his Evol slams down on you, making you yelp in pain as your legs are suddenly forced back open, your thighs spread for his scrutiny and his cock that now rests against your pussy. 

You’ve seen it many times before. It has always been impressive in length and girth, but seeing it resting on your pussy now, the length of it reaching all the way to your belly button makes you break out in a cold sweat. 

“Baby, what are you doing? Please, don’t do this.” You tear up as he rubs his cock along your slick folds, coating himself in your wetness, preparing for something terrible.  

“Caleb, stop it!” You yelp when he presses the large head right at your entrance, your pussy screaming in protest as he tries to force his way inside. 

“Shh, it's okay, jiejie.” He leans forward to kiss away the tears that escape you. “Just the tip, okay? Even your little pussy can take that.”

You shake your head harshly. “Didi, please, don’t do this. This is wrong.” You try to reason with him but your words only bring back that anger that started it all. “What's wrong is you sending me away and pushing me onto other girls so you can whore around with him.” 

“You—” You shout, but your words come out garbled as he shoves himself inside you, forcing your pussy to stretch around the flared head.  

“Stop, stop!” You hit his chest repeatedly as he continues to push, bullying more of himself inside. You feel him reach your hymen and then press further, the pain of it making your head spin. 

You stare up at your little brother, his angry face swimming in your vision, and you wonder if you’ve truly lost him. 

But true to his words, he stops. “F-Fuck, jiiieee. You—ngh—feel so good.” He moans, his head falling down to the crook of your neck as he pauses to catch his breath, his entire body shaking. 

“Why?” You croak out, the fire between your legs nothing compared to the ache in your heart. 

“I can't let anyone else—hah—have you, jiejie.” He pants, covering your neck in wet kisses. 

You shiver, and reach your arms out to wrap around him, seeking solace but knowing you can only hope to find it in the same boy, no… man, who hurt you. Your baby brother who used to cry if he even mistakenly upset you, has somehow turned into a man who takes what he wants regardless of how you feel. And he wants you intimately, profanely. “I told you I didn’t do anything with him. I proved it.”

“You only proved that he hasn’t had you yet.” He grunts, and pulls back to stare at your bodies where you're so precariously connected, his expression turning desperate as his eyes flick back to yours, and you feel queasy seeing the same look your little brother always gives you when he asks for something he knows he shouldn't, but also knows you wouldn’t deny him either. “Fuck, do I have to wait? I don’t want to wait. I want you so bad. What if I wait and you fuck him. I'd go crazy.” 

As if he’s not already there. 

“I won't, Caleb.” You promise with all the conviction in your rotten soul. You won’t. You won’t. You never want to see him like this ever again. 

“I wish I could believe you.” He murmurs sadly, his gaze locked with yours as he pulls his hips back only to thrust forward again, the tip of his cock barely slipping out before he's burying it back inside you. You don’t hold back your whimper of pain from him, and he doesn’t hold back his vengeance from you. “Holy shit…That woman said you’re with him all the time, hiding away from others. She saw you rubbing against him in front of everyone, yet you won't even let me kiss you in public.” 

“It’s not true, baby. She’s lying.” You deny, still hoping it would save you from an even worser fate. 

“Why would she lie?”

“Why would I lie?” You implore the part of him that trusts and respects his jiejie, hoping it's still alive. But the smile he gives you is not that of your doting little brother. “Because you know I'll chop his hands off and feed him his own dick if he touched you.” 

Bile rises in your throat. You can't tell if he really means it or if it's just the heat of the moment, and that fucking terrifies you. Would your brother really try to hurt Xavier if he finds out the truth? How far does his obsession really go? Is there any remaining hope at all?

“It didn't happen, okay?” You cower, unwilling to face the possibility of your precious baby brother doing something so violent, even as he unleashes some of that same violence upon you. “I promise, di.” 

“I want to believe you, jie. I really do.” He sighs, his hand gripping your chin tightly as he stares deep into your eyes, trying to seek out the truth. “I will lose it if I find out you’re lying to me.” 

You cradle his face in your hands and pull him down for a passionate kiss, coaxing him to soften for you. “I’m not, baby. I promise.” 

Let me in. Don't do this. Please, come back to me.

And he does, his face crumbling into the needy look you're so familiar with, his eyes shining wet and pitiful with yearning. “I love you, jie.”

You sigh in relief. “I know, baby. I love you too.”

“You don’t. Not as much as I do. Or you wouldn’t keep saying no to me.” He whines, and sits back on his heels, his hands gripping your hips as he resumes his thrusts, watching the head of his cock disappear in and out of your hole again and again. “I want you s-so much, jie. I wanted you before I even—hah—knew what my cock was for.” 

Because there is something seriously wrong with you, didi. 

And there is something seriously wrong with me. 

And I can’t tell which one of us had this sickness first. 

But the disgust that his confession brings up in you does nothing to dampen the pleasure you feel as your pussy slowly starts getting used to the intrusion, moulding around his cock in order to accommodate him. Every part of you will always yield to your little brother, even this. 

“You were made for me.” He moans and your pussy flutters around him in answer, producing more slick that makes the slide of his cock easier. It sucks him in hungrily, and suddenly you can feel just how empty you are inside. 

Do it. He can fill up that hole inside you. He feels it too. Just give in. Take what you both need. 

A voice calls out from deep within your mind, the sound distant and muffled as if buried under layers of rubble. Something in its enthralling tone seems so terrifyingly familiar to you, like a desire you'd long buried but has now returned from the dead to drag you to hell. 

But you resist its call. It’s not your little brother’s duty to fix what you lack. If you have influenced him to think he needs to then you must correct him before you ruin him completely. 

"Does it feel good for you too, jie? Tell me, please..." He whimpers, the anticipation and worry on his face almost have you spilling to reassure him. “It feels so good for me. This is where I belong. Fuck, do you feel it too, jie?”

His thumb brushes over your clit, the friction making your hips rock against his hand involuntarily, mindlessly chasing more of that pleasure.

“Please, say it, jie.” 

You shake your head, trying to rebuke both your brother's delusional pleas to join him in his lunacy and the incriminating demands coming from your own mind. 

This is not right. He should have never known what the inside of you felt like, let alone think he belonged there. It would have been less abominable for him to dig his hand into your chest and stifle the life out your heart that you'd already given to him so many years ago. 

Caleb sees your denial for rejection. “If you can’t feel it then maybe I’m not deep enough.” He grunts, his thumb flicking over your clit more roughly now as he pushes his cock further inside you, the head of it painfully stretching your hymen. “I need to go all the way inside you. I need to feel your blood that runs through my veins dripping down on my cock.”

You don't know if it's fear or arousal you feel at the thought of the blood that you both share staining your little brother's cock after he takes you in a way no other man has, and no brother ever should… but whatever it is, it pushes you over the edge. Your back arches off the bed as you scream, an overwhelming pleasure ripping through your body. 

“Fuck, jiejie—” He groans, his hips twitching as he tries to fuck your pussy, but it clamps down on him, mercifully preventing him from acting on his threats. “Shit—shit—you're milking my c-cock, jie. You're gonna make me cum… fuck, please, jie, please—I need—I’m cumming! I’m cumming!”

Amidst your violent orgasm and his frenzied reaction, a rational thought somehow makes it through the swill of shame and pleasure, and you yelp out. “Caleb, pull out. You need to pull out, baby. I'm not on birth control.” 

You hear nothing in return but his delirious babbles of ‘I love you. I love you. Jiejie, I love you so much.’

“Caleb, did you hear me?” Your voice rises with panic, “Pull out!”

Though his eyes are locked on you, he doesn’t acknowledge your frantic pleas. 

You feel his cock twitch.

Oh god. 

Your little brother is going to cum inside you. You're going to get knocked up with your baby brother's child. Your lives will be ruined forever.

But at the last second, he pulls out, and you feel his hot cum land on your pussy, covering you in his seed that thankfully wasn’t given the chance to take. 

“Fuck…” He groans, staring down at the mess he made of you as if mesmerized. “You… you bled a little.”

Your eyes snap down to see the ever so small streak of your blood marring his otherwise pearly white cum. 

He must have slightly torn your hymen when he tried to go all the way. Shivering, you think of how close he got… and that emptiness inside you yawns wider. 

“Shit, jie.” He sucks in a harsh breath, his fingers smearing his release over your swollen lips. “You came so hard on my cock. Did you like hearing what I want to do to you?”

"No, Caleb." You croak, voice strained as you shake your head weakly. “I didn't—I don't like it.”

“Liar.” He purrs, grabbing his still-hard cock and dragging the thick head along your soaked folds, coating himself in the mess of your blood and his cum. “I felt how tight you got around me when I said—”

“You were playing with my clit.” You snap quickly, “That’s why I came.”

Caleb shakes his head as he slides his cock lower and lines the blunt tip up with your entrance once more. “That’s not what happened. You want it, jie. You want your little brother’s cock—”

“Stop it, Caleb!” You push your legs shut and kick at his hips, trying to shove him back. “I don’t want to hear it. It’s fucking disgusting!”

He catches your legs easily, forcing them back down onto the mattress as he climbs over you again, caging you beneath his larger body.

“You can deny it all you want, jie, but I know the truth. I felt it.” He growls, and you cower into the sheets, but you have nowhere to run away from this frightful version of your little brother he blames you for. 

“Caleb, you’re hurting me.” You tell him meekly, and worry if that even means anything to him anymore.

“What about me?” Caleb counters, pressing his hips forward so the thick head of his cock stretches your sore entrance again. The burning overstimulation makes you whimper, your abused pussy clenching involuntarily around him. “You hurt me every time you deny our love.”

“Caleb, please… don’t do this.” You plead, the jagged pieces of your broken heart cutting up your throat. “Not this way.”

He glares down at you, his entire body taut as his wants and desires battle with his need for your acceptance and approval. 

“You don’t want your first time to be like this.” You press on, trying desperately to reason with him. 

“Our first time.” He hisses, jaw clenching so hard you can see the muscle jump. But, finally, he pulls his cock out, making you both shudder, and you tell yourself it's from relief. “You’re mine, jie. You can’t run from it much longer. You’re my sister… my best friend… and my mother.”

You frown, opening your mouth to protest, but he pushes his thumb between your lips, pressing down on your tongue to silence you.

“And one day soon, I’m going to take your pussy and make you my woman too. Then you’ll be all mine and no one will ever take you away from me. Not even you, jie.”

You had come to a conclusion one winter morning, laying in the Gryffindor common room dressed in your woolly, green jumper. You rested on the worn-out leather seat, nervously fiddling with your fingers as you stared at the ceiling, thinking about how it was going terribly wrong. How funny it was, that the 30th of December greeted you with an existential crisis instead of presents and hot chocolate. 

There was something quite wrong with you, you had noticed for the past few months. 

Every time Sirius Black smiled at you, showing off his pearly canines and the crinkles by his deep-grey eyes, you would experience a painful, tightening sensation in your chest — like someone was squeezing at your heart. Most people knew Sirius Black, the prankster, but you were lucky enough to know Sirius, the kind and spirited boy who had a heart that loved fiercely more than anyone you knew.

Cosy afternoons found you in the library with Remus Lupin, and a strange feeling would erupt in your stomach whenever Remus leaned down, and you’d catch a whiff of pine needles and fresh mint. Shaggy, blond hair falling over his eyes as he came to life, talking about your common love for muggle books. He made time feel like an illusion, minutes fading away into hours as the two of you shared stifled giggles, cheeks numb by the time you left the room. 

And James, oh James Potter. It was difficult to describe what you felt with him — but with James, the brightest colours in the world couldn’t even compare to him. James was like putting on a pair of brand-new eyeglasses and seeing everything clearly for the first time. And without a doubt, you knew that James would never let you get hurt. But these days, you were weak in the knees as you’d see him across the Great Hall, waving at you excitedly as he bellowed your name, and to come and sit next to them. 

Last, but certainly not the least, Lily Evans. Her sweet, airy voice was a warm hug on a cold day. And her actual hugs were second to none — don’t tell Sirius, however, he liked to shift into Padfoot to steal Lily’s title as the queen of cuddling. Lily flowers were delicate, she was anything but. The spitfire of Gryffindor, who would raise her chin and defy anyone who would harass you for hanging out with them. 

(“You’re our emotionally constipated Slytherin,” said Lily as she mushed your cheeks, cooing when you tried to glare at her, and the three boys guffawing in the background. They liked to tease you often, being a year younger than them.) 

Were you dying?

That was the only plausible explanation to your palpitating heart and rickety knees. 

No, it was definitely not because you had gone and fell in love with your best friends. 

That was absurd. 

You had tried venting to Lucius Malfoy once. Narcissa often doted on you, sneakily leaving treats on your desk before she left for her class, and fussing when you got sick — which was quite often. That meant, when you weren’t with the marauders, you were trailing after the Slytherin power couple, or Severus.

(Lucius curled his lips in disgust, Narcissa sipping tea by his side, failing at hiding her knowing smirk. “I am above such childish matters,” hissed Lucius, scowl deepening when Narcissa laughed heartily, looking happier than she had been since returning home for the holidays. “I do not know why you’d even think to come to me for this.”

You huffed. 

Maybe you’d try Severus next. 

Naturally, he stormed off the moment Lily’s name fell from your lips.

Your resident seventh-years were confusing.)

Fortunately, you were stripped from your thoughts when the entrance to the common room slammed open, the paintings clamouring as they were disturbed from their slumber. One by one, the marauders piled inside the room, a string of melodious laughter and boisterous conversations following their arrival. Hastily, you sat up, heart thudding against your ribcage. Silence, you wretched beast, you told it. Don’t let them see how I burn for them.  

“There you are!” Sirius came into view first, grinning widely as he crossed the room to reach you. “Who said you could be this pretty in the morning, love?” 

Ba-dump!

Sirius plopped down head first onto your lap, manoeuvring your hand to comb through his hair as he sighed in contentment. “Bloody hell,” He exhaled shakily, “Last night was the worst one we’ve ever been through.” 

Your fingers ghosted through the new scar etched across his sharp cheekbones — it was nothing Madam Pomfrey couldn’t fix, but you still didn’t like the sight of them bruised and wounded. Swiftly, Sirius grabbed your hand and intertwined your own with his. “I’m sorry,” You whispered. 

Sirius chuckled tiredly, tightening his hold on you, as though you were a tether that kept him afloat in his sea of nightmares. 

(And you were. If only you knew.)

“It’s not your fault,” said Sirius. 

Then, your eyes landed on Remus limping towards you, his bare skin littered with scrapes and marks, supported with an arm around James’s broad shoulders. He sent a toothy smile your way, despite the tired lines on his forehead and deep bags beneath his eyes. “Waited up all night for us, huh?”

“I just couldn’t sleep knowing you guys were out there,” You whispered sheepishly. “It’s too dangerous, what happens if something goes terribly wrong, and it costs you your life? We need to tell someone.” 

“Everyone who needs to know, already knows.” Remus bit down a pained expression as he sat by your side, head lolling on your shoulder. “This is the best we have for now.” 

You didn’t like it.

You didn’t like it at all.

Before you could reply, Remus turned his head, lips feathering against your exposed skin. His voice was low as he said, “‘Sides, it’s our job to worry about you, not the other way around.”

“Well, I apologize for interrupting your job,” You whispered back harshly, wondering if that was all you were to them, a younger friend they felt the need to look after. Oh, how mortifying that would be.

James chuckled from behind you, bending over the back of the couch, he pressed a kiss to the side of your head, lingering for a few moments that felt like an eternity. “You’re too adorable,” said James, tweaking your nose. “Our angry, little Slytherin.” 

“I’m not little.” You glowered at him.

“Perhaps not.” James smiled cheekily. “But you’re ours.” 

Often times, you had wondered how the five of you came to be so tight-knit, knowing their disdain for most of the Slytherins. 

(Little did you know, you smiled at them once in Potions, and they were a goner.) 

Something stirred deep in your belly. 

You sucked in a breath. “Don’t say things like that, James.”

People could get the wrong idea.

You could get the wrong idea.

“Well, why not?” Lily appeared in your peripheral vision, the scent of blooming wildflowers and fresh rain filling the room. Like the three boys, her skin was sallow from lack of sleep, but her bare face and blinding grin left your heart racing. “It’s true, isn’t it?” 

It could be, just not in the way you wanted it to be true.

You sighed. “Class is going to start in a few hours, I should get going.” 

“Or,” James began wickedly, throwing a thick blanket onto the floor by the fireplace, and tossing a bunch of throw pillows at Sirius’s face. “We could have a sleepover right here.” 

“Sounds good to me,” said Lily merrily, stealing James’s blanket as she placed a pillow beneath her head. 

“I really have to go—” You reasoned pathetically.

“Stay,” whispered Sirius without even opening his eyes as he curled his lithe fingers around your wrist. “You being here makes us feel better.” 

They were too cruel, saying all these sweet words, not knowing how it drove knives through your heart. 

James yawned as he laid on the carpeted floor, hiking the blanket up to his shoulders as he threw a leg over Lily, pulling her close to his chest, nuzzling the crook of her neck. “D’you have your textbooks with you, love?” He asked you drowsily. 

“No,” You answered, any other words lodged in your throat. 

“That’s fine.” James hummed. “I’ll just get the cloak and sneak into the dungeons later to get the books for you.” 

“Sleep,” Remus urged you, unaware how you shivered at his words. 

“You can’t be comfortable like that,” You told him in disbelief, watching his neck bend at an angle to lay on your shoulder. 

“Trust me,” said Remus gently, eyelashes tickling your skin, “I’m right where I want to be.” 

You had grown silent for a few beats, unaware how Sirius’d opened his eyes, staring at your worried expression. 

(How could one person be so perfect, he wondered.)

“You alright, darling?” He reached out to trace the curve of your jaw with his thumb, the palm of his hand holding your face as though you were a pureblood’s antique treasure. (Mine, mine, mine, his heart screamed.)

But like the Slytherin you were, you lied as easily as you breathed.

“I’m fine.”

As you laid in between Remus and Sirius, watching the peaceful rise of Lily and James’s chests, you had come to a daunting realization. 

You were irrevocably and agonizingly in love with your best friends. 

And because fate liked to spit in your face, the four of them were already in a beautiful, committed relationship. 

Who were you to get in the way of that?

—

They would understand, you convinced yourself. 

They would understand that you had to stay away from them. You had to protect your heart and keep it safe. The marauders were a dangerous bunch, and they had played the biggest prank on you, and by Merlin, would you fall for this particular prank over and over again if it meant you could hear their voices and fall into their embrace. 

But you couldn’t stay. They would only crush your heart otherwise. 

If Gryffindors wore their heart on their sleeves when they fell in love, Slytherins protected theirs with every fibre of their being, locking it in a cage where no one else can have the power to break it. 

Like what any love-stricken teenager would do in the face of heartbreak, you began to ignore the objects of your affections — ignoring the way your soul called out to theirs. 

It wasn’t as obvious the first few days. You would escape their company under the ruse of studying for McGonagall and Flitwick’s practical tests. 

(“They’re notoriously difficult after all,” You told them, a nervous laugh accompanying your lie. Peter eyed you curiously, noticing small details the others could not see — your quivering lips, your nails digging into your palms, and the way your eyes wouldn’t meet any of theirs. “I just don’t want to fail.” 

You could have cried at the way James held the back of your head as he placed a soft kiss on your forehead. “You’ll do well, love. You always do.” 

“You can study with me, if you want,” Remus quickly offered. “I’m not as good as James in transfiguration, but I can definitely teach better than those two.” 

“Hey!” Sirius exclaimed in mock offence.

“Thanks, it’s sweet of you to offer,” You told them, shifting your weight awkwardly from one foot to the other. “But—”

“Say less, darling,” Lily interjected kindly, wrapping her scarf around your neck. She smiled at you, holding both your cheeks in her palms. “They’re the worst lot to study around, I know. Just don’t study too hard, okay? Take breaks, have a cup of tea now and then, and remember it’s okay to ask for help — don’t give me that face — if it gets too overwhelming, just ask. We’re here for you in every way you need us.” 

Oh.

You were well and truly screwed. 

“Thanks,” You croaked.)

But it was getting harder and harder to come up with excuses. 

(“Wotcher!” Sirius grinned, encasing you in a tight hug after bumping into you in the corridor. “Haven’t seen you in a while, busy bee. Fancy a lunch with us in Hogsmeade?” 

You scrunched your nose, red and bitten from the winter frost, stepping away from him and ignoring the way his face fell. “I. . . I can’t. I’ve got practice with the Frog Choir.”

Sirius shoved his hands in his trouser pockets. “S’alright. I can wait and pick you up right after, then we’ll swing by that shop you really like—”

“I can’t, Sirius,” You interrupted harshly, wrapping your arms around your chest as your gaze dropped to the ground. “Sorry. I just. . . I’ll just catch you some other time.” 

Sirius flinched. “Sure, love. Other time, yeah?”

But only the wind replied.

Saturday came, and along with it was the long-awaited match between Gryffindor and Slytherin. James, decked out in his uniform, bounded over to you at the Slytherin’s side of the Great Hall, oblivious to the death glares some of your housemates had sent his way. He wrapped his arms around you from behind, lifting you from your seat. 

“It’s Quidditch day, pidge!” James tilted his head, awfully resembling a lost, confused puppy. “Why aren’t you dressed yet? It’s the game of games! Even Remus is announcing the game later.” 

You bit your lip before responding. “I’m not going, James.” 

“What?” He furrowed his brows. “Why not?” 

Ever since you had become friends with James Potter in your first year, you had never missed a single game of his. Except for the one time you had fallen sick during his match against Hufflepuff — and the moment he knew you were ill, the game ended in less than two minutes, by his sheer determination to get by your side quickly and make sure you weren’t alone. 

You sighed. “I don’t know, James, I’m just not feeling up to it today.”

It was a big, fat lie, and he knew it too. 

You didn’t go to his match later that day.

It was one of the biggest losses James had ever experienced — he wasn’t talking about Quidditch.)

Your housemates were beginning to realize was something was off as well. They might not be particularly fond of the Gryffindors that captured your heart, but they were fond of you, and they guarded their own. 

You had a stare-down with Regulus Black in the common room — and you weren’t about to lose — before he blinked and asked, “What did my brother do?”

“Nothing,” You replied, pretending to be engrossed with your herbology textbook. 

Severus rolled his eyes before plucking the book out of your hands. “Spit it out, woman. We’ve had to watch you mope around pathetically for days now. It’s irritating the rest of us.”

You sniffled. “Then just leave me alone! No one asked you to check up on me!” 

“Unfortunately, we can’t.” Severus took a seat beside Regulus. With a pained grimace, he said, “So you can. . . pour your heart out to us.” 

“I can’t.” You wailed. “I’m a Slytherin, we’re the worst at that.”

Regulus shrugged his shoulders. “It’s true. We’re hopeless.” 

“But,” He raised his wand, “We do speak in jinxes and curses.” 

“Don’t you dare!” You blubbered, wiping at your tears — but somehow, without having to express it in words, they understood, and you had felt lighter.

Still, you missed them. 

“This is pathetic.” Lucius enters the common room, Narcissa holding onto his arm, watching the scene before him with blank eyes. “Black, Snape, get out, you’re only making whatever this is, worse.”

Narcissa was by your side in an instant, dabbing at your wet eyes and cheeks with a handkerchief that cost more than your life. “Hush now, darling. What’s wrong, hm? Was it that idiot cousin of mine? Don’t worry, Lucius can tell his father, and we’ll have them begging at your feet by tomorrow.”

You cried louder. 

“I jest, I jest.” Narcissa softly chuckled, pulling your hair away from your face as she tugged you close. “Please tell us what’s wrong. It’s been awful seeing you like this for the past few days.”

Lucius sat on the loveseat across you, resting his feet atop the glass coffee table. “Yes, I beg you — do as she says, for the love of Merlin. But, really, what else did you expect, associating yourself with that ragtag of miscreants?”

Narcissa glared at him.

Lucius raised his arms in surrender. 

Narcissa clicked her tongue before returning her attention to you, eyes softening at your tear-stricken face. She smiled, albeit sadly, as she said, “Perhaps, I know what is wrong.” She gestured to the way you clutched at the front of your shirt. “It is the matters of the heart, is it not?” 

You nodded weakly. “I love them.”

“And they, you,” said Narcissa. “So, what is wrong?” 

“I love them!” You hiccuped.

“Unfortunately.” Lucius handed you a tissue. “The whole of Hogwarts knows this already, so I do not understand why you’re blowing snot all over my fiancé’s robes about it.” 

“They don’t feel the same way about me,” You confessed with a sob. 

Lucius stared at you incredulously. “Please do not tell me that you are this daft.” 

“What do you mean?” You asked him through narrowed, teary eyes, Narcissa rubbing the tips of your numb fingers from crying so much. 

“I did not sign up for this.” Lucius rubbed at his temples as he stood up. “I will only say this once, so make sure you are listening. Those Gryffindor idiots are so disastrously in love with one another — let me finish, damn you — and if you cannot see that they love you too, then it is your own fault. It physically pains me to see the way they smile when you are near. They would move the earth for you, and they would shake the heavens for you.” 

—

Gryffindors must have hearts made of steel, because you didn’t know how they could be so brave, to look fear right in the eyes and say: I’m ready. 

Because you surely weren’t. You were headed towards your usual spot in the courtyard by the clock tower, legs heavy and swell deep in your throat. Then, you found them, looking so achingly beautiful under the sunlight, huddled together for warmth as they smiled and laughed at lame puns and mistimed jokes. 

Did you have a place with them? 

You were about to find out.

“Hey,” You greeted once you were right in front of them. A month of evading them, and now you were here. It was like finding a piece of your soul that you had lost.

(For them, seeing you was like finally being able to breathe again.) 

“Hey,” said Lily, devoid of any warmth, and that broke you. 

Bravery was poison, you decided. A trap for weak-hearted fools like you. 

Sirius shot James a look before clenching his jaw. “No choir practice today? No study sessions with Cissa or Reg? Wait, no, I’ve got it. Slughorn’s dinner party? Or is it detention with McGonagall today? Does her highness finally feel up to talking to the peasants?”

You inhaled sharply. “Never mind. This was a bad idea.”

But this — is what you deserved. You had hurt them badly, so it was only right for them to stomp on your heart for everyone to see, just as you did to them many times this month. 

A sob tore from your lips as you swivelled on your heels, ready to flee the scene and never show your face to anyone else ever again. Yet, before you could leave, Remus clamped his hand over your wrist. 

“Why?” He stared at you, searching for anything that could explain your sudden behaviour. Remus looked at you with such emotion, tightly holding onto you — but never enough to hurt, because Remus could never be capable of hurting you. He’d die before he would ever cause you pain. 

 (You made him feel unafraid of the moon.) 

“Was. . . was it something I did?” Remus asked, laying his wounds bare for you to see. “Was it me?”

“I love you!” You shouted in the midst of panic — you had never wanted to cause Remus to doubt himself. Your loud declaration had caught the attention of some, but you stood on, curling your fists firmly. You needed to do this. 

“I love you.” You said once more, breathlessly, staring right into James’s eyes. Such a beautiful shade of hazel. “I love each one of you. And it. . . it hurts right here.” Tears dripped from your eyes to the side of your chin as you splayed your hand over where your heart rested. 

“Because you don’t feel the same.” 

The four of them simply gazed at you, slack-jawed and wide-eyed. 

You took that as confirmation for what you had been fearing all along. 

“And that’s okay if you don’t,” You snivelled, unable to see clearly with the streams of tears in your eyes. You thought of how Sirius melted at Lily’s touch and how Remus was the anchor to James’s wild streak. How they all complemented each other and fit perfectly like puzzle pieces. “Just give me a few months, and I’ll get over it. It’s a stupid crush anyway, it’s my fault. The four of you are perfect together, how could—”

“Shut up,” James hissed before cupping your face and pulling you in for a kiss. Cherries and pumpkin pasties. He kissed you deeply once more before pressing his lips to your eyes, desperately washing away your tears with his devotion. “Was that it? We could have been doing this ages ago.”

“What?” You rasped, knees buckling at the weight of his gaze.

James only smiled, stealing your third kiss. 

Sirius pulled your hand, his arm encasing your waist as you stumbled to his chest. Like James, he kissed you fervently, like he wanted to chase off all your fears and doubts. His lips were warm against yours — firewhiskey. You wanted to be burnt by his flames again and again. He held you close, committing every inch to memory. 

(You were art that he wanted to worship.)

He kissed your forehead. “We love you, daft girl.”

He kissed both of your eyes, chuckling when a new wave of tears came. “We have loved you ever since you burnt my mother’s howler in fourth year, and gave us poorly-knitted sweaters for Christmas.” 

“I love you,” said Sirius. “As certain as the spring that arrives after winter, I love you.” 

You snuffled. “I. . . I don’t understand.” 

Remus stepped in your line of sight to place his jacket over you — it was Sirius’s leather jacket, really, but Remus liked to claim it occasionally. He bundled you in earmuffs and rested his chin atop your head, exhaling in relief. “I thought it was me.” 

You shook your head, clinging to the front of his shirt. “No, never. It was me. I’m sorry.” 

Remus grinned wolfishly, eyes swooping down to your kiss-stained lips. (There you were, standing in the snow that threatened to melt, eyes rimmed with tears, hair wildly ablaze from the cold breeze, cheeks damp and red — but how devastatingly beautiful you were.) “May I?” 

You nodded. “P-Please.”

Blueberries and dark chocolate. Remus whispered against your lips, “If it wasn’t already clear, the feeling is bloody mutual — we love you, just as the moon loves the sun enough to chase after it every day.” He grabbed your hand and placed it over his heart, you were surprised to see him holding back tears of his own. “All my life, I thought I was this monster who didn’t deserve to live. But you, all of you, make me selfish enough to want to belong here.” 

He kissed you desperately, words of adoration and love falling from his lips. 

Finally, your eyes settled on Lily. You waited for her reaction with a bated breath. 

You hadn’t expected for her to burst into tears as she rushed over to you. 

“Don’t you ever do that again,” said Lily angrily before circling you in her embrace, burying her nose in your hair. You hugged her back, drowning in her scent and warmth. “You are deserving of all the things you want, so don’t run away — if you run, we’d follow you, idiot girl.” 

Then, Lily captured your lips with her own. 

She tasted like happy endings.

On your way to the library, the last bastion of academia, you weave past the crowd in the courtyard corridor, ears ringing from the shouting match earlier in the Great Hall for breakfast—something about the Cannons versus the Magpies. There’s a pile of books shoved inside your leather satchel, painfully bumping into your hip with each step you take. You traverse through the Romanesque architecture, blissfully unaware of the misfortune to come. 

“If I study for Charms now, I can take a nap for the rest of the day,” You say to yourself, pensively tapping at your chin. 

“Watch out!” 

You barely have any time to react before a Quaffle comes crashing straight into your face. 

“Merlin’s hairy arsehole—fuck!” There’s a sicky sound of bones cracking, a dizzying flash of white before your eyes, and something viscous trickling from your nose down to your lips. Your hands fly to your face—instantly flinching when you catch a glimpse of your fingers dipped in blood. Your eyes grow wide in panic, chest rapidly heaving—it’s only now that you realize that you’re sitting on the ground, textbooks laying haphazardly around you, shoulders quivering from the adrenaline. The crowd’s concerned murmurs are lost in the cacophony of hysteria. 

“Move!” 

To your rescue, is Alice Fortescue, a fellow prefect. She cuts through the onlookers of petrified first-years and nosey fifth-years. You have no doubt this incident will grace the school’s gossip column for the next few days. She grabs your arm and wraps it around her shoulder with ease. You’d write poetry of her gallant display, but you were too busy moaning in agony. She utters a few incantations to stop your nosebleed from worsening, though there’s not much she can do to help with the possible concussion. 

“Did you know Bludgers used to be called blooders?” You mumble languidly, nearly crashing into one of the knight statues. 

“I do now,” replies Alice, tightening her hold on your waist, the ghost of a fond smile on her face. (She’s missed you, actually—three and a half years of radio silence. There used to be a time where running into you in the Gryffindor common rooms was an everyday occurrence. Even the Ravenclaw prefects knew where to look first if they wanted to find you.)

After what feels like an eternity of trudging through the castle, you finally reach the infirmary. The matron, Poppy Pomfrey, shrieks in alarm at the sight of your soiled blouse and blood stained lips. She gently ushers you into her hold, guiding you to a vacant bed. Alice hangs back, awkwardly shuffling her feet, gaze worriedly trained on you. 

“You may return to your classes, Miss Fortescue, thank you,” says Madam Pomfrey, tipping your head upwards and grimacing.  “Oh, good heavens, what happened?” 

Your head droops in her palms, blood trickling from the corner of your mouth—you must have bit your tongue earlier. You blubber pathetically, “Got hit by a stray quaffle.” 

Wordlessly, Madam Pomfrey summons a vial from her stash in the cupboards. She hands the small bottle to you, uttering various healing spells under her breath with a deft expertise of someone who’s been doing this for years upon years now. “There,” says Madam Pomfrey, lips firmly pursed. “That should help with the fractured cheekbones.”

With—what?

As your eyes bulge out of your head, Madam Pomfrey looks over you once more, a floating quill at her side hastily scribbling on a parchment. “Concussion, mild blood loss, fracture in the cheekbones, broken nose cartilage.” She illuminates the tip of her wand, and moves it left and right in front of you. “Hmm. Any nausea at all, dear?”

“There’s a six point four chance I’m going to get amnesia,” You whisper solemnly, head hanging low as your voice cracks from the unbearable pain. “I don’t want to get amnesia.”

“There’s no need for you to worry about that while you’re under my care.” Madam Pomfrey gently nudges you to lay on the pillow. She hands you a folded blanket. “Rest now. We’ll keep you here until the morning in case your condition worsens.”

“I can’t.” You groan, sitting upright—Madam Pomfrey pushes you back onto the bed with a stern glare. “I’ve got to study.”

“And I’ve got three other students to tend to. Mister Lockhart has been dealing with food poisoning all week.” Madam Pomfrey places her hands on her hips, sighing sharply. She jerks her thumb behind her back—that’s when you notice that three certain people are staring back at you. Sirius Black and James Potter squeezing together in one chair—and miserably failing—and Remus Lupin, resting cozily on the infirmary bed with bandages around his arms and head. “And don’t even get me started on this one.”

“You love him, Poppy, don’t lie.” Sirius grins wolfishly at the matron. You make out the sunken bags underneath his gray eyes, pale lips and his unkempt heap of dark curls. 

Pomfrey huffs exasperatedly. “It would be easier to wrangle a hoard of Hippogriffs than to keep you three out of the infirmary past visiting hours.” She spares you one last glance, nodding when she deems you safe and healthy—as can be, anyway. Gilderoy Lockhart rolls out of his bed, his cries echoing around the room, threatening to barf up his entire breakfast, and Madam Pomfrey is gone in an instant. 

There is an awkward silence that envelops your side of the room—you roll over on your left, desperately ignoring the three of stares burning intensely into your back. 

THE STORY GOES like this: 

You know their names more than you know your own. Each morning finds them at the Ravenclaw common room’s doorstep—while waiting, Lily, Sirius and Remus try to figure out the password as James attempts to brute force his way in. (He had actually figured out the riddle minutes ago, James would just rather play along with his friends.) The blue-tied prefects watch endearingly as one of their first-years rush out of the tower, squealing deafeningly, and jumps right into the lion cubs’ embrace. (It’s not that Inter-House friendships are rare, it’s more common than one would think; usually, it just takes more time for the eaglets to break out of their shell.) 

“I got a hundred and twelve!” You exclaim merrily, hair in disarray and eyes puffy from having just woken up. Lily grabs your hands; together, the both of you jump up and down, excitedly giggling in celebration of the success of your History of Magic essay. (You had ignored them for a day to focus on your homework—Sirius did not like that at all. It wasn’t as fun to play if one of their friends were missing. Gone off to study, of all things.) 

The tale of your friendship may be an unsolved mystery to some, but to you, it’s like finding jigsaw pieces that perfectly fit together. Magic isn’t only centaurs in forbidden forests, or ceilings bewitched to look like the night sky—sometimes it’s stumbling into a random train compartment and shyly offering your bag of assorted treats. Next thing you know, Lily Evans and Marlene McKinnon are constantly with you in the library, oohing and aahing over pages of the fantasy novels Lily had brought from the muggle world. 

There’s rarely a day where you aren’t spotted in a sea of red and gold. Except when you’ve studied yourself sick—and the Marauders are never fond of that. 

(“I’m sorry, she can’t come down today,” says one of the fifth-year prefects, Lalita Burman, a rather tall girl with intricate curls, brown skin, and eyes that stare into one’s soul. She wakes up to banging on the tower entrance, not even eight o’clock in the morning yet—on a Saturday. It doesn’t come off as a surprise anymore when she opens the door to five red-faced children. “She’s come down with the flu. Most of the firsties have, actually. Madam Pomfrey says they’ll get better by tomorrow but Alex and I have been running ourselves ragged looking after them.” 

James Potter narrows his eyes at her. “Okay. Then we’ll go inside.” 

“Maybe we can help,” says Remus. 

Lalita holds up her hand to stop them from barging in. “That’s really sweet, but we can’t risk any of you getting sick as well.” 

Sirius stands on his toes to spy past Lalita’s shoulder, frowning when he finds nothing of importance—or really, when he can’t find you. He couldn’t wait to call you stupid for getting yourself sick—you just missed out on frog hunting. “That’s alright.” He huffs, shoulders slumping dejectedly. “Our immune system can take it. Will you let us in now?” 

Her eye twitches. “Come back tomorrow.” 

With that, she slams the door in their faces. 

The Marauders then declare you are never, ever allowed to get sick again.) 

Your second year in the castle creeps up on you without you noticing. 

“Remus Lupin, I am going to kill you!” 

No one bats an eyelash when you stalk up to the Gryffindor table, twelve years old and on a mission, fresh from the summer holidays. You slam your hands down onto the table, eyes ablaze as Remus stares at you, head resting on his palms, shaggy blond hair falling over his brows—no thoughts, head empty, just sheer adoration. 

“Hello there, stranger,” Remus says, grinning fiendishly. “You look rather lovely—did you have a good holiday?” 

You scoff, pointing an accusatory finger at him—Peter watches at the scene with wide eyes, slowly chomping on his shepherd’s pie, not an inkling as to what was going on. “Don’t try me, Lupin!” You exclaim sternly. “That book you gave me—you said it would have a happy ending! Tell me why I stayed up until bloody five o’clock in the morning crying me eyes out! You. . . you—!” 

“Wanker, dingbat, berk, git,” Lily supplies helpfully with an innocent smile, pulling you down to sit with her. “And my personal favorite—toerag.” 

You gape at the pretty redhead, jaw falling to the floor. “How do you even know these words?” 

She hums nonchalantly, spreading blueberry jam onto her buttered toast. “A lady must arm herself with the necessary ammunition.” Lily points to a certain pair of boys—James and Sirius are currently engaged in an eating contest, shoveling pancakes after pancakes inside their mouths; so far it looks like Sirius is winning. Lily sighs dramatically, rolling her eyes, “Especially if she wants to survive that kind of company.”  

“Him, even more,” says Lily, gesturing to Remus. “He may be Professor McGonagall’s golden boy but I see right through him.” 

“What can I say?” Remus smirks, helplessly shrugging his shoulders. “I’m a monster.” 

Lily glares at him. 

Then, you turn thirteen—the dreaded age. Suddenly, you’re dealing with oily skin, acne, body odor, hair growing out of places you didn’t even know could grow hair, hormones messing up the way you look at everyone else—something awakens in you the day you see Dorcas Meadowes in the Quidditch pitch wearing a black sleeveless turtleneck—and hormones messing up the way you look at yourself. 

Everything is starting to change. 

You usually never blink twice when James wraps his arms around your waist, laying his head on your shoulder. Except this time, he’s gone from a gangly bean sprout, to a heartthrob with perfectly messy hair, newly defined muscles from his countless hours of Quidditch training, charming smile, eyes that one could get lost into for hours, and a tantalizing scent of mint and bergamot. 

“Are you really not going to our game this Saturday?” James whispers in your ear—the five of you had been hanging out in the library. 

You sigh. “Can‘t. Sorry.” 

“Scared your House is going to lose to us, pet?” Sirius teases from where he’s sitting backwards on the chair next to you, engrossed in twirling locks of your hair around his finger. 

You bristle at the nickname—they have been brazen with the endearments lately, you’ve noticed. “It’s not like we’re going to win anyway,” You mumble, tapping your quill on the empty parchment—there’s never any work done while they’re around. “There’s only a sixteen point seven percent chance of Ravenclaw winning against Gryffindor.”

James wrinkles his nose, now sitting on the edge of the table. “Percent, shmercent. What matters is how everyone plays that day.” 

He kicks his legs against yours, pushing his glasses further up his nose. “So, will you come watch?” 

“We have that History of Magic project, remember,” You say defeatedly. “I need to get started on it this week otherwise I’ll be behind all the electives I signed up for this year.” 

Lily frowns, looking up from her own homework to glance at you in concern. “How many did you even pick?” 

“All of them.” 

“What?” Lily screeches in terror, suddenly rising from her seat to lean over the table. “How is that even possible? How did McGonagall even allow that?” 

“Professor Flitwick,” You correct, wincing when Lily and Sirius glare at you. “It took a lot of convincing, but eventually I wore him down. All I had to do was rework some of my class schedules and promise him over a thousand times that my wellbeing wouldn’t ever be compromised by my studies. Otherwise he’d take back his decision.” 

Remus doesn’t seem all too happy. “No wonder we don’t see you at Transfiguration anymore.” 

“Or in Kettleburn’s class,” Peter pipes in. 

“Are you sure it’s okay for you to be taking that many classes at once?” Remus grimaces, sharing a worried look with James. “The limit is three, and even that is too much to handle.” 

“I’ll be fine, don’t worry.” 

(Peter knows a lie when he hears one.) 

James tenses up, jaw tightening. “So you’re saying you’re going to miss a game because of school? Like all the other times? That’s bullcrap!” 

Remus hisses his name in warning. 

Tears prick your eyes instantly—you’ve heard him speak like this when quarreling with Slytherins, but never to your face. “That bullcrap means a lot to me, Potter. You’d understand that if you took your studies seriously more than just going around and playing silly pranks on everyone!” 

James scoffs. “Like how you take us seriously? Did you know that Lily is the youngest ever to be invited to Slughorn’s club? Yeah, she got the invitation last week. Did you congratulate her for that when she was staying up late with you to revise for your practical test in Herbology?” 

“I—” You stammer, guilt pooling in your stomach. 

“No, you didn’t.” James sneers. “You only see yourself. Do you know what Remus has been going through? Do you even care?” 

“That’s enough, James,” Lily says vehemently. 

“Well, if you think like that, maybe we all should just stop being friends!” You retort.

Before anyone else can reply, Madam Pince comes around the corner, and everyone falls silent—a tense atmosphere that threatens to choke you. With a heavy heart, you gather your belongings and run out of the library. 

The months pass by, and Frank Longbottom wonders why he doesn’t wake up at midnight anymore to find five students having a sleepover in the common room with a certain eagle, each of them trying to contain their giggles and  failing. (One time, the Prewett twins had run down the stairs in panic, only to find you and Peter screaming from Remus’s theatrics in telling his ghost stories during an awful thunderstorm.) You no longer visit the Gryffindor table at breakfast, and they no longer wait for you after your classes. 

“It’s probably just a tiff,” says Alice to Mary Macdonald. “They’ll make up—they always do.”  

Mary nods, though unsure—while Peter is gut-wrenched about it all, the other four in particular seem like heartbroken puppies when you enter the Great Hall and barely acknowledge their presence. 

The snow melts and time catches everyone unaware.

“I can’t believe I’m going to graduate and you idiots haven’t made up yet,” Lalita sighs as she pulls you in for a hug. In a few weeks, she and the other seventh-years are due to leave; you’ve grown real close with her over the past few terms. Her departure is going to be truly difficult for you to handle. “Just talk it out with them, okay?” 

You sniffle, holding onto her robes. “I’m trying, but they’ve been ignoring me, too.” 

Lalita squeezes you tighter. “Don’t worry. These kinds of things have a way of sorting themselves out.” 

At the end of the term, you present your final project to Professor Binns. The ghost nearly returns to life. It was a research study on the Evolutionary Analysis of Magical RNA Manipulation in the Catalonian Fireball. Days after your paper is published, you’re featured on the Daily Prophet; dragon tamers and professors from Spain are owling you letters of praise and congratulations. It goes without saying that such a feat had naturally catapulted Ravenclaw to the top, ultimately winning the House Cup. 

(But what you don’t tell everyone is that you’re so severely burnt out after that—to the point where you didn’t want to ever pick up a textbook again. For the first time in forever, learning had become a chore, not a passion. You’d been puking out of anxiety, hands trembling as you forced yourself to write on the parchment, the sides of your fingers constantly swollen and raw. You’d study until four o’clock in the morning, and wake up an hour later to complete all of your homework. You’ve begun to masquerade as the ghosts of Ravenclaw Tower; lifeless and indifferent. Xenophilius and Pandora fuss over you, but you just lock yourself in your room and say: “I’m tired.”

Perhaps, it is why Professor Flitwick isn’t surprised when you withdraw from most of your electives. 

“The pursuit of knowledge is a rewarding journey,” says Professor Flitwick on the day you visit his classroom—hours away from needing to be on the train platform. He sighs and sets his spectacles on the table. “But it is a perilous one, too. I trust that you have understood the consequences of your actions. As a teacher, I can only offer guidance when it is needed. The other professors may disagree, but I find the best learning method to be, what is it the kids say—fuck around and find out.” 

You snort. 

Professor Flitwick chuckles, quite pleased with himself. “If I may be so bold as to leave you with another piece of homework, I would like to ask you to truly enjoy the holidays. I hear the summer is a time for discovering new things about oneself, for new beginnings and growth. After all, learning does not happen only within the castle grounds.”) 

Later that day, you board the express, purposefully choosing the farthest compartment where you know they’ll be staying in. You share the cabin with two people whose names are Regulus and Narcissa Black—this is the first time you’ve ever met them. Narcissa shares her green tea flavored candy with you.  Afterwards, you spend the rest of the ride back to King’s Cross asleep. 

(Right before the train arrives, Remus is nervously searching for you in the crowd of people. 

“We’ve got to say goodbye, at least.” Lily nibbles on her lower lip uneasily. She once joked that she could find you anywhere—as if you two had a red string tied around both your pinky fingers. Now, it seems you’re too far away for her voice to reach you. 

James drops his head down in shame. “I never got the chance to apologize.” 

“She’ll appear somewhere,” says Sirius unwaveringly with a nod, taking Lily’s heavy suitcase from her as steam whistles are heard in the distance. “She could be in our special compartment, waiting for us right now.” 

“Are you sure?” Peter questions dubiously. 

“Of course I am, she’s my best friend,” Sirius counters resolutely. “She’s there, I can feel it.”)

You’re fourteen when you return back to the castle—you hadn’t touched a single book throughout the summer, but you find yourself well-rested; you learn how to swim from your mother; staying up all night to accompany your family dog as she gives birth to seven beautiful puppies, and scratching yourself on the bark of sycamore trees with your poor attempts at climbing.

You find out that you don’t like Arithmancy at all, strongly preferring Herbology and Care of Magical Creatures. You’ve also garnered a curiosity for Ornithomancy, the oracle reading of birds. 

This year, you signed up for the Gobstone club, despite your unfamiliarity with the game. It’s led by a Slytherin girl named Haerin Seong. (It’s properly read as Seong Hae-rin.) She has pin-straight hair, a sharp nose, and the mouth of a drunken sailor.

You also decide that you want to become a professor after Hogwarts. The groundskeeper, Rubeus Hagrid, belly laughs when you declare this to him one afternoon, right in the doorway of his hut. 

“Well, go on then!” Hagrid bellows, patting you on the head. “Anyone who tries ter stop yeh has got ter go through me!” 

On the dawn of your fifth-year, an owl delivers a prefect badge to your doorstep. Your father, born and raised as a Muggle, doesn’t understand the significance of this, but he cries harder than you on that Sunday morning. (“My child is a prefect!” He sobs into the telephone after dialing your aunt’s number.) 

The fresh batch of Ravenclaw firsties aren’t the only new additions to the castle. According to the gossip mill, James and Lily are finally dating, so are Sirius and Remus apparently. (Then, months later, everyone would be shrieking about how they’re all dating. )

You hear of the news as you guide the first-year eaglets to their next class. You’re climbing up the spiral staircase when you see the Quidditch pitch through the window. They look like flying ants from this distance. You can imagine the wind in their hair, the tense muscles as they chase after the Quaffles, the crowd roaring in their ears, victory within their reach if they just fly fast enough. 

You hate the way you envy them—how easily they soar up in the skies while you watch from below, much like a flightless eagle, shackled by your own shortcomings. 

You hate Quidditch.

It’s bound by no rules, unpredictable and barbaric. Most of all, it looks down on the cowardly. 

In your sixth year, you have your first kiss with a boy named Augustine Fenberry. It’s extremely short-lived and awkward. You date for three months until it’s unanimously agreed that you two are better off as friends—until you catch him laughing about you with his mates in an empty corridor, saying that you were clingy, too much, and needed to learn how to shut up. (You wonder if that’s why they grew tired of you, too.) 

You handle him with a quick, “Entomorphis.” 

It’s probably one of the more cruel jinxes; Augustine bawls piercingly as he grows antennas atop his head, the spell forcing him to get on his hands and knees; his friends hover around him in panic, but all Augustine can do is chirp like a grasshopper in the night. You wonder if you’ve gone too far, but Haerin tells you that’s exactly what Augustine is—vermin. 

You also, with great satisfaction, deduct thirty points from his House—which happens to be Ravenclaw. 

(Nobody knows this about Peter, but he’s nimble on his feet, a bit of a wallflower—and he is now the newest editor of Hogwarts’s newspaper column, The Golden Snidget. By the next day, everyone knows what he’s done. Argus Filch, who’s in charge of his month-long detention, should be the last of his worries. Peter sympathizes with the wizard—but only for a fraction of a second. Because it’s not even the werewolf Augustine has to be scared of, not the pureblood heir who could ruin anyone with just a lift of his finger; not the Quidditch prodigy with a sharp mind, knowing a thousand ways to seek revenge. 

It’s Lily Evans. 

“Go near her again and I’ll rip your balls off!” Marlene flips the bird to the group of cowering boys. “Matter of fact, if you treat anyone like that again, I will come for your bloodline.”

“Fucking toerag!” Lily wildly swings the Beater’s bat she had stolen from the Quidditch changing room. “If you even look at her, I’ll hunt you down and shove this up your arse—until you feel it in your throat!” 

Peter shivers in fear. He didn’t ever want to be on the receiving side of Lily’s wrath. 

“This is the same girl who cried for an hour when she saw the ducklings in the Great Lake separated from their mother,” says Remus, horrified. 

“Honestly, I feel so, so conflicted whether to find this terrifying. . . or attractive,” James whispers to Sirius.

“Attractive. Definitely attractive,” Sirius responds breathlessly, all eyes on Lily.)

Gryffindor wins the House Cup that year, to no one’s surprise. You find yourself clapping along with everyone else, but can’t help it when your gaze drifts to the left-side of the Gryffindor table. You watch as Sirius lifts Lily in the air, her giggles somehow louder than the thunderous cheering, pressing a loving kiss to her lips. James stands on the table, encouraging everyone to sing more of his praises—there’s a split second where his eyes find yours, you look away immediately—as Remus covers his face with his palms, flushed from all the attention. After James, Remus had won the most points for their House. 

They seem complete—a puzzle that never really needed another piece. (You miss them, heartachingly so.) Maybe it was for the best that all of you drifted further and further apart. You now forget the way they call your name.  

And so, the story ends just like that. 

YOU HAVE FOUND yourself in a very tricky position. 

It’s past midnight when you wake up—you nearly scream bloody murder when James, Lily and Sirius materialize out of thin air. They stare back at you, frozen in place, unblinking for the last twenty seconds. 

“Oh God, I’m hallucinating.” You cry to yourself, wrapping your arms around your waist. “I hit my head and now I’m seeing things.” 

“No, no, no, no,” James stammers, shaking his head. “It’s an invisibility cloak—see?” He wears the cape, then abruptly takes the cloak off—his body disappearing and reappearing in time with his actions. “Not hallucinating, I promise.” 

“That’s even worse,” You say hoarsely, on the verge of hyperventilating. “Y-You’re out past curfew—visiting hours are over. Someone could catch you. Madam Pomfrey will have your heads.” 

Remus chuckles—he had missed your voice so bloody much. He barely contains his grin when you glare at him. (Finally, after three years, you look his way again.) 

“We snuck in here to see you all the time,” Sirius tells you, the corner of his lips tipping into an overfond smile. “At some point, Poppy just stopped trying to keep us out.” 

“Yeah, I guess.” Your gaze falls to the floor as you mousily toy with your fingers. The infirmary falls painfully silent. Again. You clear your throat. “Anyway, I–I should get going.” 

“Oh.” Lily’s expression turns crestfallen, words cracking from the thick lump wedged in her throat. (This is the first conversation she’s had with you in years—one that isn’t awkwardly bumping into one another with shallow, hesitant greetings, before you scurry off like a timid squirrel.) “R-Right. But why don’t you have dinner first? We brought some from the feast and—” 

“Thanks, but I’m not hungry,” You rasp, slipping into your shoes and throwing your cardigan over your shoulders. (More than anything, you want to hug Lily and congratulate her for making Head Girl—but you have to wonder if it’s too little, too late; if the distance between you and her is too great to try and  cross.) 

You toss Remus a wary glance. There used to be a time where you could say anything to him, and now it feels like ice-cold hands are stapled over your mouth. “F–Feel better soon.” 

“Thanks.” Remus coughs. 

Sirius’s eyes bounce from you to Remus, mentally ripping his hair out from exasperation—this whole thing is going nowhere. 

You sprint out of the infirmary without a word, hands trembling from the nerve-wracking encounter inside. You take a moment to catch your breath, to shove your heart back inside your ribcage, as you lean sideways on the wall. It’s like running into a pack of wild chimeras in the mountains bare-handed. 

“That was so scary.” You breathe out deeply, clutching the front of your shirt tightly. 

The loud call of your name slices through the hallway and you jump in fright. 

Luckily, it’s just James—but just James sets your heart aflutter and your knees wobbly even after all this time. He bridges the gap between you in quick, long strides; murmuring your name once more like a prayer. “Hey,” James says quietly, as if afraid to spook you off. 

You gnaw on your bottom lip anxiously, tucking your hands inside your pockets. “Hey.”

“Listen, I just wanted to say—back in the library, all those years ago. I’m sorry. Really bloody sorry. Sirius decked me in the face that day, which I definitely deserved.” James nervously scratches the back of his head. “It was stupid of me—and I never should have said any of those things. I know it’s been years since then, you don’t even have to forgive me. But I just wanted you to know—”

“It’s fine, James.” You cut into his rambling, having already forgiven him for that day. “Really. Water under the bridge.” 

In fact, some of what he had said made you realize how much you isolated yourself without even knowing. “And, I—uhm.” You take a deep breath. “I’m sorry, too.” 

James widens his eyes, then instantly shakes his head. “It’s alright. You’re alright.”

A dark red blush spreads from his neck to his prettily carved cheeks.  “So. .  . uh. . . are we okay?” 

“We’re okay,” You say and he exhales deeply in relief. “And James, I. . . I. . .”

“Yeah?” There’s a hopeful lilt in his voice as he takes one more step towards you—achingly patient, but there’s a sense of urgency and desperation. 

“I—” You look away and the words fizzle out in your throat. “Never mind.” 

I just wanted to say I’m sorry for what I said that day. I miss you more than life. Thank you for staying by my side all those years—for being one of my best friends. You make me feel safe, James Potter. You are one of the most intelligent and caring wizards I know. How  anyone can think otherwise is baffling to me. I’m sorry if I don’t let you know that more often. 

“See you around, James.” With that, you turn and leave. 

Perhaps, some things are better left unsaid. 

(So why is your heart shattering into a million pieces?) 

“TODAY, WE ARE GOING TO be interpreting messages from the divine!” 

On a lovely Friday morning, Professor Nasenyana drags the class out to the grounds for a hands-on Divination lecture, the groundskeeper’s hut within sight. He unlocks the barn nearby, where flocks of various bird species take to the skies instantly. He’s a rather eccentric fellow with one of the friendliest smiles you’ve ever seen. Most of the Ravenclaws are also star-struck, hanging onto his every word. As it turns out, Nasenyana is a graduate from Uagadou, the top school for Astronomy and Divination.

“Ornithomancy—!” He proclaims, flashy cloak billowing, startling some of the Gryffindors from their sleep. “It is a form of divination that looks into the behavior of birds—celestial creatures blessed with the ability to traverse through the heavens and the earth. But, you see, it is more than that. It requires utmost concentration and mastery. To pass this class, you will need to—” 

“I told you we didn’t miss anything important!” 

“Pads, shut up.” 

Sirius and Remus come rolling down the hill. Remus’s robes are disheveled, whereas Sirius’s tie is loosely hanging around his shirt, sleeves folded up. They nearly crash into Professor Nasenyana—who doesn’t appear to be pleased with their tardiness. You notice Remus’s flushed cheeks, the sweat running down the sides of his forehead, and the pinkish bruises on the column of Sirius’s neck. 

Lily chortles. 

Oh. 

You blush deeply—that is so none of your business. 

“Mister Black! Mister Lupin! So nice of you to finally join us.” Professor Nasenyana exclaims. “I trust that it won’t take you thirty more minutes to find a place to sit?” He gestures to the assembly of students sitting down on the grass, some shielding the sunlight from their face with the Divination textbook, and others transfiguring their school robes into a picnic mat. “Take your seats, gentlemen.” 

“And that is five points from Gryffindor. Each.” Professor Nasenyana declares just as Remus and Sirius plop down on the closest patch of grass to them. 

Which happens to be right beside you. 

You pour all your attention on the teacher, and not how warm Sirius feels next to you. 

“As I was saying,” Professor Nasenyana continues, hands folded behind his back, eyes gleaming with anticipation. “In order to pass this class, you will form groups of three where your task is to read each other’s fortune based on the information presented to you and document your findings. Everything you need for interpretation is in your textbooks. You will hand this assignment in after the winter holidays. I expect excellence from each and every one of you. Failure to comply will result in a Dreadful.” 

Gilderoy’s arm shoots up in the air. 

“Shall I guess your question, Mister Lockhart?” Nasenyana grins blindingly. “Your groups will be determined by fate—those closest to you will read your fortune, and you theirs.” 

He lowers his arm with a bright blush. 

You, however, are frozen in place, sitting cross-legged on the ground with a robe strewn over your lap—you even hold your breath from the shock. Fate must be mocking you right now. Spending the next few weeks in close proximity with the boys who held your fragile, little heart in their hands.

How fun.

Not.

FOR THE FIRST TIME in forever, you don’t pay attention in Charms.

The thought of working with Remus and Sirius haunts you so much that you burrow your head in your arms for the entirety of Professor Flitwick’s lesson. Your seatmate, Xenophilius, watches in horror as you flub the enunciation for Ascendio. Thankfully, no one is accidentally flung into the air—except for Gilderoy who is unfortunately blown away from his chair.

“Sorry.” You twinge empathetically as he climbs back onto his chair, glaring at you. 

Xenophilius nudges your shoulder, whispering, “Are you alright?” 

“Perfectly fine,” You respond hurriedly, almost choking on your spit. “What ever gave you the idea that I was not fine? I’m bloody fantastic even. The sun is shining, fishes are swimming, and there’s not a single thing out of the ordinary in my life.” 

“It’s cloudy outside,” Xenophilius says impassively. “And Lockhart is looking at you like you’ve just attempted murder.” 

“Lockhart always looks like that.” You brush him off with a wave, busying yourself with flipping the pages of your Charms textbook. 

Xenophilius pokes you in the side. “You are avoiding the subject. Is it because of Lup—”

“Ascendio!” 

This time, it’s too perfect of an incantation that even Merlin weeps from his grave.

At the end of class, you’re greeted with yet another surprise. Just as you leave the classroom, you find Sirius and Remus standing in the corridor, so absorbed in conversation that they don’t notice the sixth-year girls giggling as they walk by—either that, or they have had plenty of practice when it comes to  ignoring attention from the entire student body. It’s not like you can blame everyone else—they’re a duo carved by heaven’s finest. 

Sirius realizes instantly when you walk out of the doors. He smiles blazingly at you, instantly rising to his feet, hands shoved inside the pockets of his trousers. You can’t believe this is the same boy who’d give you piggyback rides down the hallway. Dark layered curls tumble messily past his shoulders, a smidge of dark liner around his eyes, multiple piercings in his left ear. He’s grown taller, certainly more confident, too. 

“Ready to go, pet?” He asks, as if casually inquiring about the weather. 

“Go?” You echo, nonplussed. “Go where?” 

“Birdwatching, obviously.” Sirius grins devilishly before grabbing your hand and leading you to the courtyard, Remus hot on your heels—who, for some reason, now has your bag hanging from his shoulders. 

“D-Do I even get a say in this?” Truthfully, you had thought that you could finish the project without meeting up. Ever. You even think of collaborating with them via owl; staying far, far away from one another. So that none of you get hurt again, and you don’t risk another heartbreak. 

“Not one bit, darling.” Sirius looks back at you and winks—this cheeky bastard!

You’re in a daze by the time the three of you reach the middle courtyard. Sirius happily plonks down under a tree, further unbuttoning his shirt until a hint of a tattoo peeks out—you gape. Remus chuckles before urging you to sit as well, before he settles on your other side. 

“This is nice,” says Sirius as he leans his head against the tree trunk, eyes closed. “Bloody missed this.” 

“Missed what?” You dare to ask, heart hammering in your chest. 

He opens one eye, cheek dimple flashing. “Being by your side.” 

“Oh.” 

One does not respond to that, actually. One just simply passes out and fades away. 

And as you typically do when facing hardships in life, you ramble about homework. Clearing your throat and staring straight at the earthworms crawling out of the mud, you say, “So, about our project. . .” 

“I was thinking we could get started on it next Saturday,” You splutter, fiddling with your fingers. “Or I could start on everyone’s reading and we’d put it on paper sometime next month—but I could do that myself, too. I-If you wanted. Just so that it’s easier for everyone. We really don’t have to rush, honestly.” 

“Procrastinating on schoolwork?” Remus laughs heartily with a slow shake of his head, stretching his long legs on the ground. “Who are you and what have you done to our best fr—” 

The word falters on his tongue, and his smile fades into a somber line. 

To save everyone from the awkward tension, you carry on, ignoring the way Sirius stiffens, “If you want to start early, I can head to the library after lunch to find some books on Ornithomancy. The more references we have—”

“What happened to us?” Sirius interjects gravelly. 

You let out a deep sigh. 

You suppose this conversation has been a long time coming, given lions and their stubbornness. 

“It’s simple,” You say gingerly. “After that. . . that day, the distance kept growing and growing until we went our own separate ways without looking back.” 

A single teardrop slides down your cheek before you can stop it. “You changed. I changed, too. The difference was, you all had each other while I had no one.”

(Though Pandora and Xenophilius were the truest and most honest friends one could ask for, they didn’t hold your soul captive the way they did.) 

Sirius stares at you as if you had just spit acid; a thunderstorm forming within his gray eyes, his jaw locking painfully. 

“You don’t really believe that, do you?” Remus asks softly, leaning forward to offer you his handkerchief. His voice sounds strangled—as though your words physically torment him. He pulls away just as your gaze falls on his. 

“That’s what happened, though. But I suppose it doesn’t really even matter anymore.” You flinch away, electrocuted from his touch. 

There’s a stretched silence that blankets the three of you. It carries on for a few minutes, the breeze flowing by, and the slow, clamorous bell chiming in the distance. You’re about to speak up when Sirius breaks the quietude first.

“Be ready,” He says decidedly, looking straight ahead. 

“For what?” You ask in disbelief. 

Sirius drags a hand through his hair with a loud exhale. He rests his elbows on his knees, chin carelessly set on his palm, eyeing you intensely. “We’re going to prove you wrong from now on.” 

“What exactly are you going to prove?” 

Sirius chuckles, coiling a strand of your hair around his finger. “That it’s always been you and us for life, princess.” 

Merlin’s saggy balls. 

THE GRYFFINDOR TABLE descends into a coalescence of wide eyes and rapid, hushed whispers when you arrive sometime during dinner. It’s not out of your own volition, of course, but your own duty and responsibility as prefect to return the handkerchief that Remus had lent you earlier this afternoon. You hoped it would be a quick in-and-out; dishing out more forced smiles, and some half-baked banter until you could finally run away, tail tucked between your legs. Like most things in your life, it does not go the way you want. 

“You could keep it, if you want,” says Remus, hesitantly taking the embroidered cloth from you. 

If the world knew how many trinkets Remus Lupin had gifted you during your friendship, you would be swimming in gold—and cursed letters from his devoted fangirls. 

“That’s alright. Thank you.” You placate him with a crooked grin, the words spilling from your lips like a jumbled mess. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Gideon and Fabian Prewett nudging each other’s shoulders whilst pointing at you, keeping their heads low. You have no idea what that’s about. 

“Well. That is all. E-Enjoy your dinner.” You nod, mentally patting yourself on the back for not passing out in the den of lions. “Goodbye.” 

Though the Ravenclaw table is placed next to Gryffindor’s, you have the bright idea of sitting with your backs to them, lest you engage in a round of cloddish staring contests with the Marauders. Just as you pivot on your heels, ready to make it to Pandora’s side, an achingly familiar voice calls for your name. 

“Wait!” Marlene is partially out of her seat, bright blonde hair in a loose, messy braid; hand outstretched, as if reaching out to you. Her pale cheeks blossom with shades of scarlet as she receives miffed glares from the students nearby—such is the curse of a Gryffindor; if this were a fantasy novel, they would be the perfect protagonist. “Why don’t you eat with us? F-For old time’s sake. It’s been so long and I really would like to catch up with you.” 

Your resolve nearly crumbles. This is the same girl who would bring sweet candies in her pocket in case you got hungry during class. But, if this were a fantasy novel, you would only be an extra; fated to walk a path so different from the likes of James Potter and Lily Evans.

“Maybe next time,” You say, unconvincing to even your own ears. 

FROM ACROSS the Great Hall, another conversation is taking place. 

“I am telling you, Minerva, I caught them talking again in the infirmary,” says Poppy Pomfrey to her fellow teacher, a spry grin on her kind face. 

“Poppy, as I’ve told you, I do not make a habit out of discussing my students’ personal lives,” McGonagall replies tiredly, slicing into her dinner plate of steak and kidney pie. She pauses for a few moments, before pushing up her spectacles with a wrinkly smile. “But, perhaps, I’ll let this slide just this once. Tell me all about it. I’ve also heard that—” 

“ACTA NON VERBA.”

Deeds, not words. 

Truly a befitting password for the House of bravery and recklessness. The Fat Lady’s portrait gasps in delight, raising her champagne glass to you. Seconds later, the Gryffindor common room is revealed to you. (Most of the Ravenclaw prefects have the House passwords memorized, in case they encounter a lost student outside the dormitories who has forgotten the passcode. It happens more often than one would like. Although it isn’t just first-years who are often stuck outside. You’ve stumbled upon Frank Longbottom many times before in a heated argument with the Fat Lady.) 

“Oh!” Alice, bundled up in a red scarf and a wooly jumper, is startled to find you at the entrance. She breathily says your name, eyes crinkling as she smiles widely. “What a pleasant surprise! Oh my Gods—it’s so nice to see you again. How’s the head? Last time I saw you, you were bleeding everywhere.”

“I didn’t get amnesia. So that was good.” You head inside the room, instantly enveloped in a familiar warmth, a welcoming hug as if you had never strayed far. “Thank you. For that day, I mean. For bringing me to Madam Pomfrey.”

She waves you off. “Don’t mention it.” 

“But. . .” Alice cocks her head with a conniving smile. “Don’t tell anyone else this, but when James found out it had been the Gryffindor team’s co-captain who hit the Quaffle your way, I heard James put him through some intense training. He must’ve had to run a hundred laps around the pitch for a week straight.  Poor guy even had to wash everyone’s jerseys without magic.” 

“What?” You shriek. “But it was just an accident. Surely, James wouldn’t—”

Alice tweaks your nose with a chuckle. “Oh, for you? He would.”

You have the strangest urge to throw yourself out of the tower. 

You cough into your first, desperate to shift the conversation topic otherwise you’d spontaneously combust. “S-So, where’s Remus? We agreed to work on our Divination project here—if that’s alright with you and the others, of course.” 

“Ha!” Alice exclaims, palming her forehead. “So that’s why the tower stinks of flipping perfume.” She snickers at your bewildered expression, before engulfing you in a bear hug. “It’s so good to see you. You’re welcome here anytime, you know that.”

“Thank you, Alice.” You squeeze her back, giving yourself just this one time because you really did miss her.

Alice takes a step backwards before roaring loud enough to shake the ceiling. “Remus!”

“Get down here! Your girlfriend is waiting!”

You break out in a coughing fit. “I am not his girlfriend.” 

“Not yet.” Alice winks at you, patting your cheek before skipping out the common room. 

You hear the heavy footfalls of someone coming down the stairs. Moments later, you see Remus Lupin beaming at you, casually dressed, hair damp and tousled over his brows, broad shoulders stretching his white top, and fluffy, mismatched socks over his feet. He walks over to you in record speed. 

“You came,” He says huskily. 

“I did.” 

“You look beautiful today.” Remus grins wolfishly, dimples poking out of his cheeks, flecks of light in his hazel eyes. 

You blink owlishly, dumbfounded. You peer at your clothes—nothing fancy or experimental. “This is how I normally dress, though.” 

“I know.” 

Remus smiles, swiftly taking your bookbag from you. (Alice was right. He smells like a basket of green apples, old leather tomes, and sandalwood. Not that you mind.) You follow him to the couches by the fireplace. 

“Where’s Sirius?” You look around the common room as you sink into the red sofa. There’s a pair of third-years playing chess, a young girl feathering her hand across the bookcase; sunlight streaming in from the tall windows. 

But no sign of Sirius Black. 

“Miss me, did you, love?” 

Sirius chuckles into your ear—you jump out of your skin, clutching at your knees in fright. 

“Merlin’s tits—!” 

You gasp for air while Sirius and Remus laugh at your expense. “You fucking wanker!” You grab one of the quilted pillows as Sirius jumps over the back of the couch. “You’re an idiot, Sirius Orion.” 

“There.” Sirius flops right down on the sofa; his hair tied up in a low bun, silver rings around his fingers. “Now you don’t look so bloody scared and nervous around us. We don’t bite, you know.” He pauses, then grins devilishly at you. “Unless you ask.” 

You slap your palms against your lap. “Anyways—!” 

Nostrils flaring as you take a deep breath—this is going to be a long day. You begin setting the parchments, feather quills, and Divination textbooks on the coffee table, along with a notebook where you had written some observations during the week. “When we were out—erm—birdwatching the other day, I noted down the birds that flew by for our readings. For Remus, it was a flock of Firecrests. And—” 

“I’m very sorry, loveliest love, but none of this makes any bloody sense to me.” Sirius goes through the Divination volumes you had checked out from the library, wrinkling his nose in distaste. “Tea reading, I can tolerate. But studying bird droppings really isn’t my thing.” 

You glare heatedly at him, oddly defensive about the subject. “We’re not studying bird droppings, you plonker. There’s so much more to Ornithomancy than what meets the eyes. You see, nature connects everything. From the number of birds you encounter, to which direction they fly, their pattern of flight, down to the colors of their wings.” 

You point to the glaring page from Snallygasters and Omens: Vol. 1 where a picture of a Jobberknoll jumps out. “This bird flies to the east because the east governs new beginnings and warm springs after winter. Blue wings symbolize reliability. One day in the future you’ll be tasked with a huge responsibility. A family could entrust their godson to you, who knows? You have to be clear-headed, Sirius. Your emotions can get the best of you if you’re not careful.” 

Without even pausing to breathe, you say, “Remus. The firecrest. Smallest bird in the wizarding world, but will dare to fly higher than any other creature, even the king of birds. The firecrest and its flock were flying to the south that day, Remus. To the place of passion and life. Love. Beauty.” 

“So it’s. . . it’s more than just bird droppings!” 

By the end of it all, your chest is heaving, fingers trembling with adrenaline; Remus and Sirius gazing at you with stars in their eyes, devotion pouring from their growing smiles. (Oh, how their hearts beat for you.) 

Sirius tips your chin with his knuckle, leaning closer until you feel his breath on your nose. “Welcome back, princess.”

NIGHT FALLS WITHOUT anyone’s permission. James, Lily, and Peter make their way back to the Gryffindor tower, patches of sunburn on their nose after spending the entire day outside observing bird flight patterns. Like Sirius, Lily has her mind firmly set against the philosophies of Divination; the mumbo jumbo not really all that comprehensible to her. As they enter the common room, her hand in James’s, they’re greeted by a rare sight—one that Lily didn’t think she would see again. 

Sirius is sitting on the floor by the fireplace, wand tucked behind his ear, a pile of books at his side, his brows contorted in frustration as he drowns in the pages of When Fortunes Turn Fowl. He presses his finger to his lips when his silvery eyes fall on Lily and James, jerking his head to the scene across him. 

Lily fails to bury her smile when she sees you snoring away at Remus’s lap, his fingers absentmindedly knitting through strands of your hair. The space is bedecked in loose pages with scribbled notes on them and ink stains on the carpet. 

“I take it you three got further along than we did,” Lily whispers as she kneels beside Remus, softly nudging his chin as she captures him in a fond kiss. 

Remus smiles into her lips. “A month’s worth of progress, at least. Thanks to this one here. I don’t think I’ll ever look at a bird the same way again.” 

“Who knew our little eagle had a knack for Divination?” Lily chuckles, gaze softening as she delicately drags her knuckle down your cheek. “It’s getting pretty late. Should we wake her up?” 

Remus shakes his head. “No. Let her sleep a bit more.” 

Selfishly, Lily agrees. She traces the tip of your nose, the pillows of your lips, before retracting her hand with a long sigh. “We used to talk about anything and everything until the sun rose. Now, it seems like I can never catch up to her no matter how fast I run.”

“Lily—” 

“Don’t worry,” says Lily. “I am nothing if not stubborn. She’ll know my wrath soon.” 

Sirius snickers. “How charming.” 

The fire crackles and you mumble something, deep in slumber, shifting in Remus’s hold, “Only one percent. . . of the world’s population is . . . is naturally redheaded.” 

“Is that right?” Lily grins from ear to ear. 

Just you wait, Lily is going to sweep you off your feet.

(Something she should have done years ago.) 

“IS THAT A new jumper?”

Pandora simpers knowingly, heterochromatic eyes uncovering your every secret—the beads in her long braids click as she keeps in time with your brisk pace. She teasingly pulls at the oversized sweater. “It looks good on you.” 

You narrow your eyes at her, watchfully twisting your arms around your waist. “It was cold this morning, alright? Remus lent it to me. It’s not a big deal. It’s what friends do, right?” 

“So, you’re friends now?” Pandora muses. “Well, thank the Gods, because it has been excruciating watching you tiptoe around one another. It only took you lot three years, but it’s better than never, eh?” 

“Wilderwood! No magic in the corridors! That’s five points from Slytherin!” You bark at the stubborn fifth-year who grins sheepishly at you, before you reply to Pandora, an ache forming at the back of your head. “It’s complicated. Everything was sort of awkward in the beginning.” 

You think of last night, how Sirius was especially keen on making you laugh every few seconds; Remus would inch closer to you, head nearly on your shoulder as he peeks at the notes you’ve jotted down. You could barely think straight in their presence. Then, you remember waking up earlier this morning, James sprawled all over Sirius and Lily on the couch; Remus’s nose fully buried in his drawing book.

“But. . .” You trail off, remembering Remus’s arms around you as he sent you off, careful not to wake the others. (“I am a selfish bastard, pet,” He whispers into your hair, “I’m sorry, but let me steal this morning from them.”)

“It’s like coming home after a long day.”

“Brilliant!” Pandora exclaims, roughly laying her hands on your shoulders as she ushers you past the cobblestone walkway and into the grassfield, where the Quidditch Pitch rests in the near distance. You hadn’t even realized that you were a little ways from the castle already. “Tell them that!” 

“What?” You squawk. “Are you mad, woman?”

You hear the sound of brooms zipping by at an unimaginable speed. The crowd clamors over the announcer’s intense commentary. Your legs feel like they’ve been jinxed to feel like jelly. You hate Quidditch. 

“GRYFFINDOR SCORES! — That’s one-hundred and twenty in all! — Still no snitch yet! Hurry on, Potter! Mulciber’s got nothing on you– Ow! Professor! — Fawley heads for the goal! — Great deflect by Black! — Bletchley misses! — Another point for Gryffindor! We might as well end the game now!”

“Mr. Prewett!” You hear McGonagall scold into the charmed megaphone. 

“Sorry, Minnie! Anyway! — Mulciber and Potter race for the Snitch! Potter reaches out! — Surprisingly good manoeuvre from Mulciber! — Come on, James! — He’s almost got it! — It’s right there!”

You wait with a bated breath.

The crowd goes absolutely wild.

“Potter’s got it! — GRYFFINDOR HAS WON!” 

“Go on now, treasure. Before the Wrackspurts get inside your head again.” Pandora urges you forward, dusting the invisible creatures off your shoulders. As you take one step into the field, fireworks of gold and scarlet light up the sky, the Gryffindor teams’ cries of victory shake the ground; you hear Fabian screaming into the megaphone. Your fingers go numb. “Don’t let another day go by without expressing your heart,” says Pandora into your ear, almost a gust of wind if you hadn’t been paying attention. “Go to them. They are waiting for you.”

“But what if they aren’t?” You watch as the sun descends on the Gryffindor team lifting James in the air, Golden Snitch in his gloved hand. Sirius catches Lily by the waist, twirling her up high; her smile more dazzling than any other gem you’ve seen. As James is set back down on the ground, he snatches Remus unaware and bends him down for a fervent kiss.

“Dora, what if I’m the only one who feels this way? I can’t do that to them. What are the chances that I’ll ruin everything? That would hurt more than anything.”

Pandora cups your cheeks and lays her forehead on yours. “You won’t ever know unless you go out there.”

With that, she pushes you into the Quidditch pitch. 

You swallow the lump in your throat, ears ringing from the crowd chanting James’s name, and your heart pounding in fear. 

“J-James. . .” You call out weakly as he drowns in the sea of students.

Perhaps it’s a sign.

This really wasn’t a good idea.

Love is a fool’s game.

Don’t you get it? They don’t need you in the picture at all.

“N-No!” You shout, chest heaving. If everything happens for a reason, maybe you were meant to meet in that train compartment all those years ago. You’ve lost three years with them already.

If you don’t go to them right now, you could lose a lifetime. 

If bravery is for the reckless and arrogant, you’re prepared to be the most depraved witch in the castle just to stay by their side. 

“James—!”

“Go, go, Gryffindor!”

You bite your lip in frustration—but you can’t just give up. Not now. 

Once more.

“JAMES FLEAMONT POTTER!”

Please.

Time stops as you stand at the edge of the field; James whips his head around and finds you instantly. The glow of having just won a match doesn’t even compare when his eyes land on you. He pushes past his team members and some of the Gryffindor students, his gaze unwavering, some of them call out his name but he doesn’t bother looking back. Before you even know it, he stands in front of you, breathing heavily—but not from the rush of the game.

“You’re here,” He says, eyes disappearing into his smile. “But you hate Quidditch.”

“I do.” You grin wearily. “But I love you more.”

Without even giving James the chance to speak, you ramble on, hurricanes whirling in your stomach, “You’re a bloody brilliant wizard, James Potter. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you that before. I see you. I see all of you. How could I not? I love you. I think I’ve loved all of you before I knew it was even love. It’s alright if you don’t feel the same w—” 

James grabs the back of your legs and hoists you up, tendrils of hair falling over his glasses as he beams at you. The sun can’t even dream of competing with him. 

“Put me down, James, I am going to hurl—!”

He spins you one more time for good measure before placing you on the ground. James barely gives you a second to gather your bearings as he seizes your lips with his own, hand cradling the back of your neck. 

“You’re here,” He says, unable to believe his very eyes, gently chasing after your lips, breaths mingling until you don’t remember where either begins or ends. “Don’t leave. Please.”

“I won’t. I won’t.” You promise breathlessly as James pecks the tip of your nose, the arch of your eyes. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Beautiful.” He kisses you until you’re gasping for air. “And all ours.” 

There’s not a moment where you don’t feel loved, not even when he lets you go, and it’s Lily who encompasses you in her arms, bright hair filling your vision; you willingly burn in the warmth of her body. The mellow scent of pomegranates and red roses fill your nose. You see a never-ending horizon of kindness in her emerald eyes. (How could you have stayed away for so long?) It’s like finding a missing piece of your soul that you never knew that was lost. 

Lily laughs—it sounds like an orchestral symphony. Her gaze cascades to your lips, the prettiest of smiles on her face; she cradles the curve of your jaw with utmost sincerity, a few drops of tears shimmering against her freckled skin. “May I?”

“Please.” You feel her breath tickling your lips, deftly pulling you in for a kiss until all you can feel is her. She consumes every inch of you, and you are happy to surrender, heart and soul. 

“You must be the thickest Ravenclaw I’ve ever met,” says Lily, giggling as she kisses you once, twice—thrice. 

“And that means?” You scoff lightheartedly. 

She steals another kiss from you. “That means: I hope you know that we have loved you ever since, you daft witch. That I’ve loved you all this time. And now that you’re ours, we are going to make sure you remember that. Every single day for the rest of our lives.” 

You smile, holding onto her hand, dizzy with a hundred emotions. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” 

(Your Divination project is a point lower than Lily, Peter and James’s, but you find that it’s the luckiest fortune you’ve ever had.) 

EPILOGUE:

“I LOVE QUIDDITCH!” 

You are twenty-two years old, nose bitten from the chilly air, lounging in the best seating area the Quidditch World Cup has to offer; an unobstructed view of the players. The match is between the Brazilian and Japanese National Quidditch teams. Much to Sirius and James’s chagrin, your cheek is painted in yellow and green stripes, the vibrant flag around your shoulders. 

You scream along with the crowd, nearly spilling your Butterbeer popcorn, as the Brazilian players enter the vast stadium. You ardently shake Lily’s shoulders. “That’s him! That’s him! Lily, it’s Brazil’s youngest ever Seeker! Vinícius Silva! I watched a replay of his matches and he’s got a seventy-eight percent win rate!”

“Watch out, love, you’ll fall off the edge if you aren’t careful,” Lily says worriedly.

“His fastest record for catching the Golden Snitch is ten minutes and thirty seconds! He’s won Most Outstanding Player in the Junior Division twice! I’ve got a good feeling about this team—I knew those auguries were a lucky sign.” 

“The only Seeker you should be obsessing over is me.” You hear James grumbling behind your back, stealing a kiss from Lily’s lips before pressing his mouth to your cheek. “And you bloody well know that Japan’s Chaser, Kurosawa, is going to steal the limelight in this match. An average possession time of thirty seconds per play. A beast, that one.” 

You wave him off, more confident in your statistics. “Did you place my bets? I’m telling you, we’re going to be rich.” 

“Yes, darling,” He says, utterly loving his role as the dutiful husband. 

Moments later, Sirius appears at his side, fussing over your scarf, and kissing you just because. “Can we take off your bloody hat now? I think you just blinded Malfoy and his little blonde gremlin.” 

“Isn’t that a good thing?” You simper fiendishly before smacking his arm. “And don’t call your nephew that.” 

Sirius grins.

You pull at one of his curls. “Besides, if you’re good you can take off everything later tonight.”

He pulls you in for a deep kiss, hand at your waist, nose brushing each other’s. “And that is why I love you, dear wife.” 

You pout, albeit seeing right through his white, little jape. “Truly?” 

Sirius lands another kiss to your forehead. “Are you doubting me, loveliest love of my life? The lighthouse in my ocean storms. The apple of my eye. Fire in my loins—”

You slap a hand over his mouth. “I get it, thank you, my love.” 

Sirius beams from ear to ear. “Glad to have eased your doubts, darling.”

Thirty minutes into the match, Remus arrives, dressed in a muted gray suit, light brown hair flopping over his eyes. He greets everyone with a tired kiss. 

You immediately wrap him in a hug, nuzzling your nose into his neck. He had a particularly difficult full moon some nights ago. You press a tender kiss to the scar right below his jaw. “How was work? Did you bring my binder? It has my lesson plan for next week, I don’t want to return to the castle unprepared, and—”

The newest Defense Against the Dark Arts professor squeezes your waist. “Work was fine, pet. And no, I didn’t bring the papers because right now we are not working. We are going to watch Brazil win the bloody match and get right home to Harry after.” 

You, the newest Divination teacher of Hogwarts, tug him by his necktie, smiling coyly. “Sounds like a wonderful plan to me.” 

BONUS: 

“REMUS!”

The empty classroom is filled with soft, fervid moans—two professors especially drunk on the taste of each other’s lips. You’re seated on the desk, Remus wedged between your thighs, his hand inching dangerously higher and higher; the other hand slipping under your shirt and thumbing the bare skin underneath. He captures your whispers and mewls with his lips. Jackets and ties are tossed carelessly to the side. 

“So fucking beautiful.” He nips at your lower lip. 

“Rem. . .” You whimper, tugging at the strands of his hair. “Remus—please!” 

The door to the DADA classroom slams open and you two detangle from each other’s embrace in record speed. As you pat down your hair, Remus draping his blazer over your shoulders, you watch Lily and Harry stalk over to you in lengthy strides, reaching the both of you within seconds. You clear your throat, awkwardly averting your gaze from your son’s precious eyes; Lily, a moment away from throwing her head back in laughter. 

Harry, fourteen, and not at all ignorant to what couples do in the castle alcoves, sees the ruffled hair, the lipstick over his father’s cheeks and neck, and his parent’s misbuttoned blouse. 

He grimaces. “You two are disgusting, you know that right?” 

You guffaw, pinching his cheek. “Now, is that any way to greet the person who’s changed your diapers since you were a baby?” 

Lily cackles from Remus’s side, fixing the collar of his shirt. “Harry’s got a bit of a problem. Go on, tell them, my love.” 

Harry immediately throws his hands in the air, groaning frustratedly. “It’s Ron! He thinks I put my name in the bloody Goblet—!” 

“Which, I will still be having a word with Dumbledore about,” You say decisively. You’re not about to endanger your son. The Minister of Magic and the Headmaster be damned. They can also take it up with your husband, James, Head Auror of the Magical Law Enforcement department. 

“And now Ron’s not talking to me, Hermione’s not talking to me because I’m not talking to Ron—Colin’s following me around everywhere I go! I’m going mad, mum!” Harry slumps on one of the empty chairs, huffing. “Stupid bloody tournament.” 

You chuckle as you walk over to him, feeling an odd sense of déjà vu. “Take it from me.” You press a warm kiss to his forehead. “Talk to them, otherwise you’ll lose time that was meant to be spent together. It doesn’t matter who was wrong or who was right. It’s important that you have the courage to reach out. They’re your friends. They will understand your heart soon enough.” 

Harry blinks. “Thanks.” 

He exits the classroom in a daze, heavily pondering on your words. 

The door clicks shut, and Lily wordlessly locks the entrance. She turns to you and Remus, a sultry grin on her ruby red lips. “What are the chances we Floo home, and invite Sirius and James to join us?” 

You take her outstretched hand. “A hundred and twelve.”

After Peter Pettigrew’s slight against his family, Sirius would never hold warmth or pity for the skittish mouse ever again. He was played for a fool. And, he did not know which betrayal had hurt more. Peter’s—or yours. (Had you known all along of your adoptive brother’s plans? Did you not think for one second that Sirius would, without a sliver of hesitation, put himself in the way of a killing curse to keep you safe? He’d have died before ever letting the fire in your eyes wither to ashes. Clearly, you did not share the same sentiment.) 

He wanted nothing to do with you. Ever. And if the rat-bastard dared to show his face, not even Death would know where to put Peter’s body to rest. Sirius would keep him alive until he begged for death—until the idea of living frightened him more than dying. And for you—beholder of his heart, captor of his soul, and co-possessor of his mind—he could only hope that you stayed far away. You had wrecked him—all of them. 

He wanted—

He did not know what he wanted. 

For when it came to you, Sirius Black was reduced to a man wandering the deserts—mistaking clouds for water, and the sands for grass blades. You had ravaged every fiber of his being; consumed his every thought and word. The most ironic part of all was that if you had been the one standing there—Sirius would have let you Avada him. Dumbledore could scold him in the afterlife—Sirius could care less. He’d have snapped his wand in half and asked someone else to fight you because Sirius had vowed from the moment he met you that he would never harm a hair on your head. He would never be the reason that tears stained your pretty cheeks. 

Well, apparently, trust and promises were not worth a damn thing nowadays. 

No, he did not love you—even as you stood on the steps of Grimmauld, your hair ruined by the downpour of rain. Your lips bruised and bitten from a nervous habit Sirius had yet to break out of you. 

“I didn’t know, Sirius,” you whispered—your voice the only sound falling on his ears amidst all the thunder and lightning. He only saw you. “Y-You have to believe me. If I knew—Gods, I would have told Dumbledore in a heartbeat. Fuck. I thought you knew me better than that.” 

He thought so, too. 

“Did you know?” Sirius began, taking a step forward and into the storm, a demeaning sneer on his lips. “That when Voldemort stood in our home, your portrait was right behind him? That was all I could look at. If I had died—you would have been the last thing I saw.” 

You had not replied. 

Sirius grit his teeth. “Go,” he said, voice hoarse. 

“Go!” he yelled, grateful for the rain as it masked his own tears as you flinched from the sound of his voice. Not the thunderclap, the lightning strike—but it was him who scared you. 

(But you had done so first.) 

When you apparated away, Sirius crumbled to the ground and pounded his fists against the asphalts where you were moments ago, screaming and cursing until he saw blood flowing with the rainwater.

It was laughable, really. The way he did not love you. 

It was not love that drove him to madness, pummeling Gideon Prewett into a bloody pulp for mentioning your name during a meeting with the Order. He had presumed you to be a Death Eater alongside your brother—Sirius instantly saw nothing but red. (He condemned Bellatrix, his own cousin, for becoming a madwoman. Yet, here he was, unraveled by the very thought of you. The very whisper of your name.) 

But whatever it was that had turned him into a fool and a hypocrite all at once, it was not love. 

ii. 

JAMES POTTER had no love for you—make no mistake about that. He loved love, and he did so fiercely and truthfully. But you and Peter had broken his trust—defiled his loyalty from the moment your brother had brought Voldemort to his doorstep. (Did you know that as he begged and screamed for Lily to hide with their son, Harry—he thought of you? For a fleeting moment, he saw your face, marked by fear and tear-rimmed eyes. And James knew straight away that he would spit on Tom Riddle’s bare feet if only to keep his family safe. If only to see you once more. Alive and well. But, you must not have thought the same—if you had conspired with Peter to sell him and Lily out to the Devil reborn.) 

The thought of you breathing was enough to keep James alive. 

But, that was not love. It was a mockery of it. 

No, he did not feel so much as a twinge of emotion for you. Not even as Mad-Eye Moody brought your limp body back to Grimmauld. It was not love that threatened the magic in his being—that simmered in his blood until the painted walls saw an indent of his fist. (“Poor thing,” McGonagall cooed as she pressed her palm over your forehead. Despite some of the members’ growing distrust for you, you still took an Unforgivable in their stead. “We can only wait. . . Four Cruciatus curses. . .”) 

What more did James need to want to rip Peter apart limb by limb? 

It was not love that rooted his feet by your side. Sitting hunched on a chair too small for his height, bags beneath his eyes, and the pale of his lips becoming noticeable to everyone who spoke to him. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to you lovelessly—hands desperately clutching your own. Sirius stood across the room, arms crossed over his chest, dagger-like eyes waiting for so much as a twitch of your finger. “I’m sorry.”

It was a plea this time.

He only hoped you did not ask him to love you. For James could give you the world, hand-pick the stars, and burrow his body deep beneath the ground if you had asked for it—but he could not love you. 

Everyone had told him not to hope that you would wake up. That your pretty eyes would not flutter open, and you would no longer look at him as you had before. But James was stubborn. He was selfish as he was stubborn. He did not love you—but he needed to hear the sound of your voice. And James would take it any way that he could. The soft cadence of a whisper, or a rough utterance of a single word. Molly Weasley told him to accept reality for what it was. (“You need sleep, dear,” the matriarch fussed. “There’s nothing we can do. Look at the Longbottoms. . . We can do no more for this one as we had done for them.”) 

In the still of the night, he left his reveries on the cold of your skin. “Wake up,” he demanded. 

“Wake up or else you’re the traitor everyone thinks you are,” James hissed. 

But his words held no heat—and his heart held no love for you. 

Make no mistake about that.

Then, when you finally woke up, disoriented and throat parched—a hazy recollection of the weeks before—James made sure that no more than four people could enter the room. He did not care if a hurricane, or if Voldemort himself—James had faced him once already, after all—threatened to break the door down. You were theirs to protect.

 (But not to love.) 

“We need to begin the questioning, James, you know that,” said Kingsley Shacklebolt, almost exasperatedly; weary lines written across his face. James would not allow even a toe beyond the doorway. An interrogation meant you had something to do with the attempted murder of James and his family. Whether or not you were innocent, James did not care—he just wanted you safe. 

(And a small part of him already knew that you were not your brother’s keeper. Just as they had absolved Sirius of his family’s sins. It would be unfair to not show you the same grace. But before his mind knew that, James’s heart and soul had known the truth all along.) 

He found Sirius gently tending to your every need, and already James knew that was Padfoot’s way of begging for forgiveness. The ebony-haired man hung onto your every word. He winced when you flinched, and pressed his apologies to your forehead, rasping for a kindness he did not deserve. Not after what he did. How he turned you away and cursed your name. How they betrayed you. 

James did not love you. 

But what else could he call the manacles that bound his hands and forced him to his knees when it came to you? 

Not. Love. 

iii. 

REMUS LUPIN could not bring himself to love you. But, he could not love Sirius, Lily, and James either. He was undeserving of such a privilege. But he was not allowed to love you; Remus could only hope that you saw even a shred of worth in him—to wrest each word from his lips and every breath from his lungs. But, he did not love you. No. 

Because loving you meant he was to tell you of your brother’s crimes. And Remus could not hurt you like that. 

“P-Peter?” you had asked, wearing the eyes of a fretful sibling. Remus lifted his hand to tuck a strand of hair gone astray behind your ear. Bellatrix had done a number on you—just as she had done to Alice and Frank. Remus was fairly certain that Sirius was off on a hunt for his cousin, his mind toyed with by the barbarity of war. What they could not do for the Longbottoms, they’d wring themselves dry to do for you. After the Lestranges’ attack, you suffered damage to your throat and memories. Remus could not bear to see you in such pain. 

He could not give you love, but Remus would offer up to you his every limb, and the weary skin upon his bones. 

“They. . .” Remus grimaced. How could he act as the bearer of bad news? He’d rather dive headfirst into shark-infested waters. Be anywhere else but here. In fact, Remus would rather snatch you away from the funereal walls, and hold you in his arms in the quietude of dawn, than be the one to bring anguish to your eyes. “They’re looking for him at the moment, love.” 

One question lingered in your eyes: Why? 

Luckily, Sirius was always the better one at sharpening a blunt knife. “He was a traitor,” he spat like acid. “A traitor to the Order. A traitor to us. He’s no friend of ours. Not anymore.” 

But Sirius knew—better than anyone else—how difficult it can be to truly hate little brothers, especially once they’ve gone. 

“No. . .” You trembled, almost retching as you sobbed into your palms. 

Remus held you then, the front of his shirt soaked in your tears, eyes firmly shut as you trembled and heaved in his arms. The sound of your guttural screams bounced off the four walls, and Remus had to bury his nose in your hair. You were alive. Safe. Breathing. But you felt cold as ice; an empty husk stripped bare for grief to take over. And Remus could do nothing but hold you. (He just hoped that wherever Peter Pettigrew was, Remus would not be the first one to find him. Otherwise, they would not be able to recover even a fingernail from his remains.)

“Hush, love,” Remus whispered into your ear as you cried yourself sick. Mourning the loss of your brother, reeling from the betrayal of a bond that was supposed to be stronger than blood. Remus would make him pay, he vowed as much to you. No, Remus and the wolf in him did not know how to love. But he knew how to hurt. And, that, he’d gladly do for you. His body was for you to use as a shield, his soul for you to strip bare, and his heart for you to thieve and never return. 

“Don’t cry,” said James, a shadow cast over his frames. “Not for Peter. Never. Fucking bastard will get what’s coming to him.” He laid on the vacant space of the bed, gently untangling your hands that were pressed over your heart. “I’ll make sure of it.”

They all would.

But not because they loved you. 

It was not out of love, Remus had to remind himself in the coming days, when he stayed diligently by your side as you recovered. Daily sessions with the best healer St. Mungo’s could offer—as if James would allow anything else. There were days your eyes would glaze over, your words rough and sluggish, and Remus would try his damndest to make you smile. 

It was the least he could do. 

For failing to protect you. 

But that was not love. 

(It was hope. Wretched, disastrous hope as he fell to his knees, and your name in between his teeth.)

iv. 

LILY EVANS was a fighter in all the ways that mattered. 

And from the very first moment she held Harry in her arms, eyes raking over his wrinkly, bloodied skin; all ten fingers and toes, her soft cries over his loud screaming—Lily knew she would trade her life for his in a heartbeat. Little, lovely eyes that would soon see the world in his own time. Lily adored him. Cherished every tear, snore, and giggle. She knew then, that a mother’s love was entirely different from any emotion she’d ever felt before. 

This was proven the first time Harry had gotten seriously ill. A few weeks after the attempted murder on the Potters, Harry was ceaselessly crying—screaming, even, every night—red-faced as he fussed every breakfast and dinner. Lily found herself at wit’s end. Her protectiveness had gone up a hundred measures; wouldn’t let anyone besides family or Madam Pomfrey see Harry. Yet, even with all the draughts and silly-flavoured syrups, Harry wasn’t getting better. 

“Lily dear, you cannot actually be thinking about this,” worried Molly Weasley as Lily stood in front of your door, holed away in the room where you had been recovering for the last few days. It would be the first time she saw you since the incident. More than anything she was afraid. Frightened that you would look at her differently. Whether or not that fear stemmed from love, Lily was not concerned. “We can call for another Healer from Mungo’s to have a look at Harry. . . Who knows what might. . .” 

Lily held Harry closer to her, lips firmly pressed, attempting to ignore the way his temperature was unnaturally high. “Might what, Mrs. Weasley?” She knew Molly was only talking out of concern, from a mother’s perspective at least. But she knew you better than anyone else. You would never hurt her, or Harry, that much she was certain of. And if you were the traitor everyone else was afraid of accusing you of, a sentence delivered by association to Peter—then let the guillotine fall, Lily would carry your crimes for you. 

She remembered ever-so clearly in her sixth-year, you with dreams glistening in your eyes. (“I’m going to be a Healer, Lils! Minnie said I’d be a great one. . . I want to protect those I love. . . I know I can do it. . . Oh, I can’t wait to tell Peter that I’ve gotten recommendations already to work at Mungo’s after graduation.”) 

And Lily recalled at that moment, she had felt a different kind of emotion that she had never experienced before. It was not love, of course. Tuney said she was too young and too stupid to know what real love was. But, at sixteen, what else could describe the way her heart fluttered and the way her lips threatened to break out into a smile whenever you lit up talking about your future? (It was just a crush, young Lily told herself.)

Only to be crushed and cast aside in the face of the war, where fighters took their place at the forefront of the lines, mothers and children hid; healers stretching themselves thin to be here, there, everywhere; where traitors walked in plain sight. 

“There is no one else I trust more with my life,” replied Lily. 

And that was that. 

Lily skirted around Molly and opened the door to your room, where Sirius, James, and Remus all stood at attention at the sight of her and Harry. She ignored them, and headed straight to your side. 

“Hello, love,” she greeted with all the gentleness she was made of, a smile creeping up to her eyes as Lily watched you turn your head at the sound of her voice. Truth be told, she did not know what her end-goal was in coming here. But being by your side had always made life a little more bearable, like all the illnesses in the world could not bring her down. And so, her magic had instinctively summoned her person to you. She, at least, was relieved to see colour returning to your cheeks, though the red in your eyes had dulled the hues she adored so much. 

“Is that. . .?” you croaked. 

Lily nodded. “Harry, meet—” 

One of the loves of my life, the most loyal and pure witch anyone ever has the privilege of meeting, someone I want to stay in my life forever. 

Lily’s smile wilted. “A friend.” 

Later, she would place Harry in your arms—her little hope embraced by her dream—and Lily would wonder if it was by pure magic that Harry calmed in your presence. 

For if love could hurt and destroy, could it mend and heal the broken as well?

But what a shame, for not one in that room carried an ounce of love for you.

(She would die for Harry, yes—but she would live for you.)

v. 

YOU did not love them, either. 

The very idea, thought—insinuation—was absurd. (Why, they deserved much better than you, after all.) With hands that failed to protect them, were you even allowed to hold them anymore? Did your heart have the right to breathe for them? You had failed as a sister and a friend—how much more would you have failed as their lover? Well, you’d never know. 

Because you did not love them. 

Merely wished them happiness and for the world to extend them kindness. For the sun to look brightly down on them, and for time to heal their scars and wounds. For if they were in pain, the earth would stop spinning. But such a request was not borne from love. 

Surely not. 

Because, then, that would have meant that it was love that teared you apart when Sirius cursed your name, when James turned you away, when Remus could not look you in the eyes, or when Lily—for all your history together—called you a friend. 

The whole of you was made by the parts of them. Each memory welded into the crevices of your soul. From the moment you had all found each other in the same train compartment, same common room—there was a shift in the fates that bound all five of you together. (The ties were red, but the thread was not of love.) You did not believe in Professor Trelawney’s talks of providence and destiny. 

Because if you did, then why was the universe so cruel? 

Falling—not in love—for four people who could very much do without you in their lives. Lacking severely as a sister to the point you had not noticed your brother fading and fading away into the shadows. 

Was love that unkind? That merciless? 

Then, you did not want to love at all. 

Oh, but magic or not, every creature on this earth selfish. 

You were no different. 

You wanted. 

Oh, how you yearned. 

“I LOVE YOU.” 

You barely had enough time to react before Sirius pressed his lips to the side of your head, arm covertly sneaking around your waist. The sound of the train whistling as parents yelled their goodbyes filled the station. You stood in the midst of the crowd, eyes never leaving one window in particular as you waved at Harry, now eleven-years-old and now off to Hogwarts. 

“Quite a random thing to say, husband,” you murmured, leaning into his warmth. “What for?” 

“Just because,” he replied in turn with a fiendish grin. “Well, perhaps for choosing us, for choosing me despite all my fuck-ups. For existing. For being the beautiful, wonderful, kind, precious you. I could keep on going, my darling. Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” 

You wrinkled your nose, eyes rolling from fondness. “I love you too, quite unfortunately.” 

He only laughed and pulled you closer to him. “Let’s go home.” 

–

“I love you.” 

In the house built by new memories, warded by stronger protection charms, and filled with warmth and love—James said this to you each morning before he left for the Ministry, promoted after the war as Head of Magical Law Enforcement. Not one foot out of the door until he had showered you in kisses and the symphonies of his heart. James had always been loud, even in his time at Hogwarts. The war had not taken this part of him, and you figured James was too loud to let it be taken from him. He was unapologetically and unabashedly him. 

And you had loved him fiercely for that. 

“I’ll be home early tonight,” he said, a quiet intimacy washing over the both of you. The early birds of the cottage. “Wait for me?”

“Of course,” you answered without an ounce of hesitation, delicately chasing after his lips. “I love you. Be safe.” 

-

“I love you.” 

“Are you saying that to me or are you reading from the book?” you teased from where you laid on Remus’s chest, hours after James left for work, the afternoon bringing you two together in the living room. Lily was in the gardens, and Sirius was in the shed working on his motorbike. It was perfect. You felt the rise and fall of Remus’s chest beneath you, his heartbeat close to your ear. He was perfect. It was a miracle you had not fallen asleep to the tender lull of his voice. 

“Both,” he responded, hand coming up to trace the bare of your skin—a miracle you did not crumble or burn instantly from his touch. 

You hummed. “Then, I love you, too.” Then, you grinned, lifting your head to stare up at him. “You have bewitched me, body and soul, and I love, I love, I love you.” 

And, oh, how photographs could not capture the beauty in Remus’s smile as his eyes regarded you with such fire.

“My heart, my light, my desire,” Remus began, one finger ever-so softly tracing the curve of your cheek. “In vain I have struggled, it will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.” 

–

“I love you.” 

Said Lily as she lied in your shared bed, red-nosed and her cheeks pale, sluggish. The Christmas holiday was generous enough to gift her with an unfortunate cold that had been going around the wizarding world. “But, please, go,” she commanded weakly, gesturing for you to join Harry who was stood by the door. “It’s a lovely day outside for making snowmen with carrots as noses and snow angels. Not for taking care of poor old me.” 

You rolled your eyes as you sat by her side, swiftly pressing a kiss to her forehead. “And I love you, which is why I would rather much be here, taking care of the prettiest snow angel to ever exist,” you countered, bringing a spoonful of broth to her lips. “Besides, Harry here has something to tell you. He’s made friends at school. One of them is Molly’s little one.” 

“Oh, you did?” Lily cooed, before sniffling weakly. “That’s lovely, darling. Tell me all about them.” 

“That’s not all, Lily mine,” you began mischievously as Harry’s eyes narrowed at you through his glasses. “This friendship apparently formed after fighting a troll.” 

“You what?” Lily croaked, emerald eyes shimmering with concern and near-dread. 

“Did you really, Harry?” James popped his head in the doorway, clapping his son on the shoulder before ushering him inside the room. A spitting image side-by-side as they took the empty space by the foot of the bed. “Good boy. Father approves.” 

“Of course you would,” Lily shot at him weakly, melting when Sirius then entered the room and greeted her with a kiss to her cheek. “And where are you all coming from?”

“Outside,” announced Remus, tugging his tie from his neck. “Sirius and I took a quick trip to Diagon Alley to get some things that’ll make you feel better, Lily love.” 

And as the snow fell outside, lazy winds against the window, your little family gathered in one room, there was one thing you knew for certain.

You loved them. 

And they loved you.