#james loves it when regulus is mean to him | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

crescenthistory · 9 months ago

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hi! i have this really cute idea for regulus x fem! reader. so reader is a animagus and it’s winter time so sometimes she’ll shift into a their animal form, preferably a cat, and goes seek out warmth. but reader is also besties with remus and knows he’s a werewolf, his body temperature runs a lot warmer then anyone else so she goes to room to cuddle. when that happens, regulus immediately knows they reader is with remus and, begrudgingly, goes to gryffindor to steal reader back.

when he gets there, sirius is pouring and complains to reggie that “your girlfriend is stealing my boyfriend” and regulus snaps back by saying “well your boyfriend is stealing my girlfriend” and reader and remus are amused but their bickering but don’t care.

anon. anon. i am giving you the BIGGEST kiss, you don't even know. this is perhaps the best idea i've seen in a while and so i love you. i will be thinking about this throughout all of winter, thank you.

Words: 3k

Warnings: not proofread, fem!reader, references to previous black brothers angst, disgusting amounts of fluff, best friends can cuddle platonically regardless of gender i will fight you on this, background rosekiller and wolfstar, childhood best friend!remus, implied gryffindor!reader, sirius pretends to be jealous but is not

Note: read more about cat!animagus!reader's shenanigans with regulus, wolfstar and james in Sweet Like Honey; Karma is a Cat & Padfoot vs. Whiskers

When Regulus accepted Sirius’ attempt to mend their relationship, he had expected to get his big brother back in full and no more. The person who understands him best, the boy he needed to lean on – it was all he wanted to get out of it. Perhaps he expected to have to grown tolerant of his brother’s friends, but that was something he dreaded, if he at all thought of.

What Regulus had not expected was to be introduced to and fall head over heels in love with you.

Remus’ childhood best friend, the more reserved one of the bunch that he had always seen floating around with them, but whose voice he had never had to roll his eyes at, thus never interacted with. It bewildered him now how he once upon a time barely thought of you, regarded you.

Now he knew you were delightful, and Regulus was positively smitten.

It had been exactly what Regulus had never thought he would get – an easy love. Like your friends, you were open and honest and loyal to the bone, and it spilled over like honey into your relationships with those around you. Once you caught a glance of his clearly lovestruck eyes, you melted, and the puddle was caught delicately in his hands.

Since then, that is where he has held you. In the palms of his hands, close to his heart. He learned more than he perhaps wanted to know about himself during the process of opening up to you, and you showed him a patience he still is not entirely certain he deserves. But you gave him your time, your moments, your touches and your lips, and he received and received without complaint.

When the two most important people in Regulus’ life – one a fervent, natural devotion, another a sassy, passionate rivalry – were in the same hazardous circle of loud-mouthed Gryffindor friends, he eventually had to capitulate that he could no longer just tolerate them. They were family.

God, what love has cost him.

Regulus walked into his dorm room where you have spent more days than not for the past few months, and sighed defeatedly when all he finds there is Barty laying on top of Evan in some odd position that cannot possibly be comfortable.

“Hello to you too, Black. Thrilling to see you.” Barty’s voice was laced with sarcasm, but there was no menace there as of yet.

“Yeah, yeah,” Regulus grumbled as he threw his bookbag onto his bed and sat down. “You seen Y/N lately?”

“You mean since you were all snuggled up this morning? Nah.”

Regulus rolled his eyes painfully hard at his oldest friend, murmuring a soft sod off before tossing whatever was closest – his pyjama t-shirt – in Barty’s general direction, missing by a good metre. He is a seeker and not a chaser for a reason.

“What of it, Reg?” Evan mumbled, but it was distorted by Barty’s elbow being more or less shoved into his mouth. He could never sit still.

“Just figured she’d be here, ‘s all. She finished class before me.” Regulus falls down onto his bed, curls spilling onto the emerald sheets as he stares at the ceiling, picturing you there and then immediately kicking himself for being that down bad. Then reminding himself with the therapy-speech Sirius has been teaching him, love is a strength not a weakness, it’s good to feel your feelings. Yada yada. "It's been a long day."

“Maybe she got tired of your sorry ass.” Barty laughed at his own joke only to be smacked by Evan’s finally-freed hand.

“Or yours, you sod.”

“Nah, Treasure absolutely adores me.” Barty propped himself up to flash you both a grin. “See, unlike you, I’m fun.”

“Interesting word to substitute insufferable with.” Evan said, leaning his face up from underneath Barty, as if to intimidate him.

“You love me,” Barty drawled before kissing the blond soundly.

“Would you guys please stop flirting?” Regulus’ voice was closer to a groan than anything else. He pressed the backs of his hands to his eyes, seeing stars and thinking of you. Stupid poetic feelings.

“Just because you can’t keep track of your girl doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy ourselves.” Barty pointed an accusatory finger at Regulus. “I would classify that demand as rude.”

“Bite me.”

“Only if your girlfriend says yes.” This time it was Evan’s turn of tuning into Regulus’ torture.

“And she would.” Barty winks at him.

This time it’s a pillow Regulus throws at them, and it lands perfectly, smack in the middle of Barty’s face.

“Oi!” He calls as he throws it back. “Either you quit it, or you throw me your jumper, it’s freezing in here.”

“You’re literally in bed, Barty.” Regulus looks at him, unamused. “Just–”

He trails off, gaze falling from Barty to the wall behind him as he pieces the puzzle together and realisation dawns on his face. The other boys seem to have caught on as they both cock their heads curiously at him.

“Of course,” Regulus whispers, first in marvel and then it morphs into something between exasperation and disgust. “Of course.” At last, he gets a determined look on his face, slapping his palms on his knees as he sits up from bed and grabs his jumper to go.

“Excuse you, what just happened?” Barty says, increasingly louder throughout his sentence as he realises Regulus is headed for the door, thick wool jumper tucked under his arm. “Hey!”

Regulus throws the boys a look over his shoulder, smirking at them and shaking his head before shutting the door and walking off. He barely catches Evan’s “shush, you baby, I’ll warm ya” before he is out of earshot.

A man with a purpose and half a plan stalks off, beginning the treacherous journey from the Slytherin dungeons to the Gryffindor dormitories.

What is the single thing Regulus knows can keep you from him when you’re otherwise attached at the hip? The cold.

What is the one person you go to for anything and everything, especially dealing with the cold? A certain ragged boy with a wolfish smile that he knows is to be found only behind the portrait of an increasingly annoying woman.

“Password?” The Fat Lady asked, quirking a brow ridiculously high as she regards Regulus with a mutual disgust.

“Catulus leonis.” Regulus does not bother holding back the eyeroll at the ridiculous passphrase.

She looks at him a moment or five longer than she needs, almost as if considering not letting him in despite his answer being perfectly correct, before she finally swings open the door wordlessly.

Regulus mutters a harsh thank you, Pureblood upbringing having knocked some politeness into him he is just not able to forego, no matter how severe his beef – as Sirius says – with the woman is.

When he finally approaches the offending dorm, the door opens fast enough to knock some wind across his face, and he is met with a set of black curls and a superfluous frown that both match his own.

“Regulus. Thank Merlin.”

“Good to see you too, Siri. How'd you know it was me?”

"Recognised your footsteps. Now, c'mon."

Regulus pushes in past his brother and his eyes immediately find Remus Lupin’s bed. To the unaware, it would just look like the scrawny boy was innocently laying on his bed, head propped against a mountain of pillows and reading another one of his paperbacks.

However, Regulus knew better and could see the perfect girlfriend-shaped lump underneath Remus’ jumper, shielded by his arms as he held his book over his stomach.

Or, at least shaped like this rather specific form of his girlfriend.

“Hello, amour, I’ve been looking for you.” Regulus’ voice is addressed to the bump on Remus’ chest, but he looks up at him with a quirked brow and a smug smile tugging on the corner of his lips.

“Didn’t know we were on a pet name-basis, Reg. Good to know.”

“Absolutely not.” Sirius and Regulus chorus at the exact same time, and Regulus fights back the wince at how painfully similar they are in this moment.

“Reggie,” Sirius finally whines. “Your girlfriend’s been stealing my boyfriend for the past two hours. Do something!”

Despite having a very similar sentiment settled in his own chest, Regulus gives his brother a pull yourself together look as he comes up to stand beside him, near the occupied bed. “I’m fairly certain your boyfriend has stolen my girlfriend equally as much,” he tuts.

“Whatever, just do something.” Sirius waves his hand towards Remus’ still very relaxed state with something a bit too close to a pout forming on his face.

“There’s no need to be jealous, Pads, the poor girl’s just cold,” Remus chides, with a teasing glint in his eye that clearly shows he knows his boyfriend is being dramatic for the bit and not actually upset. "Gotta help 'er out."

“‘M not jealous. I’m needy.” Sirius’ deadpan stare is not affected by Remus’ laughter nor Regulus’ barely-contained snort.

“Glad you admit it,” Regulus says slyly, patting Sirius on his shoulder twice, who immediately shrugs his hand off with a scowl.

“Like you’re any better, you slithered all the way up from the snake pit to fetch her. At least I’m open about it.”

Before Regulus has the chance to retort, Remus puts his book down in his lap and reaches out a hand for Sirius, which he immediately takes. “I told you you could come lay in the bed with us, love,” Remus murmurs and swipes his thumb over the back of Sirius’ hand.

If he did not feel the same way, Regulus would have given Sirius hell for how he seemed to absolutely soften in the sunlight of his boy. “Yeah, I know, Moons, I’m just being theatrical.”

Remus laughs once more, and this time his chest rumbling results in a distinct prrrt! coming from the inside of his jumper. Up through the collar, cheek smashed against Remus’, comes the tentative head of beautiful grey-and-white fur and slow-blinking yellow eyes, still riddled with sleep.

“Good morning, amour,” Regulus coos, ignoring Sirius’ snort as he drops down to squat beside Remus’ bed so his face is lined up with yours.

You pur, stretching beneath the fabric, a single paw escaping beside your head through the collar as you roll over onto your back. Your eyes remained trained on Regulus, and though he knows cats can’t actually smile, he swears you were smiling at him.

“Sorry to wake you, princess,” Sirius drawls as he looks down at you from where he is leaning on the bedpost beside Remus. “But have you seeped up enough warmth for me to get my boyfriend back yet?”

You make a faux hissing sound before ducking your head down, so it’s just barely hidden by the collar.

Remus laughs heartily, setting his book completely away this time so his hand can come up to rest on your cat-form, petting you through his jumper. “It’s alright kitten, take your time.”

The exposed paw lightly hits Remus’ cheek in retaliation, and this time it is Sirius and Regulus’ turn to laugh at his expense. “Ow! I share my warmth with you and this is what I get in return?”

From the movement beneath the fabric, Regulus assumes you’re nuzzling your head against his chest in apology.

“Amour, I brought your favourite jumper of mine and promise to make you so much hot cocoa if I can steal you back. We can be in your dorm room instead of mine, it’s warmer in there, right?” A smile remains consistent on Regulus’ face as he talks to you.

Sirius pats him on the back, murmuring something about you’re so whipped that he doesn’t bother to pay attention to.

More movement beneath the fabric, and then suddenly your ears are poking out of the neckline again – because why would you make it easy for yourself and use the big exit, when you can squeeze your way through a tight opening? You’re a cat after all.

Remus seems to be thinking the same as he laughs while you attempt to climb out beside his head, soft fur brushing against his skin and making up for the occasional claw you use for traction.

Regulus attempts to bite back the coos as he sees more and more of you, recognising your movements as sluggish with sleep, no doubt coaxed into it by finally being comfortable.

“Thanks for today, see you again tomorrow, same time?” Remus teases, head turned towards you as you headbutt him lovingly, finally fully escaped from his jumper and standing on his shoulder. He nuzzles you back and scratches your head in goodbye.

Another prrrt! escapes you in greeting as you saunter your way across Remus and plop onto the small strip of mattress on his side where Regulus’ hands are open and ready to receive you.

“Hi, sweetie,” he whispers as you allow him to scoop you up into his arms while he’s still squatting beside the bed. He holds you like an infant, tight to his body and securely supported. You immediately begin to purr loudly, nuzzling your head even further into his neck and shoulder.

Regulus does not bother to hold back the slight giggle as your caresses tickle him.

“Good gods, are you two sappy,” Sirius groans, but when Regulus looks up, there is a wide grin on his face. A slightly teasing one admittedly, but a grin nonetheless.

Then, Regulus recognises where Sirius is grinning at him from – properly cuddled up besides Remus on the opposite side of the bed, arms beneath his jumper, soaking up the leftover warmth from you.

“Wait– how did you get there so fast?” Regulus’ voice is almost incredulous, stopping his greeting of you – earning him a harrumphing meow – to narrow his eyes at his brother. “I didn’t even notice you move from beside me.”

“What can I say; I am a dedicated man.” Sirius nuzzles into Remus’ cheek, not much unlike how you were mere seconds ago, albeit his involved a tad many more kisses.

“You’re weird, that’s what you are,” Regulus laughs as he stands up with you in his arms.

You turn around to look up at him with those big, slitted eyes of yours. When you extend your neck further towards his face, Regulus lifts you higher so you can give him the cat-kisses you so evidently wanted, his lips curling at your touch.

Sirius lifts a brow at the two of you. “Yeah. I’m the weird one.”

Regulus scoffs at him, but when you continue to caress your furry cheeks against his lips and chin, it is difficult for any menace to remain serious.

“Thank you for your deviant supernatural warmth keeping my girlfriend alive, Lupin, but I’d like to steal her away from you now.”

“By all means, Black, you’ve already stolen her from me once,” Remus harrumphs, pretending to be some scorned faux older brother but his eyes betray his facade; he is happy for you.

Regulus chooses to ignore it nonetheless.

“Brother.” He nods at Sirius. “Soon to be brother-in-law.” He nods at Remus. “We bid you goodnight.”

“Try not to undo all of Moony’s hard work by freezing her right back up with your freakishly cold feet!” Sirius calls after him as he heads towards the door. He then promptly gives out a soft yelp that indicates Remus corrected him in some physical way.

“Goodnight love, goodnight Reg,” Remus calls instead.

“Yeah, bye, doll!” Sirius adds, whispering more to himself, “he’s mine again now.”

You give out a tired meow that is so cute it makes Regulus’ heart clench with endearment. You cuddle properly up into the crook of his neck as he carries you out, softly closing the door behind him with a smile.

He shifts you in his grip so he can look down at you more carefully. “You are so unbelievably predictable. And even cuter than that again, which is saying something,” he murmurs to you and you respond with quiet meows.

He looks at you curiously. “Are you going to remain in cat form the whole night?”

Your tail twitches teasingly, your only other response is a quiet prrt as you close your eyes into the warmth of his neck again. He laughs, covering your feline body with his hands as he carries you, to keep the warmth in.

He sneaks into your dorm – thankfully often unoccupied as Marlene is with Dorcas and Mary is with Pandora – and settles you down onto your plush mattress and pillows. He undresses and gets ready for bed, while you’re resting your head on the pillow, observing him, but just before getting under the covers, he slips on his jumper.

“It’s so soft I could cry, Reggie,” you had whispered to him when you cuddled up to him when he wore it around you for the first time. “I fear I can never let you go now.”

Regulus slides under the blankets with a knowing smile, opening the hem, allowing you to creep under, chest against chest with your head poking out of the collar to rest at the bottom of his neck.

“I'm no werewolf, but I’ll keep you warm with my love, amour,” he whispered to you in the dark, one hand combing through your fur protectively underneath his own jumper.

He swears, he could hear the little cat snort against his skin.

Regulus fell desperately deeper in love.

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my-castles-crumbling · 23 days ago

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Lovely

jegulus - based on an anon's request for actor!reg - word count: 372

“There! Right there!” Harry yelled from James’s arms, pointing viciously to a man who sat quietly at a table, reading a book. “That’s him, Da!”

The man looked up, and James’s stomach dropped. Fuck, Harry was right. Prepared to bolt out of the small cafe with what was left of his dignity, James swallowed the lump in his throat and took a step backward, but the man gave Harry a little grin and a wave, indicating that they could come forward.

Oh shit, how was James supposed to walk normally?

Stumbling, he went to the table and put Harry down on the floor, still trying to wrap his brain around what he was seeing.

“You’re Regulus Black!” Harry said loudly to the man, beaming.

“I am,” Regulus replied seriously, a small smile on his face. “Are you my biggest fan?”

And oh. James’s heart melted to the floor. Not only was Regulus Black an amazing actor, and attractive besides, but he was good with kids?

Harry, of course, promptly popped the giddy bubble growing in James’s chest by saying, “No, that’s my Da! He’s seen all your movies and thinks you’re hot!”

James gasped, completely flustered, and tried to remember how to form words. “Harry! No, I–” he turned to Regulus. “I’ve seen–I, yes.. And of course, I mean–you’re very–” he choked on his own spit, trying to come up with an appropriate-yet-true word to describe Regulus, “very lovely, so–so…fuck. But I’m not–I don’t–” God, he wanted to melt into the floor.

Regulus though, just smirked as James dug himself into a deeper and deeper hole. A ding from Regulus phone caused him to look to the screen (giving James ample time to smack himself in the head) before scrawling something onto a piece of paper and kneeling down to Harry’s level.

“Harry, right?” he asked, causing the four-year-old to nod importantly. “When your Da calms down, can you give him this? It’s my number. Tell him I think he’s hot, too, and maybe we can talk sometime after he remembers how to speak properly.”

Harry laughed as James gaped like a fish. “Okay, Mister Regulus!”

And with that, Regulus shook Harry’s hand, sent a wink to James, and left the cafe.

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colouredbyd · 2 months ago

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'Til All That's Left Is Glorious Bone—

brother!sirius black x fem!sister!reader x brother!regulus black , james potter x reader

synopsis: being a Black means braiding silence into everything soft — childhood, love, even the ache in your bones. Sirius runs from it, Regulus folds beneath it, but you carry it still, tight at the nape of your neck. and when James offers his hands, his heart, you flinch — not because you don’t want it, but because you were never taught how to take what doesn’t hurt.

cw: Chronic illness, suicidal ideation, suicide attempt, self-isolation, emotional breakdowns, grief, physical pain, mental deterioration, identity loss, emotional neglect, unrequited love, hospital scenes, overdose, allusions to death, trauma responses, unfiltered intrusive thoughts, self-hatred, references to childhood neglect, emotional repression. read with caution!!!!

w/c: 9.8k

based on: this request!!

a/n: this turned out much longer than i thought. very very very much inspired by the song Wiseman by Frank Ocean

part two part three dalia analyses of this!! masterlist

The hospital wing smells like damp stone and boiled nettle, and you have come to know its scent the way some children know their lullabies.

You’ve spent more of your life in this narrow bed than you have in classrooms, in common rooms, on sunlit grounds.

Time moves differently here—slower, heavier—as though the hours have forgotten how to pass. The light through the tall window is always cold, a winter that presses its face to the glass but never steps inside. The sheets are tucked too tightly, the kind of tightness that makes it hard to breathe.

You don’t remember when it started, the pain behind your ribs, the illness that stole your breath and strength in careful, measured doses. It didn’t come all at once. It crept in slowly, like ivy through a cracked wall, quiet and persistent.

You grew with it, around it, until it became part of you—a silent companion curled inside your chest. Some days it flares like a wildfire, other days it lingers like smoke, but it’s always there. You’ve learned to live beneath it. Learned how to stay still so it doesn’t notice you. Learned how to hold your own hand when no one else does.

Other students come and go with the ease of tide pools—quick stays for broken arms, for potions gone wrong, for fevers that leave as fast as they arrive. They arrive with fuss and laughter, and they leave just as quickly. But you? You stay.

You are a fixture here, like the spare cots and rusting potion trays, like the chipped basin and the curtain hooks. Madam Pomfrey no longer asks what hurts. She knows by now that the answer is everything, and also nothing she can fix.

Your childhood was a careful thing, sharp at the edges, ruled more by silence than softness. You were born into a house where expectation walked the halls louder than any footsteps. Obedience was mistaken for love, and love was always conditional.

You were the youngest, but not alone. You came into the world with another heartbeat beside your own, a twin—your mirror, your shadow, your tether. And above you, Sirius. Older, brighter, always just out of reach.

He was too loud, too fast, too full of fire. He tore through rooms like a comet, leaving heat and chaos in his wake. You admired him the way you might admire the storm outside the window—distant, thrilling, a little bit dangerous.

Your twin was the opposite. He was stillness, softness, observation. He watched the world carefully, his words chosen like rare coins he refused to spend unless he must. He was always listening. Always understanding more than he said. And between the two of them, you—caught in the current, too much and not enough, the daughter who was supposed to shine but learned instead how to fold herself small.

You were expected to be precise. Polished. Perfect. The daughter of Walburga Black was not allowed to unravel.

Your hair was never your own. Your mother braided it herself, every morning, every ceremony, every photograph. The braid was too tight—always too tight—and it made your scalp sting and your neck ache, but you never flinched. You sat still while her fingers pulled and wove and twisted, like she was binding you into a shape more acceptable. Your fingers trembled in your lap, pressed together like a prayer you knew would not be answered.

She said the braid meant order. Discipline. Dignity. But it felt like a chain. A silent way of saying: this is what you are meant to be. Tidy. Controlled. Pretty in the right ways. Never wild.

You wore that braid like a chain for years. A beautiful little cage. You wondered if anyone could see past it—if anyone ever looked hard enough to see how much of you was trying not to scream.

Your mother expected perfection. You were her daughter, after all. Hair always braided, posture always straight, lips always closed unless spoken to. She braided it herself most days — too tight, too harsh — and you would sit still while your scalp screamed and your fingers trembled in your lap. At nine years old, silence had already been braided into your spine.

The stool beneath you was stiff and velvet-lined, a throne made for suffering. In the mirror’s reflection, your posture held like porcelain. Every inch of you was composed, but only just — knuckles pale from tension, lips pressed in defiance.

Behind you, your mother worked her fingers into your scalp with the practiced cruelty of a woman who believed beauty came from pain. Her voice matched the rhythm of her hands, each word tightening the braid, each tug a sermon.

“A daughter of this house doesn’t squirm,” she murmured, her grip unrelenting. “She doesn’t cry. She doesn’t disgrace herself over something as small as a hairstyle.”

The parting comb scraped harshly against your scalp, drawing a wince you were too proud to voice. Still, the sting prickled behind your eyes, a warning. When the sharp tug at your temple became unbearable, a breathy sob slipped out despite all effort to swallow it.

She froze.

Then, softly — far too softly — “What was that?”

Silence trembled between you.

“I said,” her voice clipped now, “what was that sound?”

A hand twisted at the nape of your neck, anchoring you like a hook. The braid tightened, harder now, punishment laced into every motion.

“Noble girls do not weep like peasants,” she snapped. “From now on, your hair stays up or braided. No more running wild. No more playing outside with your brothers. A lady must always be presentable — do you understand me?”

A nod. Barely a motion, but enough to release her grip.

She tied off the braid with a silver ribbon and smoothed a hand down your shoulder. In the mirror, your reflection stared back — hollowed eyes, flushed cheeks, a child sculpted into something smaller than herself. Her voice followed you as you stood.

“You’ll be grateful for this one day.”

Outside the room, Regulus stood waiting. He looked down at your braid and didn’t say a word. His tie was loose, lopsided in that way he never could fix.

Your fingers moved on instinct, straightening it carefully, eyes never meeting his. He let you. The silence between twins had its own language — and right now, it said enough.

The hallway stretched long and heavy, lined with portraits that watched like judges. You didn’t stop walking. The destination had always been the same.

Sirius’s door creaked as it opened. He was lying on the bed, book propped open across his chest, thumb tapping absently against the page.

His hair was a little too long, his shirt untucked. Eleven years old and already a constellation too bright for the house that tried to dim him.

He looked up — and the second his gaze met yours, his expression softened.

“Oh, pretty girl,” he breathed, sitting up straight. “Come here.”

You moved without thinking. As soon as the door closed behind you, the first tears broke free. Quiet, controlled — not sobs, not yet. Just the kind of weeping that clung to your throat and curled your shoulders inward.

“She did it again?” His voice was low, careful. “Too tight, yeah?”

A nod. You climbed onto the bed beside him, pressing your face into his sleeve.

“I tried not to cry,” the words came out muffled. “I really tried.”

Sirius tucked a lock of hair behind your ear, then gently reached for the braid.

“‘Course you did. You're the bravest girl I know.”

He began to undo it — not rushed, not rough. His fingers worked slowly, reverently, like unthreading something sacred. With each loosened twist, the tension in your body unwound too, your breath coming easier, softer.

“She says I’m not allowed to run anymore,” you whispered. “Says I have to look like a proper lady.”

“Well,” Sirius said, a hint of a smile in his voice, “I think she’s full of it.”

You let out a tiny, hiccupping laugh.

“There she is.” He brushed his fingers lightly over your scalp. “That’s better.”

The braid came undone, strand by strand, until your hair pooled over your shoulders — a curtain of softness, no longer a cage. Sirius shifted, lying back against the pillows, and opened his arms wide.

“Come here. Sleep it off. We’ll steal some scones from the kitchen tomorrow and pretend we’re pirates.”

You tucked yourself beneath his arm, the scent of parchment and peppermint wrapping around you like a secret. In the soft hush of the room, it was easy to pretend the house didn’t exist beyond these four walls.

By morning, you woke to find him sitting cross-legged on the floor, fingers gently working through your hair again. But this time, the braid was loose. Gentle. It didn’t pull. It didn’t sting.

“There,” he said, tying it off with a ribbon he pulled from his own shirt. “Just so it doesn’t get in your eyes when we go looking for treasure.”

And you smiled, because in that moment, you believed him.

The memory fades like breath on glass, slipping away into the sterile hush of the hospital wing.

You come back slowly. First to the faint scent of antiseptic and lavender balm. Then to the stiffness in your limbs, the press of cotton sheets against your legs, the dim ache nestled just beneath your ribs like something familiar.

“Easy now,” comes a voice, gentle and no-nonsense all at once.

Madam Pomfrey stands over you with her hands already at work, adjusting the blankets, feeling for fever along your temple. Her expression is set in that signature look — concern wrapped in mild exasperation, the kind of care she offers not with softness but with steady hands.

“You’ve been out for nearly a day,” she says, eyes scanning your face as if checking for signs of rebellion. “Stubborn girl. I told you to come in the moment you felt lightheaded.”

You blink at the ceiling. “Didn’t want to miss class.”

She snorts softly. “You think I haven’t heard that one before? You students would rather collapse in the corridors than admit your bodies are mortal.”

Her hands are cool against your wrist as she checks your pulse. You glance down at the thin bandage near your elbow — the usual spot, now tender. You don’t ask how long the spell took to stabilize you this time. You don’t need to.

She sighs and straightens. “Your fever’s broken, but you’ll stay here today. No arguments. I want fluids, rest, and absolutely no dramatic exits.”

You nod. “Thank you.”

Her gaze softens, just a little. “You don’t always have to carry it alone, dear.”

Before you can answer, the curtain snaps open with a flourish — a burst of too much energy, too much brightness.

“There you are!”

James Potter.

“Sweetheart,” James breathes, as if you’ve just risen from the dead. “My poor, wounded love.”

You barely lift your head before groaning. “Merlin’s teeth. I’m hallucinating.”

“Don’t be cruel. I came all this way.”

He plops into the chair beside you without invitation, sprawled in that casual way that only someone like James Potter could manage — legs too long, posture too confident, as if the universe has never once told him no.

His tie is missing entirely. His sleeves are rolled up in that infuriating way that shows off ink stains and forearms he doesn’t deserve to know are attractive.

You squint at him. “You didn’t come from the warfront, Potter. You came from Transfiguration.”

“And still,” he says dramatically, “the journey was perilous. I had to fight off three Hufflepuffs who claimed they had dibs on the last chocolate pudding. I bled for you.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m in love,” he counters, placing a hand over his chest like he might actually burst into song. “With a girl who is rude and ungrateful and far too pretty when she’s annoyed.”

“Then un-love me,” you mutter. “For your own good.”

“Can’t. Tragic, really.”

You shoot him a glare. He beams back like you’re the sunrise and he’s been waiting all night to see you again.

“I should hex you.”

“But you won’t.” He winks. “Because deep, deep down, under that armor made of sarcasm and resentment, you adore me.”

“I deeply, deeply don’t.”

“And yet,” he leans in, “you haven’t told me to leave.”

You stare at him. He stares right back.

Finally, you sigh. “Potter?”

“Yes, my heart?”

“If you don’t shut up, I will scream.”

He laughs, bright and boyish and utterly maddening. “Scream all you want, darling. Just don’t stop looking at me like that.”

James doesn’t leave. Of course he doesn’t. He lounges like he was born to irritate you — the embodiment of Gryffindor persistence, or maybe just pure male audacity.

He props his elbow on the bedside table and peers at you like you're the eighth wonder of the world. Or an exhibit in a very dramatic museum: Girl, Mildly Injured, Attempting Peace.

“You know,” he says, casually adjusting his collar, “if you’d let me walk you to class yesterday, none of this would’ve happened. Fate doesn’t like it when you reject me. Tries to punish you.”

“Fate had nothing to do with it,” you snap. “I tripped over Black’s ego.”

He blinks, then grins. “Which one?”

You throw your head back against the pillow. “Get. Out.”

“But you look so lonely,” he pouts. “All this sterile lighting and medicinal smell — what you need is warmth. Charm. Emotional support.”

“What I need is silence,” you mutter. “Preferably wrapped in an Invisibility Cloak with your name on it.”

James leans closer. “But then you’d miss me.”

You sit up slightly, brows knitting. “Potter. For the last time — I am not in love with you!”

He looks wounded. “Yet.”

You glare. “Never.”

“Harsh,” he breathes, placing a hand over his heart. “Do you say that to all the boys who deliver their soul on a silver platter for your approval, or am I just special?”

“Neither. You’re just insufferable.”

“And you,” he says, looking at you like he’s just uncovered some hidden constellation, “are poetry with teeth.”

You blink. “Are you trying to flirt with me or describe a very weird animal?”

“Both, probably.”

There’s a silence then — or what should be a silence. It’s really more of a stretched pause, heavy with the weight of all the things you haven’t said and refuse to say. You busy yourself with fluffing the pillow behind you, more aggressive than necessary.

James watches, unbothered, as if every second in your company is a privilege. He does that. Looks at you like you’re more than you know what to do with. Like if he stared hard enough, he could untangle the knots in your spine and the ones you keep hidden in your heart, too.

It pisses you off.

“Why are you like this?” you ask suddenly, exasperated.

James looks genuinely confused. “Like what?”

“Like a golden retriever who’s been hexed into a boy.”

He gasps. “You think I’m loyal and adorable?”

“I think you’re loud and impossible to get rid of.”

“That’s practically a compliment coming from you.”

You huff, crossing your arms. “Did you break into the hospital wing just to bother me?”

“No,” he says, stretching. “I also came for the adrenaline rush. Madam Pomfrey tried to hex me.”

“She should’ve aimed higher.”

“She said the same thing.” He tilts his head, eyes softening a little. “Seriously though. You okay?”

You glance away.

It’s a simple question. An honest one. And it cracks something in you, just for a second — a flash of how tired you really are, how the weight in your chest hasn’t gone away since the moment you woke up here. But you’re not about to tell him that.

“I was fine,” you say flatly, “until you arrived.”

James laughs, not buying a word of it. And you hate him a little, for seeing through your armor so easily. For still showing up anyway.

“Well,” he says, standing up and slinging his bag over his shoulder, “I’ll go. But only because I know you’ll miss me more that way.”

“In your dreams, Potter.”

“You’re always in mine.”

He tosses you a wink before heading for the door — whistling as he walks, bright and ridiculous and inescapable.

You throw the other pillow at his back.

You miss.And you hate that you're smiling.

The door clicks shut behind him, and silence rushes in too fast. It settles over you like dust, soft but suffocating.

You just sit there, perched on the edge of the infirmary cot, hands still curled in the blanket, knuckles pale. For a moment, there’s nothing. Just the quiet hum of the ward and the slow, measured ache blooming low in your back.

Then, you hear it.

James's laughter, bright and stupid and golden, spilling through the corridor like it doesn’t know how to stop. It chases itself down the stone hallway, reckless and echoing, as if it has never once had to apologize for being loud.

He laughs like he’s never been told not to. Like the world is still something worth laughing in.

And then—his voice.

Sirius.

You’d recognize it anywhere. Cooler than James’s, more precise, threaded through with a sort of effortless arrogance he doesn't have to earn. Sirius doesn’t speak to be heard. He speaks because the world always listens. He laughs like the sun doesn't blind him anymore. Like he’s been here before, and already survived it.

Their voices blur together, warm and sharp and unbearably distant. A private world outside the thin curtain, a place you’re never fully let into, even when you're part of it.

You swallow hard. The taste of metal still lingers.

Madam Pomfrey told you to rest. Strict orders, she said. Full bedrest. You nodded then. Promised. But your body’s never listened to promises, and your mind is already slipping away from the cot, already pressing you forward with a kind of restless urgency.

The ache in your ribs flares when you move, but you ignore it. You swing your legs over the side and reach for your shoes with slow, shaking hands. Each movement tugs at the bruises hidden beneath your skin, the tender places no one else can see. You wince. You keep going.

It isn’t the pain that drives you. It’s something worse. Something quieter. That feeling, deep in your chest, like a hand gripping your lungs too tightly. Like something in you has started to rot from the inside out. You don’t want to hear them laughing. You don’t want to be the one in the bed anymore, weak and broken and watched over like a child.

You want to run until your lungs scream. You want to scream until your throat splits.

Instead, you walk.

The corridor outside is too bright. You blink against it, but don’t slow your pace. Your limbs feel like they’re moving through water, but you don’t stop. The voices are gone now, swallowed by stone and space, but they echo anyway. You hear the ghosts of their laughter in every footstep.

And it stings, because Sirius never laughed like that with you anymore. Not since you learned how to flinch without being touched. Not since the world cracked open and swallowed the parts of you that still believed he would choose you first.

You keep walking. Not because you know where you're going.

Only because you know you can't stay.

You don’t go far. You don’t have the strength.

Instead, you slip into the back corner of the library, the one with the high windows and the dust-lined shelves no one bothers to reach for anymore. It’s always too quiet there, always a little too cold — and that suits you just fine. You drop your bag and sit without grace, shoulders curling inward like you’re trying to take up less space in the world.

Your books are open, but your eyes keep blurring the words. The light from the window stripes your page in gold, but your fingers tremble as you hold the quill.

There’s a pain blooming slow beneath your ribcage now, deeper than before, as if something inside you is tugging out of place. You press your palm to your side, hoping the pressure will settle it, but all it does is remind you that it’s real.

It gets worse the longer you sit. The burning in your spine, the throb in your joints. Your whole body pulses like a bruise someone won’t stop pressing. You grit your teeth and write anyway, like if you just get through one more page, one more hour, one more breath—you’ll be okay.

But you’re not. Not really. And every breath tastes a little more like defeat.

The days fold over themselves like tired parchment.

You wake. You ache. You drift from bed to class to hospital wing to silence. You ignore James when he finds you in the corridor and calls you sunshine with a grin too wide for the way your heart is breaking.

You tell him off with a glare you don’t mean. He calls you cruel and laughs anyway. You walk away before he can see the way your hands are shaking.

The world goes on.

And then one afternoon, when the sun slips low and casts everything in amber, you see him.

Regulus.

Your twin. Your mirror, once.

He’s seated beneath the black lake window, where the light is darker and more still. His robes are sharp and his posture straighter than you remember.

There’s a boy beside him — fair hair, eyes too bright. You’ve seen him before. Barty Crouch Jr. A Slytherin, like Regulus. Arrogant. Sharp-tongued. Always smiling like he knows something you don’t.

They’re laughing. Low and conspiratorial. Something shared between them that you’ll never be invited into.

And Regulus is smiling, real and rare and soft in the way you used to think only you could draw from him. His face is unguarded. His shoulders are relaxed. He looks... content. Not loud like James, not wild like Sirius. But happy. In that quiet, unreachable way.

It guts you.

Because both your brothers have found something. Sirius, with the way he flings himself into everything—light, reckless, loved. And Regulus, with his quiet victories and his perfect tie and his smiles saved for someone else. They’ve carved out slivers of peace in this cold castle, let someone in enough to ease the weight they both carry.

And you—you can’t even let James brush your sleeve without recoiling.

You can’t even let yourself believe someone might stay.

You sit there, tangled in your own silence, staring at a boy who you used to fix his tie after your mother left the room, because he never could quite center it himself.

And now—he doesn’t need you.

Now, he looks like the last untouched part of what your family once was. The only grace left.

He sits with his back straight, his collar crisp, his shoes polished to a soft gleam that catches even in the low light. His tie is knotted with precision. His hair, always tidy, always parted just right, never unruly the way yours has always been.

Everything about him is exact — not stiff, but composed. He is elegance without effort, and you don’t know whether to feel proud or bitter, watching him hold himself together like the portrait of what you were both meant to be.

He is the son your mother wanted, the child she could show off. He never had to be told twice to stand straight or speak softer or smile with his mouth closed. Where you burned, he silenced the flame. Where you ran wild with leaves tangled in your curls, he walked beside her, polished and obedient and clean.

If she saw you now — slouched, hair unbound and wild, dirt smudged along your hem — she would scream.

First, for your hair. Always your hair. too messy, too alive.

Second, for sitting on the ground like some gutter child, as if you weren’t born from the ancient bloodline she tattooed onto your skin with every rule she taught you to fear.

And third — oh, third, for the thing she wouldn’t name. For the thing she’d feel in her bones before she saw it. Something’s wrong with you. Has always been wrong with you. Even when you’re still, you’re too much.

There’s no winning in a house like that.

But Regulus — Regulus still wins. Somehow. He balances the weight she gave him and never once lets it show on his face. And maybe it should make you feel less alone, seeing him there. Maybe it should comfort you, to know one of you managed to survive the storm with their softness intact.

You blink hard, but the sting in your eyes doesn’t go away.

Because Regulus sits like he belongs.

The light in the library has thinned to bruised blue and rusted gold. Outside, the sun has collapsed behind the tree line, dragging the warmth with it. Shadows stretch long and quiet across the stone, draped between the shelves like forgotten coats.

Your hand closes around the edge of the desk. Wood under skin. You push yourself up, gently, carefully, like you’ve been taught to do. Your body protests with a dull, familiar ache — hips locking, spine stiff. You’ve sat too long. That’s all, you tell yourself. You always do.

But then it comes.

A pull, not sharp — not at first. It begins low, behind the ribs, like a wire drawn tight through your center. It pulses once. And then again. And then all at once.

The pain does not scream. It settles.

It climbs into your body like it has lived there before — like it knows you. It sinks its teeth deep into the marrow, not the muscles, not the skin. The pain lives in your bones. It nestles into the hollow of your hips, winds around your spine, hammers deep into your shins. Not a wound. Not an injury. Something older. Hungrier.

You stagger, palm flying to the wall to catch yourself. Stone greets your skin, cold and indifferent. You can’t tell if your breath is leaving you too fast or not coming at all. It feels like both. Your ribs refuse to expand. Your lungs ache. Your throat is tight, raw, thick with air that won’t go down.

Still, it’s the bones that scream the loudest.

They carry it. Not just the pain, but the weight of it. Like your skeleton has begun to collapse inward — folding under a pressure no one else can see. Your joints feel carved from glass. Every movement, even a tremble, sends flares of heat spiraling down your limbs. You press a hand to your chest, to your side, to your shoulder — seeking the source — but there’s nothing on the surface. Nothing bleeding. Nothing broken.

And still, you are breaking.

Your ears ring. Not a pitch, but a pressure — like the air itself is narrowing. Like the world is folding in. You blink, and the shelves blur, the light bends, the corners of your vision curl inward like paper catching flame. You think, I should sit down.

But it’s already too late.

Your knees buckle. There’s that terrible moment — the heartbeat of weightlessness — before the fall. Before the floor claims you. Your shoulder catches the edge of a shelf. Books crash down around you in protest. You feel the noise in your ribs, but not in your ears. Everything else is too loud — your body, your body, your body.

And then you’re on the floor.

The stone beneath you is merciless. It doesn’t take the pain. It holds it. Reflects it. You press your cheek to it, eyes wide and wet and burning, and feel the tremors racing through your legs. Your hands are claws. Your spine is fire. Your ribs rattle in their cage like something dying to escape.

It’s not just pain. It’s possession.

Your bones do not feel like yours. They are occupied. Inhabited by something brutal and nameless. You are no longer a girl on a floor. You are a vessel for suffering, hollowed and used.

White fogs the edges of your sight.

And then — darkness, cool and absolute.

The only thing you know as it takes you is this: the pain does not leave with you. It goes where you go. It follows you into the dark. It belongs to you.

Like your bones always have.

Waking feels like sinking—an uneven descent through layers of fog and silence that settle deep in your bones before the world sharpens into focus.

The scent of disinfectant stings your nostrils like a cold warning. Beneath your fingertips, the hospital sheets whisper against your skin, thin and taut, a reminder that you are here—pinned, fragile, contained. The narrow bed presses into your back, a quiet cage, and pale light spills weakly through the infirmary windows, too muted to warm you. Somewhere far away, a curtain flutters, its soft murmur a ghostly breath you can’t quite reach.

You’re not ready to open your eyes—not yet.

Because the silence is broken by a voice, raw and electric, sparking through the stillness like a flame licking dry wood.

It’s James.

But this James isn’t the one you know. The James who calls you “sunshine” just to hear you argue back, or the one who struts beside you in the hallways with that infuriating grin, as if the world bends beneath his feet. No. This voice is cracked and frayed, unraveling with worry and something heavier — the weight of helplessness.

“You should’ve sent word sooner,” he says, and every syllable feels like a shard caught in his throat.

“She fainted,” he repeats, as if saying it out loud might make it less real. “In the bloody library. She collapsed. Do you understand what that means?”

The sound of footsteps shuffles nearby, followed by Madam Pomfrey’s steady voice, calm but firm, trying to thread together the broken edges of panic.

“She’s resting now. Safe. That’s what matters.”

James laughs, but it’s not a laugh. It’s a brittle sound, half breath, half crack.

“Safe? You call this safe? She was lying there—cold—and I thought—” His voice breaks, a jagged exhale caught between frustration and fear.

“She doesn’t say anything, you know. Never says a damn thing. Always brushing me off, like I’m just some idiot who’s in the way. But I see it. I see it. The way she winces when she stands too fast. And none of you—none of you bloody do anything.”

Your chest tightens like a fist around your heart.

You hadn’t expected this.

This raw, aching desperation beneath his words—the way his concern flickers through the cracks of his usual arrogance and shields. The way he’s caught between anger and helplessness, trying so desperately to fix something that isn’t easily fixed.

You lie still, listening to him, feeling the swell of something close to hope and something just as close to despair.

James Potter — sun-drunk boy, full of fire and foolish heart, standing now like a storm about to break. He paces the edge of your infirmary bed as if motion alone might hold back the tide. He looks unmade, undone: his tie hangs crooked, his hair is more chaos than crown, his sleeves rolled unevenly as if he dressed without thought — or too much of it — only the frantic instinct to get to you.

“I should’ve walked her to the library,” he murmurs, and his voice is smaller now, like a flame flickering at the end of its wick.

Madam Pomfrey, ever the calm in the storm, offers a gentle but resolute reply. “Mr. Potter, she’ll wake soon. She needs rest, not your guilt.”

But guilt has already laid roots in his chest — you can hear it in the way his breath hitches, in the soft exhale that seems to carry the weight of an entire world. His hands press to his face like he’s trying to hold it together, knuckles pale, fingertips trembling slightly at the edges.

You blink. Just once.

The light slices through the shadows behind your eyes like a blade — too sharp, too clean. But you blink again, slowly, eyelashes sticky with sleep.

The ceiling swims into shape above you, white stone carved with faint veins and a hairline crack running like a map across its arch. It feels strange, being awake again. Like stepping through a door and finding the air different on the other side.

You shift your head — careful, slow — not because you’re afraid of waking anyone, but because you know the pain is still there, sleeping under your skin like an old god. Waiting. You feel it stretch along your spine, an ache carved into your marrow. Your body is quieter than before, but not calm. Just… biding time.

He doesn’t notice you yet — too consumed by whatever promise he’s making to himself. You catch only pieces of it: something about making sure you eat next time, and sleep, and sit when your knees go soft. His voice is hoarse, edged with something too raw to name.

And though your throat burns and your bones still hum with the echo of collapse, you find yourself watching him.

Because this boy — foolish, golden, infuriating — is breaking himself open at your bedside, and he doesn’t even know you’re watching.

It’s strange.

This boy who never stops grinning. Who fills every hallway like he’s afraid of silence — like stillness might swallow him whole. Who flirts just to irritate you, calls you cruel with a wink when you roll your eyes at his jokes.

This boy who you’ve shoved away a hundred times with cold stares and tired sarcasm — he’s here.

And he looks like he’s breaking.

Because of you.

You swallow against the dryness in your throat. There’s a weight lodged just beneath your ribs, sharp and unfamiliar, twisting like a question you don’t want to answer.

You never asked him to care. Never asked anyone to look too closely. In fact, you’ve spent so long building walls from half-smiles and quiet lies, you almost believed no one would ever bother to scale them.

But somehow — somewhere along the way — James Potter learned to read you anyway.

Learned to translate silence into worry. To see the way your shoulders fold inward when you think no one’s watching. The way your laugh fades too fast. The way you don’t flinch from pain because you’ve been carrying it for so long it’s become part of you.

And for the first time — it doesn’t feel annoying.

It feels terrifying.

Because if he sees it, really sees it… the frayed edges, the heaviness in your bones, the way you’ve started to drift so far inward it sometimes feels easier not to come back — what then?

What happens when someone finds the truth you’ve hidden even from yourself?

You wonder how long he’s been carrying this fear. How long he’s noticed the signs you’ve worked so hard to bury.

And quietly — achingly — you wonder how long you’ve been hoping no one ever would.

You’ve pushed him away a hundred times. Maybe more. With cold eyes and sharper words, with silence that says stay away. You made yourself invisible. Not because you wanted to be alone—but because you thought it was easier that way. Easier than asking for help. Easier than letting anyone get close enough to see what’s really breaking inside.

Because the truth is: you don’t want to be here much longer.

Not in some dramatic way, not yet.

But the thought is always there, quiet and persistent—like a shadow that never leaves your side. You’ve made plans, small and silent. Things you think about when the ache inside your bones is too heavy to carry. The nights when you lie awake and imagine what it would be like if you simply stopped trying. If you slipped away and no one had to watch you fall apart.

You’ve counted the moments it might take, rehearsed the words you’d leave behind—or maybe decided silence would say enough.

You wondered if anyone would notice. If anyone would come looking.

And yet here is James.

Pacing by your bedside like he’s carrying the weight of your pain on his shoulders. His voice trembles with worry you didn’t invite. Worry you thought you’d hidden too well.

But for now, you lie still, tangled in the ache beneath your skin. Wondering if leaving would hurt more than staying. Wondering if anyone really knows the parts of you that are already gone.

Wondering if you can find the strength to let him in—before it’s too late.

You don't mean to make a sound. You don’t even know that you have, until Madam Pomfrey draws a sudden breath, sharp and startled.

“She’s—James—she’s awake.”

There’s a rustle of movement. A chair scraping. A breath hitching.

And then James is at your side like he’d been waiting his whole life to be called to you.

But none of that matters.

Because you are crying.

Not politely. Not the soft, well-behaved kind they show in portraits. No. You're shaking. Wracked. The sob rises from somewhere too deep to name and breaks in your chest like a wave crashing through glass. Your shoulders curl, but your arms don’t lift. You don't even try to wipe your face. There's no use pretending anymore.

The tears fall hot and endless down your cheeks, soaking into your pillow, your collar, the edge of your sheets. It’s not one thing. It’s everything. It’s the ache in your bones.

The thunder in your chest. The way Regulus smiled at someone else. The way Sirius ran. The way James calls you sunshine like it’s not a lie.

The way you’ve spent your whole life trying to be good and perfect and silent and still ended up wrong.

And the worst part — the cruelest part — is that no one has ever seen you like this. Not really. You were always the composed one. The strong one. The one who shrugged everything off with a tilt of her head and a mouth full of thorns. The one who glared at James when he flirted and scoffed at softness and made everyone believe you didn’t need saving.

But you do. You do.

You just never learned how to ask for it.

And now—now your chest is heaving, and the room is spinning, and you can’t breathe through the noise in your head that says:

What if this never ends? What if I never get better? What if I disappear and no one misses me? What if I’m already gone and they just don’t know it yet?

You hear your name. Once. Twice.

Gentle, then firmer.

James.

You flinch like it’s a wound.

“Hey, hey—” His voice is careful now, as if you’ve become something sacred and fragile. “Hey, look at me. It’s alright. You’re okay. You’re safe.”

But you shake your head violently, because no, you are not safe, not from yourself, not from the sickness that has wrapped its hands around your ribs and pulled and pulled until you forgot what breathing without pain felt like.

Your throat burns. Your fingers curl helplessly into the blanket. You want to tear your skin off just to escape it. You want to go somewhere so far no one can ask you to come back.

Madam Pomfrey stands frozen in place, her eyes wide, her hand half-lifted. She has known you for years and never—not once—has she seen a crack in your porcelain mask.

And now here you are. Crumbling in front of them both.

“Black—please—” James tries again, voice breaking in the middle. “Talk to me. Tell me what’s wrong. Tell me what to do, I’ll do anything, I swear—”

“I can’t,” you gasp, the words torn from you like confession. “I can’t do this anymore. I don’t want to— I don’t—”

You don’t say it. The rest of it. You don’t have to. It’s in your eyes, wide and soaked and terrified. In your hands, trembling like the last leaves of autumn. In the hollow behind your ribs that’s been growing for months.

James sits carefully on the edge of your bed. His eyes are wet. You’ve never seen him cry before.

“You don’t have to do anything,” he whispers. “Not now. Not alone. You don’t have to be strong for anyone anymore.”

You sob harder. Because that’s the thing you never believed. That someone could see your weakness and not run from it. That someone could love you for the parts you try to hide.

James doesn't flinch. He doesn’t joke. He doesn’t call you cruel or cold or impossible to love. He just reaches out with one hand and lays it on yours, feather-light, as if you’re made of smoke.

“I’m here,” he says. “I’m right here.”

A week passes.

It drips by slowly, like honey left too long in the cold — thick and sticky, every hour clinging to the next. The pain in your body doesn't ease. It deepens. It threads itself into your bones like ivy curling around old stone, slow but suffocating.

Some mornings it takes everything just to sit up. Some nights you lie awake listening to your heartbeat stutter behind your ribs, wondering if it will give out before you do.

James has not left you.

Not once, not really. He’s still insufferable — that much hasn’t changed — but it’s quieter now.

The jokes catch in his throat more often than they land. He hovers too long in doorways. He watches you like he’s memorizing the way you breathe. And his eyes — the ones that used to be full of flirt and fire and mischief — are wide and rimmed in worry.

It makes you furious.

Because you don’t want his pity. You don’t want anyone’s pity. You don’t want to be a burden strapped to someone else’s shoulder. You don’t want to see that shift in his face — the softening, the sadness, the silent fear that you might vanish right in front of him.

It’s worse than pain. It’s exposure.

Still, he meets you after class every day, waiting by the corridor with two cups of tea, like it’s some unspoken ritual. He never says you look tired, but he walks slower. He never asks if you’re in pain, but his hand always twitches like he wants to reach out and steady you.

Except today.

Today, he isn’t there.

And you know why before you even ask.

Because today is Sirius’s birthday.

You try not to be bitter. You try to let it go, to let him have this — his brother, his celebration, his joy. But bitterness has a way of curling around grief like smoke. It stings just the same.

You walk alone to the Great Hall, half-hoping, half-dreading, and then you see them.

All of them.

There at the Gryffindor table, the loudest cluster in the room, bursting with laughter and light like a constellation too bright to look at directly. Sirius sits in the center, crown of charmed glitter and floating stars hovering just above his head. He’s grinning — wide and wild and untouched by the quiet rot eating through your days.

Regulus used to crown him, once.

You remember it like it happened this morning — the three of you, tangled in sun-drenched grass, scraps of daisies in your hair, Sirius demanding to be called “King of the Forest,” Regulus rolling his eyes and obliging anyway, and you balancing a crooked wooden crown on his head like he was the only boy who ever mattered.

You loved him then. You love him now.

But everything has changed.

Now Sirius is surrounded by friends and light and cake that glitters. Regulus is far away, still sharp, still polished, still untouchable. And you — you pass by like a ghost with a too-slow gait and a storm in your chest, unnoticed.

No one looks up.

Not even James.

Not even him.

You keep walking.

And you try not to think about how much it hurts that he isn’t waiting for you today. How much it feels like being forgotten.

How much it feels like disappearing.

You sit in the Great Hall, untouched plate before you, the silver spoon resting against the rim like even it’s too tired to try. There’s food, you think. Warm and plentiful, enough to satisfy kingdoms — but none of it ever looks like it belongs to you.

Your stomach turns at the scent.

You haven't eaten properly in days, if not longer. You don't bother counting anymore. Hunger doesn’t feel like hunger now. It feels like grief in your throat, like something alive trying to claw its way up and out of you. So you just sit there, alone at the far end of the table where no one comes, where there’s room enough for a silence no one wants to join.

You have no friends. Not anymore. Illness has a way of peeling people away from you like fruit from its skin. They stop asking. Stop waiting. Stop noticing. You can’t blame them, really — what’s the use in trying to be close to a body always fraying at the seams?

Across the hall, Sirius is the sun incarnate. He always is on his birthday.

He’s laughing with James now, something too loud and full of warmth. His cheeks are flushed with joy, hair glittering with the shimmer of charmed confetti, mouth parted mid-story as if the world waits to hear him speak.

The Marauders hang around him like moons caught in his orbit, throwing wrappers and spells and terrible puns into the air like fireworks. It’s messy and golden and warm. And for a moment, you forget how to breathe.

You used to be part of that. Didn’t you?

Used to sit beside him and Regulus in the gardens with hands sticky from treacle tart and lips red from laughter. Used to have a seat at the table. A place. A life.

Now even Regulus is far away — his corner of the Slytherin table colder, quieter. But still not alone. He’s flanked by Barty, Evan, and Pandora. All sharp edges and shining eyes. All seemingly untouched by the rot that follows you. Regulus leans in, listens, offers a rare smirk that you remember from childhood, one he used to save just for you.

He hasn’t looked at you in weeks.

The ache in your chest blooms sudden and vicious. You press your knuckles into your side beneath the table — a small, private act of violence — as if you can convince your body to shut up, to behave, to let you just exist for one more hour. But the pain lurches anyway. Slow at first, then sharper. Stabbing between your ribs like something snapping loose.

You can’t do this.

You stand — too fast, too rough — and the edges of the room ripple like heat rising off pavement. No one notices. No one calls after you. Not even James.

Especially not James.

You walk out of the Hall without tasting a single bite.

And then you’re in the corridor, then on the stairs, and then climbing the towers toward your room. Step by step. Breath by breath. It should be easy — you’ve made this walk a hundred times. But your legs tremble beneath you. The pain isn't where it usually is. It's everywhere now. Your spine, your stomach, the backs of your eyes. Every inch of you buzzes like a broken wire. You clutch the banister like a lifeline, but even that’s not enough.

This is the third time this week.

It’s never been three times.

You should go to Pomfrey. Tell someone. Let someone help.

But your throat stays closed. You keep walking.

Some part of you wonders if this is what dying feels like — this slow crumbling, this breathlessness, this fatigue that eats your name and your shadow and your will to keep standing. It would be so easy, wouldn’t it? To stop. Just for a little while. Just until the pain quiets. Just until the storm passes.

Except you know the storm is you.

You reach your dorm and shut the door behind you with the quiet finality of a girl preparing to vanish. The walls are too still. The windows don’t let in enough light.

What if I just didn’t wake up tomorrow?

You let your bag fall to the floor. It lands with a dull, tired thud.

And then you see it.

Resting on the pillow — a single folded letter. Pale parchment. Tidy handwriting. Sealed not with wax but with duty. You don’t need to open it to know who it’s from. You don’t need to guess the weight of its words.

Still, you pick it up.

Your fingers tremble as you unfold it. Each crease feels like a wound reopening.

Darling, Christmas is nearly upon us. I expect you and Regulus home promptly this year — no delays. You’ve missed enough holidays already. No excuses will be accepted. — Mother

That’s it.

That’s all.

Twelve words from the woman who hasn’t written in months. No inquiry into your health. No mention of your letters, the ones she never answered. No softness. No warmth. Just expectation carved into command, as if your body isn't breaking open like wet paper. As if you’re still someone who can just show up — smiling, polished, whole.

You stare at the page until the words blur. Until they bleed.

And then something inside you slips.

The tears come without warning. No build, no warning breath. Just the kind of sob that erupts straight from the gut — ragged, cracked, feral. You sink to your knees beside the bed, hands still clinging to the letter like it might fight back, like it might tear through your skin and finish what your body started.

The pain blooms fast and ruthless. It surges from your spine to your chest, flooding every inch of you like fire caught beneath your ribs. You curl in on yourself, nails digging into your arms, into your thighs, into the fragile curve of your ribs. You clutch at your bones like you can hold them together — like you can stop them from collapsing.

But nothing stops it.

Nothing stops the sound that tears from your throat. A scream muffled into the sheets. A cry swallowed by solitude.

You can’t breathe. You can’t think. All you can feel is this white-hot ache that eats at your joints, your heart, your hope.

You don’t want to go home.

You don’t want to keep going.

You want it to stop. All of it. The pain, the pretending, the loneliness of being expected to survive in a world that only ever sees the surface of you.

You press your forehead to the floor. Cold. Unmoving. Solid.

And you cry — truly cry — not in anger or silence, but in the voice of someone who has held it in too long, who has no more space left inside for grief.

And still, the letter stays crumpled in your fist, a ghost of a girl who once believed her mother might write something kind.

You move like your bones aren’t breaking.

You move like the letter from your mother isn’t still open on the desk, edges trembling in the breeze from the cracked window, her careful handwriting slicing you open with its simplicity. Christmas is coming. You and Regulus are expected home. No excuses.

You move because if you stop, you will shatter. Because the only thing worse than pain is stillness. Stillness makes it real.

So you go to the mirror.

The room is too quiet, too full of the breath you can barely draw. The walls feel too close, like they’re pressing in, trying to crush the last sliver of strength you’ve kept hidden beneath your ribs. Your legs are unsteady beneath you, every step forward a question you don’t want the answer to.

Your reflection barely looks like you anymore.

There is a hollowness in your eyes that no amount of light can touch. Your skin is pale and stretched thin, the corners of your mouth pulled in defeat. Your hair is a wild mess—matted from where you clutched at it in pain, tangled from nights curled on cold floors instead of in beds, from days where brushing it felt like too much of a luxury.

You reach for the comb. It clatters in your hands, and for a moment, you just stare at it.

Then you begin.

Each pull through your hair is a distraction from the agony blooming in your bones—sharp, raw, endless. You comb as if each knot you work through might undo a knot inside your chest. It doesn’t. But still, you comb.

You need to. You have to.

Because Sirius is downstairs. Laughing. Shining. Surrounded by love and warmth and them. You should be there. It’s his birthday. You remember the way he used to leap into your bed at sunrise, dragging you and Regulus by the wrists, shouting, “Coronation time!” and demanding to be crowned king of everything. You always made him a crown out of daisies and broken twigs. Regulus would scowl but help you braid it anyway.

He loved those crowns. He kept every one.

You remember how the three of you used to sit on the rooftop ledge, legs dangling, hands sticky with cake, Sirius declaring himself “the prettiest monarch of them all,” and Regulus pretending to hate it, even as he leaned against you, quiet and content.

Now Sirius is laughing without you. And Regulus is nowhere near your side.

You press the comb harder into your scalp. You need to focus.

Because Regulus—he should be here. You need him. Desperately. With a bone-deep ache that feels like hunger. But you haven’t spoken in days. He doesn’t look at you anymore. Not really. And you can’t ask. You don’t know how.

And James—bloody James—you almost wish he was here. As much as he drives you insane, with his constant chatter and shameless flirting, at least it means someone is trying to stay. At least it means you’re not entirely alone. But he isn’t here. He’s down there with Sirius, and you're alone in this echoing silence, braiding your hair like it might save you from yourself.

You divide it into three sections.

One for Sirius. One for Regulus. One for yourself.

You twist the first strand with shaking fingers, tight enough that it pulls your scalp taut. Then the second, even tighter. Your arms ache. Your chest tightens. The pain is good—it makes everything else fade. Not vanish, but blur around the edges.

By the third strand, your eyes are burning again.

You begin to braid.

Over, under, over.

You focus on the motion. The discipline. The illusion of control. Each loop is a scream you don’t let out. Each pull is an ache you refuse to voice. You braid like your life depends on it. Like if it’s tight enough, neat enough, maybe you’ll stop falling apart. Maybe you’ll be someone your mother could stand to look at. Maybe you’ll be strong enough to walk past Sirius without dying inside. Maybe you won’t feel so abandoned by Regulus. Maybe you’ll stop wondering what would happen if you simply stopped waking up.

Over. Under. Pull.

You want someone to notice. Just once. That you're not okay. That you haven’t been for a very long time. But you also want to disappear.

The braid is so tight it lifts the corners of your face, gives the illusion of composure. It hurts to blink. It hurts to breathe.

But at least now, you look fine.

You stare at your reflection. The girl in the mirror doesn’t cry. She doesn’t break. She’s polished, composed, hair perfect, pain tucked behind the curve of her spine. Just like Mother taught her.

But you can still feel it.

Inside.

Worse than ever.

The kind of ache that doesn’t come from sickness. The kind that whispers, What if you just stopped trying?

And for a heartbeat too long, you wonder what it would be like to let go.

But you blink. You blink and you turn and you reach for your school bag like the world hasn’t ended, and you prepare to go sit through another class, braid perfect, bones screaming, heart bleeding.

Because no one can save you if they don’t know you’re drowning.

And no one is looking.

You stand in front of the mirror, eyes tracing the braided strands that crown your head—a braid so tight and perfect, the first since you were thirteen. For once, the wildness that usually clings to your hair has been subdued, pulled into neat, unforgiving lines.

It feels like a fragile kind of victory, as if this braid is a quiet rebellion against the chaos inside you, a way to tame not just your hair but the storm roiling beneath your skin.

Your fingers move almost mechanically as you smooth the fabric of your robe, the weight of it heavy with memories and expectation. Each fold you press flat feels like an attempt to iron out the wrinkles of your fractured soul, to shape yourself into something orderly, something that fits into the world your mother demands.

The knot of your tie is next—tight and precise, a cold reminder of the control you’re expected to hold, even as everything inside you threatens to unravel.

Turning away from the mirror, you move to your bed, your hands carefully pulling the covers taut. The fabric is smooth under your fingertips, but your heart feels anything but.

You straighten the pillows, tuck in the sheets, as if by arranging this small corner of your world perfectly, you can bring some order to the chaos swirling inside your mind.

Books come next. You stack them neatly on your desk, aligning every corner and spine as if the act itself could contain the chaos you feel.

You run your fingers over the worn covers and flip through the pages, lingering on the words one last time. Your homework lies finished—no undone tasks, no loose ends to catch you. Everything is set, ready.

Your hands tremble slightly as you set your quill back in its holder. The quiet click in the stillness of your room feels loud, a reminder of the fragile balance you hold. In this small, solemn ritual, you prepare not just your things, but yourself—gathering the last threads of control, the last remnants of order before you let go.

The silence wraps around you, waiting.

You stand in front of the mirror, eyes tracing the braided strands that crown your head—a braid so tight and perfect, the first since you were thirteen.

For once, the wildness that usually clings to your hair has been subdued, pulled into neat, unforgiving lines. It feels like a fragile kind of victory, as if this braid is a quiet rebellion against the chaos inside you, a way to tame not just your hair but the storm roiling beneath your skin.

The silence wraps around you, waiting.

The halls are half-empty, half-asleep in golden mid-afternoon hush, and your footsteps echo too loudly against the stone, like your bones are protesting with every step.

The books in your arms weigh more than they should, tugging your spine downward, but you hold them like a shield. Like maybe the act of carrying knowledge — of submitting things, of finishing things — will be enough to make you feel real again.

You don’t notice James at first. Not until he steps out from where he must’ve been waiting by the staircase — leaning against the bannister with the kind of bored posture that usually precedes some ridiculous joke.

But he doesn't speak right away this time. His eyes move to your braids, then down the neat lines of your uniform, and there’s a strange stillness in him. No grin. Just… surprise.

“Bloody hell,” he says finally, voice light but too soft to be teasing. “You’ve got your hair up.”

You blink at him. Say nothing. Your arms tighten slightly around your books, like you’re bracing yourself.

He lifts a hand, gestures vaguely. “Not that it’s any of my business — I mean, you always look like you just fought off a banshee in a thunderstorm, and now you look like you’ve… fought it and survived.” A smile tries to form, wobbly. “It suits you. You look really cute.”

You stop.

Not just physically, but inside too — something halting in your breath, like a skipped beat. Your gaze meets his, dull and quiet.

“Not today, James.”

Your voice is hoarse. Frayed silk over gravel. There’s no snap to it, no snarl or bite. You just say it like a truth. Like you’re too tired for anything else.

James straightens slowly. He doesn’t speak for a moment, just watches you like he’s trying to read through all the space between your words. Your name sits on his tongue, but he doesn’t use it. Instead, his brows lift — not in arrogance this time, but in something like confusion. Or worry.

“You—” He swallows. “You called me James.”

You shift your books in your arms, not meeting his eyes this time. “I just want to get through the day.”

He takes a step toward you, but something in your posture keeps him from reaching farther. “Hey, I can carry those—”

“I said not today.” you repeat, softer. Final.

And for once, he listens.

There’s a beat. Then he gives a small nod, stuffing his hands in his pockets, trying to play it cool even though you can see the concern crawling up his throat like ivy.

“Alright,” he murmurs. “But if you need anything, I— I’m around.”

You nod once — not in agreement, just acknowledgment. Then turn.

You don’t see how long he watches you walk away.

Your steps are heavier now, the ache blooming behind your knees and up your spine. It shouldn't be this bad — not again, not so soon. You already fell apart days ago. But the fire’s back in your ribs, licking up the side of your lungs, and you press your lips into a thin line, determined not to let it show.

You pass the Great Hall on your way. You don’t look in.

But Sirius sees you.

He’s mid-laugh, one of those rare carefree ones that sounds like summer. Remus has just handed him a small box wrapped in gold, and his crown — handmade from parchment, ink-smudged and jagged — sits slightly askew on his head. He freezes. The smile falters. His brows draw in. Something in his chest clenches.

“Was that—?” he begins, turning toward Remus.

“She didn’t see us,” Remus murmurs, already watching you too.

Your shoulders are too tight. Your spine too stiff. You don’t notice the silence left behind you. You don’t hear how the laughter quiets. You’re already up the next stairwell, already telling yourself you just need the potions. Just need to breathe. Just need to finish submitting your homework. Then maybe—maybe—

You won’t have to feel this anymore.

The infirmary is warm when you step inside, too warm. It clings to your skin like a fever, like the ache in your bones has grown teeth and is sinking in deeper the longer you stand.

You hug your books closer to your chest, as if they might anchor you here, hold you steady, keep you from unraveling.

Madam Pomfrey doesn’t look up. She’s bent over a boy laid out on the nearest cot—mud streaked across his face, quidditch robes still soaked in grass and sweat.

Normally, she’d have noticed you by now. Normally, she would have called you over, already tsk-ing and summoning your chart. But she’s too absorbed today, too busy, and for the first time in a long time, no one’s watching you.

Your eyes drift to the far side of the room—to her desk. A tray sits just behind it, lined with small glass vials. Labels scrawled in Pomfrey’s sharp handwriting. Pale blue, golden amber, deep crimson—every kind of potion she’s ever poured down your throat. You know their names better than your own.

And there, at the back, barely touched, is the strongest pain reliever in her stores. Veridomirine.

Dark and glinting in the soft light, like it already knows it’s too much for most. You remember it burning a hole in your stomach the last time she gave it to you. The way your limbs went numb. The way your mind stilled. The silence of it.

Your grip tightens on your books.

The decision happens slowly and all at once. You glance at Madam Pomfrey—her back still turned, wand still stitching, voice low as she murmurs reassurance to the boy on the bed.

You step forward, quiet, deliberate. Like you’ve done this before. Like your body already knows the path.

The desk is closer than you expect. You set your books down gently, hands shaking just enough to notice, and reach for the bottle. The glass is cool. Heavier than you remember. It fits into your palm like it was made for you.

You don’t hesitate. You don’t think.

You slide it into the fold of your robe, between the fabric and your ribs, right where the pain always begins.

And then you lift your books again, turn on your heel, and walk out as if you’ve only come for a quick word, as if nothing is different. As if your hands aren’t burning from what you’ve just done.

The corridor is quiet outside. Brisk. The chill hits your cheeks and you let it. Let it bite and sharpen and bring you back into your body.

But something is different now.

Because inside your robe, glass clinks softly with every step.

And for the first time, you feel like you’re holding your way out.

All you can hear is your heartbeat, dull and heavy, and the quiet clink of glass from the bottle nestled beneath your sleeve.

You push open the infirmary doors, and the hallway blooms before you, empty at first glance. But he’s there.

Sirius.

Leaning against the stone wall, one foot pressed behind him for balance, arms crossed in a way that looks casual—effortlessly disheveled—but you don’t see the way his jaw keeps tightening, or the way he’s been picking at the edge of his sleeve, over and over again.

He straightens when he hears the door creak open. His head lifts, eyes scanning quickly—and softening, melting, when he sees you. You, with your too-tight braid, your hollow stare, the way you walk like you’re already halfway gone.

He doesn’t recognize you at first.

Not because you’ve changed on the outside—though you have—but because something’s missing. Something small. Something vital.

And Sirius Black has never known how to say delicate things, not with words. Not with you. So he does what he always does—he opens his mouth and hopes something human will fall out.

“Hey—”

But you’re already passing.

You don’t see the way he steps forward, the way his fingers twitch like he might reach for your arm. You don’t hear the “Can we talk?” die in his throat. You don’t even look at him. Not once.

You’re already turning away.

The braid down your back is tight, almost punishing. A line of control in a world unraveling thread by thread. Your robes are neat, too neat. Tie straight. Steps calculated. As if by holding the pieces together on the outside, you might silence the ruin inside.

As if you can braid back the shadows trying to tear themselves loose.

Sirius opens his mouth. Wants to say your name. Just your name. Softly, like a tether, like a reminder. But the syllables die on his tongue. You’re already walking away, and the space between you feels suddenly endless. Like galaxies expanding between breaths.

And still—he doesn’t call after you.

He watches. That’s all he can do.

Watches you walk with the quiet defiance of someone who has learned how to disappear in full view. Someone who was born under a cursed name and carved their own silence from it. He knows that silence.

He’s worn it too. It’s in his name—in Black. Not just a surname but a legacy of storms. A bloodline that confuses cruelty for strength, silence for survival.

He told himself he had outrun it. That the name couldn’t touch him anymore. But now he watches you, and he realizes: Black isn’t just his burden—it’s yours too. You carry the same weight in your eyes. That same quiet grief. That same ache for something better.

You were the one who never bent. Never cried. Even when the pain took your bones, you met the world with cold fire in your gaze. But now he sees something else. Something crumbling. Something gone.

And it hits him like a curse spoken in the dark: he doesn’t know how to reach you. Not really. He was too late to ask the right questions. Too loud to hear the ones you never spoke aloud. Too proud to admit that sometimes, the ones who look strongest are the ones who are breaking quietly, piece by piece.

You vanish down the corridor, and Sirius stands there, the silence echoing louder than any spell. He leans back against the wall again, like if he presses hard enough, it might hold him together.

His name is Black. And for the first time in a long while, it feels like a mirror—cold, cracked, and full of all the things he was too afraid to see.

You were light once. Maybe not the kind that burned—but the kind that steadied. Quiet, firm, constant. And now, he wonders if you’ve let go of the edge entirely. If you’ve stepped too far into that old name, into the dark.

And Sirius Black—brave, loud, impossible Sirius—does not know how to follow you there.

The bottle is cold in your hand, colder than it should be.

You don’t know if it’s the glass or your fingers or something deeper, something in the marrow, in the blood. You sit on the edge of your bed like you’re balancing on a cliff, and everything around you holds its breath.

The walls. The books. The light. Even the ghosts seem to pause, like they know something sacred and shattering is about to unfold.

You set the bottle down on your nightstand, watching the liquid shimmer inside. It’s a strange shade—amber gold, like honey and fire, like something that should soothe, should heal. But you know what it’ll do.

You’ve read the labels. You’ve stolen the dosage. You’ve done the math. And for once in your life, the numbers give you certainty. This will be enough.

You glance around your room as if memorizing it, not the way it is, but the way it’s always been. The books stacked with uneven spines. The worn corner of your blanket where you’d twist the fabric between your fingers when the pain got too much. The chipped edge of the mirror where you once slammed a brush out of frustration. It’s a museum now. A mausoleum in waiting.

Your hands tremble as you reach for a parchment scrap—just a torn piece, nothing grand. You fold it carefully, slow and deliberate, your fingers aching as they crease the paper into small peaks. It’s clumsy, uneven. A paper crown no bigger than your palm.

You think of Sirius, of sun-kissed afternoons when he used to run ahead and shout that he was king of the forest, the common room, the world.

You and Regulus would laugh, always crown him, always believe him. You were never royalty, not really. Just children trying to carve a kingdom out of cracked stone and quiet grief.

You place the tiny crown on the edge of the desk. An offering. A prayer. A goodbye that won’t speak its name.

It’s his birthday.

You whisper it aloud like it means something. Like he’ll hear it. “Happy birthday, Sirius.”

And then, silence again. The kind of silence that screams.

Your fingers reach for the bottle. You uncork it slowly, and the scent rises—bitter, sharp, familiar. You think of your bones. Of how they’ve been singing a song of surrender for weeks. Months. Maybe years. Of how it’s taken everything in you just to exist in this body, in this name, in this world.

You think of Regulus. Of how his back was always straight even when everything else was falling. Of how you used to braid flowers into your hair for him, and he’d pretend not to care, but he’d look at you like you were magic. You think of James and the way his voice is always too loud but his concern is real, is warm, and how he didn’t call you a single name today. You think of how you almost wanted him to follow you.

You think of Sirius.

And it hurts so much you almost change your mind.

But the pain doesn’t leave. It never does.

It sinks deeper, folds into your joints, nests behind your ribs. It becomes you. You can’t keep holding it. You can’t keep waking up in a body that feels like betrayal, in a mind that won’t stop screaming, in a life that forgot how to soften.

There is a kind of pain that does not bleed. It settles deep — in marrow, in memory. It builds altars in your bones, asking worship of a body already breaking. You've worn this ache longer than you've worn your name, longer than your brothers stayed.

You were born into the house of Black — where silence is survival and suffering is an inheritance. Regulus moved like shadow. Sirius, like fire. But you? You learned to stay. To endure. To carry the weight of a name no one asked if you wanted. And you did it well. Too well. Long enough for the world to mistake your endurance for ease.

Because strength was never the crown you wanted. It was the chain.

You bring it to your lips.

There is no fear, not anymore. Just the hush beneath your ribs loosening for the first time. Not with hope — never with hope — but with rest. The kind no one can take from you. The kind that doesn’t hurt to hold. That doesn’t ask for your smile in exchange for survival.

You close your eyes.

And then — a crack of wood. A bang loud enough to split the night wide open. Like the universe itself couldn’t bear to be quiet a second longer.

The door crashes against the wall, unhinging the moment from its silence.

Wind howls through the space between now and never. Curtains billow like ghosts startled from sleep. You flinch before you mean to. Before you can stop yourself. The bottle slips from your hands.

It falls. A slow, glassy descent. And when it hits the floor — the shatter is almost gentle. A soft, final sound. Like the last breath of something sacred. Potion and silence spill together, staining the rug in pale, merciful ruin.

And there — Sirius.

Standing in the doorway like someone who’s already read the ending. Like someone who sprinted through every corridor of this house just to be too late.

His chest is rising like he’s run miles through storm and stone. His eyes — wild, wet, unblinking. The kind of stare that begs the world to lie.

There’s mud on his boots. A tremble in his fists. Panic stretched tight across his shoulders, brittle and loud. And something in his face — something jagged and unspoken — slices right through the stillness.

He doesn’t speak.

Neither do you.

The room holds its breath. Around you, time stands uncertain. The glass glitters between you like a warning, like a map of everything broken. The smell of the potion hangs in the air — soft, floral, almost sweet. A lullaby for leaving.

Your hands stay curled in your lap, still shaped around the ghost of what almost was. Still cradling the moment you thought you could disappear, undisturbed.

You were supposed to be gone by now.

Supposed to leave like snowfall, like mist at morning — soft, unseen, unremembered. You had rehearsed the silence. Folded your goodbyes into creases no one would find. You had made peace with the vanishing.

But he’s here. Sirius. And he is looking at you like he knows.

Like he’s known all along.

Not just the pieces you performed — the smirk, the sarcasm, the deflection sharp enough to draw blood. But the marrow of it. The hurting. The leaving. The way you’d been slipping away for years in small, invisible ways.

And you can’t take it back.

Not the uncorked bottle. Not the weight in your chest you were ready to lay down. Not the choice you almost made — not out of weakness, but weariness. The kind no one ever sees until you’ve already left.

And still. Even now.

Something uncoils in your chest. Not like hope but like release. Like exhale. Like gravity loosening its grip. The ache begins to lift, slow and smoke-soft, drifting out of your lungs, out of your spine, out of the quiet place where you’d kept it curled for so long.

And for the first time — the ache goes with you.

‘Til all that’s left is glorious bone.

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pandorasopenedbox3 · 5 months ago

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James says “I love you” to every single one of his friends all the time. The only person he never says it too is Regulus. And this freaks Regulus out so much because he’s the only person James doesn’t say it to even tho he’s his boyfriend so that must mean he’s not in love with him. But here’s the thing, James has not said “I love you” yet even though he says it with everyone else because with Regulus IT MATTERS. It’s not just a quick “bye I love you” like with his friends it’s a real meaningful impactful on their relationship kind of “I love you” and he’s scared he’s going to scare Reg off. On top of that James has never had someone love him back romantically and he’s scared shitless that Regulus won’t be in love with him the way he wants.

So the day Regulus works up the courage to just tell James he loves him, entirely expecting to not hear it back, he’s left in complete shock when James pulls him into a hug and starts crying saying how much he’s in love with him. Reg starts crying too and they both end up in a mess of tears, limbs and snot as they tell eachother how much they love each other.

#marauders #marauders era #regulus black #jegulus #james potter #starchaser

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marauroon · 2 months ago

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I’m in desperate—I mean desperate—need of a Sirius x Reader soulmate AU series written by you. Because oh my God, the idea is just so sweet!

To think that, despite everything—even in the darkest moments of his life—since he was just a little boy, the thought of his one true person waiting for him somewhere out there has been what pushed him through it all. Especially knowing that his parents weren’t soulmates, Sirius has always been absolutely certain that he has to end up with his soulmate. It’s that… or nothing for him so when he starts his Hogwarts journey he’s already on a mission.

── .✦ 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤, 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐞, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐲. (𝐬.𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤)

sirius black wanted nothing more in life than to find his soulmate, to give himself the life his parents never had. but of course it’s not that easy.

sirius black x fem!soulmate!reader 9.8k angst masterlist.

PART ONE. PART TWO.

CW | mentions of mistreatment in the black family home, soulmates are complicated, antagonistic relationship between lily and james, peter gets some love, a lot of this is from sirius’ perspective

They say the mark fades the moment your soulmate touches you.

A simple, skin-deep magic with depth beyond comprehension. One moment, you carry a patch of ink—some obscure splotch, a fingerprint, a handprint, a streak. The next, it’s gone. Just... gone. The skin is smooth and unblemished where once magic lingered.

The mark doesn’t tell you who, only where—where on your body your soulmate will first touch you. And once they do, once your souls collide in that first, fated contact, the mark disappears. Like you’re whole again. Like you’ve found something you didn’t know you were missing.

No one really remembers a time before their mark. It's always been there—like birthmarks only fate-born. A quiet promise that someday, somewhere, someone will reach for you and the world will shift.

Some people search for their whole lives. Others stumble into it by accident—brushing hands in a corridor, bumping shoulders in a crowd, one drunken kiss on a dare that changes everything. And then there are those who never find it at all.

Or worse—those who refuse to.

Sirius had spent his entire childhood watching the mark on his mother’s right hand.

It was a violent thing. An ink-black smear that twisted over the bones of her knuckles and bled toward her wrist like a bruise. It was always stark against her pale skin—more visible when her voice rose, when her wand lifted, when Regulus flinched and Sirius refused to cower.

Walburga Black was a woman of ancient lineage and granite values. The House of Black didn’t marry for love. They married for blood. For power. For family name. Soulmates were a fairytale whispered by Halfbloods and Muggleborns, a sentimental excuse for weakness.

And so the smear on her hand never faded.

“She should’ve found him,” Sirius had once whispered to Regulus, who was eight and still soft in the face. “Her soulmate,”

Regulus didn’t look up from his book. “She doesn’t believe in them.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Sirius muttered. “She still has one.”

That was what made it worse, really. That somewhere in the world, the one person who might’ve made her less like herself was walking around unaware. That she’d never tried. That none of them did.

He had a mark, too. A broad, dark patch on the front of his shoulder, curling slightly round to the outside of his arm. It looked more like a smudge than anything. Not delicate, not shaped like fingers or palms. Just… mess. Like someone had leaned against him with soot on their hands.

His mother had tried to scrub it off, once.

“It’s barbaric,” she’d hissed, dragging a cloth over his skin with vinegar and spells. “Sentimental nonsense.”

It hadn’t worked. The skin there had stayed marked, warm, stubborn with fate.

And Sirius had made a promise to himself that day. He would find the person who belonged to that mark. He would.

Because he was not going to turn into his mother.

—

The Hogwarts Express smelled like dust and pumpkin, and Sirius was trying very hard not to look as excited as he felt.

He had left. He had left that house, that woman, that family. He was on the train to a castle full of magic and secrets, and he was going to make friends and break rules and maybe even find the person with soot-stained fingers who would touch his arm and make the mark vanish.

He had only just dumped his trunk into the nearest half-empty compartment when a gangly, bespectacled boy stuck his head in and grinned.

“Oi—this seat taken?”

Sirius shrugged. “It is now.”

James Potter flopped down beside him without asking again, closely followed by two other boys: a round-faced, cheerful one who introduced himself as Peter, and a quiet, bookish one with scars hidden behind long sleeves who offered only a nod and the name Remus.

They were only halfway into the journey when the topic—inevitably—arose.

“Soulmarks,” Sirius said, dropping the word into the conversation like a dare.

The carriage fell into a beat of silence. Not uncomfortable, exactly, but loaded — the way quiet feels just before lightning hits. James perked up first, eyes narrowing with interest, then grinned.

“Oh, we’re doing that already, are we?” he said, spinning slightly on the bench so he was facing the rest of them properly. “Right then. Let’s see the lot of yours. Starting with you, Mr Mysterious.”

He pointed at Sirius with an impish grin. Peter gave a small, nervous laugh, and Remus — who had been quietly reading the front page of a Daily Prophet someone had left behind — lowered it slowly.

Sirius hesitated for a second, not because he was shy, but because his mark had always felt like something far too personal to show off, especially under the weight of the Black name. But here, with these boys, he felt the kind of safety he didn’t yet have the words for.

With a shrug, he tugged up the sleeve of his jumper and peeled it back past his bicep. Across the curve of his shoulder — wrapping from the edge of his chest to just past the blade of his back — was a dark smear, like someone had dragged a piece of charcoal across his skin and tried to rub it off before it dried. It was heavy-looking, almost like soot or ash, thick and indelible. Not a handprint. Not a brush of fingers. Just... contact. Weight. Pressure.

“Bloody hell,” James muttered, leaning forward. “Did your soulmate fall on you?”

Sirius laughed — an unexpected, genuine sound. “Haven’t the faintest idea. Maybe they shoulder-barged me. Maybe they crashed into me mid-duel. Maybe it’s a hug. Who knows? Could’ve been anything.”

James hummed, clearly intrigued. “I mean... I suppose you’d know immediately, yeah? The second it happened.”

“Mark fades when it happens,” Sirius replied, tugging his sleeve back down. “Gone. Just like that. You’re ‘whole’ or whatever it is.”

“Romantic, that,” Peter said. “In a weird, sort of terrifying way.”

“Don’t even have to ask about yours,” Sirius said, nodding at James.

James didn’t hesitate. He swept his unruly hair back from his face and tilted his head to the side, revealing the left side of his face — and more importantly, the soft, unmistakable shape of a milky white handprint cradling his cheek. It looked like someone had cupped his face gently, thumb grazing his cheek. It was... tender. Oddly intimate.

Peter chuckles.

“Oh, look at you,” Sirius drawled. “That’s not a soulmark. That’s the prelude to a snog.”

James grinned unabashedly. “Reckon it is, yeah. Imagine, though— first time I meet them, they’re gonna touch my face like I’m some kind of Greek tragedy,”

“Probably to make out with me,” he added with a waggle of his eyebrows, and the entire group groaned.

“Godric help them,” Remus muttered under his breath.

Peter looked slightly self-conscious now that the attention was drifting his way, but when Sirius raised an eyebrow at him, he sighed and turned slightly, pointing at the side of his nose. A small brown splotch marked the bridge, barely the size of a Knut.

“That’s it?” Sirius said.

Peter flushed. “Yes? I don’t know what it means either,”

James leaned in with mock seriousness, licking his thumb and making a show of reaching over. “Sure it’s not just dirt, Peter? Let me—”

Peter yelped and batted his hand away, laughing. “Get off, you tosser!”

Even Remus snorted.

Sirius eyed him then. “What about you, then? Don’t think you’re getting out of this,”

Remus looked suddenly awkward—more awkward than Sirius had ever seen him—and shook his head. “I haven’t got one.”

James looked genuinely surprised. “You... haven’t?”

Remus shrugged. “Not that I’ve ever found,” Not that he’d ever made the effort to check.

“Bollocks,” Sirius said, already rolling up his sleeves again. “Everyone’s got one. It's the whole point, isn’t it?”

James nodded eagerly. “Yeah— we’ll find it. Take your shirt off,”

Peter choked on his own spit.

“Hold your horses, woah—” Remus muttered, clearly flustered.

“Come on, just let us look!” James said. “We’ll be quick about it.”

After several minutes of grumbling and reluctant sighs, Remus finally rolled his eyes and let them have a look—within reason. They checked his forearms, shoulders, collarbones, back, even his calves. Nothing.

“I told you—” Remus started, but Sirius, now unrelenting in his curiosity, stepped closer and squinted at the hairline near Remus’ right temple.

“Hold on,” he said, voice low with interest.

He reached out—gently, and with an uncharacteristic kind of caution—and swept a lock of Remus’ hair back.

There, just along the edge of his hairline, half-hidden by curls, was a thin, chocolate brown mark. Like a thumbprint, just brushing the edge of his temple.

The room went quiet.

“Found it!” Sirius said, triumphantly.

Remus blinked, although, surprisingly, didn’t look all that relieved. “Alright,”

“Told you,” James said smugly, sitting back with a satisfied look. “Everyone’s got one.”

Remus said nothing, but Sirius caught the way his fingers brushed the edge of his fringe, as if somehow wanting to feel it—to acknowledge it now that it was real.

They were quiet for a few minutes after that. Just sitting with it.

And Sirius found himself thinking, strangely, about his mother again—the way her own soulmark had never faded. How it had sat like an accusation across the back of her hand, inky and unmoving, every time she raised it. He’d seen it when she tugged harshly on Regulus’ hair. When she yanked Sirius by the collar. Always there. A reminder of what she could have had.

She had told him once, sneering, “Soulmates are for commoners. Fairytales. Blood comes first. Blood is eternal.”

And Sirius had known, even then, that he wanted something else. Something more.

These boys—these three ridiculous, infuriating, brilliant boys—might not have known it, but they were the first promise he’d ever been given that he might not end up like her. That the mark on his arm meant something real. That someone out there might touch him one day, and the mark would vanish, and the emptiness he’d carried since childhood might finally ease.

He didn’t know it yet, but he was going to spend years hoping for that moment.

And dreading it in equal measure.

—

You’ll never forget the first time James Potter laid eyes on Lily Evans.

It’s early in your first year—just a few days in—and you’re walking with her and Mary down one of the endless, winding corridors of Hogwarts, heading to Charms. Lily’s still got that Muggle-born wonder gleaming in her eyes, even though she tries to hide it behind a proper sense of logic and practicality. She’s talking about the theory behind wand movement, hands gesturing enthusiastically, when it happens.

James Potter, all wild hair and taller-than-he-should-be confidence, rounds the corner with his entourage, Sirius, Remus, and Peter flanking him like a self-appointed court. He spots her, freezes mid-step, and goes oddly quiet.

You notice. You always notice when boys look at Lily. But this one feels different.

Then, James grins. “That’s her,” he says, loud enough for all of the corridor to hear. “That’s my soulmate.”

Lily stops walking. “I’m sorry, what?”

He strides up, not missing a beat. “Your hand, it matches my face,”

She lifts her eyebrows. “It’s the most common soul mark in the world.”

“Just humour me,”

She rolls her eyes—but shows him anyway. A dark mark covering her palm like she’d dipped it in black paint, visible for a fraction of a second before she tucks it behind her again like it’s private. Sacred.

James, however, looks like he’s been handed a prophecy.

“See,” he says, tapping the side of his own face, just under the curve of his left cheekbone. “Perfect fit. You held my face. Or you will. That’s what the universe wants,”

“Or you’re delusional,” she says sweetly. “Ever thought of that?”

You laugh. So does Mary. But James—he just smiles, full of charm and stupid certainty.

From that moment on, James is relentless.

He doesn’t declare it once and then let it lie. No—he tells everyone who’ll listen. Tells Peter, tells Sirius, tells Remus (who already knows but still rolls his eyes every time). Tells older students. Tells a professor, once, though you think he was joking that time.

At first, it’s annoying. Then it becomes unbearable.

Because the Marauders, they don’t just say they believe in soulmates. They act like it means they’re entitled to you.

You and Lily and Marlene and Dorcas and Mary had started off giving them the benefit of the doubt. They seemed harmless enough: loud, yes, but not cruel. But then James began following Lily everywhere— always appearing outside your common room, in the corridors between classes, in the library. And Sirius and the others followed along too, trailing after you girls like a bad smell.

They’d show up outside Potions just to “bump into” you. Or drop casual comments in the Great Hall about how Remus got the highest score on the Defence essay, as if anyone asked. Or make loud boasts about Quidditch tactics, like they were auditioning for a future career in bragging.

You never understood what they wanted. It was clear enough that James was obsessed with Lily, but what about the rest of them?

Remus always seemed more amused than anything, like he was watching a tragic play unfold, one he knew the ending to but couldn’t stop. Peter was just... there. Laughing too hard at every joke James made, like he thought that was the price of staying in the group.

And Sirius— Sirius was different.

He didn’t really flirt. Didn’t boast as much. He mostly watched. With those storm-grey eyes that felt like they were always seeing more than they should. He’d smirk sometimes, or throw in a sarcastic comment, but he was quieter than you expected. There was something behind it, like he wasn’t entirely present. Like his mind was elsewhere, chasing shadows.

You noticed that too. How he’d go still when someone mentioned soulmarks in passing. How he looked at couples in the corridors—the ones laughing with linked hands, whose marks had already faded—with a kind of distant longing that felt too raw for someone so young.

It was almost sad, in a kind of pathetic way.

But none of that excused their behaviour.

The truth was: you didn’t like them. Not really. None of you did.

They were loud and reckless and juvenile. They’d hex Slytherins in the corridor and act like they were defending the moral high ground. They’d shout across classrooms, make up chants, prank students for fun. Once they transfigured all the cauldrons in Potions into frogs, and Professor Slughorn found it hilarious. You didn’t.

You didn’t like being followed. You didn’t like the way they laughed when you were trying to work, or how James seemed to think Lily owed him something just because he’d decided the universe wanted them together.

You’d tried confronting them, all of you.

“I’m not interested,” Lily had told James flat-out one day outside Charms. “No matter what your cheek tells you.”

“But you will be,” he’d replied, infuriatingly smug. “Eventually,”

You’d wanted to hex him on her behalf.

The worst part was how consistent they were. They just didn’t get bored. Most boys would move on after the first rejection—bruised ego, muttered grumbling. But not James Potter. He treated it like a game he was determined to win. Like every protest was just another obstacle the fates had set up to test his resolve.

It wasn’t romantic. It was exhausting.

And the more it went on, the more it began to change the dynamic between the two groups. The Marauders kept orbiting around you, even when it was obvious they weren’t welcome. Even Remus, who you thought might’ve had some basic common sense, proved to be just as bad.

You started changing your routes to class. Started choosing study corners furthest away from their usual haunts. You stopped walking the long way to Herbology because they’d wait for you by the greenhouse and pretend it was coincidence. But no matter what you did, they always found you.

It wasn’t even that they were mean. That might have been easier. They were just... there. Always.

And when they weren’t there, you caught yourself noticing.

It was a strange thing, realising how used you’d grown to their presence. How you’d memorised their stupid voices. How, occasionally, when Sirius didn’t say something clever and cutting in class, you’d feel the absence of it.

You don’t notice it at first—not really. Sirius Black is a lot of things: loud, charming, irritating, surprisingly clever when he wants to be. But what he is most of all is consistent. A constant thorn in your side. An ever-present source of chaos orbiting James Potter’s ego.

So when he starts acting strangely, it takes a while to catch your attention. At first, you chalk it up to more Marauder nonsense. Another prank brewing. Another hare-brained scheme. But then the weeks pass, and the silence stretches, and you begin to realise something is off.

He starts dating. A lot.

It begins in fourth year, the way most ridiculous boy behaviour begins—with no explanation, no warning, no respect for peace. One week it’s Emilia Montague, who has hair like spun gold and a voice that drips honey. Then it’s Jules Macmillan, who calls him “Black” and slaps his arm when he makes her laugh. A week later, he’s holding hands with Evan Rosier’s cousin at the Quidditch pitch.

It becomes a bit of a game, watching the trail of would-be soulmates.

You and the girls make a tally chart in the margins of your notes—Sirius' Heartbreak Count, complete with doodles. Lily calls it “tragic.” Dorcas calls it “desperate.” You’re inclined to agree with both.

He doesn’t seem happy with any of them.

There’s always a flicker of disappointment in his eyes after each kiss. Each failed attempt at connection. Like he’s waiting for something to spark and it never does. You don’t know why it bothers you—maybe it’s just strange, seeing Sirius Black not get what he wants.

What you don’t know, what none of the girls know, is that Sirius is searching.

Frantically, recklessly, hopelessly.

He tries everything. Girls, boys, dates by the lake, snogging in empty classrooms, brushing against strangers in Hogsmeade with his sleeves rolled up, just in case. Every time someone new touches his soulmark—just barely brushing the dark smear on his shoulder—he closes his eyes, waiting for the heat, the light, the magic.

It never comes.

He acts like he doesn’t care. Laughs about it. Brags. But the truth is: it’s killing him. Slowly. Quietly.

Because every time someone skims over that mark and nothing happens, a tiny piece of him breaks off. And he’s terrified there won’t be anything left by the time he finds the right person—if he ever does.

And then Peter finds his soulmate.

It happens at the beginning of fifth year. Quietly, almost accidentally. A Ravenclaw girl named Sybill, who spills an entire bottle of ink across Peter’s lap in the library while reaching for a Divination book. Their hands collide. Her fingers press against the side of his nose to wipe off a splotch of ink—and just like that, the brown mark on Peter’s skin disappears.

The Marauders explode with excitement.

James shouts. Remus claps Peter on the back. Even Sirius manages a grin, saying something like, “About bloody time,” and ruffling his hair.

But it’s forced. All of it.

Later that night, Sirius doesn’t join the celebration in the common room. He doesn’t toast with Butterbeer or tease Peter about marrying her. He disappears without a word. No one sees him until morning.

Peter can’t even bring himself to be annoyed. Not really. Not when he knows the truth.

Because they all know how much Sirius wants it. How much he needs it.

He’s never said it out loud, not fully, but they know. They’ve seen the way he looks at the mark on his arm. The way he flinches when someone mentions his family.

Sirius was born into a house that doesn’t believe in love.

That he used to stare at the stain on his own shoulder and imagine what kind of person would leave a mark like that. He’d lie awake at night thinking of how it would feel when the right hand met his skin and the darkness vanished. He promised himself he’d find them, whoever they were. That he wouldn’t settle for anything less than fate.

But now it’s fifth year, and everyone’s starting to find theirs.

Peter. A seventh-year Ravenclaw. Two Hufflepuff girls from their year.

And Sirius still wakes up every morning with the same mark on his arm. Still hears the echo of his mother’s voice every time he thinks he might be falling for someone who isn’t right.

“You’re a Black. You don’t need love. You need a legacy.”

Remus tries to comfort him, in that quiet, practical way of his.

“Maybe they’re not here,” he says one night as the two of them sit on the roof of the Astronomy Tower. “Maybe they’re a Muggle. Someone you’ll meet after school,”

Sirius scoffs. “And what? I’m supposed to wait until I’m forty to stop being miserable?”

James, bless his heart, tries to be optimistic.

“Maybe they’re in a different year. Or got expelled. Maybe you’ve walked past them and just didn’t notice!”

“I would’ve noticed,” Sirius says. “I always notice.”

And that’s the problem, really.

He notices everything. Every brush of skin, every accidental touch. Every time someone’s hand drifts too close to his shoulder, his breath catches. And every time it’s a false alarm, it hurts just that little bit more.

He stops dating after a while.

Stops pretending it’s fun. Stops trying to turn every crush into a cosmic sign. He goes quiet instead. Withdraws into himself in a way that startles the rest of the Marauders.

You notice too.

At first, you’re suspicious. Sirius Black, not flirting? Not loitering around with James and causing chaos in the corridors? Clearly something’s afoot. You and the girls watch him warily, waiting for the punchline. Waiting for whatever stupid, elaborate prank he’s been cooking up in the shadows.

But it never comes.

He just... stops.

He shows up to class. He does the work (mostly). He still laughs at James’ jokes and joins in on late-night games of Exploding Snap. But something about him feels dimmed. Like someone turned the brightness down and forgot to turn it back up again.

You catch him in the library once. Alone. Reading.

Not just pretending to read while scouting for mischief—actually reading. You don’t even realise it’s him at first, not until he tucks a strand of hair behind his ear and sighs, that heavy, exhausted kind of sigh you only let out when you’re tired of your own thoughts.

It’s strange, seeing him like that. Almost... human.

You don’t say anything. But you wonder.

You wonder what it would take to make a boy like Sirius Black lose his fire.

The others don’t know how to help.

James keeps trying to set him up at parties—“You’ve got to give Marlene a go, mate, you haven’t lived!”—but Sirius just shakes his head and makes excuses. Peter walks on eggshells around him now, too guilty to mention Sybill’s name. Even Remus has started watching Sirius like he’s waiting for him to fall apart.

And maybe he is.

Because Sirius is still staring at his soulmark every morning. Still pressing his fingers against the edge of it in the mirror, hoping for something to change. Still half-convinced that the universe has made some horrible mistake and left him behind.

And deep down, he’s terrified that one day he’ll stop believing entirely.

Terrified that he’ll become like his parents after all—loveless, cold, bound to someone he doesn’t care about out of duty or desperation. That he’ll wake up one day with a ring on his finger and still feel empty.

The Marauders try to reassure him, but there’s only so much comfort logic can offer when your heart is breaking.

“Maybe your soulmate’s just late,” Remus says.

Sirius smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah. Maybe.”

But he doesn’t believe it anymore.

And the worst part is—he thinks maybe he doesn’t deserve to.

—

It starts with one of James’ bright ideas—those three words guaranteed to end in absolute catastrophe.

You’d almost forgotten what they were like at full volume, the four of them together. Sirius has been quiet. James has been distracted by Quidditch. Peter’s been off somewhere playing the role of besotted boyfriend. Only Remus still walks with that same watchful calm, as though he’s just waiting for them all to detonate.

But now, spring has finally settled over the grounds, and apparently that’s all it takes for them to start acting like menaces again. Warm sun. Open skies. Exams far enough away to ignore. The perfect ingredients for trouble.

They pick a Saturday afternoon—when the courtyard is packed. Blankets spread across the grass, books open in sunbeams, students from all four houses lounging about, soaking up the rare spell of warm weather.

It’s almost peaceful.

Until, of course, it isn’t.

You don’t even see the beginning of it. One moment you’re mid-conversation with Lily and Mary, trying to decipher the reading Professor Vector assigned, and the next you hear it—a low, slow rumble that can only mean one thing: a spell misfiring, or worse, succeeding exactly as planned.

A bang. A crack. A distant cackling.

Then—chaos.

Water explodes from the central fountain like a geyser. But it’s not just water. It’s pink. And sticky. And foaming. Thick bubbles rain down in hot, fizzy clumps that stain robes and cling to hair.

Someone screams. Then someone else. People scramble, books flying, cloaks drenched.

The spell races outwards, triggering a domino effect. More fountains erupt. Flowerbeds launch their contents skyward. A tree nearby begins to moo like a cow. First-years scatter. You spot one poor Slytherin girl get absolutely bodied by a rogue jet of foam, which sends her skidding across the wet stone with a shriek.

And you?

You’re drenched. Covered in what smells distinctly like cherry-flavoured soap and glitter. Your scrolls are ruined. Your hair sticks to your forehead. A glob of pink bubbles drips from your left eyebrow into your eye, and it stings.

Mary coughs violently. Dorcas is doubled over, wiping foam out of her mouth. Lily looks like she might start setting people on fire.

And just when you think it couldn’t get worse—someone bursts into tears.

A whole group of first-years huddle near the corridor entrance, some of them crying, others shaking and soaked through. One boy is trying to wring out his bag, which is frothing like a cauldron gone wrong.

That’s when you see them.

James, Sirius, Peter and Remus, standing at the top of the courtyard steps like the gods of mischief themselves, admiring their handiwork. James is laughing. Doubling over with it. Sirius grins behind his hand, not quite as loud but no less smug. Even Remus has a reluctant smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, though he looks slightly apologetic when his gaze lands on the crying first-years.

But James? He lives for this.

He catches sight of you all below and grins wider, leaning on the bannister like a conquering hero. “You’re welcome!” he shouts, arms wide, as though he’s done the school a bloody favour.

And that’s Lily’s last straw.

You don’t even get the chance to stop her. One second she’s storming forward, and the next she’s standing toe-to-toe with James Potter, fire in her eyes, her wet robes whipping around her ankles like war banners.

“You complete, arrogant, idiotic—”

James’ smirk falters.

“Oh come on, Evans, it was funny! Just a bit of spring chaos. We’re making memories!”

“Memories? You’re lucky you didn’t traumatise those poor first-years! Do you have any idea how many people you’ve covered in Merlin-knows-what? Or if someone sprains an ankle from slipping on your ridiculous glitter spell?!”

James opens his mouth. Closes it. Looks at his friends, then back at Lily. And tries again with a laugh.

“It was just a bit of fun—”

The slap echoes.

You swear the whole courtyard goes silent.

It’s not violent, exactly. But it’s loud. Sharp. Final. James recoils more from shock than pain, hand flying to his cheek where the skin is rapidly turning red. He stares at Lily, wide-eyed, like he’s just seen something completely impossible.

Lily doesn’t wait for a reaction. She turns on her heel and marches away, spine stiff with rage.

You and the girls scramble after her, slipping and squelching through the aftermath. Marlene grabs your wrist before you can get too far.

“Wait.”

“What? We have to catch Lily—”

“No, look,” she hisses, pulling you back a few steps. “James.”

You turn.

James is still standing in place, dazed, fingers grazing his cheek.

But that’s not what Marlene’s pointing at.

You follow her gaze to the spot just beneath his eye. The place you and everyone else at Hogwarts has seen marked for years. The pale, milky-white handprint that always curved over his cheek like a ghost of affection, a sign from the universe that someone, somewhere, would one day hold his face with love.

It’s gone.

Completely.

Not faded. Not lightened. Just—vanished.

Your heart stops. Marlene inhales sharply.

“Oh no.”

Your mouth goes dry. You glance past her, back at the boys.

James is still frozen, his hand touching the cheek Lily slapped. There’s a dazed look in his eyes, like he’s been thrown out of orbit. Sirius is watching him with narrowed eyes, the ghost of a smile dying on his lips.

You feel a chill settle in your spine.

Because if Marlene’s right—if James’ soulmate mark has vanished—then that means...

“Bloody hell,” you breathe. “He was right.”

Marlene nods grimly. “We can’t let her find out like this.”

But it’s too late. Lily’s already disappeared into the castle, trailed by Dorcas and Mary, soaked and furious. And now you have to run after her. You have to get there before the realisation does.

You shove past Sirius’ shoulder as you go.

Deliberate. Sharp.

It’s not just anger. It’s disgust. You don’t even give him a word. Just that one hard nudge as you pass, an unspoken “You’ve crossed the line.”

He flinches.

Not because of the shove—Sirius Black isn’t afraid of a little contact—but because he feels it. The judgement. The disappointment. The thing he’s been trying to outrun since he realised he might not be better than the people who raised him.

You don’t look back.

You sprint through the castle corridors, foam drying on your skin, your clothes damp and clinging. The halls are still buzzing with the aftermath of the prank—students yelling, teachers trying to regain order, enchanted trees mooing somewhere in the distance.

You find Lily inside the girls’ bathroom, gripping the edge of a sink like she’s trying to hold herself together.

Her shoulders shake.

You slow to a walk.

Mary’s rubbing her back. Dorcas is pacing. No one knows what to say.

“She slapped him,” Dorcas says under her breath, half in awe.

“She bloody well should have,” you snap.

Lily looks up.

“Was it too far?” she asks. Her voice is fragile in a way you rarely hear. Like she’s trying to justify herself to the universe.

“No,” you say gently. “He deserved it.”

And it’s true.

You believe in soulmates. You believe in the magic of it—the wonder. But even magic doesn’t excuse cruelty. James Potter can be charming, and brave, and infuriatingly loyal, but today? Today he crossed a line. And you’re not going to let Lily think she was wrong for calling him out.

She nods, swiping a hand under her eyes.

“I just—I’m so tired of him thinking the world revolves around him. Like we’re all just extras in the James Potter show. And I know he thinks I’m his soulmate, but that doesn’t give him the right to treat people like that. Especially not you lot.”

You hesitate.

You glance at Marlene. She gives you a grim little nod.

“Lil...” you start.

She freezes.

“Don’t,” she says.

You flinch. “Lily—”

“Don’t,” she says again, firmer this time. “Don’t say it.”

You fall silent.

Because she knows. Of course she knows. The way James looked at her after the slap, like he’d just had something knocked out of him. The stark paleness of her palm.

She knows.

And you know what that means for her.

Lily Evans has spent the last five years being hunted by the boy who swears she’s destined for him. She’s spent every term, every class, every common room hour pushing back. Standing her ground. And now... the universe is laughing in her face.

She clutches the edge of the sink again, knuckles white.

“No,” she says. “I won’t let it be true.”

Mary reaches for her. “Lily—”

“No. I don’t care if the mark’s gone. I don’t care if he’s supposed to be my other half. He’s selfish, and he’s arrogant, and he doesn’t listen. That isn’t what I want in a soulmate. That isn’t what I deserve.”

None of you argue.

Because she’s right.

James Potter may be her soulmate. But that doesn’t mean he’s ready to be.

—

The dormitory is quiet, in that awful way that happens when something big has happened—something wrong. James lies curled on his bed, the heavy velvet hangings pulled back for once, as if no one quite has the heart to close him off from the rest of them. His shirt is wrinkled, glasses abandoned on his dresser, and he hasn’t said anything in over an hour. Not since he’d stammered his way through the story, not since he showed them the now-unmarked skin of his cheek and murmured, “It’s gone.”

And it is. Gone.

There’s nothing left on his face. Not even a faint outline or shadow. Just smooth skin, still red from Lily’s slap. There’s no magic glow, no dramatic fanfare—just absence. That was the moment, and it’s over.

James stares at the ceiling as though he can find answers in the wooden beams above.

Remus sits nearby, his Transfiguration book forgotten in his lap, watching him with silent worry. Peter’s perched awkwardly at the edge of his own bed, fidgeting with the sleeve of his pyjama top. Sirius hasn’t even changed yet, which is strange in itself. He’s still in his robes, arms crossed, leaning against the bedpost like he’s afraid if he sits down it’ll make the whole thing too real.

“She slapped me,” James says at last, his voice hollow.

No one replies. What could they possibly say?

“I thought—I always thought it would be different. Like... I thought she’d kiss me, maybe. Or—bloody hell, even hug me. I’ve imagined it so many times. My soulmate mark disappearing while she’s holding my face—like in the books, yeah? All romantic. She’d look at me and know.” He lets out a short, bitter laugh. “But no. She slapped me. She hated me in that moment. That’s what the mark was all along. A physical reminder that my soulmate despises my existence.”

Sirius shifts his weight, looking down at the floor.

“She doesn’t hate you,” Remus says gently. “She was angry. There’s a difference.”

James doesn’t answer. He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes and takes a shaky breath, but it comes out wrong—hitching, like he’s holding something back and failing.

“I was right,” he says, voice cracking. “All this time. Everyone told me I was wrong, that I was being delusional, but I was right. She’s my soulmate.”

“And now you’re miserable about it,” Peter mutters.

James lets out a choked sound that might be a laugh or a sob or both. “Because she didn’t want to be. Not like that. She touched me for the first time because she was furious. That’s not... that’s not what it’s supposed to be.”

Sirius finally sits. Slowly. Quietly.

He wants to say something. But what? That he understands? That he’s sorry? He doesn’t know what comfort would even look like in a moment like this. He’s spent so long chasing the idea of soulmates, of finding someone who would make everything else make sense, and now that it’s actually happened to James—look at him.

He’s shattered.

Remus slides closer to James and places a hand on his shoulder. “Just because that was the first touch, doesn’t mean it’s the one that defines you both forever,”

James looks at him like he wants to believe that. Like he’s desperate to hold onto something, anything, but the shock is still too fresh.

“I need to lie down,” he mutters, and he does—curling onto his side, facing the wall, his breath uneven. The boys don’t speak after that. The air is heavy, like someone’s cast a silencing charm that chokes instead of quiets.

He cries. Quietly, at first. Then with broken little sounds he tries to smother with his pillow. Until eventually, there’s nothing left in him. He just wilts, tension draining out of his limbs, and within half an hour, he’s asleep—face still blotchy, fists still clenched.

They don’t close his bed curtains.

Remus takes the book off his lap and folds it closed with a sigh. “This is all... bloody grim,” he mutters.

Peter nods. “I didn’t think it would hurt when someone found their soulmate,”

“It doesn’t,” Sirius says, his voice hoarse. “It shouldn’t,”

He stands slowly. Pulls his wand and begins to unfasten the enchanted buttons on his robes, too tired for anything else.

Peter looks up, and the moment Sirius pulls his shirt off, there’s a gasp.

Loud. Audible. Shocked.

Sirius freezes.

Remus sits bolt upright. “What?”

Peter’s eyes are wide. “It’s gone,” he says. “Sirius—your mark. It’s gone.”

Sirius turns to the mirror near his bed so fast it rattles.

And... it is.

The smear that had haunted his shoulder for his entire life—like ink spilled across parchment—is gone. Completely. Clean skin where for seventeen years there had been a swirling mess of fate.

His mouth goes dry.

“No—no, no, no—”

He twists, trying to see if maybe it’s an illusion, or if the mark’s somehow moved, but it hasn’t. It’s not there. Not anymore.

He met them. His soulmate. And he didn’t even know.

He stumbles back from the mirror, breathing fast. “Who—who—?”

But even as he says it, the memory flashes. Hard and hot.

Your shoulder hitting his as you shoved past him on your way to follow Lily. The disgust in your eyes. The sharp tension in your jaw. You hadn’t said a word. But you’d touched him.

And now the mark is gone.

Sirius stumbles backward and sinks onto the edge of his bed.

“Oh, Merlin,” he whispers. “No. No, no, no.”

Peter is watching him with wide eyes. “You never touched her before?”

“I didn’t know!” Sirius snaps. “I didn’t even realise it was you! I mean—her. You know who I mean. I am stressed.”

Remus is still sitting stiff-backed on James’ bed, but his attention has fully shifted. “You’re sure it was her?”

“She shoved me,” Sirius mutters, staring at his shoulder like he could magic the mark back into existence through sheer willpower. “Right after Lily slapped James. Just... barged past me like I was nothing. But she touched me.”

“And you didn’t feel anything?”

“Not at the time.”

“...Do you now?”

Sirius goes quiet. Slowly, he places a hand over his shoulder—over the empty spot where the mark used to be.

It’s warm. But not from contact. From within. A lingering hum of magic, like the echo of something once powerful now stilled. Or maybe it’s just his internal body temperature. He really doesn’t know right now.

“No*,*” he murmurs. “Maybe? I don’t know—”

Peter clears his throat. “Well... you found your soulmate. That’s supposed to be good, right?”

Sirius laughs—short and bitter. “She hates me.”

Peter winces. “Oh.”

“I mean, she doesn’t slap me in public, but she’s made it perfectly clear what she thinks of me and the rest of us.”

Remus leans forward, elbows on knees. “Maybe it’s not what you think,”

“She shoved me, Moony. Deliberately. It wasn’t a stumble, it was on purpose. And she looked at me like I was filth.”

Remus opens his mouth, then closes it.

The dorm is quiet again. Only the soft rhythm of James’ breathing breaks the silence.

Sirius rests his head in his hands.

“I’ve spent my entire life waiting for this,” he whispers. “All the rubbish my family taught me, all the coldness and cruelty—I thought if I could just find my soulmate, it would all be worth it. That I’d finally get to have something real.”

Remus moves to sit beside him.

“But it’s not like I imagined,” Sirius says. “She doesn’t want me. She doesn’t even like me. And I didn’t even know it was her. How could I not know? Isn’t that the whole point of soulmates? That you just... feel it?”

Remus is quiet for a long moment.

“I think,” he says eventually, “soulmates aren’t about one moment. They’re about choosing. About what you do with the bond once it’s formed. Fate puts you in each other’s paths. It doesn’t promise it’ll be easy,”

“I wanted it to be easy,” Sirius admits. “I needed it to be,”

Peter lies back on his bed, eyes on the ceiling. “So did James,”

Sirius glances over at James’ sleeping form—his face slack, the traces of dried tears still visible in the soft light from the window. And suddenly, Sirius feels sick.

They’d both spent so long believing that soulmates would fix everything.

But what if they don’t?

What if the person you’re meant for doesn’t want you back? What if you’re not who they want?

Sirius doesn’t sleep that night. None of them really do.

The dormitory stays dim and heavy, thick with unanswered questions.

—

You don’t realise anything’s changed until you peel off your shirt in the showers that night.

The steam clouds the mirror, thick and cloying, but your reflection is still visible through the condensation. You’re barely paying attention—too wrapped up in the tangle of emotion and disaster that had been the day. You’d barely managed to get Lily back to the dormitory before she’d started crying, silent and furious and heartbroken all at once, like she couldn’t figure out where the anger ended and the betrayal began.

You’d held her hand. Rubbed slow circles on her back. Said all the right things, and meant them.

You’re still thinking about her—about the look on her face when she’d slapped James, the silence that followed—when you glance in the mirror and see it.

Or rather, you don’t see it.

You freeze.

Your towel drops slightly, caught on your elbow as your hand lifts on instinct, fingers brushing the bare skin of your shoulder. Your breath hitches.

Because the mark is gone.

You stare. For a full five seconds, you try to convince yourself that maybe the steam’s playing tricks, that maybe it’s still there and you just can’t see it clearly, but no—your fingers sweep across smooth, warm skin. Nothing. No trace of the strange, smudged mark that’s been with you for as long as you can remember.

Gone. Just like that.

The only thing different today—the only moment it could have been—was in the courtyard, when you’d shoved past Sirius Black with all the venom you could muster and didn’t even look back.

You’d touched him.

Your stomach lurches.

No. No, no, no.

You grip the sink, knuckles whitening.

It can’t be.

Except, it clearly is.

You stand there for a long moment, half-naked and shaking slightly, trying not to spiral. Because if Sirius Black is your soulmate—Sirius Black, who’s been a menace since year one, who charms and pranks and flirts and smirks and acts like the world should kiss the ground he walks on—then what does that say about you?

Nothing. Not yet. This doesn't have to mean anything, not right now.

You inhale through your nose. Count slowly to four.

Then exhale. Focus.

This isn’t the time.

Lily needs you. Lily, who’s just had her own horrible soulmate revelation, whose best moment turned out to be her worst, who is currently lying on her bed pretending not to cry, refusing to talk to anyone but you.

You straighten up. Wipe the mirror with the corner of your towel. Look yourself in the eye.

Whatever’s happening with Sirius—whatever the universe just decided to dump on your lap—it can wait.

You have more important things to deal with.

—

When you return to the dorm, your hair still damp and sticking slightly to your cheeks, Lily’s lying on her side, facing the wall. Marlene and Mary have gone quiet, sitting together on the far bed, shooting you looks that speak volumes.

No one says it. No one has to.

They know too.

You can see it in the way Marlene’s gaze flicks to your shoulder, then back to your eyes. The way Mary’s lips purse like she’s holding something in.

You nod, barely perceptible. They understand. They don’t press.

You cross the room and settle on Lily’s bed without needing to ask. Her duvet rustles as she shifts slightly, and when you place a gentle hand on her shoulder, she doesn’t shrug you off.

That’s something, at least.

You sit in silence for a while. It’s not uncomfortable. Just heavy. Loaded.

Then she says, voice muffled and raw, “He laughed.”

You blink. “What?”

“When I slapped him,” she murmurs, turning slightly to glance at you. Her eyes are red-rimmed, lashes stuck together. “He laughed. I don’t think he meant to, but he did. Like it was funny. Like I was... like he didn’t even get it.”

You shake your head slowly. “I don’t think it was that.”

“Well, then what was it?” Her voice wobbles. “He’s always made it a joke, hasn’t he? Me. Us. His soulmate thing. Like I’m something he’s already won, just because some stupid magic says so.”

You squeeze her shoulder.

“I didn’t ask for this,” she whispers. “I didn’t want this.”

“I know,”

“I feel like he’s stolen something from me.”

You press your lips together. “He didn’t mean to,”

“That doesn’t change it.”

You don’t argue.

She sniffles, and you pass her the tissue you’d pocketed from the bathroom on instinct. She wipes her nose, then stares at the ceiling.

“What if this is it?” she asks. “What if this is who I’m meant to end up with?”

Your chest tightens.

“Then the universe has a really shit sense of humour,”

That earns a small laugh—barely there, but enough. Enough to let you breathe again.

“I don’t want to be bound to someone who doesn’t respect me,” she says. “Who thinks everything’s a game. I’m not just a puzzle to be solved.”

“I know,” you say again. “You’re allowed to be angry,”

Lily turns to you fully now, tucking her legs up under the blanket.

“Do you think soulmates are... inevitable?”

It takes a second before you answer.

“No. I think they’re possible. Not guaranteed. You still have to choose each other. Every day. Some people don’t. Some people can’t.”

She nods. “What would you do?”

You hesitate.

And she sees it. Sharp green eyes narrowing slightly. “Wait. You’re not—?”

You swallow.

“I found out in the shower,”

“Who?”

You don’t answer immediately.

She sits up straighter, frowning. “Who?”

“Sirius.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then, “Oh no.”

“Yeah.”

She flops back against the pillows. “You’re joking,”

“I wish,”

She groans into the duvet, hands over her face. “This is cursed. This whole week is cursed.”

“I know,”

“And you touched him?”

“I didn’t know, I shoved him—”

“Still counts,” she mutters.

You sigh, tipping your head back to stare at the canopy above. “This is my nightmare.”

Lily peeks through her fingers. “Does he know?”

“Probably. If his mark disappeared,”

“Bloody hell.”

You nod. “Yeah,”

There’s a pause.

Then: “Do you think he’ll say something?”

You snort. “It’s Sirius. He’ll probably write a speech,”

Lily doesn’t laugh. Not quite. But her mouth quirks in a way that feels close.

She lies back beside you and you both stare at the ceiling for a while.

The air between you settles. Still heavy, but softer somehow. Shared.

You don’t talk about the future. Or what comes next. Or what you’re supposed to do now that your entire understanding of the world has shifted in a single day.

You just are. Together. Grounded in the now.

And for tonight, that’s enough.

—

It’s weeks.

Weeks of sidelong glances and awkward tension, of group projects rearranged so the Marauders don’t have to work with you lot, of meals taken at opposite ends of the Great Hall, and corridors that somehow feel colder when you pass Sirius Black without a word.

You don’t speak. Neither of you does.

But you look.

More often than you mean to, probably. He’s always there—hovering in your periphery, just beyond the safe reach of indifference. And sometimes, when you do catch his eye across the classroom, across the courtyard, across the common room—your heart stutters. Not romantically. Not even longingly.

Just... confusedly.

Like your body knows something you haven’t given your mind permission to explore.

You haven’t let yourself dwell on it. Not properly. Every time your thoughts edge toward him—toward what it means, toward what it could mean—you feel like you might actually be sick. The whole situation knots your stomach. So you shut it out. Bury it beneath essays and exam prep and Lily’s slow process of healing. You focus on her. On your friends. On anything else.

But Sirius?

He thinks about it.

Constantly.

He obsesses, really.

At first, he doesn’t know why you haven’t said anything. He waits for a confrontation. An insult. A blow-up. Something. But it never comes. You just look through him like he’s a smudge on glass—visible but irrelevant.

So he convinces himself you’re disappointed. Of course you are. He’s a bloody wreck of a person. What kind of soulmate is he supposed to be? The one who hexed half the school for fun and made first years cry in the courtyard? The one who chased flirtation like it was a sport and never stuck around for anything real?

He’s not soulmate material. Not the kind you’d want, anyway.

So he watches you. Quietly. Miserably.

You, meanwhile, do a spectacular job of pretending none of this is happening.

Until, finally—finally—he cracks.

—

You’re walking alone to the library after dinner—quill case tucked under one arm, satchel banging against your hip—and Sirius intercepts you at the stairwell.

He doesn’t say anything straight away. Just blocks the path with one foot planted on the top step, the other resting two steps below.

You eye him, unimpressed. “Can I help you?”

He swallows. Runs a hand through his hair. It’s messier than usual. Less styled.

“We need to talk,” he says.

You glance past him. “I don’t have time—”

“I’m not trying to pick a fight,” he interrupts. “I swear. Just—listen for a second. Please.”

You fold your arms. “Fine. Talk.”

Sirius exhales. “I know you know,”

Your stomach clenches. But your face remains carefully blank.

“I know your mark’s gone,” he continues. “Mine is too. I saw it the night James’ disappeared. And you... you shoved me that day. I felt it.”

You stare at him. Unmoving. Silent.

“So,” he says. “We should probably have a conversation about what comes next,”

A bitter laugh escapes before you can help it.

“What comes next?” you repeat.

“Yes. I mean—if we’re soulmates—”

“If?” you cut in, raising an eyebrow.

He falters. “I meant... since.”

You shake your head. “No. See, this is exactly the problem. You think just because we’ve got some magical cosmic tattoo situation that suddenly we’re meant to be.”

“That’s not what I—”

“Yes, it is,” you snap. “That’s what you’ve always believed, isn’t it? That it would be this grand, perfect thing. That you’d meet your soulmate and everything would just fall into place.”

His mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

You press on.

“Well, I don’t believe that,” you say. “Because just because someone’s your soulmate doesn’t mean they’re right for you. It doesn’t mean they deserve you. And it definitely doesn’t mean you’re obligated to like them.”

Sirius flinches.

You cross your arms tighter over your chest. “And I don’t like you, Sirius.”

The words hang in the air between you. Thicker than fog. Sharper than broken glass.

He stares at you.

You expect him to be angry. To scoff or sneer or shrug you off.

But he just... looks hurt.

Not dramatic. Not performative. Just gutted.

It’s the quiet that does it. The way his shoulders fold in slightly, like you’ve knocked the wind out of him. Like something’s come loose inside his chest.

He drops his gaze. “Right,” he says, softly. “Yeah. Okay.”

You hate how your chest aches at the sight of him. Hate the part of you that wants to apologise, to take the edge off your words, to explain that it’s not really about him, but more about what he represents—the expectations, the fate, the lack of choice.

But you don’t.

Because it is about him. At least partly.

You step around him. “There’s nothing else to say.”

And you leave him standing there, alone on the stairs.

—

He doesn’t sleep that night.

He lies awake in the dormitory, staring at the canopy, James’ soft snores filling the space between the beds.

He replays your words over and over, like a record stuck in a skip.

I don’t like you, Sirius.

He’d spent years searching. Desperate. Starved for the connection his family denied. He thought finding his soulmate would fix him. Would make it all make sense.

But you want nothing to do with him.

And maybe that’s fair.

Maybe he doesn’t deserve it.

But for the first time in a long time, Sirius doesn’t wallow in that thought. He doesn’t spiral, or storm out, or pick a fight with someone just to feel something.

He makes a decision.

He’s going to prove himself.

If you don’t like him, he’ll become someone worth liking.

Not for the mark. Not because fate says so.

But because he wants to.

Because you’re brilliant. Because you didn’t fall over yourself at the thought of being soul-bound to him. Because you called him out. Because you see him, even when you wish you didn’t.

And because something in his chest—something ancient and aching—still hopes.

He’s going to show you he can be better.

He’s going to earn it.

— part two.

#marauders #marauders fanfiction #harry potter fanfiction #sirius black #sirius black x reader #sirius black fluff #sirius black angst

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