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ghostedgwen · 7 days ago

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inside her fantasy | s.black

notes : so, finally a very long 8.6k words fic for Sirius. I had scrapped this many many times, changed plots like 4 times and even tried to just eat my keyboard while writing this but FINALLY I finished!! Thank u for 900 followers, ily all!!! somuch!!!!!

warnings : reader has an ancient blood curse with no cure, based on sleeping beauty- loosely, LOTS and LOTS of angst, the first wizarding war plot line, character death(s), mention of war and grief and loss, marauders angst (yk the rest)

Sirius Black never thought he would ever stop playing and offer his heart to someone else until he met her, but how does a man out of time keep a girl awake and within his reach? In which a girl is cursed to fall asleep, never to wake, and Sirius is hopelessly in love with her.

. . . Trends change, rumors fly through new skies but I'm right where you left me.

It starts with a dare, like all good stories involving the Marauders do.

You swap a fellow Hufflepuff's pumpkin juice for firewhisky before breakfast, right under the nose of three Prefects and a hovering ghost. You flash your friends a triumphant grin, and the moment the poor bloke takes a gulp and splutters across the table, you let out a laugh that makes heads turn.

One of those heads belongs to Sirius Black.

He doesn't laugh like everyone else. No, he watches for a moment, assessing, then leans over to James with a smirk. "Think we got ourselves another pranskter."

You catch it. Of course you do. You raise an eyebrow across the table and say, loud enough for him to hear, "You say that like you own the rights for pranks, Black."

James snorts. Sirius pretends to be wounded. "And here I was, thinking I was being complimentary."

"Don’t strain yourself," you say. "You might pull a muscle patting yourself on the back."

Something flickers behind his eyes. Interest, maybe. Or the thrill of not being immediately adored - he was too deep in his and his friends' adventures to truly notice everyone else. Specially that you wore a yellow robe, too forgetable for him.

James grabs his arm. "We’ve got practice, mate. Come on."

He stands, but he throws one last glance over his shoulder before he leaves. Right at you, you give him a mocking wave and you get a shit-eating grin in return.

You were caught sneaking back in from the Owlery.

He was caught hexing Filch’s office door so it screamed every time someone knocked.

Now you’re side by side, polishing trophies that haven't seen the light of day since 1903. Your fingers are smudged with Brasso. The room smells like lemon and resentment and old.

"So," he says, halfway through a plaque commemorating a Gobstones champion, "what’s your best detention story?"

You grin. "I once convinced McGonagall that Peeves framed me. Drew a whole diagram and everything."

Sirius lets out a laugh that bounces off the marble. "That’s impressive. I usually just take the blame and try to look roguish while doing it."

"That explains the ego," you reply, smirking.

He narrows his eyes, mock offended. "You’re not as clever as you think you are."

You pause, toss him a sideways glance. "And you’re not as clever as you think you are."

There’s a beat.

Then he grins. Wide and wolfish. "Then I’ll have to try harder, won’t I?"

And just like that, the dynamic begins.

The pumpkins explode in perfect sequence: one after the other, like a line of golden-orange fireworks down the centre of the Great Hall.

Everyone cheers. The Marauders look vaguely shocked, for once caught off guard by a grand prank -

Because the original plan wasn't supposed to work that well. And definitely not with the added effect of floating bats that shriek "Boo!" in different languages.

You had overheard their plotting. Tweaked a few spell matrices. Subtle improvements. You're not a glory-hog, but thought to add your own flair.

Sirius corners you near the staircase hours later, after the chaos has started to die down - he looked like he had been hunting you since it all went off.

"You meddled."

You feign innocence. "I improved. There’s a difference."

"You should join us."

You raise your brow. "I work alone."

Nevermind the fact you just tinkered with their pranks, you decided against joining their little band of Marauders as you didn't fancy being the only girl in their little boys group.

You'd rather do your own thing.

Moments later, Filch comes stomping down the corridor, waving a list of suspects. You grab Sirius's hand without thinking.

"Hide."

He doesn’t question it. He lets you drag him to the small, tight place between walls where a statue was located, you squeezed yourselves behind it.

He whispers, "You really are a menace."

"Takes one to know one, Black."

Your breath fogs in the silence. His eyes catch yours. For a moment, the world shrinks. Just the sound of your heartbeat and the feel of his coat brushing your arm.

He doesn’t kiss you.

But he wants to.

He asks you like it’s nothing. Like it’s a joke, and perhaps it was. He had insisted so, justifying it in his head.

"Fancy a trip to Hogsmeade? I hear Honeydukes has a new licorice wand."

You smirk. "Only if you’re paying. And I want a scone. With clotted cream."

He blinks, not expecting you to say yes. He half-expected you to make fun of him for it or perhaps hex him at his audacity.

He broke into a grin at that, unbelievably successful. "Done."

You go. It’s cold and overcast and perfect. Sirius has managed to shrug James off who whined non-stop about being left alone for yet another date.

James Potter ever the brat was complaining that, "Mates before dates!" but Sirius left him.

You tease each other the whole way there, and the whole way back.

Inside the tea shop, he stares at the way you scrape the jam across your plate and says, "You’re not like anyone else, you know."

You tilt your head. "That sounds suspiciously like a line - am I supposed to swoon now?"

He sighs, knowing you'd respond with a bite like always. He leans back. "It’s not. I just meant - "

"I’m not interested in being Sirius Black’s next conquest," you interrupt, quiet but firm.

For once, he has no retort.

For once, something cracks in his expression. Just for a second, that you barely caught it.

Then he masks it with a grin. "I’d never break your heart."

You don’t believe him. But you wish you could.

The tower is asleep - but as always, one Gryffindor is out of bed.

Sirius sits on the edge of his bed, candle flickering low beside him. His parchment is blotchy with crossed-out lines.

He thought about practising it first, writing down his thoughts and feelings and words he dared not say on parchment before he blurts them out to you.

In fear that he'd say it wrong - or you wouldn't take it too well. He resorted to writing his feelings down, it made him feel almost embarrassed. Almost.

I don’t know why I keep thinking about you.

Maybe it’s because you don’t make it easy.

Maybe it’s because when I’m around you, I’m not just ‘Sirius Black’ - I’m something I don’t hate.

He finishes the letter at that after many revisions, numerous lines crossed out and ink droplets staining the edges of the texts. He stares at it, blinks once -

Then he folded it, tucked into the bottom of his trunk. Probably not to be seen ever again by any other soul, specially not the person it was written for.

He went to bed with a heavy weight on his chest.

Your friends surprise you with a pile of sweets and a stack of cards. Someone charms the banner to say Happy Birthday, You Absolute Legend. There’s music, and dancing, and laughter that lights up the whole room.

You were against them throwing a whole party but they insisted. Your dormmates had birthdays outside of school, right during holidays and summer breaks so they insisted on celebrating yours.

You couldn't dodge out of it any longer and it soon turned into a big thing with other people from the other houses piling into your common room, all invited, to celebrate your coming-of-age.

Sirius gives you a wrapped package the size of a wand. Inside is a quill - you eye it with distrust as it couldn't be that simple with him.

"What does it do?" you ask, raising a brow with a coy grin.

He smirks. "Try it."

You scribble your name across a napkin. The quill shimmers, then begins writing compliments beneath it: Wittiest girl in the castle. Eyes like midnight mischief. Dangerous in the best way.

You laugh so hard at the words that you felt tears in your eyes.

During the festivites, you decided you have had enough and snuck out so effortlessly, you climb the stairs to the Astronomy Tower.

Sirius follows, wordlessly, you didn't even mind him following you in there. Much too happy by everything that had happened to feel anything but pure happiness.

The stars are out, constellations drawn out to scatter across the night sky. You can feel the cold wind brushing past you, but you’re warm.

Must've been the Firewhiskey.

He stands beside you, watching how the moon illuminated your face. How the white light cast an almost blue hue across your features, like you were a painting come to life.

He leans in, despite himseld and you immediately caught it. Pressing a hand to his chest to stop him, your palms staying flat against his jacket. You give him a small smile.

"Not yet," you whisper.

He doesn’t push, he just slowly nods, accepting the rejection.

"Seventeen feels. . . big," you say, eyes on the sky, turning away from him before you could reject pushing him away before he could even close the distance.

"You’ve got time," he tells you.

You smile, soft. Sad, somehow.

"I know."

The library was unusually silent for a Thursday evening. You knew that most students had already left to their common rooms or gone to dinner, escaping the biting chill that had settled over the castle.

Even the ghosts, those eternal spirits who haunted the halls, seemed to have retreated into their own restless slumber, leaving the space in a fragile, almost sacred silence. Rows of towering bookshelves stretched into the shadows, their dark wood and brass fittings gleaming faintly in the low glow of the lanterns, like silent sentinels guarding ancient secrets.

You sat curled in one of the oversized armchairs near the far window, your legs tucked beneath you, a pile of books and loose parchment spread across your lap.

Your ink-stained fingers moved furiously, scribbling notes, ideas, or perhaps just trying to clear your mind. Your quill tapped rhythmically against your lips as you thought, lost in the world of your own making, unaware of anyone else’s presence.

The truth was, you weren’t supposed to be here. You hated the library on principle - so quiet, so organized, so full of reminders of work you’d rather avoid. But tonight, it was a refuge of sorts, a quiet space where you could escape the chaos of school and the pressure of exams.

Besides, you liked the solitude. It was easier to think when no one was around.

Until you felt that familiar, restless energy stir within you.

You weren’t sure what it was exactly - maybe boredom, maybe the need for distraction. Maybe a desire to defy the dull routine of school life. Whatever it was, it made you glance around and contemplate your options. Perhaps a little mischief. A quick prank to liven things up.

You shifted slightly in the chair, lifting your quill and preparing to scribble a note to yourself or perhaps an amused doodle. That’s when you noticed him.

Sirius Black.

He was leaning casually against one of the bookshelves, his dark hair falling into his eyes, a crooked grin curling on his lips. His eyes flicked over you with a teasing glint, as if he knew exactly what you were thinking. You tried to ignore him, but you knew better.

He sauntered over, boots silent on the stone floor, a devilish smirk on his face. You could see the glint of mischief in his eyes, the way he always looked at you when he was about to do something he knew you’d hate.

"Well, well," he drawled, voice low and amused. "What do we have here? A little angel hiding in the library after hours?"

You rolled your eyes, pretending to ignore him. "Not your concern, Black."

He chuckled softly, leaning down slightly so his face was level with yours. "Come on, don’t be like that. I thought we were friends."

You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction, but you couldn’t help the faint smile tugging at your lips. Sirius always knew how to push your buttons - in the worst and best ways.

He reached out, fingertips grazing the spine of a dusty, leather-bound tome on the table next to your chair. His eyes gleamed mischievously. "Thinking of a little prank, are we?"

Your heart skipped a beat, and you quickly looked away, trying to hide your grin. "Not this time, Black."

He leaned closer, voice lowering to a whisper. "Come on, I know you’re dying for some trouble. Just one little thing."

You hesitated. You knew he was right - your usual impulse was to stir up chaos, to shake things up. But tonight, you felt something different. A flicker of unease, maybe. Something about the way you were feeling - restless, distracted, almost jittery - made you pause.

Sirius, however, was relentless.

He reached for the nearest book on the table - an enormous, dusty volume - and grinned wider. "How about I give this a little shove? Bet it’d make a hell of a noise."

You rolled your eyes. "You’re hopeless."

He chuckled again. "You’re just afraid I’ll beat you to it."

You shook your head, trying to focus on your work again. But then, something caught your eye. You felt it before you saw it: the strange stillness in your body, the way your fingers suddenly refused to move, the sensation that your mind had gone quiet, almost as if you’d fallen into a trance.

You didn’t realize until a moment later that you’d gone completely still, your eyes fixed on a point far away.

Suddenly, Sirius’s voice broke through your concentration. "Oi, princess," he said softly, crouching down beside your chair. "You’re gonna fall asleep in the library like that? Not exactly the look you’re going for."

You didn’t respond. For a moment, you didn’t even blink. The silence stretched, heavy and oppressive.

He nudged your shoulder gently. "Come on, wake up. Hey."

Nothing.

Your heart fluttered - an odd, sinking feeling you couldn’t quite place. You were alive, weren’t you? You felt your chest rise and fall. But something was wrong. You couldn’t move. You couldn’t speak.

Sirius’s brow furrowed. "Oi, what’s going on?" he asked softly, reaching out to shake you more firmly. "This isn’t funny."

Still, you remained frozen, eyes staring blankly ahead. Your head lolled slightly to the side, your body slack in the chair’s embrace. A shiver ran down your spine; a primal instinct told you that something was terribly wrong.

He reached out, fingers trembling slightly, and gently shook your shoulders. "Come on, talk to me. Wake up."

No response.

His heart hammered in his chest. You weren’t responding. Your body was limp, unnaturally still.

"No, no, no," he whispered, voice cracking. Panic rising. His mind raced - what was happening?

He pressed his ear as close as he dared to your chest, listening desperately for a heartbeat. There it was, faint but steady - faint, slow, like a distant drum. You were alive, somehow, but not present. Not really.

His breath hitched as he stared at you, helpless.

"Please, no," he muttered, voice thick with emotion.

Without thinking, Sirius slid his arms under your body, lifting you carefully, cradling you against his chest as if afraid you’d shatter. Your head lolled against his collarbone, limp and unresponsive. His heart pounded harder now, pounding so loudly he was sure you could hear it.

He sprinted through the rows of books, knocking over stacks in his haste, ignoring the startled shouts of Madam Pince, who hurried after him.

"Help! Somebody, I need help!" Sirius shouted, voice echoing down the corridor as he burst out into the hallway.

The hospital wing smelled like lavender and antiseptic, a familiar blend that didn’t bring comfort tonight. Madame Pomfrey was at her desk, meticulously organizing vials and bandages, when the doors swung open with a gust of wind and Sirius burst in, clutching you carefully.

Her eyes widened in alarm at the sight of you, unconscious and limp in his arms. "What happened?"

"I don’t know," Sirius gasped, pounding his fist against his chest as he tried to catch his breath. "She was just sitting there. She wouldn’t wake up."

Pomfrey hurried forward, her hands deft and sure. "Bring her here," she ordered, taking you from Sirius’s trembling grip and laying you gently onto a bed.

"She’s alive," Pomfrey said, brow furrowing. "But she’s not sleeping. This is . . . different."

Sirius clenched his fists, helpless and desperate. "What do you mean? Is she hurt?"

Pomfrey shook her head slowly. "It’s not a physical injury. This is magical. Or perhaps. . . something darker."

He looked at her, eyes wide with disbelief. "A curse?"

She nodded grimly. "Most likely. A very old, very powerful one."

Sirius felt the ground shift beneath his feet. "A curse? How? Why? I - "

Before he could finish, the door swung open again, and Professor Dumbledore entered with his usual calm grace, his robes flowing behind him like a gentle wave. His blue eyes, however, were sharp with concern.

He moved swiftly to your bedside, examining you with quiet precision. His fingers hovered over your brow, then traced down to your wrist.

"Leave us for a moment, Sirius," Dumbledore said softly, voice calm but firm.

Sirius hesitated, his jaw tight. But he nodded, stepping back into the corner, watching helplessly as Dumbledore’s gaze flicked over your still form.

He could hear the whispering of Pomfrey’s concerned murmurs, see the way her brow furrowed as she studied you.

Finally, Dumbledore turned to Sirius, his expression grave. "This is no ordinary sleep," he announced.

"You said it’s a curse," Sirius pressed. "Can you fix it?"

Dumbledore’s expression darkened, the lines around his eyes deepening as he folded his hands in front of him. “I wish I could. But some magic was forged not to be broken. This is a blood curse - ancient.”

Sirius stared at you. At the way your head lolled to the side, still tucked in close to your shoulder like you’d just drifted off mid-sentence. Your hand was still curled around your quill, ink smeared at the base of your palm. You looked so alive. Too alive to be cursed. Too alive to be gone.

But you weren’t breathing right. Not deeply, not the way you did when you fell asleep in the Common Room after a long patrol. He would’ve teased you for it, if this were different - how you snored just a little when you were really knackered, how your mouth always parted like you were in the middle of some secret dream. But there was none of that now.

Just stillness. Just silence.

“She was fine,” he said again, voice quieter this time. "She was laughing at McGonagall’s robes in Transfiguration. Making that bloody stupid joke about animagus hats. She was fine.”

Dumbledore looked at him, and there was no comfort in his eyes - only something impossibly old. “These curses often lie dormant until they are triggered. A moment of emotional intensity. Prolonged exhaustion. Sometimes even something as simple as turning seventeen. We don’t always know what wakes them.”

Sirius blinked hard. His throat was starting to close. “And now what? What do we do now?”

Dumbledore sighed. “We wait.”

“No,” Sirius snapped, too quickly, voice breaking on the edge of it. “That’s not- that’s not good enough.”

The air around him tightened, buzzing beneath his skin like he was about to explode. He’d lived his whole life under someone else’s control - his family, his bloody name, the rules of the castle, the limits of what magic could and couldn’t do - but this was different.

This was you. You weren’t supposed to fall asleep in a library and never wake up.

“This isn’t happening,” he muttered, raking a hand through his hair, pacing like he might wear a hole through the stone. “She’s not some fairytale. She’s not some . . . cursed maiden locked in a tower. She’s her. She’s stubborn, and she hates studying, and she always steals the last bit of toast when she thinks I’m not looking - she’s real.”

“I know,” Dumbledore said, quiet as ever.

“She can’t just - ” Sirius’s voice cracked again. “She can’t just go.”

“She’s not gone.”

“But you don’t know when she’s coming back.” The words scraped out of his throat like they’d been broken inside him. “You don’t know if she ever will.”

Silence.

And then, Dumbledore spoke again - gently, but with the weight of someone who had seen too much. “This curse runs in her family. Passed through generations. Few survive it more than once.”

Sirius’s hands curled into fists. “She didn’t even know.”

“Perhaps not,” Dumbledore allowed. “Or perhaps she did. But she hoped, as many do, that it would skip her.”

Sirius stared down at you, at your fingers, still ink-stained and human. “So what now?”

“Now we care for her,” Dumbledore said. “We wait. And we love her, even if she doesn’t know we’re here.”

“No,” Sirius said, shaking his head. “No. That’s not enough. That’s not me. I’m not going to just sit and watch her fade. There has to be something. Anything.”

Dumbledore hesitated.

And that hesitation - that split second - was all Sirius needed.

“There is something, isn’t there?” he said, stepping closer. “You’re holding something back.”

“It’s not something that can be done,” Dumbledore said slowly. “Not the way you think. This curse. . . it only yields to love. Not infatuation. Not obsession. Something older. Something that holds its shape even when time doesn’t.”

Sirius’s chest burned. “Then I’ll do it.”

“You don’t understand what you’re saying.”

“I don’t care.”

“You would have to remain, Sirius,” Dumbledore said. “Through months. Years. Decades, perhaps. And never know if she’ll wake. Or if she’ll remember. You’d have to love her in silence. Without promise. Without return.”

“I already do.”

The words were out before he could stop them.

The air felt different after that.

Dumbledore didn’t speak for a long time. Then he said, “If that is true, then you may be the only hope she has.”

Dumbledore sent word to your family within the hour.

Sirius wasn’t in the room when they arrived - Dumbledore had gently, firmly suggested he give them privacy - but he could hear the voices. Muffled through stone and spellwork. Raised. Bitter. Desperate.

They’d known. Not everything, but enough.

It had happened once before - a great-aunt, long dead, whose name had been scrubbed from the family tree out of shame or grief or maybe both. You were supposed to have been spared. A healer had sworn it dormant. A ritual had been done when you were a baby. There’d been no signs. You were bright, brilliant. Uncursed.

They’d believed in the lie because it was easier than preparing for the truth.

You woke up just after 4 days. Those 4 days were spent with Sirius visiting you in between classes, meals, Quidditch practices. His friends were growing worried for him as they also worried for you.

He looked changed in just a span of 4 days. 4 cruel days spent on your bedside begging you to wake up, begging you to come back to him.

Promising you grand pranks you could pull together, more alcoholic concoctions to throw up in the morning. He offered everything to see your eyes flutter open.

It wasn't fair. He was just beginning to know you, to love you - it all felt to fresh and raw and real - this cannot be happening to him.

When you woke up, it was so sudden.

Just a sharp inhale that jolted your whole body and the whisper of your name as Dumbledore caught your shoulder before you could fall out of the bed in shock.

You blinked at the light, slow and sluggish, as if waking from years instead of days. You reached for your wand first - you did not find it. Then your face. Then the necklace under your collarbone. None of it had changed. But everything had.

They cried - your parents. But not the way Sirius thought they would. Not relief, not love, not wild, stupid joy.

No, they cried like cowards. Quiet, ashamed, as if your waking made it worse. As if the confirmation of the curse meant the whole thing had been real all along. Like you were some buried secret they couldn’t keep hidden anymore.

Sirius watched it all from the hallway, fists clenched, pacing outside the Hospital Wing like he was about to be sick.

The door creaked open. Madam Pomfrey slipped out. “She’s awake.”

He didn’t wait. Didn’t even think.

He was inside the room before anyone could stop him, blood still thrumming in his ears. You were sitting up in bed, hair a tangle, voice raw as you said his name - confused, hoarse, like you hadn’t said it in years. “Sirius?”

He didn’t answer. He crossed the room and pulled you into him like you were drowning and he didn’t care if he sank too.

You tried to push him away after that.

It started the moment you woke up, dry-mouthed and weak, in the Hospital Wing. Four days. You'd lost four days of your life to a sleep you hadn’t meant to enter, and everything had changed.

You saw it in your parents’ eyes first. The shame. The quiet devastation. You saw it in the way Pomfrey didn’t scold you for trying to stand, and in the way Dumbledore couldn’t quite meet your gaze.

But most of all, you saw it in Sirius.

When he ran to you and pulled you into a hug, like holding you meant that it was all real. He just breathed like he'd finally surfaced from drowning.

You couldn’t look at him too long. Because the guilt hit harder than the fear. You hadn’t meant to become a problem. A burden. A question mark in someone else’s future.

So you did what you always did. You joked.

"You should probably date someone with a better track record for staying conscious," you said over breakfast the next morning, stirring your porridge like it might give you answers.

He didn’t laugh.

You tried again in the corridor. "Seriously, Sirius, you don’t have to do this whole loyal boyfriend routine. I know it’s been a weird month. I give you full permission to run."

He didn’t even blink - not even when you finally addressed him by first name. A progress to your now, very complicated, relationship.

"You think I’m staying because I feel bad?" he asked one night, voice low and raw. "You think this is pity?"

You shrugged, but your fingers clenched around the edge of your sleeve. "I think I wouldn’t blame you if you left."

And that was the truth. The quiet, aching part of it. That you didn’t think you deserved someone who stayed. It was a burden you could never ask of anyone.

He stepped closer then, close enough that his words landed right against your ribs.

"Don’t you get it?" he said, voice shaking with something bigger than anger. "I'm not going anywhere. I’ll be here when you wake."

It should’ve comforted you. It only made your chest ache harder.

Because you didn’t want him waiting around like some tragic romantic figure. You didn’t want to be the girl people wrote poems about after she vanished too soon. You wanted to be solid. Reliable. Here.

But you weren’t. And he's decided to stay anyway.

Even when you stopped meeting his eyes.

Even when you flinched in the middle of a sentence, panicked that a yawn might spiral into something worse.

Even when you stopped touching him entirely, afraid that if you reached for his hand, it might be the last thing you ever did.

Still, he stayed.

And he started leaving you things.

A tiny mirror charm on your nightstand, bewitched to show cartoon dog ears on your reflection when you frowned.

A chocolate frog with a note tucked inside the box that said, Still here. Always here.

A prank exploding parchment that poofed glitter in your face during a Charms study session and made you laugh until you nearly sobbed.

Sometimes it was just small things. A folded jacket over your chair when you forgot it was cold. A sugar quill tucked into your books.

It should have been too much. But it never was.

Because you missed him. Desperately.

You missed the ease. The banter. The feeling that you were someone he chose, not someone he pitied.

You missed before.

But there was no going back.

One afternoon, you found him outside the library, sitting on the floor with his head tipped back against the wall.

He wasn’t doing anything. No mischief, no plotting. Just staring up at the ceiling like he was trying to stay still. Like the world had moved on and he was trying to figure out how to follow it.

You hadn’t seen him all day.

And somewhere in your chest, the idea that he’d finally given up had lodged itself like a splinter. The relief that washed through you at the sight of him was nauseating.

He looked up when your footsteps stopped.

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Then, finally: "I’m sorry."

Sirius blinked. His expression shifted from surprise to something softer.

"For what?" he asked, sitting up straighter.

"I don’t know," you said honestly. "Everything. Pushing you. Making you wait around for someone who can’t promise anything."

You hesitated.

"I wish you could love someone with less complications."

He stared at you for a moment, like you’d just said the dumbest thing he’d ever heard. And then, suddenly, he laughed.

A real, full-bodied laugh. Like it startled even him.

You blinked, thrown off by the sudden bark of laughter that escaped him out of nowhere. "What?"

"If this were easy," he said, still laughing, "I’d think it was some grand prank. I’d assume Moony and Prongs were hiding behind a tapestry ready to jump out."

You snorted despite yourself.

"Merlin, you’re so stupid."

And then you kissed him. Not planned. Not careful.

Just raw.

You kissed him like you were terrified and desperate and alive. Like if the curse took you tonight, you wanted this to be your last memory.

He didn’t pull away. Just froze for a breath. And then he was kissing you back with that same terrified urgency.

You pulled away after a second, just enough to murmur: "Just in case I don’t wake up tomorrow."

Sirius cupped your face with both hands then, thumbs brushing under your eyes like he was trying to memorize them.

His voice was soft. So gentle it hurt.

"Don’t worry about tomorrow," he whispered. "You’re awake right now."

You nodded. But your lip trembled."I’m so scared of falling asleep."

There. You said it. Finally voicing out the thought that haunted you at night. Bags hung under your eyes from nights you desperately tried to stay awake.

Your dormmates have all tried their best to offer any help they could. The whole castle knew your predicament by now - nothing ever stays a secret at Hogwarts.

You appreciated them, but nothing helped.

And when you finally said it, he didn’t flinch.

He just pulled you in again. Wrapped his arms around you like he could protect you from the unknown. From the curse that ran through your veins, as old as your magic.

"I know," he said. "I’m scared too."

And then he kissed your temple. Your forehead. The corner of your mouth, he wished he could kiss every inch of you.

"Don’t worry, love," he murmured. "I’ll be here when you open those pretty eyes."

And the thing is, you believed him. Even if it still hurt.

Even if you still woke every morning unsure if you'd made it through the night or it was some dream you have landed into.

He was always there.

And slowly, you started reaching back.

They didn’t have forever - so they started pretending like they did.

By late February, your hand had found a permanent place in Sirius’s.

He joked that the skin might fuse together if you weren’t careful, and you’d laughed - really laughed - for the first time since you’d woken from that cursed sleep. He’d grinned like a fool then, pride blooming in his chest just for being the reason your shoulders weren’t tight with fear, just for chasing the shadow from your eyes, even for a moment.

You’d made it through March. Barely. Some days your legs dragged beneath you like your body already knew the sleep was coming. Some nights Sirius had to shake you awake from dozes you didn’t remember falling into. But you were still here. And so was he.

Hogsmeade in spring felt like a stolen miracle.

He took your hand outside Honeydukes, lifting it to his lips with a boyish smile. “So, what’ll it be, darling? Chocolate frogs or a full day of snogging behind the Shrieking Shack?”

You rolled your eyes. “If I die in the Shrieking Shack, Sirius Black, you better be ready to fight off some angry ghosts.”

He beamed. “Then it’s a date.”

You weren’t hiding anymore. He’d told everyone. James had fist-bumped you and said it was about time. Remus had congratulated you as well, making a sarcastic remark that "Pads can finally stop moaning about how much he wants you now that you can snog him into silence." Even Peter had hugged you with the kind of gentleness that meant he’d heard. That he understood.

And the pranks - oh, the pranks.

It started with your idea, actually. A tiny hex that made Filch’s boots click like tap shoes. The look on Sirius’s face when you suggested it - pure, lovesick awe.

“Marry me,” he said, half-joking.

You tilted your head. “Better wait until I survive the school year.”

The boys had welcomed you into their chaos without question. You were a natural. A little louder than James, a little sharper than Remus, and exactly Sirius’s brand of reckless.

When you came back one night covered in soot and giggling from a dungbomb gone wrong, Sirius tugged you close on the couch in the Gryffindor common room, kissed your temple, and whispered, “You’re brilliant, you know that?”

But he was the brilliant one. The constant. Every night, after curfew, he would draw the curtains of his four-poster and you would curl beside him. The other boys never said a word - not one complaint, not even a tease.

You were terrified to sleep alone. And they understood.

Some nights you fell asleep tangled together, his arms around your waist, your breath uneven against his neck.

Other nights, sleep wouldn’t come. You’d lie awake listening to his heartbeat and whisper nonsense into the dark. Sirius would hold you tighter, thumb brushing lazy circles into your spine.

And every single night, he would say, without fail:

“Tomorrow will come for you, love. For us. I’ll be here, handsome as ever when the sun rises.”

You pretended to believe it. Most nights, you even did.

April crept in like a thief. The scent of rain on stone, blossoms blooming beside the lake, the castle lit with gold and promise. Exams were approaching. So was the end.

So was the sleep.

And then - you didn’t wake up.

It was a Thursday.

You’d said goodnight. You’d kissed him. You’d whispered your usual lie: “See you in the morning.”

And then - nothing.

The Healers said it was the curse reasserting itself. That your body was fighting to stay, but the magic was older than any potion. There was no way to stop it. No one knew how long it would last.

Sirius didn’t move from the Hospital Wing for a week.

James brought food. Remus sat with him in the early mornings. Peter left chocolate frogs on the table beside your bed. But Sirius - he stayed. He barely slept. He wrote letters and folded them beneath your pillow. He spoke to you like you were just resting.

“You’re not gone,” he said one night, voice cracking. “You’re just late. You’ve always been late to things, remember? You’ll wake up and tell me I’m being dramatic.”

But you didn’t wake.

You missed the N.E.W.T.s. Missed the way Remus clutched his results in trembling hands. Missed James and Lily getting into a blazing row about the future and making up in the courtyard two hours later.

You missed the last Gryffindor breakfast, the daisy chain crowns, the class photo with everyone laughing too hard to stand still.

You missed graduation.

Sirius didn’t walk. He refused. Said he wouldn’t cross a finish line you hadn’t.

By July, he was different. Gaunt-eyed. Brittle-tempered. The war had begun - the real one - and he joined the Order like his blood was already boiling for vengeance.

But still, he wrote you letters.

He left them at St. Mungo’s when you were transferred there in August. Left chocolates, enchanted notes, silly doodles. He threatened the mediwitch who tried to call you a lost cause.

“She’s not gone,” he snapped. “She’s just waiting.”

And then - autumn came.

And you woke up.

The world smelled different. Crisper. More distant.

You were eighteen now. But the world had moved on without you.

Your body was slow to respond. Magic flickered in your hands but didn’t sing the way it used to. You blinked against the sterile light of St. Mungo’s, head pounding, heart aching.

And then the door opened.

Sirius stood in the frame.

Older. Sharper. Shadows under his eyes, jaw tighter, arms crossed like he’d forgotten how to relax. But still - him. Still yours. Always yours.

He stared at you for a moment like you were a ghost.

And then he was at your side, sitting on the edge of the bed, brushing your hair back with shaking fingers.

“You missed a war,” he said, voice rough.

You tried to smile. “Did we win?”

He didn’t answer that. Just leaned forward and pressed his forehead to yours.

“And I missed you,” he whispered. “Every damn day.”

You moved in together. Shared a flat with creaky floors and mismatched furniture, patched together like your hearts. You tried to build a life between sleep and fear - fleeting moments of normalcy suspended in the quiet before sirens, the hush before screams.

The flat became a fragile sanctuary. You lit candles during power outages and cooked dinner over the radio’s static updates. Some nights you danced in the kitchen just to remember joy. Other nights, you held each other in the dark, neither speaking, just listening to the wind press against the windows like a warning.

You kept a journal now - small and leather-bound, pages inked with memories of what you missed, what he told you, and what you dreamed when you were gone. You wrote down things like: his laugh this morning, like something untouched by war. Or: he said “stay safe” like he meant “stay alive.”

You lived like it might all vanish again. Because it would. Because war takes everything, even the things you think are untouchable.

You both tried to power through it, despite the raging war around you and the brewing danger that curled like smoke under your door. Each day was a risk. Each night, a relief.

You were worried for him - for the way his name appeared in whispered conversations, for the work he did in shadows. But you knew it was right. He was trying to change the story.

Sirius sometimes talked about stopping. Once, after a long silence over cold tea, he said quietly, almost ashamed, “I barely get enough moments with you, with all this happening - what if I just get less and less time?”

You reached across the table, grabbed his hand like it was the only steady thing in a world falling apart. You shook your head, firm. “No. You don’t get to give up. You’re fighting for a good cause. Let’s be on the good side of history when people look back on this time.”

His eyes searched yours - tired but still burning - and after a breath, he nodded. “You’re right. You always are.”

So you both joined the Order.

Not because you weren’t scared, but because you were. Because fear can hollow you or harden you - and you chose to fight.

Then one night, in a small and quiet gathering of Order members - tired, battle-worn, but still fighting to hold onto something human - Lily stood up.

She brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, and smiled - truly smiled, not the brittle one she'd worn through grief and fear, but something bright and real, like the girl she used to be before the war.

“I’m pregnant,” she said.

For a moment, the room was still - stunned into silence. And then it erupted like spring breaking through frost.

James laughed so loudly it startled the portraits on the walls. He beamed like the sun - the kind of joy that doesn’t ask permission. Remus stood and clapped him on the back, his eyes glassy with tears he wouldn’t let fall. Sirius made a strangled noise, like a laugh and a sob at once, and buried his face in his hands.

When he looked up, his grin was crooked and wild. Peter smiled too, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes - there was something distant in his expression, like he was somewhere else entirely. You noticed. But you hadn’t been around long enough to know what was normal for Peter anymore, so you let it slide.

The Marauders buzzed with pride, their joy loud and golden, filling every dark corner of that war-battered room. Your found family, in all its ragged glory, clung to joy wherever it bloomed - because joy was a form of resistance too.

Later that night, after the toasts and the storytelling and the laughter worn thin from overuse, the others drifted away. Candles burned low. The room emptied, settling into silence.

That’s when Sirius pulled you aside.

He looked different in the low light - softer somehow. His usual fire had banked into something slower, more careful. There was a tremble in his hand as he reached for yours, not from fear, but from urgency.

“I’ve been thinking about this a lot,” he said. His voice was low, stripped of bravado. “I don’t want to wait. Not with everything going on. Not with how time keeps. . . stealing you.”

Your heart caught. Because he was right. Every day was a borrowed page, every goodbye heavy with the question: will there be another? Will tomorrow really come?

He pulled something from his pocket - a ring, simple but quietly extraordinary. It shimmered like starlight, charmed with a magic that whispered permanence in a world that promised none.

“Marry me,” he said.

There was no speech, no preamble. Just those two words. And then more: “I know it’s selfish. I know you’re scared. But I don’t want anyone else. It’s you or nothing. It’s always been you.”

You opened your mouth, the beginnings of protest forming. You wanted to say he might regret it. That the war could tear you away, again. That love like this didn’t always get a happy ending, not with your curse anyway.

But he saw it all in your eyes and stopped you before the words could shape.

“All we have is now,” he whispered. “Say yes. Say yes while you’re here.”

And something in you - some quiet, aching truth - answered him before your lips did.

So you said yes.

You were so afraid but you said yes despite yourself and the clawing fear. Because love, in this world, wasn’t a promise. It was a defiance, and in some fairy tales, love is how you beat war.

Your wedding was held shortly after his proposal and it wasn't big at all.

There were no grand halls or gilded arches, no glittering lights or towering cakes. Just a windswept clearing in the woods near Godric’s Hollow, with wildflowers bowing in the breeze and magic humming softly through the air like it recognized something sacred.

Only friends were there - the people who mattered, who had bled and laughed and fought beside you. The ones who’d become family when bloodlines stopped meaning anything.

Remus officiated, because of course he did. He stood in worn robes, clutching a piece of parchment he barely needed to glance at, his voice steady despite the tremble in his hands. He kept it simple, heartfelt. There were no flowery vows, no overly rehearsed speeches - just truth spoken between people who knew how precious time had become.

Lily cried, openly, beautifully - tears glinting in the sunlight as she clutched James’s hand. James looked at her like she hung the stars, then raised a glass and made a toast full of wit and warmth, ending with, “To love that fights, even when the world’s falling down.”

Sirius kissed you like a vow, like he could stitch you into the present with just his mouth on yours. There was no audience in that moment, no war, no future - just the weight of his hands on your face, the steady rhythm of his heart beating beneath your palms. A promise sealed in the kind of silence that means everything.

Afterward, when the sky began to burn gold and purple at the edges, and laughter floated over shared food and spiked cider, you pulled him aside. Looked him in the eyes.

“Don’t regret this,” you said.

He smiled at you - not the cocky grin he gave the world, but something gentler, quieter. A smile made just for you.

“Never,” he said. “Not in any lifetime.”

And for a while, things were good. The war kept brewing but you stayed awake, greeting him like it's the best surprise every morning. Only, he greeted you now as his Wife.

Then Harry was born - tiny, wrinkled, and loud enough to shake the walls of the cottage with his arrival. The kind of scream that said, I’m here. I survived.

You were there. In the still-soft hours after, Lily handed him to you, her eyes rimmed with exhaustion and something fierce and unbreakable.

She placed him in your arms like it was the most natural thing in the world - like she was giving you hope in human form.

He was beautiful. Small fists curled in sleep, a shock of black hair, his father’s stubborn chin already making itself known. And those eyes - not James’s, but hers. Green and bright and knowing.

For a moment, you all forgot there was a war. Just long enough to believe in a future.

You and the Marauders became the babysitters.

It wasn’t official, but it was understood. Harry would grow up surrounded by magic and mischief and unbreakable love - even if the world outside was falling apart. You rocked him to sleep in Lily’s favorite chair, humming lullabies that didn’t quite belong to you.

Remus read him stories in soft, calming tones, changing his voice for each character until the baby would babble back in delight. Peter would bring sweets and toys, always a little awkward, like he was trying to earn a place in a world that had started to drift just beyond his reach.

And Sirius - Sirius made him laugh. Real, belly-deep baby giggles, the kind that echoed through the house and made even the darkest thoughts scatter for a while. He barked like a dog, of course. Poked his tongue out. Pulled ridiculous faces that turned Harry red with laughter and left James wheezing from the couch. Harry adored him.

One night, after the baby had worn himself out and fallen asleep curled in James’ arms, the fire crackling low and quiet in the hearth, Sirius turned to you. His hair was mussed from Harry’s tiny fists, and his smile was soft - the kind that only came out in quiet moments like this.

“He’s so bloody cute,” he whispered, watching the baby’s chest rise and fall. “I think I want one of my own.”

Your breath hitched.

The air felt too still, too sharp. “Sirius - ”

You didn’t have to finish. He saw it instantly - the fear blooming behind your eyes. Fear of the future. Fear of hope. Fear of losing again.

He reached for your hand, lacing his fingers through yours like he was anchoring you.

“It’s alright,” he said gently. “It’s just a thought. We don’t have to. I just. . . I love this. I love you. And I’d never let anything happen. You hear me?”

He touched your cheek then, eyes full of that same vow he’d made the day you married. “If you ever fell asleep again, I’d hold the world steady until you came back.”

You nodded, even as your heart clenched. Because that’s what Sirius Black did - he made impossible promises and meant every one.

And time passed. Quietly, quickly. Like a thief.

Then came the mission.

Just another assignment with the Order. Nothing you hadn’t done before. Nothing worth fearing, not really. But Sirius was tense. He lingered at the door, kissed your forehead too long. Held your hands like they were glass.

You kissed him that night, trying to lighten the mood, trying to be brave for both of you. “If I don’t wake for a while,” you whispered, smiling softly, “tell me you’ll wait again.”

He kissed you back like he was sealing a spell, like he could pour every ounce of magic he had into your skin.

“Always,” he said. “Tomorrow will come for you, love. For us. I’ll be here - handsome as ever - when the sun rises.”

It did not go well. You encountered a death eater and was severely hurt, still alive and fighting but through your fight to stay alive - you slipped into the darkness.

Tomorrow came, and you didn’t wake.

Not the next morning.

Not the next week.

Not when Lily and James were murdered in their home, his body in the hallway leading to the nursery, her body found crumpled over a crib that somehow still held a crying child.

Not when Sirius found them first. Not when he fell to his knees on the floor, screaming James’ name so loud it broke something inside him forever.

Not when Peter turned traitor and vanished in the smoke of his own destruction.

Not when Sirius was blamed - framed - and hunted like a beast. Not when they cornered him on that street and stripped him of everything.

Not even when they dragged him to Azkaban.

You didn’t stir.

He screamed your name in that prison cell. Whispered your promises to the cracks in the stone. Waited for the sunrise that never came.

And still, you didn’t wake.

Not until three years into his sentence, when the war was over, the dead buried, and the child orphaned.

You had promised to be there when the sun rose.

But this time, time didn’t keep its promise.

you left me no, you left me no choice but to stay here forever. . .