#prey!remus

[jaratedeguadalupe]

ok but virgil has definitely knitted every clothing item under the sun for cornelius the spider and remus had made a mansions worth of miniature furniture for that lil guy

[sunnami]

❝watch me, don't touch me, love me, don't hurt me.❞

[title is from ive's accendio. gif not mine.] summary. you are the fop of the wizarding society, known for your shallowness and careless display of wealth, but as hogwarts faces another threat, the marauders and lily, find themselves drawn to you and the secrets hidden under your facade. (harry just wants to know what is going on.)

pairing/s. marauders x reader. (james potter/lily evans/remus lupin/sirius black/reader.)

wc. 24.1k.

tags. enemies to lovers, angst, hurt but the comfort is later, fluff(ish), i try slow burn for the first time (it hurts.), this is highly self-indulgent idgaf, set during goblet of fire but i decide what goes, voldemort isn't the only character who can revive from the dead, BITCH. OH, LMAO I FORGOT, THIS IS FOR THE DILF AND MILF LOVERS SDKJFHSF they're married, but remus and sirius keep their name for legal and plot reasons. adult marauders and adult reader! and i was careful this time to not use any specific pronouns or gendered terms so everyone can enjoy the pain!! every1 is hurting 2nite. proofread kind of, so we die like. . . harry potter?

cws. here we go... canon-typical violence, vivid description of injuries, pain, and blood, emotional abuse, trauma, self-destructive tendencies, minor character death (non-canon), pureblood society practices, voldemort is his own warning, brief mention of war, brief scene with abducted children, panic attacks, depictions of mental illness, suic!dal thoughts, bellatrix lestrange is also her own warning, morally-grey reader.

a/n: this is inspired by my most favorite finnick odair fic EVER! obviously, i won't ever reach that level of greatness, but i've had this idea in my head ever since i read that story. sometimes, i just want to cry at night to feel something, LMFAO. halfway through writing this story, i got insecure, so thank you to this eye-opening comment on reddit that i found that will forever change how i look at reader inserts: “for me, a reader should be faceless, but not soulless.”

to my dearest friends and readers, i hope you enjoy this world that i've written for you ueueue. (the next and final part is fluffier, i promise.) will upload to ao3 soon!

act i. dear god, please save the little man.

“RITA, DARLING, do get your wretched little quill for this one. I heard from a wee birdie that Vittoria Zabini was spotted in Rome, and not just wearing last season’s designer collection, but on her honeymoon, of all things! Can you believe it, dearest? If I remember correctly, this must be husband number five now.”

Like a wingless canary in a gilded cage, you are forced once again to sing for red-lipped witches and their grating laughter, and for wizards with their fat bellies, graying hair, and leering eyes. How kind of Narcissa Malfoy to host these decrepit creatures in her manor garden—and thrust the role of main attraction onto you. There you are, lonesome badger, dressed in the finest tulle for everyone to ogle at. A ballerina in a music box, turning, and turning, and turning.

(When will your cursed lullaby finally end?)

Isadora Bulstrode cackles. “Gold-digging wench must be at it again.”

As predicted, Rita Skeeter greedily whips out her Quick-Quotes Quill. The bloodthirsty journalist preys hungrily at your every word—and you’re more than willing to satiate the irritable, little pest. “Riveting.” She pushes her glasses upwards with a quirk of her lips. “We may have tomorrow’s front page in our hands.” 

Lavinia Nott brings the teacup to her mouth, her gaze slicing towards you. “Do tell us more. Where ever do you get your information from?”

You hide a coy smile behind the fine porcelain. “Why, Lavinia dearest, if I reveal my secret now, I might have to kill you!” The drove of ladies giggle amongst themselves as Lavinia sips her tea impassively. You play these people like a fiddle, and they’re none the wiser. But even vile women have to play their parts in the cruel world forged by mad men. Yours happens to be the most ill-fated of them all. 

“A shame you decided not to pursue the same path as your mother, but that is alright—not every one is fit to work.” The Selwyn matron raises her brow, offering you a tight-lipped smirk.

“Oh, Elinor, my love, I’m surprised you’d even suggest such a horrible thing!” Your grin grows wicked and wider. You know perfectly what the wizarding society thinks of you: the orphaned heir, the shallow socialite who only cares for gallivanting about in pureblooded extravaganzas. A status you’ve so carefully fashioned; utterly beloved and adored by these people, flowers falling at your feet with so much as a whisper from your lips. 

Your gaze drifts to a familiar crowd of people to the side. It’s the pack of lions and The-Boy-Who-Lived. There they are, the marauding bunch and their displays of loyalty and whatnot; hideously coordinated outfits, but capturing the world’s attention constantly and effortlessly. 

How repulsive.

In spite of that, you are intrigued. They are the section that plays out of tune in the orchestra you have been conducting for years.

And so you bid your goodbyes to the witches; they fawn and beg for you to stay for an hour more. You pout your lips and say with faux sympathy, hand flying to your chest.  “Oh, don’t worry, my dears! I’ll be back soon enough after greeting some of the other guests. You lovely ladies might tire of me if I stay for too long.”

Melina Traverse brushes you off. “We could never! You know you’re like family to us, pet!”

With a delighted gasp, you say, “Don’t tell Narcissa, but you’ve always been my favorite Slytherin.” The venom flows endlessly from your lips. You owe your life to only a handful of people. Narcissa Malfoy, who raised you when your mother no longer could, is one of them. Finally, you’re able to sneak away from their freshly manicured talons as they tittle-tattle amongst themselves.

Once your back is turned to the rest of them, you roll your eyes until your head begins hurting. 

What a bunch of insufferable fools. 

Still, the show curtains are wide open and the sun is yet to set. You have another audience that is awaiting your next number. 

“Oh, my, my, my! Is it truly the Chosen One in our midst?” You approach the horrid family of Gryffindors—nearly doubling over in laughter at the speed with which their faces fall at the sight of you. How refreshing, you think to yourself. It’s been so long since you’ve seen people who wore their hearts on their sleeves. “Cissa and I didn’t think you’d even respond to our invitation—but this is just brilliant! Lily, darling! How long has it been? That dress looks utterly divine! Is that Charmeuse silk? The purple simply brings out the color in your eyes! And your skin, my love! Just glowing! Tell me—have you been trying those snail facials? I hear they’re all the rage nowadays.”

Sirius grimaces, cheeks turning ashen. “Bloody hell, I’m going to need a drink for this. A strong one, too.” 

“You’re at a garden party, Sirius darling,” you remind in jest, flamboyantly motioning to the grazing table. “The elves are serving Darjeeling, jasmine, chamomile, berry blends, spiced orange, silver needle, and my personal favorite, chocolate mint!” There are strings of lights wrapped around the tree branches; floating lanterns and the hydrangeas creeping on the stone walls. You put a hand over your heart, smiling knavishly. “From the Malfoy family, to yours, we sincerely hope you enjoy your brunch.” 

Lily deeply inhales as she intertwines her fingers with James’s, a polite smile on her face—an odd pang in your heart at the show of solidarity. (She questions how sincere can a Malfoy really be.) “Y-Yes, well, it’s so good to see you, too. We’re grateful for the invitation, especially since it’s for a rather honorable cause.” 

Ah, pure-hearted creatures really do get on your nerves. Lion hearts; words dripping in honey, limitless bravado. You’ve changed your mind, you’re sick of it all. A flash of vindictive glee crosses your face as you abruptly grab her hand, wrenching it away from her husband’s. “We just knew you’d see it that way! You probably see yourself in those Muggle children, eh?”

Lily recoils, as if struck by hot iron, shoulders tensing; slowly, she peels away her hand from yours, long lashes blinking away her shock.  “You and Narcissa must be raising a lot of money, then.” She eyes the marble fountain adorned in white roses, the harmonizing gnomes nearby, self-playing harps, and the scrutinizing stares from afar. “I never knew you cared so much about Muggle children.”

“Well, I suppose it must be done for all the pudgy-cheeked brats in the world,” You callously wave away her words with a sigh. Unbeknownst to most, all the charity proceeds come from your own Gringotts account. That is the one real thing left in your miserable life.  “As staff at Hogwarts, the children must come first, wouldn’t you agree, Lily flower?”

“Quite,” replies Lily, lips firmly pursed.

James enters the fray, hand snaking around Lily’s waist; jaw taut, seeming to regret ever entering the snake den. “Have you met our son, Harry, already?” He turns to the fourteen-year-old at his left side, gently patting Harry’s back with a crooked smile. “Haz, this is an old classmate of ours.” James gestures to you, and you offer the Potter spawn an amused smile as he blinks owlishly at you. The poor thing has gone frigid from the wintry cold, despite the summer sun overhead and blooming coneflowers; and you wonder if he must have run into Draco and Lucius before coming to the garden.

So this is the child the Dark Lord failed to kill, you muse. You only wish that you could have seen that monster fall to the ground lifelessly, defeated by an infant and his courageous parents. How fitting for men like Lucius Malfoy to follow in his footsteps; the blind leading the blind. Your grin stretches from ear to ear as you take his hand in yours. Clearly, he’s never held a girl’s hand before, as he limply shakes your hand, awkwardly spluttering his greetings. “What an honor it is to finally meet the savior of the wizarding world.” 

“Why, you look just like James when he was younger, always strutting around the corridors.” Your eyes drift to the lightning scar on his forehead, a testament to his and Lily’s survival against the killing curse. “And such clear-cut emerald eyes; truly your mother’s son. Tell me, Harry dearest, you must be quite the heartbreaker at Hogwarts.”

His doe-eyes harden, and your brow quirks in curiosity. (So the littlest lion can growl, after all.) “Oh. . . not really.” His hand hangs back at his side, fists coiling. The robins chirp merrily as they fly by, his parents carefully watching the scene unfold; water endlessly splashing in the fountain. Harry’s voice deepens as he continues, “I couldn’t be. My friends and I barely have time for anything else. There always seems to be something going on at the castle, apparently.”  

“How interesting—Elsie!” You bark at the quivering house elf as Harry stumbles on his words. “Get Mister Potter and his company a plate of macarons—serve them our finest tea, as well.” 

Harry winces as the elf apparates at once. “There’s r-really no need for—”

Your gaze, sharp as a knife, slices to him, as the corners of your painted lips bend contemptuously. “Have you heard the news, dearheart?”

Harry looks to his father before shrugging. “I don’t think so.”

“If Mister Lupin here has so graciously informed you,” you begin tantalizingly, eyes cutting to the rugged werewolf at Lily’s side; his back stiffening at the mention of his name, “Otherwise, keep this between you and me, Harry darling. Hogwarts will be hosting a rather important event this year—and I do love a good party—so you must have noticed the rise in appearances from the Ministry.” You gesture to the top Aurors at the DMLE towering over Harry, Sirius and James. “More than that,” you continue with a sly cant to your voice. “There will be a few new additions to Hogwarts’ staff. Among them, of course—is yours truly!”

“And to do what, exactly?” Sirius blurts out incredulously.

“Be a teacher, of course!” you feign ignorance, bashfully furrowing your brows. “Why else?”

“Brilliant!” Sirius chuckles scornfully. “So, the children will be learning about French designers and frilly dresses then, I presume?

“Is that truly all you think of me?” you ask, gasping melodramatically as you circle the rim of your empty teacup. 

“You want to know what I think? Or what everyone thought behind your back at Hogwarts?” Sirius scoffs with a cock of his head. “You’ve always been the belle of the ball, no bloody doubt about that. But I’ve always wondered if there was anything more to your head than just air.” 

He runs a hand through his dark curls, lips twisting into a sneer. “But I reckon nothing has changed since then. You’re just the same insufferable, vapid wench as you’ve always been.”

“Sirius. . .” Remus quietly calls. “That’s enough.” 

Your expression falters—but your mask cannot afford even a moment of rest. A jarring note in the lullaby plays as the ceramic ballerina stops turning. You let the minutes pass by fleetingly; it seems the self-playing chordophones have changed their tune, as well. You watch as the canary diamonds in your bracelet glint against the sunlight. (You are growing tired of the blinding show lights, unrelenting crowd, and never-ending play. Where is the reprieve, you wonder, for the tormented primadonna and her aching soul?)

The strings are now dipped in blood as your tears polish the stage. Your joints have twisted, bent, and danced. You wonder, how long must it be until you are rid of the starring role?

You muster a coy smile, fluttering your lashes at the heir of the most noble and ancient House. “Such crude language, Mister Black,” you say, albeit your voice has gone mellow; nails drumming against the table surface as the guests mingle with one another. The unbearably dull conversations buzz in your ear. You notice Draco and Astoria Greengrass heading for the glasshouse. You consider stealing her lace parasol and whacking Sirius with it, and the thought fills you with immense joy. 

Unfortunately, they are your guests, and you are nothing if not the most polite host. “Perhaps, I am not the only one who hasn’t grown out of their immature habits,” you say, eyeing his shoulder-length hair, spiky ear piercings, and leather jacket. That damned leather jacket of his. It irks you that he and his kind can show insolence freely without bearing any repercussions. (But you’d die before you ever feel envy for a man like Sirius Black.) The sun fades behind the clouds, and your mask slips perfectly into place once more.

“What is it that happened again? Between you and Severus Snape in sixth-year?” You tap your chin pensively, taking cruel satisfaction in the stutter in Sirius’s breath and Remus’s parted lips, ever stupefied. You gaze fiendishly at Remus. “Oh, silly me, I’ve gone off topic. Well, anyhow, I just wanted to say, I believe the students are in rather good hands this year. I just hope Dumbledore doesn’t accidentally let an infected beast roam the halls of Hogwarts.” 

Your eyes flash impishly. “Wouldn’t you agree, Mister Lupin?”

Lily curls her lip viciously. “Just what exactly—?”

“Elsie has returned, master.” The house elf bows her head just as the antique bistro table is circled with macarons, cucumber sandwiches, miniature cocktail buns, and slices of pound cake. Lily retracts her hand, grinding her jaw as she swallows the words in her throat.

“You may go, Elsie, thank you.” With a guileful smirk, you levitate the teapot towards James and Harry, dutifully filling their cups; steam soon arising from the Chinese porcelain. You nod at the group. “It’s jasmine pearl,” you explain haughtily. “Carefully handcrafted tea from harvested leaves and flowers. Such exquisiteness that you won’t be able to find anywhere else.”

“Do enjoy your tea; Cissa and I made sure to spare no expense for our guests.” The teapot carefully lands back on the table. The sinfonietta ends, and so does your time with this particular audience. What misfortune, that you won’t receive your flowers for today’s performance. You pivot on your heels, flinging them a lukewarm goodbye. “Do excuse me, for I must tend to the new arrivals. I believe I see Missus Parkinson over there by the koi pond. Cissa might have my head if I neglect my responsibilities.”

You turn your head, tossing a wink at Lily. “Today, after all, is for the children.”

Alas, it is not Persephone Parkinson you head towards. 

You briefly exchange tepid pleasantries with Lavinia Greengrass before walking past the koi pond to the edges of the garden, far beyond prying eyes and ears. There, like a brooding Dementor drifting through a frozen lake, waits your true target. Sadly, it is only a dour-faced professor, a long time confrère of yours, to be precise. There are only a handful of people to whom you are indebted. Severus Tobias Snape is one of those few. 

With a flick of your wand, you covertly cast the silencing charm upon the elusive spot Severus had chosen. There is no need for these edacious vultures to prey on your conversation. They are better off with their tête-à-têtes and syrupy pikelets. You drown out the chamber orchestra’s symphony, the clinking of champagne glasses, the rustling leaves and ringing wind chimes. “Severus darling,” you say liltingly, feet shuffling to his side as you playfully ghost your palm against his nape. He barely spares you a glance as a breeze courses through the rippling lake water. “You’re missing out on the festivities, you know.”

“Have you finally finished tormenting Narcissa’s visitors?” he drawls, at long last acknowledging your presence and sharply raising a brow at your saccharine-sweet smile.

“Why, I’d never dare to do such a thing,” you reply with a theatrical sway of your head. “I simply conversed with the ladies and had a delightful run-in with your old flame, Lily. Do you remember her, my sweet? Ghastly red hair, pale skin, and, oh, those green eyes. It must be infuriating to look like that,” you rattle away to the only entity willing to listen to you in his company: the wind.

“Spare me,” he drones, lips curved impatiently.

You moue. “Ever the bore, you are, Severus. Shall I fetch you a platter of brandy snaps?”

“Shall I sit around while I wait?” Snape’s lips contort into a sour grimace, eyes rolling to the back of his head. “The Dark Lord himself might even find time to rise from his grave.”

“Severus dear, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were trying to tell me something.” You eye him slyly, mouth tipping into a smirk as a dragonfly hovers by the waterline, avidly stalked by the dwarf frog on a lily pad. “So,” you pry, “did you have something important to tell me? I promised Mister Goyle I’d have a drink with him.”

The frog splashes into the lake, and the dragonfly flutters away without a care. Severus clandestinely slips a piece of paper into your palm as he swivels around, dark cloak billowing. “Ensure that nothing traces back to you,” he snarls. “Clearly I do know better, Severus.” You toy with the paper between your fingers, a sense of exhilaration running up your spine. “Not to worry,” you say with a clipped smile, a serpentine glare in your eyes, “I always do as I am told.”

(Severus, not for the first time in his life, wonders if the Sorting Hat made a mistake when it sorted you into Hufflepuff.) 

act ii. tonight, let’s start the masquerade.

THE NIGHT GROWS weary, and so do the alleys of Knockturn; neglected as your hooded figure navigates through the brick road, only the caged owls and flickering stars to notice your presence. You fainly traipse amongst the shadows, a moment of surrender from the spotlight and malignant eyes; a brief interlude in the performance. Past the hanging doll heads in the windows of Borgin & Burkes, you find a lonely shop. Inside the locket of your ring, lies a slip of paper that had been given to you earlier this afternoon. Well, Severus, you think to yourself, idly twisting the ring on your finger, let’s see where you sent me to this time.

And so, the stage actor calls for a costume change. “Alohomora.”

With one last glance at the dimly-lit passage, you enter the boutique. The brass shop bell accompanies your entrance, but no owner appears to greet you—and if there was, well, you have quite a unique way of saying hello. Your fingers feather across the dusty bookshelves, eyes raking through the broken staircase, the faint scent of ginger, rosemary, and mugwort pervades the room; a shattered crystal ball sits in the center of the shop desk, ripped paintings on the wall. A grimace pulls at your lips as you come across a familiar ivory mask. A Death Eater mask—it’s warm to touch; recently worn, perchance. You bury the strong urge to set it on fire. 

There’s a shift in the air, a creak in the floorboards—in an instant, you whip your wand out from its leather holster. 

“Reveal yourself,” you whisper curtly.

To the naked eye, there is only one intruder in the dingy parlor. To you, however, there is an obscure silhouette of a stranger covered by a glimmering veil. You hold onto your wand resolutely. If it was an enemy, you’d be blown into the walls by now. “This isn’t an ensemble stage, you know,” you chuff impatiently, “I’m not fond of sharing the spotlight with lineless extras.” 

The disillusionment charm slowly unveils, and you wait unblinking, until you see a familiar face standing before you. Mid-length curly hair that falls over gray, dagger-like eyes, the irksome scent of tobacco, and a frightening similarity to his elder brother. 

There are exactly five people you’d risk your life for, and right now, you’re digging the tip of your wand into their neck.

“Mister Regulus Black,” you greet with a playful edge to your voice, eyes narrowing. “Severus didn’t mention we’d be running into each other tonight.” 

“That’s because I didn’t tell Sev I’d be here,” says Regulus, dimples poking out as he swats your wand away from his throat. “I might go mad if I have to stay inside for another bloody week, there’s only so many times I can re-read Good Omens—and by the way, did anyone ever tell you how dramatic you are? Lineless extras, really?” 

You hide a fond smile with a roll of your eyes, whirling around to browse the glass cabinets and leather journals on the table, returning to the task at hand. “And so you thought going outside and risking someone seeing you in the open was a good idea? Reggie darling, I often think about the possibility of Walburga dropping you on the head as an infant.” 

Regulus shoves his hands inside his trouser pockets as he hovers over your shoulders like a lost, overgrown duckling. “Wasn’t it Cissa’s soirée today? Did you jinx the statues like I told you to?” 

“Who do you think I am?” you say haughtily, pausing in your search to half-heartedly glare at him. And after a moment’s pause, you jerk your shoulder and coyly respond with a side-smirk, “Of course I did. The young Mister Flint nearly screamed his head off.” You hum reminiscently, “truthfully, it’s been quite a while since I heard Draco laugh like that these days. For breakfast, I hear about the Granger girl, and then for lunch, I hear about the Weasley children, and for dinner, it’s an hour-long spiel on the famed Harry Potter.” 

Regulus chortles in amusement as he hops onto the shop counter, kicking back his chunky boots. “And, then? Did you see my brother?” 

“Oh, darling, I did more than that,” you mutter offhandedly, leafing through the paraphernalias and foul-smelling potion flasks. 

“How was he? Is he doing well? Merlin, I think it’s been so long since I saw his face.” There’s a lapse of silence between you and Regulus. A lizard scurries across the room, chasing after a line of ants. The younger wizard taints the quietude with a long, frustrated sigh. “Sorry, I just. . .” He slumps his shoulders in resignation. “I wouldn’t have to ask so many questions if. . . if I could just. . .”

“I don’t understand why I have to hide from my own family.” With a jagged whisper, he says, “I feel like I’m losing my mind. Like I can’t believe that I’m really here, I don’t even know if I exist sometimes.” 

You grimace as you turn to look at him, hand flinching as if wanting to reach out to him. Instead, you avert your gaze and continue scouring the room. “It’s for—”

“My own good, I know,” Regulus blows a strand of hair away from his forehead. He jumps off the counter with a hardened stare. You glance at his back as he bends to pick at the marks on the floor. At times like this, you remember how small and young Regulus had been when you found him moribund from lake inferis. What a cruel price to pay in exchange for his survival, you think. 

For Regulus Black has to remain dead to the wizarding world, stuck in an interminable masquerade, waiting until the hour is up for his performance. 

All the world’s a stage, and for the best of the actors and actresses, it seems the production never ends. 

“How long do you think it’s going to stay like this? For you, me, Sev? For Cissa?” As he stands on his toes to inspect the top of a dusty cupboard, Regulus veers his head to peek at your expression, frowning when he finds none. (You’ve no answers for him, after all; the entirety of your life was spent wondering that exact same question. All you know is that the show must go on until the audience tires of the starving artist.) “Never mind, let’s just focus on finding whatever you were trying to find here.” He walks past his reflection in the vintage carved mirror. “What are we looking for, anyway?” 

You wish to offer solace to a cherished friend, but duties are meant to be fulfilled. For now, to do what is right must come first. Your fingers slither up the side of a bookcase, a wooden ladder resting against the shelves. The mahogany is freshly varnished, the stench of glue is prominent, and deep scratches indent the floor. It’s an empty treasure cove, barely anything displayed on the racks. You grit your teeth as you realize it’s been well-maintained compared to the obsolete state of the room. “Here,” you rasp, abruptly snapping your head to look back at him.

He furrows his brow. “What?” 

You beckon him to the corner of the room from where you stand, wooden planks creaking as you push at the bookcase. “Help me with this, Regulus. There could be something behind it.” You clench your jaw as you lean your weight onto the cabinet frame.

“Why don’t we just, I don’t know,” Regulus cocks his head as he waves his wand in the air. “Use magic?” he offers discreetly, as though divulging a century-old secret. “I suggest Bombarda for maximum efficiency.” 

You stare at him vacantly. “Regulus dearheart, I hold a stupendous amount of tolerance for you, but there is absolutely no way we are drawing attention to ourselves via explosion spells in the dead of the night.” 

He grins boyishly before ushering you away. “Alright, alright, I was only taking the mickey out of you.” Soon after, Regulus deftly mutters a levitation charm, his wand steadfast as the bookcase slowly detaches from the floor. You take a couple of steps backward, lips pursed as you observe Regulus concentrate on his work. 

You note to yourself to have a conversation about Regulus’s restlessness with Severus. It could pose a liability and pull the curtains on the entire pasquinade. “Careful,” you keep a tight watch on Regulus’s pinched brows, his hovering wand, and the steadily moving bookshelf. 

“Like taking jelly slugs from a first-year,” he says flippantly, beaming at you as his dark curls sweep over his eyes. 

You give him an exasperated scowl before side-stepping his quip as you descry a faint outline of a door in the plastered wall. You feel a rumble in the ground, muffled noises behind the shrouded entrance.  “Ready your wand, Regulus,” you say grimly, hand reaching for the doorknob, looking back in time to catch his smirk fade into a distant expression, “I believe what awaits won’t be as simple as that.” 

A grave tenor disquiets the room, your free hand already grasping for your wand. Regulus stands at your side, nodding as you take a sharp breath. He offers his back to you, in spite of the looming danger. (A sadistic part of you finds comfort in his presence tonight, but neither of you can truly share the burdens of your harrowing façades. Tomorrow, you play the lone star once more; and he, the dead brother and son. But today, you must simply share the stage.) 

You twist the knob until a click pierces the heavy silence.

You wait with a bated breath, expecting creatures and spells to come hurling in your direction. The room ahead is enshrouded with darkness. You share a terse nod with Regulus as a ball of light appears at the tip of your wands. Regulus moves to take a step forward, but you block him with your arm. “I’ll go first,” you say breathily, curtly glancing at the Death Eater Mask. “It could be cursed the moment we step inside.” Regulus presses his lips into a white line, clearly unhappy with your decision, but relents nonetheless. 

Rough, travertine flooring begins where the woodwork ends; a gust of wind howls into the dark chamber. Wordlessly, you call for your patronus to investigate inside; thin, silvery wisps floating in the air, its light hauntingly beautiful against the unilluminated dungeon. You hear heavy chains dragging across the ground and the harmony of timid footfalls. A drop of water falls onto the cracked stone. Regulus grinds down on his jaw as he readies his wand. 

After an eternity of waiting, you snap your wand to set the torches alight. 

A pronounced chill runs up your spine; a stutter in your breath. You nearly stagger at the sight unveiled before you. If you had been a weaker wizard, you’d have dropped your wand already. “This. . .” you say hoarsely, eyes wide, blood simmering in your veins. 

Children.

Little ones as young as ten-years-old, barely coming up to your stomach, staring up at you with bloodshot eyes. Their skinny arms are covered in grime and wear pathetic rags for clothes. Moss grows in every corner of the room. Emaciated mattresses on metal beds. “Bloody hell,” Regulus growls, chest heaving. “What the fuck?” 

“It’s a prison,” you whisper, horrified. There must be more than twelve children standing before you. Bile rises to your throat. You worry about your wand breaking in half, but the overwhelming sense of dread traps you in position. 

“Are. . . are you with the bad men?” A brave, young girl with owlish eyes protectively steps forward in front of her companions. “No,” you answer gently, bending down on one knee to meet her eyes. You were neither good, or bad, but there is no magic on earth that would make you harm these children. 

Regulus calls your name. “They’re Muggles,” he hisses angrily. “I don’t sense any magic from any of them.” He exhales in frustration. “What the hell are they doing with Muggle children?” 

You grind down on your teeth, nearly dizzy with anger. You forgo a response to Regulus in favor of clasping your cloak around the trembling child. Soon after, you blanket the room in a warming charm. “Tend to their wounds,” you say sharply. “I’ll see what I can do about the chains.” And you will do something about those shackles, if it’s the last thing you do. “We’re going to get you out of here, I promise,” you tell the girl, stolid as you pat her head.

Except, the brass bell rings once more and everyone stiffens in alert. The children begin whimpering amongst themselves. Slow, deliberate footsteps reverberate from the shop into the icy-cold room. The hairs on the back of your neck rise.

“Move out of the way!” you yell, veins straining against your neck, just as you’re blown into the stone walls. 

Regulus screams out your name, but you barely hear anything over the ringing in your ears; through blurring vision, you see the children and Regulus unharmed. Relief floods through you as you sluggishly rise from the floor. There’s a large crater in the wall from the impact; luckily, the tethers to the chains were demolished, as well. “Get them to the safehouse,” you order, blood trickling from your lips. You hardly feel your arms and legs; there’s an ache in the back of your head, your spine feels as though it’s been snapped in half. You’re definitely going to feel this tomorrow. Regulus hesitates to leave, hands laid on the shoulders of the children as he glowers at the newcomer. “Now!” you bellow gutturally. 

A muscle ticks in Regulus’s jaw, but as he finally apparates with as many children as he can, you finally stop holding your breath. “It’s okay,” you reassure the wee boys clinging onto each other for comfort, limping to their side. “I’m rather strong, you know. Stronger than any of the bad men.”

In every duel, you allow yourself to be hit only once—driven by your inhuman desire to feel something other than the  emptiness of your unbroken charade. 

(And for years, you have waited for anyone to say these two specific words: Avada Kedavra.) 

“Go,” you instruct gently, brushing away the tendrils of hair from the little boy’s forehead. “Hide and wait until my companion comes for you.”

“And as for the ill-mannered invader,” you crane your head towards the entrance of the chamber, eyes raking over the tall figure’s bloodthirsty stance and flittering cloak. There’s a lack of silver mask, but you know well the stench of foreboding decay and malignity. At the speed of light, you aim your wand, “Confringo!”

You watch with a spiteful grin as the stranger is blasted across the room. The walls and ceilings threaten to crumble, and you can only hope that Severus won’t be too cross with you in the morning. You point your wand at the uninvited guest’s heart. Nothing will trace back to you, that much you are certain of.

After all, no one would suspect a vapid, insufferable boulevardier to be the greatest spy of the wizarding world.

A firebird caws in the distance.

And, scene.

act iii. where’s your soul? where’s your dream? do you think you’re alive?

“APPEARANCES ARE OF utmost importance.” You stand in the front of the Great Hall, sun rays streaming through the large, stained windows, wooden tables pushed to the walls; accoutered in a black velvet capelet with gold trimmings and vintage dragonhide boots.  The sleeves of your blouse are lined with handwoven, gothic lace; trousers made of the finest yellow satin. It is a testament to your House—the cete of badgers. (You seize everyone’s attention—whether the two Aurors in the corner like it or not.)

After a descanting introduction, you are given center stage before the students of Gryffindor and Slytherin. With a swing in your step and a wrest in your voice, you continue, “That is why the Headmaster, Dumbledore himself, invited me to personally facilitate this year’s Tri-Wizard Tournament. As hosts of the event, excellence is expected of us. Professor McGonagall has graciously allowed me to take charge of your lessons, particularly in the art of dancing.” Your eyes gleam as you offer the young fourth-years a graceful reverence. “And our first lesson begins straight away.”

The crowd of students transfigure into a sea of curious eyes and flabbergasted whispers. You derisively watch the chaos unfold with an amused grin. Yet, you’re not the least bit worried. You’ve charmed even a flock of Dementors before, the creatures having been drawn to your voice, ostentatious stature, and the dark depths of your soul; like a bee to a field of flowers. A class full of awkward teenagers should be more than easy for you. 

“Now, now, children,” you clap your hands as you make your way to the heart of the room, leaving a trail of softening murmurs. “The Yule Ball is a revered tradition, an exhibit of togetherness that has lasted for hundreds years.” You lift your nose up in the air as the girls look at one another, barely able to hide their giddy smiles and discreet glances across the hall. “As such, it is my venerable duty to oversee your etiquette in and out of the ballroom.”

(Sirius rolls his eyes from where he sits besides James.)

“Mister Filch, if you please.” With a flutter of your lashes and a poised smile, you beckon for the school caretaker who flounders to the gramophone. You wink at the young miss Pansy Parkinson who stares up at you in awe. Soon thereafter, you hear the soft melody of Léo Delibes’s Valse. Coppélia, you simper to yourself—a story close to your heart. (You’ve always found a winsome irony in a marionette like you dancing to the enamel-eyed girl’s song.)

“A dance, while enjoyable by one’s lonesome, is best savored with a partner,” you begin vivaciously, eyeing the gentlemen in particular. “Your date for the night must be aware that you’ve chosen them out of your own volition and undue necessity.” Your stare drifts to the coterie of young Gryffindors, tittering mischievously. “Shall we have a demonstration from the House of courage and splendor?”

“No one?” You raise a brow curiously when you’re met with silence and averted gazes. You then utter the scariest phrase a professor could say to their students: “I’ll choose the lucky student myself.” 

You survey the pack of lion cubs, drifting through the tuffs of flashing red hair; gangly boys raucously kicking and pushing at each other to volunteer for your teach-in on ballroom dancing. You flash the students a vexatious grin. “Mister Harry Potter?” you call out to the ashen-faced boy with your hand outstretched. “Why don’t we let the Chosen One set an example to his peers?” 

Hollers and cheers break out across the hall; not withholding the mirthful giggles of the doves on the other side of the room, wonderstruck by his green eyes and lightning scar. You motion for Harry to join you on the pseudo dance floor. The Weasley twins take delight in clapping and wisecracking into his ears until Harry reluctantly rises to his feet, a blooming shade of red on his neck and cheeks. 

“As you approach your partner with the grace of a majestic stag,” you acclaim to the class whilst Harry approaches you with a wry grin and hands shoved inside his robe pockets, “And not a newborn foal.” You place your hand in his, “You may now invite your lady to dance.”

“Or your beau,” you add spiritedly, eyes gleaming as Harry chokes on his saliva.

You pat his back as the music comes to a sweet-sounding crescendo. “Dancing is about connection,” you turn to the students with a stern gaze. “If your posture crumbles, there goes your confidence, as well. At all times, you must maintain eye contact,” you say sharply as you tilt Harry’s chin and correct the arch of his arms. “Remember, it’s not ballroom if there’s no trust. Lean onto one another, and then. . .” You lay your palm onto his shoulder. “The feet should follow the music.”

Unfortunately, Harry runs on two left feet and both persistently evade the music. On the umpteenth time he stumbles on your shoes, he’s appraised by snickers and low whistles from either side of the  hall. The Weasley twins in particular seem thrilled by Harry’s flailing arms and bewildered expression. Along with the two Aurors who’ve skipped their aurorly duties to patrol the castle in favor of heckling their ward. “You’re doing it wrong, James!” shouts Sirius through cupped hands, shoulders shaking in laughter. 

“Why don’t you try it, Padfoot?” Harry retorts back to him; thick hair flopping over his eyes as he grates his teeth. You’re given no warning as Harry extracts himself from your grip and stalks over to where Sirius and James sit comfortably. 

You blink, dumbfounded. “Harry dearest, I don’t believe that is necessary—!”

“Go on then,” says Harry, jerking his head. “Show us all how to do it.” 

To the side, Ron guffaws into his fist, brought nearly to tears. (Earlier he was apprehensive about the class. “We’ve got a whole new professor just for twirling around and all that girlish stuff?” he had asked in disbelief before entering the Great Hall.

“Shut your mouth, Weasley,” growls Draco Malfoy as he shoves past Harry and Hermione to head inside the hall.)

Sirius grins roguishly, having the gall to bat his eyes in confusion. “Who? Me?” He chuckles before forcibly slapping James’s back with the flat of his palm. “No, no. The honor should go to the debonair of his time.” Trenchant eyes flicker with mischief. “Have at it, James. How will the children ever learn without a proper demonstration?” 

“Go on, Sir Prongs!” exclaims one of the red-headed twins. “Show us how it’s done!” 

Alarmingly, the bespectacled man resigns to his fate, a deafening ovation as he shrugs his robes off, generously revealing his broad shoulders in a tight, black turtleneck; a leather wand holster across his chest; long legs framed by pleated trousers. You bite down on your tongue as James draws closer to you, a hint of a smirk on his lips. With an unerring arch of his back, he holds out his hand for you to take, “May I have this dance?” 

Your breath stutters—if only for a moment. One cannot deny that James Potter is deviously more appealing to the eye than the dance partners you’ve had during Narcissa’s galas. Perfectly-carved cheekbones and golden hoops dangling from his ears; bright, hazel eyes girdled by rectangular glasses. “Well,” you say, pursing your lips as you slip your palm into his. “If you must.” 

In contrast to his son, James needs little-to-no guidance from you. You’d have assumed that much, considering that both James and Sirius grew up in pure-blood customs. The warmth of his hand on your back is scalding. He spins you along to the song’s aria; the two of you gliding effortlessly through the soapstone floors. Any more closer to him and you’d be able to hear his heartbeat. “There will be lifts, turns, and dips during a waltz,” you inform the class as you demonstrate a twirl vine. “You will rise and you will fall together with your partner. Understand?” 

James chuckles at the wistful sighs and horrified groans that erupt through the Great Hall. “You’re good with the children, you know,” he remarks cheekily as he gently lowers you to the ground, hand steadfast on your waist. You hear his unsaid words clearly: Sirius thought you’d be downright rubbish at it. 

“Well, Mister Potter,” you say breathlessly, clasping your arms around his neck once more. “To some of the students here, frilly dresses and French designers are their entire world.” Your chin all but perched atop James’s shoulders; the scent of his famed Sleekeazy potion and vetiver—dew on fresh grass on a warm sunny day—fills your senses. You cast a sniffy glare in Sirius’s way, to which he responds with a raised brow. 

“Bit shallow, isn’t it?” he murmurs, chest rumbling and his breath hot on your ear. 

You scoff. “One could argue the same for a young Seeker who’s been given their first ever broom.” 

James Potter has the nerve to smile at you. And as you move to extricate yourself from his hold, James mindlessly lets his hand fall from your waist to your hip—incidentally, where you’ve been nursing a heavy fracture. Sore bruises from chasing vampires the night prior as you were out hunting allies of the Dark Lord from the first wizarding war. Although you had drowned yourself in pain relief elixirs, it seems you’re more sensitive and hurt than you thought. 

Even statues of white gold chip and fade over time—you’re reminded of this fact quite painfully. You roughly push James away from you, hissing in pain as you cradle the left side of your hip. Memories of crimson-stained teeth and rotten, pale skin flash before your eyes. You remember the stench of blood, and the feel of their nails slashing into your thighs. But most of all, you remember their ear-piercing shrieks just before you drive the stake into their chests, one by one, until you have left a graveyard of vampires in the outskirts of an abandoned mansion. 

James furrows his brow immediately as you cave in on yourself. (Even Sirius surges to his feet.) “What’s wrong?”

Occlude! Occlude—you must occlude immediately! 

With a sharp inhale, you close off your emotions for anyone else to see. “It is nothing of your concern, Mister Potter,” you respond blankly, as though your soul is locked far away. “I do believe we’re done here.” You step further away from him. Your attention shifts to the students as you fold your hands behind your back, lips curling into a virulent smile. The weight of your mask is comforting; you’ve forgotten how to breathe without it. “Now, let’s have the students pair up and practice what they’ve learned so far. I’ll have no patience for dilly-dallying and nescience on my watch. You’ll dance until I tell you to stop. You’ll practice until the soles of your feet are sore and raw.”

That, after all, is how you learned.

The class goes by accordingly; you maintain a distance from Sirius and James, turning a blind eye to their burdensome sympathy. (Gryffindors and their bleeding hearts—it always unnerves you how easily the avowed Marauders get deep under your skin.) You nip at the students’ heels, righting their poor footwork; looping the music until you are certain they’d hear it in their nightmares. To your surprise, the round-cheeked Neville Longbottom takes all your instructions in stride. From the moment that you allow Filch to lift the tonearm, the students practically fall to the floor, heaving; some forsaking their long robes and tying their hair in flimsy ponytails. 

As the students retreat from the Great Hall, you slink away into the crowd of Slytherins, desperate to avoid a particular duo of Aurors—no doubt ready to probe you with questions. A numbing panic claws at your chest; black spots swallowing your vision. Emotions—how putrid. The students’ discordant chatter overwhelms your hearing, more than the ringing in your ears. The unyielding, outré stone walls feel like they’re closing in on you. Still, you keep your head above the water, enduring every staggered breath. You must. 

What’s wrong? 

The question echoes in your head. 

Ha! 

You scream inwardly, if they only knew! 

While you had been expecting either James or Sirius to ambush you, you do not expect to see Draco Malfoy shouting your name as you flee down an empty corridor. 

The miniature Lucius Malfoy stands before you, grimacing as he clenches his fists tightly. “Are. . .” Draco’s expression contorts morosely. “Are you alright? Theo and I were worried that the blood traitor upset you.” he spits his concern as if it were acid. Little snakes and their keen eyes. 

“Mind your language, Draco,” you reply cuttingly, eyes flashing as you lift your chin. And for his question, one that you’ve been asked numerous times over the years, you have only ever had one answer. Despite the scars on your back, the tremors in your hands, the aching of your heart, and the endless bruises on your limbs, you tell him: “And do not ask what is not needed to be.” 

“You’re hurt, aren’t you?” he presses further, mouth pinched. “Don’t treat me like a dim-witted child because I’m not!” 

A hand lays on his shoulder, and to your chagrin, Severus makes his appearance, lips downturned and his gaze filled with subdued apathy. Your day is about to get worse. “Perhaps, it is best if you leave this discussion to the adults, Draco.” Snape drones, leaving no room for debate. He tightens his grip on the younger wizard. “I will not be inconvenienced to explain to Minerva as to why you were dawdling in the corridors.” 

In true Malfoy fashion, Draco sneers in disdain. He rips himself out of Snape’s grasp with a scoff. As he storms past you, you sigh and pat his side. 

When Draco disappears into the corner, you release a deep breath as you prepare for the onslaught to come. “Just get it over with, Severus,” you pinch the bridge of your nose, the pounding in your head growing more unbearable by the second. 

You see his nostrils flare as Severus turns to glare at you. “I wonder,” he says through gritted teeth. “If you are actually capable of following direct orders—of using that near-empty brain of yours!” His upper lip curls back into a snarl, as he scours the empty hallway for any prowling ears. “Your stunt made it to the Daily Prophet. You were asked to proceed tactfully, were you not?” 

You lean against the wall, rubbing at the temples of your head. “And I’ve done my part. Every last one of them—dead by my hands. A problem you failed to deal with for the last two months. That I settled last night. Remind me why you’re still chittering into my ear, Severus darling?”

“Do not play coy with me,” he replies brusquely. “I’ve heard the students tattling about it as though it were the most interesting event in their pathetic, insolent lives. The Embris Mansion burnt down to the ground. There are talks of a vigilante, a good-for-nothing do-gooder. You got sloppy!”

“And if I did—so what?” You retaliate, chest heaving as you step into his face. Truthfully, this isn’t the first time you’ve had this conversation with him. Over the years you have left some sort of mark on your work. Not a phoenix, but a firecrest. Wings outstretched in flames. All eyes are on the ungovernable hero, the Firebird—and never on you, the foppy socialite. “Would it be so perverse to want even a slither of recognition, Severus?” 

“Do not forget your duty,” he taunts venomously, the cords in his neck going rigid. “To the greater good you so earnestly fight for. Your duty to your mother.” 

“Do not talk about her!” you all but shout, magic sizzling in the air around you. 

“Then see to it that there are no more mistakes going forward!” Severus juts his chin, baring his teeth in contempt. 

After a few long moments, he continues with a resigned exhale, dragging his palm down his face—as though you are the perplexing one. “This. . . Moody has developed a habit of emptying my cupboards.” 

“And why, pray tell,” you retort gruffly, “should I care for this oh-so special cupboard of yours?” 

“It contains ingredients for Polyjuice potions!” he proclaims angrily. “Get to the bottom of this. I’ll not have a blithering fool like Pettigrew get to the students again. Do what you must, I have no interest in understanding the workings of your mind—as long as you do not draw unnecessary attention to yourself.” 

The sound of footfalls break you apart as Severus nimbly lifts the Notice-Me-Not charm he had cast earlier. Within seconds, you find Remus Lupin rounding the corner. He’s dressed in his usual baggy, gray jumper; jaw clean-shaved, and pinkish scars against his skin. A well-loved quilted coat over his shoulders—handmade by Lily, you presume. You notice the mismatched otter socks peeking from his loafers. Remus saunters down the hallway with tired eyes and a feeble smile as he stops right in front of you and Severus. He has a rather tall frame, slender even, despite his hunched shoulders. 

“Snape,” Remus nods to him, gaze flickering back and forth as he attempts to discern what had transpired—well, you’re certainly in no rush to tattle and cry into his arms. 

“Professor,” he says to you, an ever curious smile on his face. “You’re looking quite peaky. Is something the matter?”

“I am most certainly sound and fine, Mister Lupin,” you respond, irritated, as you wobble on your feet. You are at your wit’s end—how bothersome of it all. “Should you not be on your way to your next class, Professor?” you bite tiredly. 

Remus shrugs, hazel-eyes crinkling in amusement. “Mad-Eye is taking over my next class. I thought it would be good for the students to learn from a veteran Auror. I’m sure he has much more experience to offer than me.” 

You scowl, his humility smothering you painfully. “Well, I’ve no interest in dragging my feet around. If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I have a prior engagement with my cat and I’m afraid I’ve left her alone for too long.” 

And as fate would have it, when you make haste for your quarters, you falter in your steps; lurching as your vision goes blurry. Your breath snags in your throat as Remus catches you by the waist. “Perhaps, we should get you to Lily,” offers Remus as he sets you upright, brows pinched worriedly, ignoring Snape’s eye roll in the background. 

“I said I was fine!” You blurt out, cradling the front of your head as you sway backwards; now seeing two Lupins and two Snapes. “Merlin, are all Gryffindors this bloody meddlesome? Must I repeat myself? I am fine—!” 

Turns out, you are not fine. 

The last thing you see before losing consciousness is a pair of brown eyes with flecks of gold, more beautiful than any full moon you’ve ever seen. 

 —

You wake up to a dry, sore throat; the bitter scent of infirmary disinfectant—a Muggle’s touch, no doubt—and concoctions of various healing potions. Your head is still pounding, but somewhat bearable. The room is small, privy to only teachers, you conclude—although, it is the very first time you have ended up in the infirmary. Remus Lupin would feel your wrath, you’d make sure of it. Your back stings as though it were doused in Dittany recently. As you nearly break the flower vase in an attempt to reach for the empty glass, the door creaks open—and in comes Lily Potter with her husbands.

“Am I in hell?” you eye them bitterly. 

“No,” says the youngest matron, dressed in her own version of the nurse’s uniform. Red vest over her white blouse, and a long, plaid skirt with pockets. Soft red hair tied back with a pink ribbon. Albeit, her expression is anything but sweet and delicate. “But you’re in my office, which means you are now under my care—therefore I’d like you to explain why you have vampire toxins in your blood.” 

“And I would like to return to my quarters now, please,” you respond haughtily, referring to the private bedroom professors were offered in the castle. “I’ve nothing to explain to someone who administers the diagnostic charm on my person without explicit permission to do so!” you exclaim, releasing a shuddery breath as your head throbs agonizingly. 

“You will listen to me—seven hours ago you were this close to paralysis!” Lily shouts right back, eyes glaring defiantly—she may have adhered to you in Malfoy’s territory, but no power holds more authority than an acclaimed healer over a patient. “If you had been a Muggle, you’d be dead ten times over.”

“Well, now that we’ve established that I’m alive and well, I suppose we have no more pleasantries to exchange, Lily darling.” You tear the flimsy blanket from your legs, grimacing at the bandages covering your skin. 

“Not before you tell us where those bruises came from,” Sirius demands, voice low and knife-like eyes on you. 

“Must have been the Nargles,” you reply sarcastically. No one would care for a bonny doll ripping apart at the seams and gathering dust on a child’s shelf. “They’re quite frisky this time of the year, didn’t you know? My good friend Xenophilius wrote about those creatures a long time ago. Good read, I’d say.” 

“Are you capable of taking anything seriously?” cuts Sirius with a snarl, tendrils of hair curling around his face; hints of tattoos peeking out from his leather jacket. Vermillion satin shirt clashing against his pale skin. The lingering smell of lit cigars only reminds you of Regulus, and so you tear your gaze away from Sirius. 

“Sirius, let’s not scare her off now, love,” Remus admonishes, softly resting his palm at the back of Sirius’s neck, before he stares at you with honey-dripping eyes. You have a desperate need to run away. They’re an uncharted danger that you aren’t familiar with navigating—and you figure young Harry wouldn’t appreciate you treating his parents like a rabid vampire. “We just want to know what happened, you looked worse for wear when we brought you to Lily and Madam Pomfrey,” Remus placates, treating you like a crow with its wing snapped in half. 

You sneer. “If I am not dead, then these wounds hardly matter to me.” 

Lily gasps, a sound so soft only the wind could have possibly heard it. “How could you say that?” she asks, hand flying to her lips. “Of course it matters, you had lost so much blood while we tried to get the toxins flushed from your system.” She stares at the puncture mark on your arm, before peering over at Sirius. “We nearly couldn’t find a match to your blood type. Sirius. . . Well, he’s a universal donor and he didn’t even hesitate in giving you his—”

“Giving me what?” you echo lowly. “What did Sirius give me, Lily?”

“Blood,” Lily says firmly. “He gave you his blood so you could live.”

“How dare you?” you seethe, chest rapidly rising; digging your nails firmly into your palms as you stare furiously at Lily. “You had no right!” You scream until your throat is sore; your magic overflowing until it shatters the nearby vase of butterfly weeds. 

Rage tunnels your vision; heart hammering against your ribcage as you move to carelessly rip at the bandages over your wounds. “You had no right! You had no fucking right! I would have never done the same for you! Get out! Get out!” 

“Get out!” You hurl the glass at the wall across from you, narrowly avoiding Sirius’s head; anguish tears itself from your voice and you barely notice James flinch from the intensely flickering lights. 

“You think I’d be grateful?” you scoff, a burning heat spreading across your chest. “You think I’d be indebted to any of you after this? Is that what you wanted? What a fucking joke!” You laugh irately as you gasp for air. “I’d rather die!” 

When you run out of items to throw at them—pillows, shards of glass, and crumpled flower stems—you sit on the bed, shoulders violently shaking as you cough yourself sick. 

“I. . .” Lily begins, swallowing the lump wedged in her throat. “I understand. . . But I am the castle’s nurse, as long as you are under Hogwarts’ protection, I am keeping you alive no matter what.” 

“I don’t bloody care,” you snide.

Her eyes flash to James. “We’ll leave you to rest, then.” 

You stay silent, vacantly staring at the reddened welts on your hands. It’s not until you feel James’s arms around you and his chin hovering above your head that you realize you’ve stopped shivering. “I’m sorry,” is all that James whispers into your ear as he lays you to sleep with an inaudible charm. The chill of his magic is the last thing you feel before your eyes flutter to a close. 

—

You wake up in the infirmary once more. This time, you lay stiff on the mattress, absentmindedly gazing at the plain ceiling; your chest falling and rising ever-so slowly. The stink of a Calming Draught is painstakingly familiar. A low humming sound tells you that you aren’t alone—but you barely flinch from their presence, too tired to do anything but close your eyes. “Some boys kiss me, some boys hug me. . . . something. . . they’re okay,” murmurs one Sirius Black, tapping on his thigh as he rests his back on the rustic chair. 

If Sirius wants an encore, he’d have to drag the fight out of you. You’re utterly drained from your emotional palaver earlier. “Didn’t know you were into Muggle songs, Black,” you chortle bemusedly.  

Sirius halts in his singing as a forceful silence falls over the room—you distinctly hear the moment Sirius’s hand drops to his thigh, most likely taken aback by the sound of your hoarse voice. You feel the weight of his eyes on your bandaged arms and legs. A few seconds pass before he responds, his words but a faint breath. “After today, I believe that there is much to be uncovered for the both of us.” 

You don’t bother replying—you’d have Obliviated them instantly if it wasn’t illegal to use on Aurors. 

“We know it was you,” says Sirius out of the blue—your blood turns icy-cold on command, wondering if he’s figured out about the wizard behind the Firebird. “On the first day of term, someone had left a basket of freshly-brewed Wolfsbane potions enough to last him for the entire year,” he explains further, leaning his elbows on his knees as he stares at you unwaveringly. “I almost didn’t believe it, but a Marauder has his ways.” 

(His son with an invisibility cloak and a handy, enchanted parchment.) 

“Thank you,” he says, guttural with emotions. “It means more to Remus than you think.”

“Your gratitude is misplaced, unfortunately,” you rasp, coiling your fists tightly, stubbornly intent on avoiding his eyes—not wanting to get caught in the storm within. You exhale with a ragged sigh. Severus was right, you had been sloppy. And this is what carelessness leads to. “Don’t delude yourself, Mister Black, I couldn’t care less what happens to you or your family.”

Sirius chuckles, like he’d expected such a response from you. “Well, do what you’d like with my gratitude, I don’t care, just know that you have it,” he says, rising from his seat. “It’s past midnight, by the way. Lily’s left you some dinner in case you woke up hungry.” 

Your eyes drift to the nightstand. There’s a steaming bowl of spinach rice with mushrooms, and a plate of honey cinnamon bars. But your gaze lingers on the bouquet of snapdragons and orchids placed in a ceramic vase. 

“She believes home-cooked meals help the patients heal faster,” Sirius tells you, carefully observing your reaction—but there’s none to be found. He purses his lips into a thin, white line.

As he makes his way to leave, Sirius pauses, hand resting on the doorframe. “You know,” he begins quietly. “The thing about magic—it can fool the best of us into thinking we’re indestructible. But, you’re not as inhumane as you’d like us to think.” Sirius veers his head to look back at you. “Take that mask of yours off sometimes, yeah? You’d see the rest of the world clearly if you did.” 

That is all you hear from him before the door clicks shut, and you’re left alone with your thoughts.

How arrogant.

How very Gryffindor of him. 

You push the flower vase closer to the edge of the bedside table, indignantly eyeing the watercolor art. The room reeks of Lily’s kindness. Lions and their constant need to see the goodness in everyone. Take off your mask? You’d give your entire Gringotts account to wear the kind of rose-colored lenses they have—they’re more pestilent than you realized. No matter, it’s high-time you reintroduced yourself to the Marauders, anyway. 

If you take off your mask, they would find nothing but a barren soul.

—

It seems your newfound parasites have forgotten who you truly are—but you have no qualms in reminding them why exactly you’re called the pureblood society’s darling. 

For the week or so, the Daily Prophet features you out in luxurious restaurants, a new partner each night hanging off your arm. International Quidditch players, foreign models, esteemed opera singers, and even Muggle celebrities. Men and women are captured in moving photographs, avidly fawning over you. 

You’ve missed three classes in favor of shopping in France; Flooing back to Hogwarts, stinking of bordeaux and rosa centifolia. Painite gems nestled around your neck, glittery sapphires lining your wrists. On more than one occasion, you’ve seen McGonagall lift her chin in distaste at your behavior. 

“Well, that’s certainly a speedy recovery,” says Lily one afternoon as the owls take the Great Hall by storm. Rita Skeeter’s new article about you is plastered on the front page, apparently you’ve gotten into a catfight with an Italian seamstress. She risks a glimpse of you from the other side of the long table, laughing away with Professor Sinistra. The sound is scraping against her ears, yet Lily can’t help but feel disappointed.

Your desk is littered with mails from admirers, invitations to galas and fundraisers. The students can’t help but notice this fact as they’re brought to the dance floor each morning. (Each day, you rewind Coppélia’s song—her wishes, and her pain—but you plan to ignore the ballad until blood trickles from your ears.)

“Mumma’s just about ready to send her a Howler,” you hear Ginevra Weasley saying in passing after class. The young red-haired girl nearly bumps into Hermione’s shoulder as Ginny dips her head low, prattling excitedly, “Called the Professor a tart, even.”

Hermione stops walking, scrunching her nose. “Really?”

“Yes, yes,” Ginny nods. “But enough about all that—have you seen the news this morning?” 

Hermione looks up, lips wrinkled in thought. “The one about the Professor being seen in Muggle London? I thought that was rather stale for a headline.”

“Not that one,” Ginny says exasperatedly, rolling her eyes. “The article about the Firebird. Remember what happened during the World Cup? When You-Know-Who’s followers came and raided the entire campsite?”

“That would be pretty hard to forget, Gin,” Hermione replies softly. 

“Well, the Firebird’s gone and hunted a few of them,” Ginny tells her, eyes brimming with awe. “Found their hideout and left them half-dead for the Ministry to find. No Malfoy, though, which is a bloody shame.”

At your desk, you sip your jasmine pearl tea with a knowing smirk.

On the first of October, your previous Head of House invites you to the greenhouse for an overdue get-together. Naturally, you greet Pomona Sprout with gift baskets overflowing with glacé treats, packets of tea, scented candles, and dried berries. She huffs in fond exasperation before instructing you to grab a pair of cotton earmuffs and gardening gloves. And, well, you don’t mind playing the part of a slap happy third-year under her gentle care. It’s a role you enjoy more so than others. 

“You’ve been worrying me these days, dear,” Professor Sprout tells you earnestly as she wrestles with the Flitterblooms. Hoo-hoo chicks flutter around in their cage while the uprooted baby Mandragoras screech nearby. You feel the weight of her gaze, much like a knitted blanket draped over your shoulders on a cold, autumn noon. “The other staff have been expressing their. . . concern,  as well.” 

You busy yourself with planting the Wiggentree in its pot, allowing only a moment to raise your walls of Occlumency. You know that she couldn’t possibly be a threat, but you would not allow someone else to expose you bare for others to see. (You loathe the thought of Sirius’s blood flowing through your veins.)

You know that concern is shallow at best, forged from fear of the students being influenced by your frivolous escapades. 

At your silence, Sprout continues on, “We always tell the children that their Houses will be like their second family during their time at Hogwarts.” You hear her draw in a long breath, gingerly placing the flitter tentacles on the ground. “I hope you understand that the same is true for the professors. We take care of each other, substitute teacher or not.” Pomona’s hand is leaden on your shoulder. “After all, you were our student before anything else. The Sorting Hat gave you to me, and what a darling blessing you have been, even until today. When I look at you now, I see the same young first-year student who was afraid of everything and afraid to come out of their shell—but do not forget, I will always be on my children’s side no matter what.”

How poignant that the first person who truly welcomed you to Hogwarts, is one of the only people who can see through you despite your protective barriers.

And so, the puppet show begins—like a lifeless ragdoll, you peel the deer-leather gloves off your hands, blinking away any hints of emotion. You stand tall before Pomona, dusting flecks of soil off your dovetail skirt. “No one has been on my side. Not then, not now,” you say as you snobbishly arrange the brim of your sunhat. “But do not be mistaken, Pomona. I have been fine on my own and a change still remains to be seen.” 

In another life, you would have happily embraced her comfort and affection—but the fate of a lonely starlet is cruel. You’ve made your bed of thorns and wilted roses, and there you shall lay when there is no one left but yourself. 

“Today was lovely, Pomona, thank you.” It is one truth you’ve permitted yourself to offer—a shred of humanity in exchange for her kindness. The dirt beneath your nail beds is real; so is the ache in your back and the sweat dripping from the side of your head to your chin. But you cannot feel any more than that—you forbid yourself. The Mandrakes fall silent, and you bid your goodbyes to the professor.

The sunlight on your skin is real as you step outside, and so is the sound of clamoring students heading for the greenhouse. Sixth-year students from Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw hurry down the hill. Their unrestrained laughter and carefree smiles are real. And so is the unwashed blood on your hands; the killing curses that have fallen so easily from your lips, and the ghosts that haunt you as the moon arises. Perhaps, you could withstand it all if it means the children would live through a real future without the sins of people like you. 

(But why is it that every time you distance yourself. . . there always seems to be someone calling out to you?) 

Cedric Diggory, your godson, yells for you with a grin that stretches from ear-to-ear. You watch as his yellow scarf swings with each hasty step he takes. Cedric crosses the gap between you in under a minute, strands of wavy, brown hair sweeping over his glimmering eyes. It’s an unsolved mystery as to how you and him were sorted in the same House. 

“Your shirt is wrinkled, Cedric,” you tut, straightening his tie. “Do you go riding Hippogriffs in your spare time?” 

Cedric chuckles wholeheartedly. “Father told me to tell you that you’ve been invited this weekend for a dinner at Hogsmeade,” he says, cocking his head as a cheeky simper erupts across his face. “That is, if you aren’t busy.” 

You raise a brow—sly little badger, he was. Harrumphing uppishly, you swivel to turn your back to him and say, “Tell your father that I’m choosing the venue, lest he chooses some primitive pub in the village.” You draw out the distance between you and Cedric, tossing your parting words into the chilly breeze, “Tell him I’m paying for everything, too.” 

His hearty laughter cuts through the hillside as you make your way back to the castle. Thinking you have the last word, you don’t expect him to yell once more: 

“I’m going to enter the tournament this year!” 

You’re certainly taken by surprise, but you don’t slow your pace. An imperious smirk tugs at your lips—well, at least you know where you’re placing your bets. 

A day before the esteemed guests are set to arrive, you run into Sirius and James—much to your annoyance. It’s just your luck that the evening prior you were hunting down a known member of Greyback’s pack. You played a little cat-and-wolf deep in the depths of a forest, hungrily isolating him from the rest of its family. Though this lycan was unturned, you walk away with claw marks on your back. Still, you hope that Greyback licks his wounds and feels the burden of this particular loss. However, you feel that dealing with James and Sirius will be much more difficult than bringing a werewolf to its knees.

After all, this is the first time you come face-to-face with them, nearly a month after your incident in the infirmary. 

“Auror Black, Auror Potter,” you say liltingly, the rhinestone tassel clinking in your hair as you swirl to face them with a devious leer. “What can I do for you today?” 

Sirius scoffs in disbelief. “So it’s like that, then? Like nothing ever happened?” 

“Partying around, missing your bloody classes, parading all over the castle like you’re better than everyone else. We thought you changed. You know, I actually thought there could be something real to you under all that,” he punctuates his words with a harsh laugh, sneering at your blinding jewelry. “Guess we were the fools, eh?” 

James stares at Sirius, a grim expression flashing across his face, before he shakes his head. “It just doesn’t make sense. What we saw at the infirmary—that’s not something anyone forgets.” He gazes at you with grief in his eyes. “It’s like you’re two different people.” 

“It’s disappointing, really,” Sirius bites, his lips curling into a snarl.

They’ve made it all too easy for you. 

“What are you so frustrated for, darlings?” you say in faux sympathy, stalking towards them as you tap at your chin; a sickly-sweet pout on your lips. “What were you hoping for? For all of us to become friends? We’re not children anymore, my loves!” you exclaim histrionically. “Did you actually fall for my little trick at the infirmary? The care parcel I left your husband? Didn’t you know my mother drafted the anti-werewolf bill?”

Sirius staggers.

“The real me?” you giggle incredulously. “What you see is what you get, dearest—don’t go searching for what doesn’t exist. It’s not my fault you fall so easily for a pretty face.” You tilt your head, fluttering your eyes as you drag your nail up James’s chin. “Not every damsel is in distress, you know.”

Your eyes slice towards Sirius with a coy smile. “Maybe if you had followed your head more often than your naive, little lion hearts—you wouldn’t have driven Regulus to his death.” 

James recoils away from your touch just as Sirius flinches, eyes flashing with anger—Sirius digs his nails into his palms, chest heaving as he stares at you in disgust. You expect another stab in the chest from him, and so you lift your head up high, daring him to say another word. (You hope they stopped trying after this—that they would leave you alone to rot in your stage of lies and dutiful sacrifice.) But you don’t plan for James to step forward, shielding Sirius away from your gaze.

“You are, without a doubt, the ugliest creature I’ve ever seen,” says James, words dripping in sincere revulsion. “Can’t believe I thought anything less than that.” 

You smile widely, despite the tightening sensation in your chest. “Are we done here now, gentlemen?”

They would learn—this is who you are beneath your masks and pretenses. 

The thirtieth of October brings about a cold you’ve never felt before. As you await the arrival of the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang students, the outside corridors are teeming with students, eyes hungry with anticipation. You lean against the wall, exhausted physically and mentally, hugging your worn-out shawl closer to your shoulders. 

The skies are exceptionally gray today—you’ve had to drag yourself out of bed earlier this morning, limbs heavy as lead. The teacup in your grasp is scalding to the touch—you find that nothing hurts more than the ache in your heart. The children are particularly rowdy at the moment—each time you close your eyes, you see the hatred in James and Sirius’s eyes. 

Has loneliness ever felt so suffocating before? 

When winged horses make their way from the heavens, the clamoring grows louder—yet all you hear are their words. 

‘You are, without a doubt, the ugliest creature I’ve ever seen.’

‘I actually thought there could be something real to you under all that.’

You would not weep—not for yourself, and not certainly for them. 

Sometimes, you wondered if you were hurting too much to even be considered alive. Did your marked flesh even count as skin anymore? Worthy to be cherished with gentle touches and tender lips? How much more did you have to do until the guillotine finally fell? 

When does duty end? And when does life begin? 

Madame Maxine and her drove of Veelas descend from their carriage; awestruck gasps and intrigued murmurs echoing along the corridor. When the Beauxbatons Headmaster comes to stand before you, you instinctively sink into the role of a diplomatic host—that is, after all, why Dumbledore hired you. With a nod of your head and a pleasing smile, you greet the first of your guests to arrive. 

“What a relief that you made it safely to Hogwarts, Madame Maxime,” you tell her in a saccharine-sweet tone. “If you please, Mister Filch here will guide you to the dormitories where you’ll be staying while Hagrid will take care of your horses.” 

You want to go to sleep already. 

Finally, as a large ship emerges from the Great Lake—a sense of relief floods through you. Only one more person to greet and you’ll finally be able to return to your quarters, welcoming feast be damned—you’ve done your part for today. Igor Karkaroff and his students make their presence known; imposing statures and foreboding glares. The castle nearly crumbles from Viktor Krum’s entrance, Hogwarts’ Quidditch players eager to catch a glimpse of the prodigal Seeker—well, you could care less about such a barbaric sport. 

Karkaroff presents you a slimy leer as he presses a kiss to the back of your palm—the dig of his long nails into your skin is a pleasant feeling, to your surprise. “Dumbledore did not inform me we would be greeted by such beauty. We would have arrived earlier, otherwise.” 

You miss your cat. 

(Sirius’s eyes roll all the way to the back of his head when you giggle and melt in Karkaroff’s wretched compliments.) 

You want to die.

—

Chaos erupts the next day. The Goblet of Fire has chosen a fourth champion—Harry Potter himself. No one is more enraged than his mother, Lily. The Aurors on duty, James and Sirius, struggle to contain the students’ horror and verbal lashings. Some have taken to accusing James himself of putting Harry’s name in the goblet in the name of family prestige—predictably, it’s Draco and Pansy who lead that revolt. But you don’t expect for Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnegan to be swayed by the baseless gossip. So there’s a crack in the pride’s loyalty to one another, you surmise to yourself.��

Like a Niffler drawn to shiny objects, you follow the Headmasters and professors into a room, away from all the ruckus. 

“Did you put your name into the Goblet of Fire, Harry?” the wise Professor Dumbledore asks calmly.

The atmosphere is beyond wintry—you note the biting criticisms in their eyes, particular between Fleur and Madame Maxime. Lily hides Harry from their scrutiny, proud and unyielding despite being shorter than the Beauxbaton champion. Across the room, you find Severus and Remus engaged in a muted, albeit wound up argument. 

Everyone looks to the morose Bartemius Crouch Sr., awaiting his decision with a bated breath. You sympathize with the man—for a fleeting moment—for if looks could kill, Sirius’s tempestuous glare would have dragged him six feet under. 

“We must follow the rules, and the rules state clearly that those people whose names come out of the Goblet of Fire are bound to compete in the tournament.”

Your blood runs cold.

Ludo Bagman appears to be pleased with his colleague’s decision—you see no reason why he shouldn’t be, he’s only ever put his odds in the thrill of the game. “Well, Barty knows the rule book back to front!” 

Dimwitted fool.

You scoff. “In a room full of Headmasters and Ministry leaders, surely one of you can find a way to unbind young Potter’s name from the tournament.”

“Err. . .” Ludo’s gaze flickers from Dumbledore to Crouch Sr. Madame Maxime and Karkaroff nod emphatically in agreement, forcing him into a corner with a ragged chuckle. “There’s nothing to be done, the Goblet of Fire has gone out.”

“Do you or do you not have a wand, Mister Bagman?” you reply, piqued; crossing your arms over your chest. “If the rules were written by a wizard, surely it can be unwritten by a wizard. Teaching an Unforgivable to a first-year would be more difficult than that.” “It is not as simple as that, Professor!” Bagman cries. “But you are welcome to try a hand at it.”

“So we just let a child run to his death, then?” you seethe, nostrils flaring. “I never knew the Ministry was teeming with incompetent men. Shall I steal your job from under your nose, Ludo dear?”

(Harry’s brows pinch in confusion. He does not expect for you to care so much.)

“He’s got to compete. They’ve all got to compete. Binding magical contract, like Dumbledore said. Convenient, eh?” says Alastor Moody as he limps across the room, flask in his hand. You fall silent, an unnerving chill slithering down your spine. Something about this man did not sit right with you. You pull the sleeves of your blouse further down your arms. 

“Maybe someone’s hoping Potter is going to die for it,” Moody growls in response to Fleur. “Over my dead body!” James snarls, veins rigid against the column of his throat, eyes simmering in anger. 

“Yes, yes, Potter, we all know you’d die for your son,” Moody remarks offhandedly, taking a large gulp of the liquor in his flask. 

“It seems to me, however, that we have no choice but to accept it,” Dumbledore counters in an attempt to placate the tense atmosphere. Lily’s sharp sob engulfs the outraged clamors of the two other Headmasters. “Both Cedric and Harry have been chosen to compete in the Tournament. This, therefore, they will do. . . .”

The glass sculpture of a long-haired mermaid shatters into fragmented pieces as you bump into the table; just about ready to flee before you do anything rash like point your wand at Crouch Sr. himself. Before you exit the room, you catch sight of Cedric’s eyes—worry and uncertainty pooling within his gaze. You slam the door hard enough until the wood splinters. 

Harry Potter is imprisoned by his fate as the Chosen One—and it seems time has imprisoned everyone at Hogwarts, yourself included. 

The first task for the tournament arrives defiantly, without care for Harry and his loved ones. You have only been to the Quidditch field twice—today happens to be the second time. Everyone is bundled in their wooliest sweaters and warmest jackets; although, Hermione did have her portable bluebell flames. You stare at it with envy. 

“Oi! Professor, over here!” One freckled Weasley twin—Fred, you guess—beckons for you to sit by their swarm of red and gold. He pushes Ron away to make room for you beside Minerva. 

“Thank you, Mister Weasley,” you say quietly, sniffles falling from your frost-bitten nose. 

It’s quite odd—you’d have expected to be sitting with Professor Sprout and Amos, amongst your sett of badgers. But it’s not half-bad. You don’t erupt in flames when Minerva holds onto you, shrieking, as Fleur narrowly avoids her dragon, awoken from its trance. You don’t particularly mind either, when the Weasley twins bump their chests and holler into Ginerva’s ear when it’s time for Viktor Krum to face the Chinese Fireball.

“We got a traitor here!” George snickers when you flinch and yelp for Cedric as he fights shy of the Short Snout’s fire, and cheering breathlessly when he eventually captures the golden egg. You glare at George mirthfully, wondering where your fight and heat has gone. 

“Please excuse me for a moment,” you say, rising to your feet as the judges mull over their scores for Cedric. “Minerva,” you nod to her, and she offers you a hint of a wrinkly smile. (McGonagall thinks that if anyone can talk back in the face of a Ministry chairman in defense of her students, then perhaps she’s misjudged a professor or two.) 

Your cheeks grow numb from the cold as you cross the swarm of Beauxbatons students, past the flock of Ravenclaws. Harry’s match is underscored by the deafening cheers; the stands  rumbling from the yells for his name. You’re nearing the territory of yellow banners and black insignias, trumpets blowing into your ears, when the clamor and hurrahs turn into terrified gasps; students rushing back from the edge. You don’t understand the fuss until you look back at the arena. 

Harry’s dragon has broken free from its chains. 

You join Professor Sprout and Severus in herding the students away from danger—spotting James and Sirius across the arena, hastily reinforcing the protective barriers around the stands, uttermost precision in their wandwork. While Harry dances a life-threatening waltz, you hurriedly clear out the space closest to the banisters. Your breath hitches as the Hungarian Horntail wreaks havoc below, inducing quakes and showers of fire. 

But more frightening than any dragon, you hear the bloodcurdling scream of a student.

“Daphne!” 

The Greengrass heiress, Astoria, cries vehemently as Draco holds her back from rushing to the front of the stands. 

You scour the area frantically—there, only a few feet away from you, lies a fear-stricken Daphne Greengrass, staring right into the eyes of the Horntail. Its teeth bare, growls like thunderstorms, and the rising scent of embers and ashes. 

“Daphne, get away from there!” 

You hardly hesitate—you run to her, desperation pushing at your legs, terror holding your heart captive. As the dragon screeches in preparation to breathe fire, the nearest Aurors miles away—each gasp for air is torn from your throat. In a blink of an eye, you grab Daphne into your arms and shield her from the Horntail. The crowd bellows in fright—you close your eyes, preparing for even the most excruciating of pain. 

But there is nothing. 

Just you, Daphne, the Hungarian—and Remus who’s pointed his wand at the onslaught of flames, redirecting it up into the sky as Harry grabs the Horntail’s attention, now zipping freely on his broom. 

Remus looks back at the both of you in relief, drawing his wand back in his pocket. “Are you alright?” he asks you first, a weary tenderness in his eyes. 

You tear your gaze away from him, checking on Daphne instead; cupping her pale cheeks and wiping the tears from her eyes. “Are you alright, Daphne? What do you feel? Come, darling, let’s get you to Madam Pomfrey—can you stand? Here, put your arm around my shoulder.” 

“T–Thank you, Professor,” stammers Daphne as Astoria rushes to her, the pair of sisters blubbering and crying. The blonde-haired girl nods to you and Remus, “Both of you. I–I don’t know how I’ll repay such kindness.” 

“Don’t worry, Daphne,” says Remus, smiling as he offers her a lemon-flavored treat. 

He steps back to make way for Lily to fuss over Daphne, his eyes straying to you, oozing with sincerity as he rubs his handkerchief to your cheek. He grins at you and your heart skips a beat. “My kindness is freely given.”

Has kindness ever felt so real before?

act iv. you wouldn’t last an hour in the asylum where they raised me. 

“THE CHILDREN ARE terrified, Missus Fawley. Just last week, we had another incident. All the windows in the kitchen—shattered! The little ones couldn’t sleep for days.” 

You hear the orphanage matron’s voice behind the bedroom door. You’re allowed but a moment of playing with your ragged, plush animals, before the matron comes barging inside. (How rude, you think to yourself. Hasn’t she ever heard of knocking before?) Although, unlike all the other times, she has a lady right on her tail. This woman is much taller than Sister Thompson, certainly more beautiful-looking, too. Not that you have anything against Sister Thompson’s wrinkly face and foul smile. 

No, this woman walks with her head held up high, dressed in a burgundy leather coat that clearly costs more than the thin rag you call a shirt. This must be Mrs. Fawley, then. Her black heels click against the rusty, wooden floor; you watch impassively as she bends down to your eye level. She takes you by surprise when she grabs ahold of your chin, slowly turning your head from side to side. 

“So this is the child,” Mrs. Fawley muses, red lips quirked. Haunting blue eyes stare back at you; hair dark as ebony falling to her waist. “You may leave, Sister Thompson. I would like to get to know my future ward.”

The matron widens her eyes. “Missus Fawley, I strongly advise against—!”

“You misunderstand me, Sister Thompson,” says Fawley, a sharp edge to her voice. “That was not a request.”

A strange sense of victory fills you when Sister Thompson bows her head in response, tossing you just one sour glare before exiting the room. The rickety door clicks shut and Mrs. Fawley returns her attention to you with a low hum, eyes raking over your form once more. You wonder what she’s thinking about; wondering if it’s the vast difference between her neatly-pressed clothing and your rumpled dress shirt. Many have visited the orphanage before, but none have spared you a second glance, not with Sister Thompson scaring them all away. (You suppose there is no appeal in adopting a child with temperamental issues who can make other girls’ noses bleed.)

“Show me,” Fawley commands, breaking the quietude; her voice stern, yet hypnotic. Much like the first notes of a pied piper’s song. For a few moments, you don’t understand what she’s asking for, until realization dawns upon you. You drop the plush toy’s limbs—seconds later, the teddy bear waves its hand as though it’s gained a soul. If this had been a wooden doll with a long nose, it would be saying: ‘I’m a real boy!’

Fawley chuckles, leaning back with a pleased look. Your head falls to the side in confusion—when you had shown this little trick to Daisy Anne and Annaliese, they’d begun to throw stones at you, screaming and saying that you were a witch. You don’t try to play with the other children anymore after that. Rather than being afraid, Missus Fawley seems to be happy with you. “My name is Agatha Fawley, special adviser to the Wizengamot, daughter of the Sacred Twenty-Eight,” she tells you, and you don’t have a lick of comprehension. “What do you know about witches and wizards, darling?” “I don’t know, maybe. . .” You scrunch your nose, making the stuffed elephant twirl the bear with just a glance—Fawley tilts your chin upwards, demanding your utmost attention. “That they aren’t real? Or if they are, they should be burnt at the stake?”

Agatha Fawley hisses, a low sound that sends shivers down your spine. You wonder if you’ve angered her. The toys fall back to the floor lifelessly. “Damned Muggles—! Is that what they teach these days?” She shakes her head. “No, never mind. What matters is what happens from now on.” “Are you going to adopt me?” you dare to ask, gaze falling to the floor, heart hammering against its confinements.

“I will,” she affirms and your eyes grow wide, breath stuttering in your throat. “But if we are to become family—there is one thing you must do for me.”

“Anything!” You all but scream in her ear, a plea for her to take you away from the orphanage; far, far away from hurtful words and a room that echoes your loneliness back to you. 

“Never lower your eyes.” She smiles, teeth bared into a snarl, reminiscent of a prowling fox. “You are magic, my darling. And I will be your mother. No one on this earth can make you kneel in surrender.”

You believe her.

You believe her with all your heart.

But, you would learn that even monsters can call themselves ‘mother’ and embrace you with open arms. 

The Fawley Manor is large—larger than the orphanage, and that was a place you couldn’t fully explore due to its largeness. There must be a thousand rooms, as far as the eyes can see. It’s like a princess castle coming to life—akin to the ones you’ve read about in storybooks. Missus Fawley’s home nearly touches the sky. There are tall trees, wide grassfields, and glimmering lakes. You gasp and cover your eyes with your hands as the chauffeur drives past the marble sculpture of naked ladies. (“Think of them as Goddesses bare to the mortal eye, dearest,” says Fawley when you yelp and sink into the leather seats.) Then, the family butler, maids, and chef come to greet you, all smiling at the new addition to the manor. 

You meet Elsie, the house elf—your first real encounter with magic. Well, besides Missus Fawley turning paper into crystalline butterflies in the car. Elsie is a tiny, wrinkly creature who wears five different-colored knitted hats atop her head. She can’t seem to stop shuddering while speaking, too, as if drenched in cold, invisible water. But you look into her big eyes and you decide to be her friend forever. 

“Get settled into your room, and then we’ll have you acquainted with the rest of the staff,” Fawley says after she ushers you into a room—a bedroom just for you, where you won’t have to listen to anyone else’s snoring or fight to the death for a blanket on a cold winter storm. The bed is bouncy and soft, not unlike the cardboard they’d given you at the orphanage. Your shelves are stocked with toys and books. 

Then, you remember that in exchange for all this, you must do your best in school. That is one thing you aren’t looking forward to. 

But, how bad could a school be if it’s filled with magic? 

You happily imagine smelly trolls, dashing unicorns, talking ghosts, and floating crayons. 

For your first week in the manor, you enjoy glazed desserts, fluffy pillows, and silken clothing—and on your second week, you are reminded of your duty to the family you’ve been brought into. Something bigger than studying in a faraway magic castle. Missus Fawley introduces you to her long line of ancestors. You stumble on your footing as the portraits shuffle around and gaze upon you with curiosity, some with a more heated glare than others. They call you a funny term as you walk past. Mudblood. But, Fawley tells you not to worry. You are now her child before anything else. 

The family crest is chiseled with gold; you squint your eyes to make sense of the inscription: Virtus in Arduis.

“Virtue in hardships,” Agatha explains in her dulcet tone. As you featherly trace the emblem with your fingers, Fawley leans down to your height, clearing her throat; her expression impossible for you to read. “I brought you to this family because I saw potential in you. I sensed great magic from your person. But we all have our duties. Magic gives, and magic will take.”

“The wizarding world is in grave danger,” she tells you firmly, gripping the curve of your jaw with an intensity that frightens you. “Will you help me fight for the greater good?”

You blink.

You just got here and now you have to fight for a world that you never even knew that existed?

“Greater good?” you echo in disbelief. “F-Fight? Fight who? I’ve never even fought in my life! Making Daisy Anne’s nose bleed w-was just an accident!” 

“I will be with you every step of the way,” she vows fiercely, the tips of her nails digging into your cheeks. “Tell me, do you understand? You will do what is right without any recognition at all. Think of it as a performance, my love. And I’m preparing you for your role in this world starting now.” 

The ingénue in this act you have to play involves studying endlessly, practicing your wand work until Fawley is satisfied, and familiarizing yourself with every shelf in the library from dawn until dusk. You don’t understand why you must memorize every charm and every incantation—but Missus Fawley reminds you that you are bound to her and your responsibilities. You don’t want to go back to the orphanage, cold and alone—so, you acquaint yourself with parchments and quills, swallowing the discomfort when the nib harshly rubs your skin raw. 

On your tenth birthday, Missus Fawley gifts you with a closet overflowing with chiffon, taffeta, and organza. Lace parasols, pretty shoes, and wide-brimmed sun hats. The chef surprises you with a three-layered cake, the constellation icing charmed to flicker like real stars in the night. It’s the best birthday you’ve ever had. For the first time, you feel like your life is actually celebrated. 

The next day, your adoptive mother says with utmost exigency, “This time next year, you shall be off to Hogwarts, but that means your debut in society is drawing near. The wizarding world will officially acknowledge you as my child.”

“When that happens, vultures will flock to you as though you were a corpse.” Her eyes flash dangerously. “And you will become one, unless you learn how to fend for yourself. The most ruthless of us all can be adorned in pearls and dressed in ball gowns. Appearance is everything in this world—do not let them see that you are afraid.” 

And so, you don’t tell her that she’s petrified you to the bone.

“As the sole heir to my fortune and properties, you must understand how to navigate, not only the wizarding world, but this treacherous domain, as well.” Missus Fawley straightens your back, harshly tapping you once more to spread your legs at a more acceptable distance. “To be envied by all—the perfect host must always be ready to receive their guests with attention and politeness.”

When you wince, or move to massage your sore muscles, she barks at you, “You must always be composed, even in near-death. If you crumble—if you let even a single person know what you’re truly feeling, all this will be for naught.”

The burden of her words is heavier than the textbooks she shoves in your hold. 

“Control them before they can control you,” Fawley explains as the seamstress measures your waist and arms. “Exert your influence in a conversation. Not only in words, but your stature. Present yourself accordingly. Jewelry and clothing can be your armor when you cannot draw your wand.”

You grumble under your breath when the seamstress accidentally pokes you with a needle for the nth time. 

“Smile when flattered, giggle when offered a dance, and curtsy when greeted.” Fawley glares daggers at you when you hiss in pain. “But most of all, do not let any of those cretins know that you are fully aware of the power you wield over them. Anyone can be a puppeteer if they want to be. You’ll just be the greatest of them all.”

(But even a master of puppets has someone pulling their strings from behind the curtains.)

Elsie stays up with you each night, carefully pouring ice-cold water over your head, and playing with the floating bubbles to distract you from the ache in your legs and arms. “Elsie will give Master her hat!” the young elf says one evening, pulling the topmost beanie from her head and laying it on yours. She tells you a bedtime story before tucking you beneath the covers of your queen-sized bed. You fall asleep to the sound of grasshoppers chirping and portraits murmuring to one another. 

Then, you get your first taste of a pureblood skirmish. Missus Fawley had taken you to Diagon Alley, months away from the first of September—a letter in your hand with all the materials a first-year would need for their classes. Safe to say, you’re more than excited. (“Oh, mother, look!” you exclaim, pointing to the various shops—and also remembering the rule of calling Agatha mother out in public. “A sweet shop! Fortescue’s ice cream parlor! Mother, can we go there? Please, please, please!”) Fawley smiles at your wide-eyed wonder, your hand in hers—today is a special one, she decides. You’re allowed a bit of fun. Especially since you’ve shown unfathomable progress in your studies. 

You get your very first wand at Ollivanders—and now this world of grumpy goblins and jumping chocolate frogs becomes even more real. You hardly let go of your wand, a tingle of exhilaration running through you each time you brush your fingers against the finely-carved wood. Even Missus Fawley is pleased with the wand that chooses you. Later, you’ll be given three hours to practice your charms again, but you find that you don’t mind—not when you’ve learned that you can now read books under the covers when Elsie turns the lights off.

As you exit the shop, breathless and flushed with a hunger to explore more of this world you’ve been given access to, you and Fawley run into one of her friends. This must be one of the scary people she’s warned you about. Sharp cheekbones, unfriendly gray eyes, and a stern demeanor. You immediately suck in a breath and school your face just as Agatha has taught you. 

“Walburga!” Fawley greets with a lovely smile, but you notice that it doesn’t reach her eyes, not like when she smiles at you for growing another inch taller. She brings her hand onto your shoulder. “What a pleasant surprise, my dear.” She peers at the two young boys hiding behind her, much like you were doing now. “Oh, my! Is it that time already? I’d forgotten young Sirius was set to go to Hogwarts this year. You must be overjoyed.” 

Walburga is a tall lady, taller than Agatha, even. She hums, lips quirked, chin held up high. “Fawley,” Walburga responds, rather displeased. “Talking my ear off, as usual.” Her trenchant eyes land on you and her smile curves into a sneer. “And who might this little one be?” 

You risk a glance at Missus Fawley before offering the other woman a sweet, half-curtsy. “Madam Black, how do you do?” you smile at her, gaily revealing your name and the gap in your front teeth—the two boys snicker and your eyes instantly narrow into a glare. 

Walburga stares you down harshly. “How adorable.” Her eyes slice to the two boys behind her. “Sirius, Regulus, introduce yourselves.” 

Missus Fawley laughs, a grating sound—much like warning bells—as her eyes flash dangerously at her, hand tightening on your collarbone. “What a relief to know that Sirius will at least have one friend already before they arrive at the castle.” 

“But—oh, dear, look at the time.” Agatha quickly casts the Tempus charm before looking at you aghast, eyes wide as saucers, mouth parted dramatically. “I promised the Daily Prophet a photoshoot today! It is my thirty-first birthday soon, after all. I’d give you tips on how to capture this look, but, Walburga, it seems you’re embodying the housewife fashion perfectly.”

“Ta-ta!” She plants two, airy kisses on Walburga’s cheeks before waving the three goodbye. 

“That,” Fawley whispers into your ear as she snuggles the side of your face. “—is exactly how to do it.”  

You collapse in your bed that night, wondering just what you’ve gotten yourself into and what kind of world you’re about to live in.

How confusing.

All this time, you thought that Missus Fawley had been preparing you for an intense entrance exam. Why else would she make you study twenty-five hours a day and eight days a week? But as it turns out, all you had to do was sit on a chair and have Professor McGonagall put a talking hat on your head.

“Hufflepuff!” the Sorting Hat proclaims, and the table of yellow and black welcomes you with open arms. You sit next to a boy named Amos Diggory. Later in the night, you’ll share a dormitory with a kind girl named Amelia Bones. 

(Hogwarts is the best!) 

The holidays arrive in the blink of an eye and you find yourself standing at the steps of the manor once more. Agatha Fawley waits for you by the door, engulfing you instantly in a hug that shields you from the falling snowflakes and biting winds. Hot cocoa with marshmallows and gingerbread cookies await you in the grand dining room; you even get a crotchety greeting from Isolde Fawley the Third’s portrait. Elsie crumples to the floor and sobs at your arrival. 

“So you were sorted there,” Fawley mutters to herself, a worried expression contorting her face. The fireplace crackles as a winter storm rages outside the manor. You lay on her lap as she absentmindedly pats your head. Stories of your first few months at Hogwarts fall from your lips without pause. “This would go smoother if you had been sorted in Slytherin, however; but no matter—it’s not what I expected, but we can make do. The Diggorys and Bones’ are purebloods, so maybe not all hope is lost. But you need to get more acquainted with the Greengrasses and the Malfoys, Druella Black’s daughters as well.”

You hide your frown against her legs. You really liked Amos and Susan, Bellatrix was just downright mean to everyone, even calling this one girl, Lily, a Mudblood, too. But if mother wanted you to try, you might, but only once. If Bellatrix didn’t want to be your friend, then there’s no helping that unhinged witch. (At least the Prewett twins’ pranks were funny. Bellatrix once snuck inside the Ravenclaw tower to leave a dead pig’s head in the girls’ dormitory just because.)

On the twenty-fifth of December, Agatha Fawley throws a gala just for you—masqued as a fundraiser for Muggle children in need. (None of the families cared about them, you would realize later on.) The ground nearly rumbles from the number of guests she’s invited. From your bedroom window, you spot a few familiar faces. Sirius Black, who stands out from the crowd like a pale bean sprout; his cousin, Bellatrix, who’s already taken to yelling at the staff; Lucius Malfoy, the Flints, and the Parkinsons. Your head goes dizzy. 

As long as you don’t trip during your entrance, everything should be fine, right? Right?

(You one-hundred percent trip in front of everyone as you descend the stairs. The sound of James Potter and Sirius Black’s laughter haunts you.)

But other than that, the Yule event goes by smoothly. You don’t fall flat on your face when greeting Cygnus Black and Druella Black née Rosier, and mother is thoroughly satisfied when you smile in the face of Walburga Black and Abraxas Malfoy. You stay in the corner after welcoming your guests, sitting in your chair like an abstract painting forbidden to touch; whilst the Prewett twins and James teased Elsie until she cried from anxiety. Sirius also goes out of his way to congratulate you for growing all your teeth in. 

You don’t understand why Mother is so scared of these people.

But you’ll understand virtue in hardships soon enough when you receive your first tutoring in ballroom dancing. Instead of sapphire earrings or a trip to France, Missus Fawley has a different gift in mind for your fifteenth birthday. She surprises you with a tutor—you’re bewildered at first, arguing that you’ve consistently been at the top of your class. (“Madam Hawthorne is not here for your academics, my darling,” Fawley explains with her red-lips stretched in a foreboding smile. “Dance is a beneficial skill for any host to have. You’ll practice until your footwork is perfect. You will dance until I say you can stop. And when your feet are aching and bleeding, you will keep dancing.”) 

Each night for your summer holiday, you go to bed, sobbing into your pillows, body trembling from Madam Hawthorne’s cane. 

Everything changes on the eve of your sixteenth birthday.

Like all the years before, Missus Fawley invites the entirety of the pureblood society to the manor. 

You stay with Narcissa and Andromeda, gently placating their concerns when they ask about your unnatural quietness—truthfully, you could no longer breathe in the flounced dress you’ve been forced to wear; the sides of your feet raw from constantly practicing with Madam Hawthorne, head aching from the lights and obnoxious perfumes; stomach gurgling. Bags under your eyes from revising endlessly for your N.E.W.T.S. 

Eyes drooping and neck craning from exhaustion, you don’t at all expect for James Potter to emerge from the crowd; wavy, brown hair sweeping over his glasses, wine-colored suit melting into his dark skin. He holds out his hand to you with a boyish grin. “May I have this dance?” 

You blink, frozen solid for a few moments until Narcissa softly nudges your side. “Y-Yes, if you must,” you splutter, placing your palm in his. 

He leads you to the dance floor as the orchestra plays a song perfect for a waltz along a flower field; your eyes glued to his back. The chandelier hangs overhead as James settles your arms around his neck in one swift motion. You almost step on his feet, spluttering your gratitude when he steadies you by the waist, the heat of his hands permeating your layers of clothing. 

“Isn’t it odd that the birthday celebrant wasn’t dancing all this time?” he says, pulling you in for a twirl. 

“I assume the others were all too afraid to deal with my mother,” you reply timidly. “She’s quite overprotective, you see.” 

“Who? That tall lady over there by Missus Black who’s currently glaring at me?” James chuckles into your ear as you step closer to hear his heartbeat. “She couldn’t possibly terrify me.”

“Lily says thank you, by the way.” 

“Oh? For what?”

“Letting her copy off your Defense Against the Dark Arts essay—she’s downright shite at the subject. Don’t tell her I said that, though.”

You laugh along with him, and you find that you could rest in his arms forever.

But, as your dance with him comes to an end, so does your wistful reverie. 

When most of the guests have left the scene, and when the lights have dimmed, Mother presents to you her real gift—your debut in the wizarding society. She leads you to a room, one where you’ve never ventured before. It’s deep past the cellars, where cobwebs and dust bunnies grow. (Before you enter, Narcissa grips your hand firmly, a look of dread and urgency in her eyes. “Be brave,” is all that she says, encasing you in her arms.) 

In this dark room, you see Abraxas and his wife, Walburga, Cygnus, the Notts, the Goyles, and more people you recognize, all dressed in their finest black cloaks—as though it were a funeral instead of a birthday. In the center of it all, is your mother, Agatha, with a man kneeling in front of her. 

“What is this?” you ask in alarm, frantically searching for answers. The man struggles against his rope, binds, screams and pleas muffled by the cloth shoved in his mouth. The sight of his bruises makes you all but retch. “Mother, what is going on?” 

Walburga is the first to step forward, her lips painted blood-red against her ashen skin, curving into an edacious smile. She cradles the back of your head to her chest. “My lovely dear, it has been the utmost privilege watching you grow. Your mother is certainly proud of you, we all are. Tonight, just as our sons and daughters before you, we offer you our blessing on this very special day.” 

“You know of the Unforgivables, right, my child?” Her voice is a sweet, ruthless cadence in your ear; her touch, like worms crawling on your skin as she places your wand in your hand. You bite down on your tongue, swallowing each breath as the walls threaten to cave in on you. Your fingers forcibly shake in terror and you worry that you might snap your wand in half if you aren’t careful. “The Cruciatus, the Imperius, and—?”

“The killing curse,” you breathe out, ever-so stiff in her hold. You watch as Abraxas kicks the man to the ground; you dig your nails deep into your palm to keep from flinching. 

“That’s right, little one,” says Walburga, tracing your jaw with a morbid sense of satisfaction. She holds your chin in place as Abraxas tears the cloth from the man’s mouth. It’s worse now. You hear his desperate begging and his guttural cries for help. “Muggles,” she spits the word out like venom. “Look at them. They’re filthy. Infecting our blood with theirs.”

“Kill him,” Walburga says, a delicate whisper, as though she had asked for a cup of tea. “Kill him and you’ll have proved your worth to us.” 

“No! No, please!” The man struggles against Abraxas’s arms. “Please! I have a family! A c-child!”

You stagger backwards, nearly losing your grip on your wand. You look to your mother for help. “I—!”

“Kill him, pet!” Bellatrix cackles from across the room, teeth bared viciously, eagerly beckoning for you to come forward. “Make sure you mean it! Otherwise it won’t hurt!”

“You know the words,” says Walburga, lifting your pliable arm—a puppeteer controlling its ragdoll. “Say it.”

The man before you is real. He’s a real person with a real family anxiously waiting for him to come home. His children worried sick for their father. How can they just stand there and expect you to kill him? “Mother, please—I can’t. I w-wont.” Your breathing grows labored, hot tears pricking your eyes; the man screams and yells, and the sound echoes ceaselessly in your ears. “I don’t. . .  I don’t understand.”

Agatha Fawley closes her eyes, and you understand perfectly. 

Each sob wrecks your body and the tears endlessly flow from your ears, you hiccup and shiver; blood pooling from the bite in your tongue. “I can’t do this—please!”

“You will.”

You close your eyes just as a flash of unforgiving green shoots from your wand. “Avada Kedavra!”

The man falls limp to the floor, and so does your wand. Walburga coos and drowns you in a sea of shallow praises, the men offer their congratulations, but all you hear is the sound of a lifeless body dropping to the ground. 

A man who you just killed by your wand, in your home. 

That night, the four walls of your bedroom bear witness to your anguish—you cry until you throw up on the floor, body lurching and quivering on the freezing red oak. 

“Do you get it now?” says Agatha as she enters your room, the faintest of sunlight streaming through the windows. She bends down and cups your face in her palms. “This is your world from now on.” 

You rip her hands away from you, gritting your teeth. “I don’t want to live in your world—not anymore! I don’t care about all this! Magic, wealth, and all these things mean nothing if I have to kill innocent people! You’re a monster!” 

“Good.” Fawley’s voice is cold as she stands up, lifting her chin as her eyes glaze impassively. “That means you’re ready for your next lesson.”

“Didn’t you hear me? I said I was done!” you retort, sore from crying.

“Don’t you see?” says Fawley, pausing underneath the door frame, gaze ruthlessly slicing towards you. “We will destroy them from the inside out. Walburga, Abraxas, Tom Riddle. All of them, one by one. That is our true duty.” 

As she turns to leave, she adds coldly, “Ready yourself. I’ll be teaching you Occlumency during your summer break.” Then she slams the door shut, leaving you all alone in your room. 

When you return to school after the winter holidays, you’re forced to pretend that you hadn’t taken the life of an innocent Muggle. 

‘Do not let them see you are afraid.’ 

“Unfortunately, flaming red hair and hand-me-down robes will not complement my dress—it’s crimson taffeta, you see, handcrafted only by the finest tailors in Italy,” you say dismissively to the ragtag of Gryffindors before you, Vittoria Zabini and Isadora Bulstrode giggling at your side. The Prewett boy visibly wilts and you almost give in—almost. But everyone must play their part in this world. You know that if you show a sliver of weakness, Vittoria and Isadora will be happy enough to report to their mothers—vying for the pedestal you’ve been put on by their parents. 

For the final blow, you scrunch your nose in disgust, slamming your Divination textbook close. “Can you even afford anywhere in Hogsmeade for a date, Prewett?”

(Walburga would Avada you herself if she caught you in such a place with such a wizard. You’re more terrified of what she might ask you to do to Gideon—someone she deems as a blood traitor. You refuse to utter another Unforgivable. You just won’t.) 

“Oh, you cruel wench!” Marlene McKinnon steps forward and before anyone could take another breath, she slaps you in the face. And, finally, you feel something other than the guilt of taking someone’s life.

Your cheek stings from the impact, your ears ringing with the sound of your friends asking if you’re alright and Dorcas Meadowes roaring about how you deserved it—well, you’re not about to disagree. You move your jaw about, cradling the side of your face as you sigh impassively—oh, it’s nothing compared to the etiquette lessons of Agatha Fawley. “My mother will certainly hear about this, McKinnon.”

“You and your mother can kiss my arse!” she shrieks, eyes ablaze.

“Gideon didn’t deserve that, and you know it,” Lily argues fervidly, eyes sickle-shaped as she looks back at the Prewett twin’s dejected expression. “How could you even say that?” 

“How could I not, Lily darling?” you reply off-handedly with a roll of your eyes.

Lily flinches. In her gaze, all you see looking back at you is the Muggle father who had cried out relentlessly for one last glimpse of his children. She stares at the badger emblem on your cloak with disdain, and you with a great deal of pity. “You are, without a doubt, the ugliest creature I’ve ever seen.” 

She has the softest voice you’ve ever heard, but it hurts you all the same. 

You’ve scrubbed your skin raw in the bath, hoping that you’d wash the feel of your sins off your hands—it’s all for naught. Agatha might be a monster in your eyes, but you’re the fool that played right into her act.

You get to your feet, meeting her eye-to-eye. In a low whisper, lips close to her ear, you say, “There are far worse creatures out there, Evans. You’re lucky you’ve been born only a Muggleborn.”

Fortunate that she won’t ever have to play the role that you’ve been forced to. You feel an overwhelming envy towards her—effortless beauty, pure and untainted hands, a kind heart that draws in every one and every person. Compared to her, you must be a dirtied, black swan in a lake that’s only meant for white swans like Lily Evans. 

And she will have more charming princes and truehearted fairies on her side than you could ever hope to gain. 

“Say another word and I will tear your hair from that pretty head of yours,” Marlene snarls, pushing Lily behind her.

Oh, how easy they make it for you. 

You smile in delight. “So you think I’m pretty?”

Marlene lunges.

(You are so tired of it all.)

Every night of your summer holiday, you spend it writhing on the floor, Agatha’s lessons on Occlumency taking its toll. She grows harsher, stricter, and more apathetic than the sun beating down on the manor windows. (“Again!” Fawley demands as you collapse to the ground, drenched in sweat and your head numb from her probing. “Do you think the Dark Lord will be lenient with you? Get up! We’re going again! If you want this to end, you will endure this without error!”) 

While your peers are out swimming in lakes and racing around in Quidditch brooms, you’re stuck within the confinements of your home. But you are not that naive, you’ve seen the headlines of the Daily Prophet. A coalition known as Death Eaters have begun making their mark on the wizarding society. There are rumors of a great, sinister power rising. People go missing everyday, and you worry that this might be the world that your mother has been preparing you for all this time. 

But why you? Why must you carry this burden all alone? Who will pick up the pieces of your battered soul when the weight of your burden crushes you entirely? 

There are times when you wish you never left the orphanage at all. 

A week into your summer break, you find out that your mother is dying. Violent coughing, dizzy spells, jaundiced skin, her eyes bloodshot, and the healer frequenting her bedroom quarters. You’re not allowed inside, of course, but you can hear her feeble voice and the doctor’s stern orders. 

You also learn that she’s absolutely insane—but that is a fact you’ve come to terms with years ago. One night, during dinner, you’d let it slip that you have your suspicions of a classmate being inflicted with a lycan’s curse. Agatha Fawley reacts just about as one would expect her to. 

“A werewolf? In Hogwarts?” Fawley staggers to her office, the tower of neatly-piled documents and research reports from the Ministry now fluttering to the floor. “No, no, no. . .” she utters to herself, panic seeping within her skin. It’s the most frazzled you have ever seen the great Agatha Fawley. You stare at her unraveling from the threshold of the room, unsure of what to do. “Dumbledore has gone mad! That old loon! What was he thinking? Sheltering a beast within the castle!” 

“Don’t worry, my dear,” says Agatha as she reaches for you, a ghastly smile on her face and a near-empty look in her eyes. Your brows pinch together in confusion—you hadn’t been worried about that student at all. “I’ll have that monster out of the castle in no time. The Ministry will have no choice but to listen to me.” 

“That’s it,” she mutters, haphazardly grabbing for her feather quill and blank parchment. “Perhaps a law to forbid werewolves from ever integrating into society. School, house properties—can you imagine if they manage to infiltrate the Ministry? Everything I’ve worked so hard for!” 

“Mother?” you call out hesitantly, crossing the distance, hand outstretched as Fawley slips on her footing, a muttered profanity under her breath. The woman before you is unrecognizable, a sallow casing of a moribund soul. “Mother, please, Remus is no threat to the castle,” you plead, ripping her hand away from the quill. “You can’t do this!” 

“Do not tell me what I can or cannot do!” Agatha seethes through her teeth, chest heaving as she glowers at you. “Everything I have done, I have done for you! Yet, you still continue to fight me? I should have left you in that orphanage to rot while I had the chance!” 

“Well then, why didn’t you?” you scream, pushing her away as the words force themselves out of your throat. “Maybe that Muggle father would have still been alive if you did! Maybe I wouldn’t have to suffer so much! To hell with you and your duty!” 

Fawley laughs to herself, a weak and feeble sound. At first, you think it’s in response to you, but then you watch her drag her palm down her face, unblinking when her fingers appear to be drenched in blood. You take a step forward and there’s crimson trickling down her nose, a pallid contrast against her skin. “Ha,” she chuckles once more, keeling over to the ground as she stares up at the ceiling, blood on her flesh. “Merlin, what have I done? I–I’ve gone too far—even the Gods cannot save me.”

The despair in her voice is confounding. “Come here, my love,” she croaks from the floor, reaching out to you with bloodstained hands. Reluctantly, you sink to her side, gnawing on your lower lip as she cups your face in her palms—how many times have you been in this position before? “I’m sorry,” she sobs, shoulders trembling. “Oh, my darling, I am so sorry. I’m afraid I’ve doomed the both of us.” She traces the frame of your jaw and cheekbones. “My child, my beautiful child. What have I done? Will you forgive me?” 

You realize that this must be the consequence of living in a constant lie. To be an imitation of a human person, with no room for grief, rage, fear, hope or even a semblance of love. You stay silent, drowning in the arms of your adoptive mother. “I am to die soon,” says Agatha with utmost finality, eyes boring into yours. “But you are better than me. Braver. Far stronger than I have ever been. I know this must be the heaviest burden a child can carry, but you must understand that the fate of this world is at stake. I am so sorry, my love, but I must leave this duty to you.” 

She lets her head hang limply. “I-I am tired, as well. I’ve pushed away everyone and anyone for this. To do what is right, to endure what is hard—that is what I’ve lived by all these years.”

“And so must you.” Agatha has been mourning all this time, but not for her life. 

You hate her. 

You hate her with all your heart. 

But even monsters need a heart to breathe. 

A month passes by in a blur, and you are now set to meet the ill-famed Tom Riddle. You know that he was a student of Professor Dumbledore; that Narcissa is extremely terrified of him, and that Lucius Malfoy idolizes him to a fault. (“This is the moment I have been preparing you for all these years,” your mother tells you, shields of Occlumency glimmering in her deep blue eyes. “Do not let him in no matter what.”) Soon thereafter, Missus Fawley apparates the both of you to the Malfoy manor. 

The dining room is bleak, befitting of a Malfoy; curtains drawn, fireplace idly crackling, and hushed murmurs upon your arrival. All eyes are on you, and you’re lucky to have dressed in your Sunday best. At the head of the table, you see Tom Riddle, with Abraxas and Cyprian Nott sitting on each side. You hear something large slithering across the polished floors—your breath hitches at the sight of a monstrous serpent curling around Tom Riddle’s chair. The glass chandelier chimes overhead and you wish it would fall from where he sits on his shrewd throne. 

(You find Regulus Black sitting beside Narcissa, cheeks flushed, body quivering as his skin pales to a deathly color; holding onto his left arm for dear life. And, your heart just physically breaks. You don’t understand why this is the world you must live in.) 

“Come here, my dear,” Tom Riddle hisses, urging you forward with a serpentine leer in his eyes. You feel like a circus lion forced to perform its tricks. 

Tom Riddle is handsome—you notice begrudgingly. A menacing kind of beauty that entices the weak and preys on the vulnerable. (You would not be one of his victims, you vow, raising your own walls against him.) His gaze drills into your own—instantly, you feel his magic snaking around in your head, searching for hidden truths. The sensation is staggering, dizzying, and you’re nearly brought to your knees. You clench your jaw at his Legilimency—obstinate bastard. 

“This one is lasting longer than your son, Abraxas.” Riddle chuckles, his finger tracing the curve of your jaw, as Abraxas forces a smile. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he leaves your mind. You release the breath you’ve been holding for the last thirty seconds. He finds none of your secrets, and you suppress a vindictive grin. Riddle glances at your mother. “How fascinating.” 

You wonder if his intrigue will keep you alive for another day or bring you closer to your death. 

“My Lord,” you greet windedly as you press a kiss to the cold signet of his ring. “What an honor to stand before you today. Although, I could have done with a more polite greeting from you.” 

Bellatrix snarls at you in warning. “Do not speak to the Dark Lord that way, you insolent brat!” 

“Enough, Bella,” Tom rasps, flicking her concern away, barely so much as sparing her a glance. “I’ve no need for a little girl to come to my defense.” She visibly wilts at his dismissive words and you almost feel pity for her—almost. Then, you remember this is the man who treats the Cruciatus curse like a treat to give away freely to children—now, you pity Bellatrix fully. The curly-haired girl twitches at the sight of him toying with his wand, Nagini’s forked tongue flicking in anticipation. 

“Tell me, my dear,” says Riddle, trailing his gaze down to your arm. “Has your mother arranged a marriage for you yet? Much like our dear Cissa here.”

You grow frigid in his hold. “Not at all, my Lord. Mother thought it best if I focused on my studies before anything else.” 

Tom hums in thought, eventually releasing you from his clutches. “I see. . . Then, have you considered other ways of pledging your allegiance to our cause?” 

Instinctively, you hide your left arm from his sight. “My Lord,” you begin, wondering how much longer you can address him as such without throwing up in his lap. “The only reason there isn’t much backlash to your. . . merciful endeavors is because Mother and I have ensured that the Daily Prophet’s eyes are elsewhere. The Ministry is blindsided, and no one expects a mondaine darling to be under your influence,” you say, desperation pouring from each word. 

You don’t want to carry his Mark. Not ever. You can endure it—you can endure it all so long as you aren’t eternally condemned to his name. 

“Take that away, and you’ll face significant repercussions,” you threaten boldly. “I promise you that. They look away because of me.” 

For every village and family terrorized, you had shifted the public’s attention to your facetious behavior. Throwing galas left and right, appearing out in public with various partners—you had done it all to bury the looming war. Rita Skeeter is at your beck and call. For every attack, your face is plastered on the front page. For every cry for help, the Ministry is busy dealing with trivial matters that your mother has proposed—such as anti-werewolf bills. 

And Voldemort would never notice that you’ve been thieving covert information from right under his nose and delivering it anonymously to a rising organization known as the Order of the Phoenix. 

(You’re also not pleased that they share similarities to your non de plume, the Firebird, but you suppose that is the least of your worries.) 

If Molly Weasley comes across a sealed letter on the steps of Grimmauld Place, with complete details and addresses of Death Eater hiding places, it is no one’s business but the Order’s—and yours. 

For every life taken, you remember that Muggle father in your mother’s cellar. It may not be today, it may not be tomorrow—but you’ll dismantle the pureblood society yourself. All of them, one by one. 

Tom Riddle smiles, and you realize that no one threatens him and gets away with it unscathed. 

A day before you’re set to return to Hogwarts for your seventh-year, the Malfoy Manor is pervaded by your gut-wrenching screams. 

There you are, little Firebird with your wings clipped, writhing on the floor of Lucius Malfoy’s guest room—the Cruciatus curse surging through your veins like molten lava threatening to burn you from the inside out. You hear Narcissa and Missus Fawley’s voices blend into a cacophony of panic. They’re shouting for various things: warm towels, bandages, essence of Dittany, and water. Regulus’s hold on you is tight, near-suffocating, even. 

But you don’t feel anything other than the mutilated flesh of your arm. 

You scream, cry, and scream again—you feel his magic over and over again. Branding you. The ink blends into your skin—but it’s not your skin anymore. A part of you now will always belong to him. 

Bile rises to your throat. 

Tears fall from your eyes. 

(How cold is the floor? You don’t even care anymore.)

And, the worst part is that no one can see it. Riddle charmed it perfectly to coalesce against your skin tone. But you see it. You see the skull and the stupid, wriggling snake. You see Tom Riddle’s monstrous glee as he drives his wand into your arm—Abraxas and Lucius holding you down as you thrash and flail. Your only reprieve was your mother was there, cradling your head to her chest, blocking out their malignant laughter. (You can’t believe you never noticed, but your mother had been branded, too.) 

“I’ll. . . kill him,” you say to yourself, blood and saliva trickling from your lips. If it is the last thing you’ll ever do, you will have Voldemort’s head on a silver platter. 

“Don’t be foolish,” Narcissa scolds, tipping your mouth upwards to swallow the drops of Dittany. “None of us have the power to do that. We just have to make do with the life that we’re given.” 

“I promise. . .  you,” you gurgle through the searing pain, gasping for air, clawing at her arms. “I’ll destroy them all.” 

You pass out in her arms. 

When you awake, you’re on a train to Hogwarts, left arm bandaged and hidden under the sleeve of your school robes. 

You don’t bother attending your classes—seeing no more purpose in Transfiguration and Herbology when you’re just a pawn in someone’s, everyone’s plans, apparently. The professors express their concern when you no longer turn in your homework or assigned projects. Once again, you barely see the need to. Your meals during breakfast, lunch, and dinner go untouched. You stay away from Narcissa, Vittoria, Isadora, Lucius, and Regulus. Your only friends, Amos and Amelia, stay away from you, too, having seen news of your promiscuity in the Daily Prophet. You scoff internally—you’ve never even had your first kiss yet. But even that seems like a distant dream. 

You are tired. 

How much longer do you have to play this part? How much more of yourself do you have to give? 

You’re only seventeen—how can you even hope to defeat Voldemort like this? 

The castle walls have dulled, and you drift through the corridors like a wearisome ghost. The once colorful world that you have been brought into now pales in the face of curses, spilt blood, and the Mark on your arm. You wonder what would happen—if you just run away now. 

Why should you be the one to bear the burdens of this duty thrust upon you? Why do people like James Potter and Sirius Black find loyalty and a real family within Hogwarts, and there is no one willing to fight for you? 

Perhaps, you have no one else to blame but yourself. 

Rita Skeeter publishes her article on the growing rift between you and Vittoria Zabini—claiming that you had stolen her beau from her.

You toss the newspaper into the fire. 

Some nights, you don’t bother returning to the Hufflepuff dormitories anymore. You know what they think. You know what they say behind your back. 

For the third time this week, you find yourself at the top of the Astronomy Tower, legs dangling from the edge of the window, eyes blankly staring at the horizon—if you run towards there, you wonder how long it will take before they find you. The cold nips at your cheeks, but you barely feel anything other than a gnawing emptiness.

Your gaze falls to the ground below, thirty, fifty meters from where you sit. 

Maybe. . . 

If you move a few inches forward. . . 

If you just fly. 

You’d be free. 

“Oh, I didn’t know this window was occupied.” You loosely turn your head to find Remus Lupin standing before you with a crooked grin, hands shoved in his pockets as he awkwardly shuffles one foot over the other. He raises his arms up in surrender. “I guess I’ll. . . find somewhere else to brood.” 

I don’t care. 

Go away. 

I want to die.

If I disappear, would you care? Would anyone? 

You rest your head back on the windowsill, hugging your legs to your chest. 

Starlings chirp and fly past you—how liberating it must be, to soar in the skies. But all you can do is watch enviously. Powerless, little songbird with no more lullabies to sing and no more wings to fly with. 

You let your weight shift over the window. 

Maybe if you fall, you could see what it’s like to fly. 

“H-Hey! Don’t—!” Remus quickly snatches your hand and pulls you into his embrace—the both of you tumbling to the floor. You feel his chest heaving, arms trembling around you, and the sound of his rapid heartbeat. His eyes are wide as he looks over your face for any injuries. “Why would you do that? Are you mad?”

You sigh. 

Maybe tomorrow, then. 

“Oi!” Remus pokes your shoulder. “Don’t just ignore me! You scared the piss out of me, you know? Bloody hell.” His shoulders slump in relief, and he takes another peek at you—just to make sure you’re still in front of him. “A-Are you okay?” he asks softly, afraid to spook you further away. “Do you want to talk about it or anything?” 

You shrug. “Nothing to talk about.”

His gaze flickers from you to the window ledge. “I think that’s a big something to talk about, honestly. B-But I get it. Really. No judgment.” 

An unwilling chortle escapes past your lips. Remus Lupin and his marauding bunch of lions would never understand the burden you have to carry each day for the rest of your life.

Remus scratches the back of his head with a wolfish grin. “Hey. . . listen. We don’t know each other all that well—so this is going to sound terribly weird. But would you like a hug?”

He opens his arms wide enough for you to fit—and you stare at him in horror. “C’mon, then. It really seems like you need it. And honestly, I kind of need it, too, especially after a scare like that.” 

You stay silent. 

He shakes his hands, beckoning you forward, golden hair flopping over his eyes. “I don’t bite. Promise. One hug and we’ll go on pretending like we don’t know each other tomorrow. Marauder’s honor.”

“I haven’t done anything to deserve your kindness,” you say with a prominent sneer—certainly not kindness from him. It must be another prank of theirs. You wait for Peter Pettigrew and Sirius to jump out and spray you with garlic juice. 

Remus smiles. “I think you’ll find that my kindness is freely given.” 

You nibble on your bruised lip. 

Could you really? 

Maybe just this once. 

You’re only human, magic as you are. 

You take one step forward. 

Then another. 

Another.

Until you fall right into his arms, and you inhale the scent of honey, milk raspberry chocolate, and cedarwood. The warmth of his arms around you is real. His voice is real. He whispers cruel words into your ear, “You’re alright, love. Let it out. I’m here.” You burrow your head deep in the crook of his neck. The sound of his heartbeat is real. He tightens his hold around you, and the ground underneath feels real. For a few moments, you don’t feel like you’re floating away into oblivion. 

Maybe you’d stay alive—for a few more days. 

To do what is right. 

To endure. 

Perhaps, tomorrow will be easier—if such kindness is real, maybe you’re allowed to seek it for yourself every now and then. 

But your nightmare doesn’t end when you’re awake—it takes you by the throat when you find yourself summoned to the Malfoy Manor on Hallow’s Eve. 

You’re not the only one caught by surprise. One by one, Tom Riddle’s followers apparate into the dining room, stumbling inside with a bewildered expression. Their Dark Lord has called for them in the dead of night—it must be for something important. You stiffen, sinking into Lucius’s shadow. You search for your mother but she doesn’t appear to be anywhere in the room. Someone brushes their hands against yours—Narcissa. She stands by your side, face impassive, her pupils frantically trying to make sense of the situation. 

Then, Tom Riddle finally apparates into the room, startling you for a fraction of a second. Not far behind is Abraxas, Cyprian, the Lestranges, Bellatrix, and finally—

Your mother. 

Fawley looks worse for wear, her skin sinking into her bones, clothes tattered, and her face littered with bruises. Bellatrix drags her across the floor, hair wrapped around her hands. 

You move to stop Bellatrix, anger blinding your vision—Narcissa tightens her grip on your wrist, subtly shaking her head. You rip your hand away from her. 

“We have found a traitor in our midst!” Bellatrix cackles, throwing your mother to the ground—your fists clench, swallowing each lump in your throat with rage blinding your vision. “I caught the bitch helping the McKinnons escape!” 

“No,” you whisper, dread knocking you backwards—it just isn’t possible. The two of you had always been careful. Bellatrix hits her again, and you have to restrain yourself from marching forward and cursing her from where she stands. 

One moment of weakness, that is all Tom Riddle needs. He finds you in the crowd with ease. The crowd of Death Eaters part like the red sea, and you steel yourself with Occlumency before you are sharply pulled forward, the mark on your left arm blistering as though a hundred needles are driving into your skin repeatedly.

“If the mother is a blood traitor, the child is sure to follow!” Bellatrix hisses, spit flying into the floor, her eyes gleaming with maniacal glee.

Voldemort cruelly holds your jaw in his hand, nails digging into your flesh, threatening to break through your bones. “Is this true?” he asks, drawing blood from your skin. “Tell me!” 

“No!” you cry out, kicking and punching to get away from his hold. “It’s not—let me go! That is my mother! You’re hurting her! She’s sick!”

“That,” Riddle’s eyes flash with hostility, breath hot on your skin, “is a betrayer to our cause.” 

“She’s not!” you scream.

“How did she find out, then?” Voldemort flings you to the ground—immediately, you rush to your mother, gathering her in your arms. Tom Riddle cocks his head and you’re blasted into the walls—you feel his Legilimency trying to force its way in, exploiting your pain and shock. But you won’t let him in. He’ll have to pry your memories from your cold, dead body.

The pain is searing—you’re being torn apart from limb to limb. Your mark is burning, head throbbing from a concussion, and still fighting against Riddle’s magic. Through your blurry haze, you see Lucius holding Narcissa back from running to you. “We’re not traitors!” you cry out desperately, crawling pathetically to your mother’s listless body. “I swear!”

Voldemort sneers just before he points his wand at your mother. “Crucio!”

“No! No! Stop it! Please! Please, stop it!” you beg on the ground as your mother helplessly writhes on the floor, the Cruciatus curse reducing the once austere Agatha Fawley to a whimpering mess. “You’re killing her!”

Tom snarls, “Good.”

Bellatrix digs her claws into your neck, her laughter resounding throughout the manor—you swallow the sobs down your throat as she drives her wand into your flesh. “Your mummy over there is done for. But you—our precious jewel, you can still prove your loyalty to our Dark Lord.” 

She puts your wand and closes your fist over the wood—your eyes grow wide as you thrash in her hold, screaming as she forces you to look at Fawley. “Kill her. And you may live.” 

“Just say it,” Bellatrix whispers in your ear. “Two little words. You’ve already done this before, pet—the second time should be easy enough!”

“No!” you knock your head back into her nose, slipping away as her hold loosens and she screams profanities at you—but to your misfortune, Voldemort captures you, like a defenseless bunny running into a starving snake. 

“Mum, wake up, please!” 

You cry out helplessly, sobbing as Voldemort forces you to watch the life gradually fade away from her blue eyes. Her magic envelops you—and you remember warm holidays spent by the fire, Muggle storybooks before bed, surprising you with breakfast in bed for your birthdays. It’s a warm feeling, a stark contrast to Tom Riddle’s invasive magic. Her voice echoes in your head one last time.

“Thank you for showing me what love feels like, if not for a moment. I am sorry I could not show it as a proper mother would.”

“Kill her!” Voldemort rages into your ear. 

You watch as Fawley’s eyes drift to a close, an act of resignation. “It’s okay, my darling,” she whispers tiredly. “I. . . can rest now.”

For the second time in your life, you point your wand at someone’s heart—this time, it’s your mother’s. 

“What are you waiting for?” Bellatrix asks, twitching menacingly. “Kill her! Before I do it myself!” 

There’s a faint smile on her face. 

“I’m. . . sorry.”

Those are Agatha Fawley’s last words before you take away her life.

The incantation falls so delicately from your lips, an act of mercy for the woman you once called your mother and your greatest tormentor. 

But your eyes are on one person and one person only.

Tom Riddle. 

“Avada Kedavra!”

He will know your pain.

Not today, not tomorrow.

But you’ll destroy them all, one by one.

a/n: THERE IS KISSING IN THE NEXT SCENE I PROMISE.... AND TRUST MY LILY LOVERS WE WILL GET OUR REDEMPTION ARC SKDJHFGKJH and sirius lovers too,, but yall are well-fed every day so.. next part has the yule ball, likee,, there's no way THAT becomes angsty.. if you saw a plot-hole, no you didn't just CRY and enjoy sdhgsdf... come tell me what you thought!! (if you have any constructive criticisms, just come to my dms BUT PLS BE VERY GENTLE.... oh and don't hesitate to tell me if i accidentally wrote anything super specific like height, skin color, etc.!!) i promise to better in the final part!!!! (there's only two parts to this fic.) I LOVE YEW I HOPE YOU ENJOYED THIS STORY AAAAAAAAAAAA

[pumpkin-padparadscha]

[thyme-in-a-bubble]

boo! surprise bitches! i'm doing kinktober this year! finally doing it! bet you didn't see that one coming, did you hehe 🕸

there is a good mix of both short and long stories coming your way throughout this (and i will also still occasionally post other fics this month that aren't related to this). also, a handful of these fics are darker in nature, thought it was fitting for halloween, so remember to read the warnings, if there's something that's not for you then please, as always, be kind to yourself and don't read the story.

masterlist | join my taglist

day one | sore

stepbro!sirius black x cheerleader!reader + dubcon massage

day two | don't smile

steve rogers + throat fucking + size kink

day three | stuffed

devil!eddie munson & angel!steve harrington + tentecles + double penetration in one hole

day four | a little fashion show

best friend!stiles stilinski + lingerie

day five | stay still

peter parker + bondage

day six | hold up, let me record this

jj maybank + tittyfucking + sextape

day seven | the palace guards

guards!poly!marauders x princess!reader + secrets relationship

day eight | it’s practically like we’re down there with them

mob boss!bucky barnes + exhibitionism

day nine | keep that pretty mouth shut

tommy shelby + keep quiet quickie

day ten | I couldn’t find it in me to wake you

poe dameron + somno thigh fucking

day eleven | I just want you a little longer all to myself

matt murdock + secret office sex

day twelve | nothing more than a toy

rafe cameron + using you like a toy to masturbate with

day thirteen | I still got a few rounds left in me

boxer!steve rogers + bathtub sex

day fourteen | open your fucking mouth

dark!wild west cowboy!joel miller + gun kink

day fifteen | tiny

miguel o'hara x fairy!reader + extreme size difference

day sixteen | the wall between us

cult member!steve harrington + fem glory hole + breeding

day seventeen | be a rebel, be bad, stay here and cuddle with me

spencer reid + aftercare

day eighteen | pleasant pile of pillows

brother's best friend!james potter + pillow humping

day nineteen | ring ring

sam winchester x reader x bf!dean winchester + phone sex + cheating

day twenty | window

perv!neighbour!billy russo + voyeurism

day twenty-one | say yes

fiancé!bruce wayne + possessiveness

day twenty-two | i can think of something better than that

bucky barnes + anal

day twenty-three | double check

dark!professor!ben solo + power imbalance + manipulation

day twenty-four | maroon

vampire!remus lupin + biting + blood kink

day twenty-five | i want you

pirate captain!miguel o'hara + sex as payment

day twenty-six | teamwork

pro football team!avengers (bf!steve rogers, bucky barnes, pietro maximoff, clint barton, sam wilson, tony stark, thor odinson) + gangbang

day twenty-seven | my little flower

din djarin + fantasy au + cockwarming

day twenty-eight | hysteria

doctor!aleksander morozova x hysteria patient!reader + historical au + fuck machine

day twenty-nine | can't fight the moonlight

werewolf!bucky barnes x gf!reader + predator/prey + monsterfucking

day thirty | magical mimic

eddie munson x witch!reader + magical mutual masturbation

day thirty-one | you can’t put it in

stepbro!peter parker + halloween pussyjob

© 2023 thyme-in-a-bubble 

[moonstruckme]

HII I LOVE YOUR WORK SM!! I literally can't stop reading them 😭 I love you so much for making all of them !!

May I ask if we could get more of shy Remus?? As soon as I read the first one I immediately fell in love !

Thank you so much!! 🫶🏽

Hi lovely, thank you! Sorry this took me so long, I've wanted to write it ever since it came into my inbox but it took me forever to come up with an idea </3

cw: very vague implication of smut

shy!Remus x fem!reader ♡ 1k words

Remus looks surprised when he opens the door, and immediately after that embarrassed. For what, you never know. 

“Hi,” he says, lips curving into a smile as if of their own volition. “Um, I haven’t missed anything, have I?” 

You laugh. “No, you’re fine. I was just nearby and thought I might return your jumper.” 

It’s a half-truth. You’re ambushing him and you know it, but Remus’ reticent disposition means you know next to nothing about his life and after weeks of dating you’re really itching for a peek behind the curtain. You’ve brought chocolate muffins to make up for it. 

“Oh, that’s thoughtful of you.” Remus’ voice is soft as always, that adorable smile still playing on his lips until you both hear footsteps bounding down the stairs inside. He glances behind him, moving a bit more in front of the door. “While you’re here, maybe we could go have coffee or—” 

“Who’s that?” 

The voice seems like a sound of much dread for Remus, if his expression is anything to go off of. He ignores it, speaking only to you. 

“Or there’s a park just down the way—”

“Remus.” It’s a different voice this time, yet the effect upon Remus’ countenance is the same. “Who do you have there?” 

“Hi!” you say over his head, mutinous. 

“A girl?” Remus’ entire body seems to sag in resignation. “Remus Lupin, stop hiding her from us immediately.” 

“Sod off.” He says over his shoulder, as brash as you’ve ever heard him. It’s a bit thrilling. 

“I will not. Reveal your secrets, you dirty dog.” 

You actually do feel quite bad for Remus, a blush spreading all the way up to the tips of his ears, but he lets go of the doorframe, letting himself be wrestled out of the way. 

“Hello.” A dark-haired boy weasels his way into Remus’ place, giving you a salacious up-down. You raise your eyebrows at him, delighted. So this is who Remus associates with when he’s not with you. “My, you’re a pretty thing. And you’re here to see Remus?” 

“I am,” you confirm. “I’m here to bring back his jumper.” 

“Which would lead one to believe, “a second boy appears behind the first, both of them keeping Remus from reclaiming his spot at the door, “that you’ve seen him before.” 

You laugh. “I have. We’ve been dating a few weeks now.” 

“Remus!” The second bellows, eyes blowing comically wide behind his glasses. “Weeks? Weeks, and you haven’t said a word. How could you?” 

“I don’t suppose you have a bit of time on your hands,” the first boy says smoothly. 

“I’ve…” You check the time. “I do, actually.” 

He grins, wolflike. You’re not sure who the prey is. You worry it’s your date. 

“Yes!” The one with the glasses is effervescent, brimming with eagerness. It’s contagious, you find; you’re smiling too. “You have to come in, please.” 

You’re dying to, but you peer past them, locking eyes with Remus. He looks to be wishing for a swift and painless death, but he gives you a soft smile anyways. Nods. 

“Sure,” you say, “I could join you for a bit.” 

Some of the boisterous energy settles as they usher you inside, the need for urgency vanquished now that they’ve got you in their clutches. Begrudgingly, Remus introduces you, and the other two hassle him about taking off your coat and showing you where to put your shoes before he gets a chance to do either. Soon you’re settled comfortably in the armchair they tell you is Remus’ favorite. 

“Can I make you a cuppa?” Remus asks, and James and Sirius both oooh as he rolls his eyes. You nod at him, eyeing the other two amusedly. 

“He must really like you,” James says, “if he’s offering to make you tea.” 

“Hence why you’re not getting any,” Remus says over his shoulder as he stalks for the kitchen. 

“Prick,” Sirius calls after him. “We didn’t want any anyways.” But he crosses his arms, sulking back against the couch cushions. James, on the other hand, leans towards you. 

“So,” he says severely, “what are your intentions with our Remus?” 

A quiet sound of distress comes from the kitchen, but you all ignore it. “Your Remus?” you ask. 

James nods self-assuredly. “We’ve known him since primary school. If you two get married, I’ll be the one giving him away.” 

You raise your eyebrows. Remus’ head pops out of the kitchen, glaring daggers in a way you didn’t know he knew how. “You will not.” 

“What?” James looks gutted. 

“That’s not the point.” Sirius waves both of his friends off, though James looks like he would very much like to continue on the topic. “Tell us about you two, gorgeous. Where did you meet, how long have you been dating, has Remus told you where he hides his chocolates?” 

“Alright, that’s enough,” Remus says, coming back with your tea. He passes it to you carefully, handle out, and both you and James hiss at him for holding the hot part. 

“We haven’t even gotten her to answer anything yet,” Sirius complains. 

“It’s not her fault you haven’t given her the chance.” Remus perches on the armrest of the chair. It's probably so he can avoid sitting next to his nosy friends, but pride swells in your chest anyway at being chosen. You take his hand, and he squeezes your fingers in response. 

Sirius coos. “Only a few weeks of dating and he’s already holding her hand. I’m so proud.” 

You grin up at Remus, knowing what you could say to really shock his friends but not wanting to embarrass him further. He’s already flustered enough that his scars stand out in stark contrast against his flushed skin, but his look softens as he meets your eyes. Something about him eases, a small smile curving his lips. 

You decide it’s permission enough. 

“You’ve been a bit bolder than that, haven’t you, handsome?” 

James and Sirius erupt in hoots and hollers. Remus looks like he might well fall off the edge of the chair for how stiff he’s gotten. 

“Sorry,” you whisper, leaning up to kiss him on the cheek. It’s burning. “I’m not trying to torment you. We can go be alone in your room, if you like.” 

“No-o.” James waggles a finger at you. “Now that we know what you’re up to, you won’t be getting him alone in our house. You’re set on corrupting him!”

[ellecdc]

I HAD AN IDEA FOR A REQ BUT I FORGOT IT AND I JUST REMEMBERED AGAIN

okok so shy!reader (similar to r in the poly!marauders + lily fic that i am genuinely obsessedddd with) but with barty and she just gets so flustered and blushy when he’s so loud and outspoken about his affection for her

barty would absolutely accidentally (& lovingly) torment poor shy!reader. thanks for your request! (I'm obviously currently in my Barty-girl era - I deserve jail time ur honour)

Barty Crouch Jr x fem!reader who tries hiding from Barty, much to Remus' chagrin

There were very few places in the castle that Remus could escape to from his nettlesome roommates. Thankfully, his roommates would rather be trampled by a stampede of hippogriffs than spend their precious free time in the library of all places. Unfortunately, Remus was still too easily spotted in his current hideout.

“Rem! Hide me!” He heard you squeak as you came flying around one of the stacks of books; eyes wild like a prey animal looking for their last chance at survival. 

“What?” Remus asked dumbly, but it was no use. 

You let out a cartoonish ‘eep!’ sound and dove underneath the table Remus was currently sat at; your head basically situated in Remus’ lap as you looked up at him desperately. 

“Please.” You practically begged. “You never saw me!”

“Who’s looking for you?” 

Remus' question was answered in the form of a haunting whistling weaving its way casually through the aisles and aisles of books before pausing directly in front of Remus’ chair.

“‘Lo, Junior.” Remus greeted politely, causing the Slytherin boy to narrow his eyes at him.

“Lupin.” He drawled suspiciously. “Aren’t there usually…more of you?”

Remus grimaced as he felt your nervous claws dig painfully into his calf. “Nope.” He replied an octave too high to be considered casual. “Just me.”

Barty simply offered him a disbelieving hum. 

“So, Lupin,” Barty continued, chewing the vowels of Remus’ surname as if it tasted particularly rancid in his mouth. “See anything around here lately?”

Remus hummed as if pretending he was in thought. “No…nope, definitely haven’t seen anyo- anything.”

But it was too late.

“Haven’t seen anyone, hm?” Barty surmised with a wicked grin. “Not even…say…a certain witch who happens to be the object of my affections?”

You dejectedly thumped your forehead against Remus’ knee, hitting the nerve which caused his leg to kick out reflexively, thus pushing you over under the table.

“Merlin’s tits, Lupin, are you having a fit?”

“Oh my sodding Godric.” You finally grumbled from under the table, causing Barty’s face to brighten up astronomically. 

It took you far longer than Remus would have liked to be sitting in the awkward semi-company with Barty to extricate yourself from under the library table, and your efforts were accompanied by an awful lot of painful sounding bumps and cursing before your - albeit rather bedraggled - form materialized beside Remus. 

“There’s my girl.” Barty nearly sighed in relief; a dopey lovesick smile spreading across his face.

“Do you see it too?” You whispered to Remus conspiratorially.

“See what?”

“That look.” You whispered again, causing Remus to snort.

“The look of adoration currently decorating Junior’s face? Yeah, I see it.” 

You scoffed at him. “Barty doesn’t adore me.”

“Says who!?” Barty nearly screeched, causing Remus to look around nervously at the attention the trio was quickly gathering. “I’ll kill them.”

“What?”

“Can I be excused from this conversation?” Remus groaned as he returned to his seat.

Barty quickly agreed at the same moment that you hissed no!

“Listen - my darling angel - though I think you’re really great at just about everything you do, you are absolute pants at hiding.” Barty offered you solemnly as if he were gently giving you quite devastating news.

“Maybe you’re just too good at this finding thing.” You huffed as you crossed your arms; quite petulantly, in Remus’ opinion.

“At finding you?” Barty asked as his face broke out in a Cheshire cat grin. “Always.”

Remus was certain you were going to melt through the floor below you, and - quite frankly - if it got you two away from Remus’ library sanctuary, so be it.

[seleneprince]

(I certainly did not offer to write it because i don't have either the motivation or the fluitness in english language to do so but i'll be more than happy to read it instead, because i'm a disaster like that)

there's a homophobic undercurrent to a lot of the marauders' bullying of snape - the nickname "snivellus", for example, is based in the idea of snape being improperly masculine - which endures into the adult lupin and sirius' relationship with him [sirius' comment about snape being lucius malfoy's "lapdog" is him insinuating a sexual relationship between them in which snape is implied to be the receptive partner; lupin obviously thinks that snape would regard being made to cross-dress as humiliating and emasculating].

I couldn't agree more. It makes me laugh how the marauders fandom in general paint them as this super LGTBQ+ coded/defensors that stood up for minorities, when in canon it's been clearly shown that they were the typical misogynists, straight white cismen jerks that could be expected from a boarding school in the 70s. Their main "reason" to attack Severus and insult him was because of his femenine traits and how he didn't fit in the standard "definition of masculinity". It's hilarious, because for all the hatred they show to Snape by painting him as a terf/homophobic in most of their fics, he's actually the only character that's canonically queer coded and suffers for it (besides Dumbledore ofc).

And it's so delicious to imagine the potential of how the snupin dynamic would be this way. With Lupin dealing with heavy internalized homophobia and his own perception of sexual identity and masculinity, influenced by his time with the marauders, and suddenly finding himself attracted to severus snape, this androgynous looking boy that doesn't fit at all in what society expects a man to be, that wears robes resembling more of a femenine style and whose caligraphy is particularly femenine (this is canonically stated by hermione herself when she sees it). Imagine that he deals with it by being the biggest asshole towards him on their school years, partaking in the marauders pranks against him because he hates him, hates what he's making him feel. And while I don't think he knew about the Shrieking Shack's prank Sirius had, he's obviously not really sorry for it or the slightest remorseful. Hell, he probably used it to taunt snape even more for the remaining of school time.

Times passed and they're adults now, both teachers, and not only their methods clash terribly against each other, but snape is absolutely terrified of him. but jokes on him, he's forced to brew wolfsbane and bring it to him, personally, so they have to see each other anyway. I bet the bastard was enjoying every minute of it, seeing severus being put in that position, knowing well of his feelings. lupin's fixation towards snape returns when they become co-workers, and now he spends his time taunting him and getting under his skin, enjoying how snape avoids him like the plague and squirms when he's too close. he's scared of him, he resents him, and lupin knows some part of what he's doing is wrong, but when has that ever stopped him?

otherwise, i just love the snupin dynamic if it remained close to canon, with severus being the established queer character since his school days and lupin struggling to accept his own queerness, so he takes out his frustration by being an asshole.

Heyy, just came back from reading your analysis for remadora and snupin, and I just wanted to say THANK YOU for speaking the truth no one else seems to aknowledge.

First of all, Tonks is a queen and neither Remus or Sirius held a candle against her. I agree that their relationship wasn't at all perfect, that there were many topics to be discussed and explored there, and let's be honest, Remus isn't exactly healthy boyfriend material, regardless of his age.

Which takes me to my point. I love some fluffy snupin fic with a sweet and regretful Remus as much as the next person, mostly because it feeds my joy on seeing him actually beating himself for his mistakes and how he was as much of a bully to Severus as the rest of them. I want Severus's pain and the role Remus played in it to be acknowledged in their relationship.

However, I also want to see some good canon compliant snupin fic where Remus Lupin is presented as the low-key cruel and dark asshole we know he is. I don't buy that he only remained with the marauders because he didn't want to be alone, hell nah, that was Peter. Remus enjoyed their shenanigans and the pranks just as much, and I bet he was the mastermind behind a lot of them. I believe he was the only one who had some guilty conscience afterwards, but it wasn't nearly enough to make him re-consider.

I want some snupin fic where their dynamic follows the one we see in canon. Severus being terrified of Lupin and traumatized after what happened in the Shack, I want Lupin to low-key get off his fear because it makes him feel superior to the usually composed and indiferent Snape. I want Lupin to have been weirdly fixated with Severus since their school years and that's why he never stopped the pranks, because he enjoyed seeing the other boy under their mercy. I want Lupin to "hunt" him as both a teenager and as they're both professors in Hogwarts. Back when i read the books, I always thought his behaviour with Severus, both when they interacted and when Lupin talked about him with others, was kinda fruity. Like, what's up with than enthusiasm to see him wearing woman's clothes? How come he's the only one who refers to him "Severus" when everyone else, except for Dumbledore, calls him Snape? Yeah, it always felt weird to me.

In short, I simply think their canon compliant dynamic would be much more interesting if taken in consideration for fanfics. I love the whole "prey/predator" dynamic they could have.

ahh, thank you so much, anon! i'm delighted that you enjoyed my thoughts on both snupin and remadora - there are dozens of us!

[and i'd like to also draw your attention to this excellent addendum to the remadora point by @evesaintyves - i think it's really important for all of us remadora fans to be vigilant about challenging a tone which is far too prevalent in our conversations that to think about tonks - and lupin - as queer devalues them and their relationship within a canon-coherent setting.]

and yes - absolutely - i love seeing the messiness and thorniness of lupin explored - in snupin or otherwise - by stories which engage with the ruthlessness which lurks beneath his mask of benign affability. bring me the story which really gets into lupin describing his midnight jaunts with the lads in full werewolf form as "the best times of my life" - and clearly never being anywhere near as sorry about the risk he was running as he makes out in prisoner of azkaban...

[and also the fact that it doesn't seem quite as clear to me as i once thought it did that he didn't know anything about the werewolf prank...]

and i think there's an enormous amount of potential in using the longstanding cruelty which is tangible in snape and lupin's dynamic as a vehicle to bring down the mask behind which he lives - and that his relationship with his own sexuality is a really interesting example of that.

there's a homophobic undercurrent to a lot of the marauders' bullying of snape - the nickname "snivellus", for example, is based in the idea of snape being improperly masculine - which endures into the adult lupin and sirius' relationship with him [sirius' comment about snape being lucius malfoy's "lapdog" is him insinuating a sexual relationship between them in which snape is implied to be the receptive partner; lupin obviously thinks that snape would regard being made to cross-dress as humiliating and emasculating].

and while i love the portrayal of the wizarding world in fics as some sort of queer utopia - because i love the escapism of it - the evidence we have from canon is that this is... a pretty far-fetched thing to say about a society which is so obsessed with blood and lineage and the continuation of both of these things.

someone like lupin, who already depends so much on maintaining a mask of "civility" and conformity because of the precarious status his lycanthropy confers upon him in the eyes of the state strikes me as someone who would really struggle to acknowledge himself as queer in any way without thinking of that queerness as deviant and as dangerous to him.

[which is such an underrated remadora premise - tonks is clearly much more comfortable with being experimental and explorative in how she engages with the world. you could have so much fun with the impact tonks' relationship to her own queerness would have on lupin's relationship to his.]

lupin discovering snape is queer - and the combined fear and desire this might inspire in him, and how this would be received by snape, who is still so hung up on being afraid of and humiliated by him - could be a really complex and tangled premise for a story.

which i think you may have just offered to write...

[hauntedwitch04]

I'm so excited

Remus Lupin x reader

Words: about 4.0k words

Warnings: smut, possessive!Remus, swearing, not proofreaded (sorry it's really late, and I'm starting to imagine things :) )

Author’s note: Hi loves! I'm so so so so so sorry, but life it's really kinking me in the ass and seems like uni likes to do the same, so I hope to write some more during this break. Let me know if you liked this one, your witch Becky

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KINKTOBER ...........-..........KINKTOBER TAGLIST 2023

DAY 11: Breeding (tbt maybe isn't that much breeding, but I let myself get carried away by Remus Fucking Lupin)

Title of the one shot (and song in it): I'm so excited by The pointer sisters

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

Remus could swear that he had never hated you as much as he did at that moment.

You and young Lupin had never been big fans of each other, as you both competed to be your year's brightest witch and wizard, but for some time the hungry little wolf in him had begun to see more than just a rival of wits in you: prey.

Each time he could not help but dwell on your hair, your smile (unfortunately never directed at him), your wonderful and magnetic eyes, and then wander over aspects that made his thoughts less pure. At night he dreamed of being able to touch your breasts, his most secret and darkest desire, being able to kiss, taste and bite them, almost putting his signature on you, so that everyone, even that idiot Ravenclaw of your year knew that no one but him could touch you; or he dreamed of leaving a trail of kisses from your belly down to your belly, to your thighs, which he imagined were so soft and sweet, until a scream from Sirius woke him up in the morning, telling him he was late, again. Sometimes in the dullest classes he marveled at imagining what it would be like to come inside you, to possess you in such a primitive, animal way; to see his cum dripping from your pussy as his fingers brought it back inside you, into your womb, where it belonged according to him.

Part of Remus knew that he had no right to impose himself on you in that possessive way, but somehow the wolf inside him disagreed, having decided that you were by far the most captivating and attractive prey he had ever seen.

Despite everything, however, young Lupin had always managed to make sure that he did not give in to his instincts, well at least until this evening.

The Hufflepuffs had decided to throw another party, to take the pressure off the young students in this exam-filled period, and of course his friends had decided that Remus absolutely had to attend to tell them "to relax a bit," but Sirius, as they were getting ready to arrive at the place where the party was being held, had looked at Remus and raising his eyebrows in an endearing way, with the look of someone who knows more than he should, had said that he knew for a fact that you would be at the party. Remus had never wanted to punch him as much as he did at that exact moment, but the thought that had grafted itself into him of you, dancing in the middle of a dance floor, not in the usual clothes he saw you in class in, but freer and more yourself, had been enough to make him close his mouth in fear that an involuntary moan would escape his lips.

But his imagination had not even come close to reality.

He had been sitting in an armchair for two hours now, stiff and panting, while next to him two are making out as if he were not next to them, but Remus cares nothing about what is happening next to him, the only thing he can focus on is you.

Right now you've climbed on top of one of the tables in the center of the room with your friend, and you're dancing one attached to the other, moving your pelvis in time to the music. You are wearing a simple black T-shirt with a V-neckline, ending just above your belly button and highlighting your breasts, which made young Lupin say a long string of swear words when he first saw you when he entered the room, hoping that like a spell they might change what you are wearing into cute, soft pajamas with Christmas puppets, or make the painful erection he was feeling go away. A simple skirt, on the other hand, moved in time with your hips, showing off your legs, neither too much nor too little. It was shocking to Remus how on an occasion like this you had managed to maintain the same elegance and class you show in class when you get into an argument with him about who is right, in fact he almost seemed to see the same stubbornness and confidence in your eyes at this moment as you downed another sip of your drink, which you had managed not to spill despite everything despite continuing to move.

"If you take a picture of her, you'll be able to look at it again tonight you know, when you can't help but-" Sirius whispers in his ear, waking Remus from the trance-like state he had fallen into.

"We get it Padfoot, you don't need to go on." James stops him, as he gets a glimpse of the young wolf from behind their friend's back.

Remus rolls his eyes, only to look in his hands at the drink that he has now finished, and without saying anything to his friends he turns and goes to the table where the bottles of alcohol are.

He pauses for a moment to look at which of the proposed spirits is the strongest, to make sure that he also forgets his name, as well as the sinful thoughts your body brings him.

However, everything changes in a matter of seconds.

The young wolf has finally identified what he wants to drink when a body pulls up, still moving in time to the music. Remus turns to glare evilly at anyone who has bumped into him at such an unhappy and difficult time in his life, when he sees the culmination of all his problems: you.

He can't help but look at you enraptured even more than before, now with the possibility of being able to notice up close all the details that had eluded him a few minutes ago; besides given the difference in height, now your V-neckline offers him a view of your breasts unseen before, so much so that he has to restrain himself from running into the nearest bathroom and throwing cold water on his face, and more.

Your hair reflects the moonlight, which comes from a nearby window, and at that moment Remus realizes a truth that had escaped him just before: in three days it would be a full moon.

Not understanding how something so important could have slipped his mind, he realizes that all last week he had been too busy cursing your name or moaning it at night to realize that the moon was changing night after night.

You are the only thing he can now understand and think about, and this terrifies him, but at the same time makes him feel good.

Coming to her senses, she realizes that caught up in the rhythm of the music and the alcohol you practically danced on him. Lupin feeling a presence in his pants becoming more and more obvious and the wolf inside him getting louder and louder, decides that he cannot stay a second longer in this room, so he hurries out of the Hufflepuff common room, to find himself thus in the corridors. He begins to run, not going too far, but far enough to still hear the background music, thinking he is alone, when he hears footsteps.

Remus turns and sees you, leaning forward trying to regain the breath you had lost in running after him. Again the sight of your cleavage is enough to make him say a sequence of swear words under his breath as you pull yourself up and look at him.

"What are you doing here?" Remus asks, in an almost mean tone, yet unable to hide a note of longing as he tries to send you away by being rude to you.

"Your friends looked pretty bad to me, and they asked me to see if you were okay when you ran away from the party." You reply in the same acid tone he had used, before bursting out laughing. "What an idiot I am. I thought that at least this time if I showed you kindness, you would see that I'm not a bitch like you like to paint me."

"Why do you care so much that I think so highly of you?" He asks, intrigued, as he mentally slaps himself for the question he just asked.

"Because you are a person that everyone esteems and appreciates, and it is an honor to be appreciated by you in this damn school, and I never understood what I did to deserve the treatment I get from you. Do you really hate me for a couple of assignments and lessons? Are you really that arrogant?" You ask as you take a step toward him, but the sight of you so angry and panting with your hair messed up is enough to make him go wild, imagining you in the same condition, but this time because of him in a different way: under him and panting from his kisses as he makes you cry out in pleasure with his member. Remus takes a step back to catch his breath as he tries with all his might not to jump on you, and to banish his thoughts with images of pink-bearded Dumbledore dancing to a Christmas song. You, however, misinterpret that step backward, and respond with another step forward toward him.

"What more do I have to do than that Lupin? I'm laying myself bare before you, what more do I have to do Remus? Tell me."

Upon hearing his name fall from your fleshy lips, a short-circuit occurs in Remus's brain, who, no longer able to have control over his body, pounces on you like a predator who manages to finally get his fangs on his prey.

You initially don't know how to react when you feel his mouth on yours, but after a few seconds you return the kiss with equal passion. Your hands go into his brown hair, pulling it, while at the same time you press his face even harder against yours. Instead, his hands travel the way from your hips to your butt to your thighs, where with a nimble move Remus pulls you up as if you weighed nothing, while your back collides with the cold stone wall, enough to make you moan into the boy's mouth.

So you stay endless minutes kissing, in that lost hallway, while underneath the music seems to give you the tempo with which your tongues must move.

Then Remus pauses, trying to catch his breath, leaning his forehead against yours, still trying to keep at bay the wolf inside him that was clawing at the door to get out.

"You're still in time to run away baby. If you don't leave now, I don't know if I can guarantee that I can stop another time." Remus whispers a few inches from your lips as you too catch your breath. You look at him confused, not understanding why he sees what you were doing, or what you might soon be doing, as a terrible thing you would like to run away from instead of something you have been running toward for years.

And instead of answering him, she starts humming the song that had just started at the party.

"Tonight's the night we're gonna make it happen-" Whispers kissing his forehead. "-tonight we'll put all other things aside-" You continue kissing his eyes. "-give in this time and show me some affection-" You sing as you kiss his cheeks, hearing him moan, almost as if it is a pain what you are doing, even though you know for sure from the erection pressing against your belly that it is not. "-We're goin' for those pleasures in the night.-" You say finally kissing him on the lips, lightly brushing against his before continuing to sing. "-I want to love you, feel you, wrap myself around you, I want to squeeze you, please you, I just can't get enough, and if you move real slow, I'll let it go-" now, however, it is he who begins his attack with slow kisses from your ear to your mouth, not even touching it though before moving down to your neck.

"-I'm so excited, and I just can't hide it, I'm about to lose control and I think I like it, I'm so excited, and I just can't hide it, and I know, I know, I know, I know I want you." You finish singing the refrain panting as he finishes leaving marks all the way down your neck to the hollow, leaving almost his mark, wanting everyone to know who was lucky enough to have you in his arms and on his lips.

"Do you still have doubts Lupin, or should I go back to my room and do for myself what you haven't given me yet? Or maybe I could go back to the party and find someone, maybe Sirius-" You try to provoke him, but your words die in your throat as one of his hands tightens around your neck.

"Don't ever try to mention another guy's name at the moment I'm about to fuck you, or next time not only will I leave all these bites on your neck but I'll also put a nice collar on you." He states in a hard, confident voice, enough to make you tremble, as you feel a warm sensation creating in your lower abdomen. "You'd like that wouldn't you, baby? A nice collar that tells everyone where you belong?" He continues, realizing that he has touched the right keys.

You gasp and search within yourself for the strength to respond to him.

"Lupin, I swear if-" You try to say, but you can't finish.

"Oh my baby, are we off to a bad start? What's my name?" He interrupts you, tightening his grip on your neck a little more.

"Remus, please Remus I need you."

"What do you need baby?" He asks, as with a sly grin he watches you wiggle under his gaze, as if your body is on fire.

"I need you to fuck me. Now. There's a broom cupboard nearby, no one ever comes by here." You propose in hopes of soon alleviating the feeling of longing you feel.

"And here I thought all you did was keep your pretty little nose in the books all the time." He taunts you, as always with your legs wrapped around his waist and one arm wrapped behind your back and the other on your neck, he leads you toward the place you suggested just now.

"And now I find out that instead you are nothing but a little whore, ready to get fucked in the broom closet. Don't worry baby, I'll prove to you that once again I'm better at it than you are."

"Oh yeah and how?" You manage to say, once the door to the cramped little room, capable of holding only the two of you standing, is closed behind you. Dust gets into your nostrils, and you don't even want to think about how many bugs there must be on these walls, but the only thing you care about now is the man between your legs, and what he might do.

"You'll learn to recite my name better than any spell they've ever taught you, and I know for a fact that you'll appreciate its result much more, I'd say it's nothing short of ecstatic." He replies, before venturing back to your lips to devour you as if it were his last meal on earth, and he hadn't eaten in weeks.

You feel his warm hands settle on your breasts, and then reach to the edge of the T-shirt you are wearing and slip it off, leaving before his eyes a view of your chest, covered only by your bra.

"Merlin, how I love your boobs." Remus confesses, before moving on to leave open-mouthed kisses and bites on all the skin he finds available, then quickly and surely removing your bra in less time than you realize.

Now that your hair is uncovered and in contact with the cold night air, it stiffens, and the young wolf is not slow to take one between his lips and tease the other with his hand, until your hands are violently embedded in his hair and your moans grow louder and louder.

"Please, Remus, I need more." You beg him in a whisper, so you feel one of his hands rest on your hip, while the other descends to your panties, and his mouth continues to torture your right hair, with the constancy with which he wants to prove he is better than you in class. He lowers one of your legs by resting it on the floor, so that access to his coveted treasure is easier. His hand grazes your pussy from above your panties, sending a shiver down your entire back as you gasp through your lips, resting your head on his shoulder.

With a gentle gesture he moves his fingers between your panties and the most sensitive and delicate spot on your body, making you gasp.

"God baby, I didn't think you were so wet." He comments, making you blush. "Didn't you want more baby? I swear I won't stop until you beg me to stop." He whispers in your ear, pulling away from your nipple for a moment, then attaching the other one, leaving the one from before wet from his saliva to the night breeze, thus making you shiver with pleasure again and getting you even wetter.

One of his long, slender fingers enters you, teasing you, before adding a second. He moves his fingers with agility and confidence, like those of a musician performing his favorite piece that he has been playing for years now. He touches inside you in all the right places, making you moan with pleasure.

That delicious torture goes on for minutes that seem like hours.

Your lips are on the verge of splitting from how much you are biting them, when you feel coming like a wave the orgasm to which your gestures are leading you.

"Remus I'm going to-"

"Cum." He says simply, looking you fixedly in the eyes, from his full height. You stare gazing at those wonderful chocolate-colored crystal orbs, illuminated by the gentle moonlight filtering through the cracks in the door, when you can no longer stop the inevitable in the face of his oh-so-dry command. You reach the pinnacle of pleasure, and it is as if for a moment you can touch the sky with your finger. Your soul goes out of your body for a moment, until you open your eyes again, gasping and he looks at you with a satisfied look.

"And that's just the beginning baby, you still have to come on my cock." He comments, as with a lightning-fast gesture he unbuckles his underpants and pulls down his panties, just enough to make his member come out. You remain mute staring at his cock for a moment, noting its size: it wasn't the first time you had fucked someone, but none of the guys could match Remus, that was for sure.

"See anything you like baby?" He asks you sarcastically, as you feel your pussy getting even wetter than it already is.

"Maybe, but you still have a promise to keep so you'd better get to work." You retort, before being silenced by his lips. With his hands he directs his cock toward your entrance, then puts it all the way inside you without warning, leaving you breathless with your back pressed against the door. You feel him inside you in places you didn't even think he could reach, as he stays still to give you a minimum of time to adjust to his size.

"Oh baby, don't worry, I'm a man of my word. You will walk out of here that I will have branded you with my cum from inside, so that everyone will know for sure that you are mine." He whispers in your ear before starting to move. He comes almost completely out of you, leaving only the tip in, then comes back in with a dry, sure thump a couple of times, to start moving faster and faster and harder. Part of you wonders if he really means what he said about coming inside you to place his ownership over you, and at the very thought you can't help but tighten the walls of your pussy around him.

"Do you like the idea? Of having my cum inside you dripping down your thighs, letting everyone know you're mine?" He says and you can't help but gasp, the pleasure clouding your mind. "Shit, I can already picture you all proud and strutting walking down the school hallways, no panties on, while everyone stares at you and in your lap all my cum. Who knows maybe I could even get you pregnant." Remus continues, as you moan his name louder and louder, hearing what he says. The young wolf can swear that by now the beast inside him has become uncontainable, the only thing he can think about is coming inside you and making sure you have her pups, to bite you and let everyone know you are uniquely hers, in such an animal way that he is surprised you are not fucking in the woods, just like two wild creatures, since you have now become that: pleasure-seeking animals to survive.

"Remus, come inside me. I'm close to coming again, please." You beg him, after a few minutes have passed in silence, too busy fucking each other to talk.

"First you baby then I will make sure you can have my puppies, however, first you have to squeeze that beautiful pussy you have around my cock. Come for me baby."

And at those words you can't help but come one more time. Your head becomes light, as if floating, as your vision darkens. Your pussy squeezes hard and in rhythm with Remus's cock, which stimulated by your orgasm goes to meet his, letting all his seed pour into you in long, powerful spurts.

You remain still and connected for a few minutes before Remus begins to laugh. You look at him confused and tired, ready for yet another joke from him at you and even more personal teasing after such an intimate moment, when he leaves you a light kiss on your cheek and asks, "Do you really think I would ever be able to hate you, I was convinced you couldn't stand even the sight of me."

Smile in turn as you look at him, before you also speak.

"Well apparently neither of them is as smart in the end as they think they are I would say."

Bonus (I think I definitely have a problem with bonuses)

Sirius looks at his friend, sitting next to him on the settee, as he sees you re-enter holding Remus's hand at the party, now decidedly calmer than an hour and a half ago, when both of you had left without a trace and without telling anyone where you were going. The two of you approach the liquor table, laughing and joking as you look into each other's eyes, with a smile that says a lot about your nocturnal activities in the hallways, though only to those who are able to pick up on the signs.

Sirius and James seeing that exchange look at each other and jumping to their feet scream in unison:

"He did it!" Turning many loving couples around, including their friend and you, watching them confusedly do a dance of joy between bodies of boys asleep from exhaustion and alcohol, not knowing that this night would be the end of you, as they would forever use it against you as an argument in every speech to prove that two such smart people can be, by far, the dumbest.

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[themanfromeire]

Wolfstar's!Child - Mama Raised a Little Bitch

Parents!Sirius Black & Remus Lupin x Teenager!Reader (ft. Jegulily)

Reader's gender and Hogwarts house is unspecified

This is my first work of the series - if you have any suggestions or requests, let me know!

~~~

Fucked was not a strong enough word to describe how totally and utterly screwed you were now.

When you had first gotten your Hogwarts letter, your uncle Regulus had fallen to his knees (metaphorically) to beg you not to be like James, or your papa Sirius. Remus had joined in too, with both of them citing that ‘Sirius and James were bad enough’ as their justification.

With a promise you had intended to adhere to, you departed to Hogwarts. 

In your defence, you believed you would never even come close to breaking it - you had been going strong for four years now, dedicating yourself to academia instead of continuing the Marauders’ legacy, much to the horror of your godfather and papa.

They had made a big deal about ‘disowning you’, opting to name Fred and George Weasley as their heirs, who were more than happy to accept. You believed it to be a joke. For the most part.

However, now there was a blot on your record - a spill of crimson Chardonnet on a white bedsheet if you will.

A blot that came in the form of Hera O’Donnell.

With her snide remarks and condescending attitude, she strutted around Hogwarts like she were the headmaster herself - as a lioness scoured a savanna for a deer to sink its fangs in to, she paroused her peers, searching for the easiest one to prey upon.

You were her chosen doe. 

In her skewed vision, you wore shoes too big for you to fill - the weight of the Lupin-Black left you crushed by expectations and drowning in inadequacy, waves of failure washing over your head and coating the inside of your lungs with a thick layer of incompetence.

But your head remained firmly above water.

Despite her taunts and jibes being fruitless at first, Hera had hunted you down and separated you from your pack, and now, her teeth finally began to pierce your skin.

 Logically, you should have informed someone. You were not alone - your dad and papa were forever on your side, along with your godfather James, godmother Lily, Uncle Regulus and all of your aunts and uncles, composed of your parents’ Hogwarts friends.

But Hera awoke a different part of you. Something more spiteful. Something more primal.

Reporting it would not be as satisfying. As gratifying. But revenge would be.

If anyone asked you about what had happened to Hera O’Donnell, you would simply claim something along the lines of how ‘her appearance had improved with the addition of a skunk tail.’ It amused your peers, undeniably, but the staff not so much.

Even as your head of house sat you down and informed you of the consequences of transfiguring someone like that and the numerous procedures that Hera was undergoing at St. Mongo’s, having been transferred there for more specialist care, you could not find it in yourself to care. 

However, you absolutely did find it in yourself to care when a crimson envelope fell into your bowl of cereal the next morning. 

You had expected your parents to be informed of the incident, naturally. But a howler? That you had not. Staring at the envelope, Hera’s words swarmed your mind. What if your parents now saw you just as Hera had?

With a quiet sigh escaping your lips, and sympathetic glances from your friends, you opened the envelope, hoping to get it over sooner rather than later. The voice of Sirius Black erupted from the envelope, filling the entire Great Hall.

‘MON AMOUR I AM SO PROUD OF YOU! TRANSFIGURING SOMEO- Oi, Rem, get off! I’m jus-’

‘I TOLD YOU OUR KID WOULD BE A FUCKIN’ GOD AT TRANSFIGURATION!’ Came a proud voice of Remus Lupin, cutting your papa off. ‘LOOKS LIKE YOUR PAPA AND GODFATHER NEED TO REINSTATE YOU AS HEIR AFTER ALL, SWEETHEART!’

As Remus declared that, two very loud and audible sighs of disappointment left the lips of Fred and George. The howler continued, and the sound of a door being slammed open was heard before the voice of James Potter joined in the chorus.

‘WERE NONE OF YOU GOING TO TELL ME THAT THEY TRANSFIGURED SOMEONE?!’ James cried out incredulously and overdramatically, however, he quickly forgot his dramatics in favour of the Marauders’ legacy.

‘NOW ALL YOU NEED TO DO, PRIY, IS TO BECOME ANIMAG-’ the sound of skin hitting skin rung out as Lily slapped a hand over James’ mouth to stop him from accidentally revealing that they were illegal animagi, despite the fact that they legally could register, but they all couldn’t be bothered. James and your papa said it was funnier this way.

‘Darling, as impressive as it is, please don’t transfigure anyone else,’ Lily chastised you gently. She had to at least give off the illusion that they were disciplining you, but you could hear the pride underlining her words and the smirk on her lips.

‘Now, I think it’s best we end this now, hm?’ came the still sophisticated voice of your uncle Reg. ‘Unless we want the entire Hogwarts populous to know James’ social security number.’ There was a chuckle from both the howler and the Hogwarts students at that remark.

‘I want you to know that I am proud of you. The family needed something a little more…Slytherin.’ Regulus remarked before the Howler burst into flames and tore itself up.

Silence filled the Great Hall as everyone took a moment to stare at you and process what had just happened. You looked up and your eyes caught Harry’s.

‘Good job,’ he mouthed at you, giving you a bright smile and a thumbs up from the Gryffindor table, beside a very peeved Fred and George.

Maybe you weren’t so alone or fucked after all.

[axelsagewrites]

Remus Lupin*Forbidden Forest

Pairing: remus x f!reader

Kintober Day thirteen: primal play with Remus Lupin – usually when Remus runs around the forest its not by choice but tonight, he is chasing his favourite prey

Word count: 1404

Warnings: primal play, growling, sex in the forbidden forest, remus chasing you, hickies/marks, p in v sex, unprotected sex, teasing, nipple play, smut 18+

Masterlist Here

Kinktober List Here

The cold air whipped around your skin as your legs carried you as fast as they could manage. You felt branches scrape across your face, scratching your cheeks but when you heard heavy twigs snapping behind you you knew he was close. The full moon had more than a one day affect after all.

You hadn’t noticed the hill until you found yourself barrelling down the dry dirt, luckily managing to slide down on your ass instead of tumbling into a heap. However, when you stood you felt your breathing catch in your throat, “Found you,” Remus’s voice called over the forest making a distant owl screech.

Your head snapped around, your eyes finding him stood on the top of the hill, the moon behind him and lighting up his skin. Remus began to step down the hill, with far more grace and agility than you had. Your legs carried you backwards, slowly walking away, eyes locked onto his hungry ones until you felt a tree hit your back.

Your head whipped around, looking for somewhere to run, but you looked back when you felt two hands slam against the tree, either side of your head and caging you in, “Caught you,” Remus said, his voice low as he towered over you.

You found your eyes glancing at his lips then back to his eyes which had a newfound glint in them, “Remus what if- “you tried to protest but you gasped when you felt his lips slam onto yours.

His hands moved to cup your face, his rough thumb brushing against your cheek bone. Despite your previous protest you felt yourself melt into the kiss, your hands moving to hold his arms, feeling his biceps through his shirt.

Remus growled lowly, stepping forward again till his front was pressed against yours and you felt the hard bark pressing into your back. You could feel his hard on pressing into your stomach as his hands moved down from your face to your hips, gripping them tightly.

“Want you,” Remus muttered against your lips, his own moving to nip kisses down your neck. You moaned as he settled on a spot between your neck and shoulder, wondering what kind of marks he would leave this time.

Small moans left your lips making a Remus growl once more and you were grateful no one else was brave, or dumb, enough to venture in these woods. “Remus,” you whined, your hands pushing at his shoulders, “We could get caught,”

You plead fell on deaf ears as his hands moved to slip under your shirt, his hands moving behind your back to unclip your bra expertly. As he pulled it out from under your shirt, his hands quickly moving back to cup your breasts he looked down at you, “Tell me you want me to stop,” he said, resting his forehead against yours.

You went to speak but were cut off by your own moan as he squeezed your nipples gently, “We shouldn’t,” you finally stuttered out.

Remus leaned his lips down closer, a smirk in his eye, “But you want to,” he said, slowly rolling your perked buds between his fingers, “Admit it,” he taunted, his voice barely above a whisper as his lips hovered close to yours.

You could feel his lips brush against yours as you tried to think of something to say but instead you found your hands moving to his neck, pulling him back down for another heated kiss. This time Remus waited no times as his hands slipped down to your ass, giving it a quick squeeze before he hoisted you up against the tree.

Your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling his body flush against yours and whining when you felt his bulge grind against your core. Your arms wrapped around his neck, scared you may fall but the moon gave him strengths no one fully understood.

His lips moved to suck harsh marks against your collarbone. Soft moans left your lips as your fingers toyed with the ends of his hair, but your breathing caught when you felt him move his hand. While holding you steady with one hand Remus slipped the other between your bodies, moving down till he was under your skirt. You wanted to ask what he was doing but before you could you gasped as he ripped your tights, his hand instantly slipping under your panties to rub sloppy circles against your clit.

“Fuck,” you whined, your voice coming out higher than planned.

“Careful pet,” Remus tutted, “Someone could hear you,” he teased, mock concern spreading his face.

You whined when you felt his hand come away from your cunt, “What are you doing?” you asked as you felt his hand move around under neath your body.

“Something I should’ve done a long time ago,” Remus said, his voice low and almost dark as you realised what he had been doing. You felt the tip of his cock run up and down your panties, lingering over your aching hole.

Your hips bucked, desperate for friction as you felt yourself grow wetter by the second. A low growl left his throat at your actions, and he quickly went to move your panties aside, lining his tip up with your hole. At first, he eased in slowly and you gasped as you felt him begin to stretch you out.

Remus groaned, his head falling to rest against yours as he sunk further in. your hands moved to grip his hair, tugging on his soft locks, but as you did something in Remus snapped and his hips snapped forward, sinking his length fully in and making you gasp.

His head fell into the crook of your neck as his hands grabbed your hips, keeping you in place as he began to set a relentless pace. His hips snapped against yours, your back being pushed further into the wood as he began to hit new spots making your back arch, pushing your chest against his.

Remus growled, his fingernails sinking into your hips making you cry out and wonder if it was enough to leave marks. Your legs tightened around his hips as your moans rang out across the darkened forest.

Grunts and groans fell from his lips as he left occasionally kisses and bites to your neck. You felt your body shift and before you could question it you felt his hand slip back between your bodies, finding your clit in an instant as he rubbed fast circles onto the bundle of nerves.

You could feel your body tense and your stomach tightened. Maybe it was the rush of being outside or the fact he was hitting deeper spots than ever before, but you could barley control your moans let alone try resist the quickly approaching orgasm.

When your cunt clenched around him Remus’s hips started moving at an inhumane pace making you cry out, but it was enough to tip you over the edge, “Fuck I can’t-fuck!” you gasped, as your orgasm washed over your body.

Remus couldn’t stop though, not now. He chased his high like a dog chased rabbits and soon you felt his pace become sloppy before a familiar feeling spread inside you. Remus’s head fell into your neck, his hands moving from beneath your legs to gently let you stand on your own again.

Your legs almost buckled as your feet touched the ground and Remus quickly grabbed your arms to steady you, “Are you okay?” he asked, concern washing over his scarred face.

“Yeah,” you breathed out, still dazed from before, “I’m fucking amazing actually,”

Remus laughed at your words, but it was soon cut off as he glanced around the forest, “We should really go back though,” he said, concern finally crossing his mind.

You laughed as you took his hand, quickly adjusting your skirt and hoping you managed to avoid seeing anyone on the way since there was no disguising the state you were in, “Lets go Loverboy,” you grinned, loving the way he had became a blushing mess at your teasing despite his prior persona.

When you finally got back to your dorm you settled in for a peaceful night’s sleep. Somehow you had gotten away with it all. Well sort of. since there was no way in hell you were going to claim the bra that a first year had found during their magical creatures lesson the next morning.

taglist: @clairacassidy

[ddejavvu]

Hungry Like the Wolf - Remus Lupin x Reader

Summary: Remus is gifted an alternative potion to Wolfsbane near the full moon, meant to convert the magic of his transformation into energy. But the run you expect him to go on to burn some of the energy off isn't as much of a jog as it is a chase, and you're the one he's after. // sorry mom for writing smut to a song from a band you like.. god willing you never find this 🫡

Contents/Warnings: smut (minors dni), p in v, p in v from the back, oral sex (f receiving), bondage, predator/prey dynamics (everything is consensual), overstimulation, lots of wolf metaphors and language, remus is not in his wolf form, he is human

WC: 5.8K / navigation

feedback is greatly appreciated! comment, reblog, talk in the tags, send me a message, tell me what you think!

James is incredibly skilled at potions. You’ve known this since first year, since he rivaled Severus himself, and he only got better with age and lessons. Now he’s a master, but he’s set aside his talents to take care of his wife and son. Honorable, of course, but it makes you wonder what he could be if he tried his hand again at the cauldron.

He’d given you a taste of his skill last night, presenting Remus with a little bottle of purplish ooze at your weekly dinner. 

“‘S an alternative to wolfsbane,” He’d explained, a hand sheepishly clinging to the back of his neck and scratching at his chocolate curls there, “It’s supposed to channel all of the transformative magic into energy. So you’ll stay human, but you’ll be, like, bouncing off the walls.”

Wolfsbane is appreciated, but seriously lacking as a solution. Remus still has to endure the cracking of his bones, the tearing of his skin, the self-destruction every month, so for James to cook up a remedy that made Remus almost normal, well… your big bad boyfriend had shed a tear or two.

“Okay,” You exhale, a loud sigh in the silence of the shack you chain Remus up in every full moon, “Give it a test, Rem.”

He strains his wrists, veins popping under his tan, scarred skin. Nothing there. Then his ankles, he flexes his calves and tugs hard at the restraints, but nothing gives. 

“Perfect.” You wish you could grin at the satisfactory results, but chaining your boyfriend up for reasons other then sex is nothing you’re too happy about.

“If the potion doesn’t work,” Remus rasps, voice gruff from the heavy light of the moon outside, “You should be safe with me chained. And if it does work, you can let me go. ‘Spose I’ll just go for a run or something, Prongs said it would make me hyper.”

“Alright,” You nod, leaning in to kiss his soft, smooth temple. He leans into the affection with a strained smile, eyes on the purple bottle in your hands.

“Bottoms up,” You grin warily, raising the narrow-necked flask to Remus’s lips. As soon as he purses his lips around the mouth you tip the vial down his throat, purple ooze gone in a flash. It doesn’t taste good, if the immediate grimace that scrunches Remus’s nose and purses his lips is any evidence to go by.

“Christ,” The man dry heaves, and you smear a dollop of the substance away from the corner of his mouth, “Oh, god, I think Prongs shit in that bottle and charmed it purple.”

“Oh,” You recoil at the thought, smearing the ooze off of your skin with Remus’s discarded shirt, “Well that’s lovely. How long to transformation?”

“If this doesn’t work,” Remus pants, scar-littered chest heaving, “A few minutes. Go on, dove, wait outside. If you hear howling, go back home and come get me in the morning.”

“Okay,” You reluctantly rise, brushing your knees off from where they’d been slowly sinking into the soft earth beneath you, “Good luck. Love you, Rem. Be safe, please try not to scratch over that cut on your thigh; it hasn’t healed right.”

“Can’t help it,” Remus groans, head ducking as his stomach begins churning. He’s starting to think that maybe James isn’t as good at potions as you’ve all been thinking, and that he’ll start morphing any second now, He lets out a sharp cry, jaw tightening as he clenches it and squeezes his eyes shut, “Go, dove, now!”

You don’t need to be told twice. You rush for the door of the shack, swinging it shut behind you and praying the worn hinges don’t just snap. You lean your back to the door, waiting, listening as Remus feels either the effects of the potion, or the effects of the moon. Whichever one it is, something is happening to him.

There’s a string of groans, moans, and everything in between, and you’ve never been present for a transformation of his (strict orders from the man himself), but you’re sure that’s what’s happening. You hear the chains rattle as he strains against them, and you’re praying he doesn’t manage to snap them in a burst of wolfish rage.

Then the noise dies down, and eerie silence falls over the forest. You’re still leaned up against the door, and every rustle of the wind through the trees or mouse through the bushes has your stomach flipping in fear.

Apparently though, you shouldn’t be worried about what’s in front of you, more what’s behind you.

The knob your hand is still draped over turns, and you’re ripping yourself away from the door with a terrified gasp. The door swings open behind you, and there Remus stands, human, but- not.

He’s human-sized, human-shaped, but something isn’t right with his eyes. They’re darker than normal, more dilated, and he’s staring hard at you with a tight jaw while his bare chest heaves.

His shoulders are illuminated by the soft, warm light of the shack that’s spilling through the door but his face- his scarred face is shining solely in moonlight. It bathes him, drapes him where clothes don’t, and makes the dark abyss of his eyes shine.

“Remus,” You breathe, an uncertain whisper in the night air.

He doesn’t answer. 

His eyes, still pools of darkness, with the slightest rim of his familiar chocolate brown around the edge, rake slowly down your form. You’re only clad in a drafty nightgown, ready to either run back to bed at the sound of a wolf, or wave goodbye to Remus from your window as he jogged away. You hadn’t expected this, whatever it is.

“Remus-” You try again, watching as his eyes gradually reach your face again. Before you can get the last letter out, before you can fully taste his name on your tongue, his eyes snap to yours and narrow infinitesimally.

“Run.”

Your body understands before your brain does, and your leg moves backwards to plant your foot somewhere behind you. But you linger, “What?”

He lunges for you, hands outstretched, “Run,” and you blanche.

A noise comes out of your throat that can’t be categorized as you whirl on your feet. You suppose it’s somewhere between a shriek and a gasp, but it’s warbled as your lungs take in more air than they’re letting out. Despite it all, your chest heaves, and your feet ache as you slap them against the forest floor. Remus isn’t a particularly fast runner, he smokes too much to be able to breathe well, but whatever’s chasing you is more than Remus. You’ve never seen Remus this intense before, you’re not sure he’s even in there. You don’t know what James has concocted, but you’re going to have a long list of notes ready when he asks for a report.

Your skin is on fire, almost like Remus has already caught you. You hadn't bothered to look anywhere but those eyes, and you fear the worst; long, gnarled wolf fangs on his fingertips and razor sharp canines over his tongue. You can hear him inches behind you, he could reach out and snatch you if he tried, but he doesn’t. You realize with a sick sense of despair that he’s chasing you for fun, that you’re his prey and he’s letting you have the illusion of escape. You can’t outrun him, he’ll always be a few steps behind. You hear his breath, and if you concentrate you can feel its ghost on the back of your neck as you sprint through the woods. It’s slower, more even than your erratic gasps, the heave of your chest making you lightheaded. 

You don’t know which way you’re running anymore, but there’s nothing for miles. No gas station you can beg for help in, no nearby farm where you can distract Remus with a lone sheep. It’s just trees, trees that you can’t climb before he reaches you.

The crack of his feet against twigs, leaves, and all in between slows slightly, and you know it’s not because he can’t keep up. He doesn’t even sound out of breath, and you’re terrified at the thought that he could outrun you by miles and you wouldn’t stand a chance. Now he’s several steps behind, and tears brim at your eyes, hopeful ones that beg for the possibility that he’s been distracted by some wildlife. 

Soon enough, his presence fades away altogether. You don’t dare look back, you’re terrified of seeing the face of the man you love contorted, twisted by the purple potion into something dark and predatory; something hungry.

When you’re absolutely sure he’s not there anymore, and only the sounds of the forest surround you, chirping crickets and wind howling like a chilling reminder of the moon above, you slow down, immediately hunched over your knees to try and catch your breath. There’s no movement but your own, the great rise and fall of your chest and the sagging of your shoulders. You don’t recognize the part of the woods you’ve come to, and you bite back tears as you realize that your best hope is climbing a tree and waiting until morning. 

There’s one to your left that looks good for climbing. The branches are low hanging and you could probably pull yourself up enough to have a bird’s eye view of the forest so that you can watch for Remus. 

Then there’s the snap of a twig behind you, and your stomach plummets. You whirl around to press your back against the trunk of the tree, eyes wide as they scan the forest in front of you. You see nothing, not a sign of life in sight, so you edge around the tree, chin touching your shoulder as you check your side view. When you’ve scanned your left adequately, and found nothing out of order, you turn your head to the right, and there he is.

He’s standing an inch away from you, dark eyes fully lit by the moon. You scream loud enough to send birds fleeing from their trees, and he lunges for your open mouth. Your panicked shout turns into a warbled cry as he kisses you hard, tongue nearly gagging you as he seems determined to make you swallow it.

His hands have an iron grip on your waist as he looms over you, and you struggle to push and shove at his shoulders for a breath. It’s only when he moves on, leaving his tongue outstretched as he drags it from your mouth to your jaw that you can breathe.

“Remus!” You cry, struggling to escape his grip, ‘No, no- please! Please let me go, I- I don’t know what James made you but please, it’s me! Don’t hurt me, Remus please don’t hurt me, I-”

His hand snakes up your throat to clamp over your mouth. The tears that had beaded in your eyes are flowing down your cheeks now as you shake with a sob, and the clear liquid trickles over his scarred skin.

“Dove,” He murmurs, hot and wet into your neck, “I’m not going to hurt you.”

You’re only able to manage a confused whimper from behind his heavy hand, but he licks a stripe along your jaw and bumps the tip of his nose into the bridge of your own.

“Did you think I was going to hurt you?” He asks, breath fanning over your cheek. You nod, still wary, and he coos in sympathy, lips pressing to your skin.

“No, darling.” He promises, and the grip he has on your waist that’s pinning you to the tree seems a lot less sinister now, “If I wanted to kill you, I wouldn’t have let you run.” He dips his nose to your neck, takes in a breath, a drag of your scent that flows through his veins like ecstasy if the shuddering exhale he releases over your skin is any evidence.

“No,” He lets out a wry chuckle, mouthing once more at your neck, “I wanted a chase. I’m not going to hurt you, I’m going to eat you, dove. And then I’m going to fuck you. Do you understand?”

He uncovers your mouth so that you can answer him, and you let out a sharp gasp, “Remus, I- What?”

“He said energy,” Remus pants, still licking at your neck like it’s coated in ambrosia. He breaks away with a heavy groan, like it’s a monumental feat to tear himself away from your skin, “James said, it’ll be converted into energy. Well it was.”

He gestures to his torso, and your eyes travel down his scarred chest until they reach- oh god.

Shit, he’s hard. Like, painfully, achingly, astoundingly hard, his cock so erect that it’s curved up towards his belly and already leaking precum. Your mouth falls open and you swear it lines itself with drool, your chest still heaving from the adrenaline of the moment.

“I’m on fire,” Remus pants, head downturned, hands in fists as his side to keep from touching you. The veins in his hands pop and his arms tremble with the force of his grip. You catch a hollow, empty feeling below your belly at the sight. 

“I’m- I can’t control it, I need- I need something,” He grunts, snapping his head up so that he can meet your eyes, “If you don’t want this, tell me now.”

“Remus, I- I don’t-”

“Tell me!” He roars, eyes wide as he breathes heavy, “I need to know now, Y/N. Yes or no?”

“Yes!” You nod vigorously, eyes fixated on his twitching, leaking cock, “Yes, Remus, I want this.”

He reaches for the skirt of your nightgown with a swift hand, and in one fluid motion, it’s torn off of you. Your breath hitches in shock as your back suddenly hits the bark of the tree behind you, and Remus bunches your nightgown into a strip of fabric.

“Hands up,” He instructs, and as you’re fumbling to process his words and comply, he repeats it, “Hands up!”

“I am! I am,” You gush, arms shaking as you hold them above your head, “Remus, what are you-?”

“Around the tree,” He instructs, gripping one of your wrists and pulling you to the side with it. You stumble as he manhandles you, but manage to catch yourself in the soft earth below while he puts one of your wrists on either side of the tree branch above you.

He makes quick work of your wrists, tying one end of the nightgown to your right wrist, then slinging it over the tree branch and securing the other end to your free wrist. It means that you’re hanging from the tree by your wrists, your feet just barely still touching the ground.

“Remus,” You whimper, squirming in the cool night air. You feel much too exposed, breasts lit by the moon and panties the only thing stopping you from being completely naked. But when Remus steps back to admire his work, something inside of your stomach begins to coil at his blackened eyes.

He drops to his knees and they hit the ground with a dull thump. The ghostly fire you’d felt from the thought of his touch before was now pleasurable instead of painful. Now you ache for him, a heavy gush of slick already gathering behind the fabric of your panties. 

It’s no surprise that Remus zeroes in on the lacy material. He starts mid-thigh, pressing his nose into your flesh like he’s trying to drill a hole there.

“Mm,” He groans, mouth opening to press haphazardly to your skin. He grunts into your flesh, fingers rising to squeeze at your skin.

“Smell so fucking good,” He rasps, his voice gruff from the effort it’s taken him to restrain himself, “God, what- whatever James put into this stuff didn’t stop my senses from heightening. Fuck, it’s like- hnngh,” He licks a fat, wet, hot stripe up your thigh, flicking his tongue into the crease of its base, “‘Never tasted you like this before, dove.”

“Remus,” You whimper, squirming in your restraints, trying to force yourself lower to meet his tongue at your thigh, “Please, please hurry.”

“I- mmf,” Remus’s nose presses against the hood of your clit, lips ghosting over the fabric covering your slit, “Dove, I can smell you, I can smell how wet you are. I can smell it, fuck, dripping, pooling in your cunt. I-” He lunges for the hem of your panties with his teeth, snagging the fabric on his canines and tearing it off of you, “I need to taste you, darling.”

Apparently he’s done savoring you. His teasing touches and slow buildup are nowhere to be seen, now he leads with his tongue and jams it into your cunt with almost no warning. Your thighs jerk at the sudden intrusion, but once you get them back in place you try sinking down ont his face with what little give your restraints give you.

“Oh! Oh, Remus,” You shriek, your exhale laced with a gluttonous moan as Remus’s tongue laps at your slick, “Oh, god, you feel so good.”

“You taste amazing,” He marvels, speaking with his face buried so far in your cunt that you think you feel the words more than you hear them. They crawl up your spine, thrumming through your blood and lodging themselves into your brain, only egging on the pleasure rolling through your core.

Remus’s tongue is eager and rough, his mouth alive as he ravages you from below. You feel the scrape of his teeth against your clit, and the sensation is so jarring that you nearly snap the branch above you from how hard you straight against your restraints. He has no boundaries, no limits, no control as he sucks you dry, tongue running over and over and over again through your folds to lick up any last drop of slick that your cunt is still pouring eagerly. He drags a tongue full of the stuff to your clit, smearing and covering the sensitive bud in your slick. From there, when it’s coated and dripping, he sucks it dry, tongue bobbing against the bundle of nerves so desperately that you squeeze your thighs around his face. 

He seems to realize that you’re uncomfortable now, with the way you’re struggling so hard to bring him in impossibly closer. He doesn’t need to think twice before he grabs the backs of your thighs, nails digging into the soft, pillowy flesh of your ass.

He spreads your legs further, wrapping them around his head and throwing them over his shoulders. It means he can attack your cunt from a new angle, nose grinding against your clit as he makes out with your hot, wet pussy. 

He’s insatiable, sucking slick out of your cunt that it hasn’t even produced yet. His tongue runs wet and eager over the most sensitive parts of your body, and flicks impossibly far into your hole, squelching obscenely as he tongue-fucks you.

“Fuck,” He growls, the animalistic sound sending a shiver up your spine as he hauls you further against his face, smashing his nose and tongue even further into you. His words are spoken into your cunt and his lips, tongue, and teeth all grate against your folds, the humming vibrations of his voice nearly sending you over the edge.

“Cum,” He snarls, demanding and rough. He fucks his tongue into you relentlessly, nose providing constant stimulation to your clit as it bobs against the nub, “Cum! Cum on my face,” He orders, and you let his words fuel the blaze of pleasure that’s burning hot and wild at your core, “I want to eat your cum, dove, now.”

The last word tapers out into a raspy growl, a gruff edge to his voice that makes it final. You let the coil that’s been slowly tightening below your belly finally burst, and you cum just as voraciously as he’s been eating you out the entire time.

You feel like you’ve squirted, but you can’t tell for sure, because his mouth is sucking the cum out of you before it can go anywhere. There’s no splatter on his face because his mouth is latched tight to your cunt, lips suctioned so that your release shoots into his mouth like his does so often in yours.

He grunts and groans viciously into your pussy as he licks you clean, tongue lapping over every available inch of your cunt until you’re sure it’s got no remnant of your slick or your final release. If his saliva wasn’t replacing your slick, you’re sure you’d be dried out by now, completely sucked void of all of your wetness.

When he’s milked every last taste of your cum out of your folds, he growls in frustration. It’s a huffy sort of sound, and your cunt is already tingling with the prospect of your next release.

He pushes your shoulders off of him and in one fluid motion, stands and lunges for your wrists. He knocks his face into your own to do so, and you have to lean back to take a breath when he kisses you because he’s such a presence.

His tongue is just as eager in your mouth as it was in your cunt, and you can taste your own release on him. He licks up your own tongue, groaning as he nips lightly at your bottom lip and smooths over it with a sweet lap of his tongue. You beg for more in the way that you tip your face up into his own, and you feel him wrestling with your nightgown where it’s tied around your wrists. He kisses more aggressively the harder he strains to blindly untie you, and when he finally loses his patience, he growls down your throat.

“Fuck,” He snaps, abandoning the careful grip he has on each side of the knot and tearing the fabric in two instead. Apparently his senses weren’t the only thing still heightened, it seems that his strength is above average as well.

“Run,” He pants into your mouth as you nearly fall to the ground. Your thighs are shaky, and you don’t think you can move them, but when he grips your jaw and snarls again against your lips, “Run.”, you force them to support you.

It feels like deja vu, sprinting away from Remus in the forest, but this time it’s better. Because this time you’re content with, aroused by your role as his prey, and the predatory presence behind you makes your cunt leak.

It’s another round of chase, and you can actually feel his heat behind you. It’s in the breaths that fan over the back of your neck, and as they fade away you realize he’s letting you have the illusion of escape once more. He’s too close to hide, your flight is fruitless.

Now he’s stalking you, as you slow down in a clearing. He’s hunted you down, he’s tracked you through the trees and he’s got you trapped. He’s the perfect predator; cunning, sharp, hungry.

A sudden noise from your left makes you sprint to your right, and you’re tackled only three steps away. You feel Remus collide with you and only his hands shield your bare back from the messy earth beneath you, but you’re not sure you’d be able to feel the scrape of a twig against your skin even if he hadn’t put his hands there, because his cock is already inside of you.

He doesn’t give you any time to process your takedown before he’s jackhammering into you, cockhead nudging at your slit before you’d even hit the ground. He’s got you locked in, and you shout at the unexpected, but pleasurable intrusion. 

“Remus!” You scream, shaky legs wrapping around him by instinct. Eating you out without giving himself any stimulation must have been torture, because his cock is so hard you think you could snap it off if you bent it wrong.

It’s pounding your pussy, Remus is thrusting so fast and so deep into you that you think it might burst through your insides and tear you apart. He’s fucking like a rabbit - hard and fast - but you think you’re technically his as the big bad wolf destroys you.

His tongue had loosened you, and you’d accumulated more slick during the hunt that’s squelching and sloshing around his stiff dick. He’s leaking precum, a steady ooze of the stuff that gets driven into your cunt as he fucks roughly into you. He’s close to his own release already, the buildup of licking out your pussy having gotten him plenty aroused. His dick is already twitching inside of you, and your steady cries through the night air as his hips slap against yours, balls hitting the globes of your ass, only egg him on further.

You swear he howls when he cums. It’s a long, loud, haunting sound that he pumps into your neck, his teeth gnawing at your skin like he’s the wolf you thought you’d escaped from.

You can feel him biting at your shoulder as he fucks his orgasm into you, cum spurting from the head of his cock and painting your insides, gushing out around his length as he pounds you. You’re like a ragdoll in his grip, your body shaking with the force of his thrusts. 

“Remus, Remus, Remus!” You chant, mouth barely able to form the words as you fight back open-mouthed screams. Your throat feels sore at how loud you’re screaming, how intensely the force of his thrusts are rocking you back and forth on the forest floor, and when he’s milked his orgasm dry, he gives you no warning before flipping you over.

His heightened strength really comes in handy as he lifts you effortlessly from the ground below him, and flips you onto your stomach. It’s a movement you’re not ready for, and your arms barely catch you from face-planting into the forest floor.

“Remus!” You shriek, his name like a mantra as he butts his hips up against your ass. You’re worried he’ll try fucking your ass without easing you open first, but he plunges straight for your cunt again, this time from the back.

You’re sensitive, of course, from not only your first orgasm but the way Remus had just ravaged your sloppy cunt, and your second orgasm is fast approaching. From this angle, Remus’s cockhead slams against your clit for a few thrusts before he slots it into your leaking cunt, and the repeated pressure that slaps your clit has you already cresting.

“Oh, god!’ You cry, head hung so close to the earth that you can smell the dirt inches from your face. Your thighs are trembling as Remus’s cock fucks through them, and you cum with fire spreading through your veins. He feels the constant convulsions of your cunt spasming with your orgasm, squeezing his cock as pleasure pulses through your folds. You’re screaming, or at least, you think you are, but you can’t tell, because your hearing cuts out for a moment.

When it comes back, Remus is grunting hot and heavy into the back of your neck, teeth once more digging into your skin. Apparently there’s still some animalistic urge in him to bite, to prey, to devour.

His cock is barely less stiff now that he’s fucked through his first orgasm, but apparently the feeling of you cumming around him is already leading him to a second. He’s impossibly horny, skin shining with sweat under the pale moonlight above that drips onto your back from his hairline. He licks it away, moaning at the salty taste and smearing it into your skin.

You cum in tandem, because your orgasm leads his on, then his slams another straight into you. You’ve never cum twice in a row this fast before, you’ve always had a moment to breathe, but apparently Remus can fuck two out of you in a minute straight if he tries.

Your core is ablaze, white hot pain curled into crawling tendrils of pleasure sticking to your insides and climbing your nerves. They overload your senses so much with burning bliss that your arms give out and your cheek slams hard into the dirt beneath you. It would hurt, if you weren’t so overwhelmed by sensations elsewhere.

He fucks his second orgasm through your third, gripping your hips and driving his cock so far into you that your vision starts darkening.

“Remus!” You sob, injecting your cry with as much of the pleasure coursing through your veins as possible, shouting out to the night that he’s responsible for your undoing. You slump tired and spent onto the dirt below you but Remus is still fucking out his own orgasm, dick twitching and shooting loads of cum into your gaping cunt.

He only slows when his cock starts going numb from the friction of your hot cunt, and he pants against the back of your neck while slathering the skin there in an array of sloppy, messy kisses. Finally he drops, landing on his side in the dirt and staring at your fucked-out face

“Oh, dove,” He pants, chest heaving harder than yours had been after being chased, “Fuck, you were- hnngh, are you okay?”

He watches your eyes drift shut, unconsciousness tugging hard at your mind. Your body is so overstimulated that it shuts down, and you nod weakly, “Mhm, jus’- jus’ tired, Rem.”

“Yeah,” He chuckles weakly, eyes marginally less dark than when he’d hunted you through the woods. Now he knocks his nose into your own, something so similar to a wolfish display of affection that you’re surprised he hasn’t sprouted fur.

“Catch me,” You beg, feeling your knees close to giving out, skin creased by the outlines of leaves and dirt, “Catch me, Rem, please-”

“I’ve got’cha,” He soothes, throwing an arm around your middle to tug you into his side. You’re covered in sweat, and your arms and shins are lined with muck from the forest floor, but Remus takes care to keep your cunt, slick and oozing with his cum, away from any contaminents.

“I’ve got’cha,” He repeats, humming into the crown of your head. You can’t seem to get enough air in, but with each inhale of oxygen that you gulp down with your head against his chest, you find it easier to slip away into the void that’s beckoning you behind your eyes.

“Rest,” He pants, holding your head to his chest, mouth open as he breathes towards the sky. His skin is sweaty, but so is yours, and your eyes fall resolutely shut at his command.

When you wake you’re back at home, tucked neatly and carefully into your own bed, under your own blankets. Your entire body is sore, everything from your cunt to your back to your knees, and you find yourself incapable of moving due to the ache below your belly.

“Remus?” You call, your voice floating weakly through the walls of your cottage. You’re pleased to find that you’ve been cleaned up, there’s no dirt left caked into your skin.

All’s clean but your cunt, still packed tight and oozing with Remus’s release. Apparently he’d taken extra care not to waste any of that.

“Here,” Remus emerges from the other room, a towel around his neck, a tank top over his chest, and a bulge in his boxers. He’s sweating profusely, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d think he’d crawled into the oven.

“What- what are you doing?” You squint blearily up at him, watching as he raises one end of the towel to wipe at his dripping forehead.

“Working out,” He huffs, grating the towel against his skin, “It’s insane, dove. Jus’ can’t sit still. Prongs really fucked me up with this potion shit, I’ll have to tell him to tone it down.”

“No!’ You speak before you can think, face flushing hot afterwards, as if you’re not residually warm enough.

“Hm?” Remus pants, staring curiously at you as he rubs sweat from his shaggy hair.

“Um,” You flounder, feeling the sticky remnants of Remus’s cum still gooey inside your cunt, “I like it. This- this potion thing. This was… good.”

Remus cracks a smirk, stalking towards the bed with heavy steps, “Yeah? You liked runnin’ from the big bad wolf?”

“Remus!” You whine at his teasing, squirming away when he grips your jaw. He turns your face towards him, and the tight hold of his fingers on your jaw makes you whimper into the kiss he presses to your mouth.

“I’ll tell ‘im,” Remus grunts, lips wet where they stick to your own, “That m’girlfriend,” He licks a stripe up your tongue, panting as he tastes you, “Likes gettin’ hunted. ‘S that it, love? Y’cunt get all wet when you were runnin’ from me?”

“Yes,” You whimper, licking desperately at his mouth as he tongues you, “Remus, I- I need more, please?”

“Ah,” He tuts, pulling away but keeping your jaw firmly in his grip, “No. Not yet, dove.”

“But-!”

“I’ll tear you apart,” Remus warns, eyes flashing dark again, “You’re tired, and you need to rest. You can’t take any more. Later, I promise.”

“No, I can take it, please! I can,” You beg, going so far as to paw at the waistband of his boxers, “Please Remus!”

“Enough.” He snaps, releasing your jaw and backing away. The tent in his boxers is obvious, but he knows you’re too weak to get fucked again. 

“‘S for your own good,” He tells you, wiping away a tear that beads at the corner of your eye, “But I’ll make you a deal, dove. I’m gonna go finish my workout. By the time I’m done, if you’ve finished that whole glass,” He motions to your nightstand, and you turn to see a cup of water there, ice cold, “Then I’ll fuck you again. ‘Kay?”

“Okay,” You nod vigorously, excitement already twisting your stomach, “Okay, Remus, I- thank you.”

“Mhm,” He kisses you one last time, teasingly chaste where your tongue chases after his own. Before he straightens up fully he leans in to speak beside your ear, and his gruff, dangerous murmur curls arousal around your spine like a spring coiled tight, waiting to fly, “And don’t even think about touching yourself, dove. I’ll smell it if you do.”

feedback is greatly appreciated! comment, reblog, talk in the tags, send me a message, tell me what you think!

[whorediaries-09]

imagine eldest daughter!reader not being able to love anyone and flinch whenever someone touches her, and remus being the only person that can touch her and stay with her while she wants to be alone

oh wow. did u really have to...call me out like that?

archer;

pairing- remus lupin x reader warning(s)- hurt/comfort, details of child abuse, touch sensitivity. (let me know if should add more) a/n- i really went ✨self - indulgent ✨ on this one.

ps- the beginning is from the movie 'five feet apart'. it's a really good one, make sure to check it out.

little train

' i've been the archer, i've been the prey.'

touch. the first form of communication. it began with a soft caress of the finger. or the brush of lips on cheeks. it connects one in the times of happiness, bolsters one in the time of fear and excites one in times of passion and love.

to be touched, was to communicate the feeling of security, the feeling of safety and comfort. but to understand the importance of touch, was different, was difficult. to need the touch from the one you loved was as important as the air needed to breathe.

and you understood it's importance, the need when you had none. perhaps it was because you didn't feel the security, the feeling of being safe when you were being touched. even a simple hug or a handshake could set off ringing bells in your head.

it reminded you of the time when your mother would slap down her hands on your back for a small mishap like spilling the juice on the floor. or burn her cigarettes onto your skin, punishing you for wasting the juice and make you clean up.

'you stupid bitch! i don't have enough fucking money for you to spill juice all over the stupid floor!' she'd scream, boxing your ears. she'd pull you by your ears, taking a ladle and letting the wooden handle rain on your back, make you understand the consequences of your mistake.

'please don't cry angel, she'll beat you again,' your father would comfort you, rubbing a cool soothing balm on your burning wounds. you'd cry into the safety of his arms, his callous and rough palms soothing you. his voice was deep and warm, and he'd hold your face close to his chest to let you cry, so your voice was as muffled as possible. the tears would stick on your face and you blacked out, the exhaustion so deeply rooted within your body. you'd fall asleep in his arms.

because the monsters were gone, and your dad was home.

it was difficult to make friends within the community of witches and wizards. where everyone had their own fears but they had mastered the facade of pretend, to hide behind their smiles. and even in this difficult time, when the war was at large, people still found a way to sneak in a ray of hope and happiness into their life.

they appreciated the hugs and kisses. they never knew when they'd lose it. so you watched from a distance as ron weasley was smothered in kisses by molly weasley. and even though he puckered up his face, by his calm stature, you knew he enjoyed it. he liked it and appreciated it.

but oh how you hated it. you hated the fact that you'd have to stand different, reflect within the clouds of happy cheerful faces. perhaps it was you who was in the wrong. you hated the fact that you flinched when somebody tried to touch you. you wanted to feel the same comfort the others felt when they were touched.

'want another drink?' hermione asked, grabbing your attention from the overwhelming scene that played out in front of you. mrs. weasley going around and distributing gifts amongst the children. hermione had been scratching a purring crookshank's ears. your eyes darted down on your lap, where your finger circled around the rim of the empty cup.

'no thanks,' you smiled.

'you must try the eggnog! sirius is the best at making it!' harry said, a proud smile on his face. sirius threw his arm around his shoulders.

'it's fine harry, i'm sure you've never tried other variations of eggnog, if you find mine to be the best,'

'it'll always be the best to me, sirius,' harry said. sirius let out his usual bark like laughter, his gray eyes full of a raw emotion. in harry's eyes, he saw himself to be the father figure he never had.

'you flatter, me harry james potter, you really do.'

'he's not flattering you sirius, you know your way around the kitchen.' remus said, walking through the door. he set down his battered coat onto the chair. with a loud creak, he pulled it out his chair.

you noticed the aging lines around his eyes and lips. his usually pale skin was red. you assumed it was due to the lack of a muffler and the cold gusts of wind that blew outside. he tried to warm himself up by blowing air within the crevice of his palms and rubbing them together. when he noticed you staring at him, he smiled at you.

'merry christmas,' he whispered. his voice was deep and rich, a beautiful vibrato from the depth of his throat. you gulped slowly, watching as the redness from his face slowly faded as he gave you a warm smile. you felt your heart drown in an inexplainable cozy feeling. you smiled back, toasting the air with your empty glass.

'merry christmas,'

*-

the marks on your skin were evident. to be best described, they were like crescent moons staining your skin. the cause, however was not as pretty as the description.

to be wearing full sleeves on a hot summer day was exhausting and itchy, but it was the only solution to hide the burns from the time when your mother had decided to use you as her ashtray. the abuse had been settling upon you. your mother had been growing sicker as each day passed by.

and grief was a weird thing. you wanted to be sad that your mother was sick, and as each day passed, the days of her life were coming to and end. the woman that birthed you, that cared for you- that threw you into an emotional turmoil when your brother was born was dying.

you didn't feel grief, but neither did you feel happy. you were numb, trying to escape the coddling fumes of the tremendous torture you'd been through. to try and be the best role model for your brother.

to try and not keep a corpse in the cradle.

and again, in the realms of your plethora of emotions, you were numb. you didn't feel the pain when you jumped in front of the curse that was thrown at sirius, dodging him away from the soul trapping veil. it was like a white hot curse that burned through your skin and your mother's voice echoed in your brain.

your eyes closed, and while you could still hear your heart beating and the obnoxious screams, you let the darkness succumb you into a madness of sereness. perhaps you'd meet your mother again. perhaps you'll ask her if she ever loved you. perhaps, you'd asked her why she'd have to make you adore her with her hands around your neck.

perhaps you'd ask her the reason she set fire to the rain.

so, when your senses start numbing and you feel yourself falling on the cold hard ground with your head bursting open, you let the blood flow. you don't dream of the warm, calloused hands tending to your wounds and buying you ice cream to allow your mood to lighten. you don't dream about the monsters who were gone when your dad was home. perhaps you'd meet your dad when the world succumbs.

*-

the moonlight filtered through sheer curtains, falling on your face. the sheets underneath you were warm and cozy, pulling you into a beautiful haze of sleep. your eyelids were heavy when you opened them, and you slowly tried to move around, searching for recognition of the place.

you could only recognize the slumped up man sitting within the folds of his jacket. his hands were wrapped around a folded newspaper. his mouth was open slightly, and through the lens of your groggy drowsiness, you could see the lines on his chapped lips, the wrinkles around his eyes. his spectacles dangled off the edge of his nose.

slowly, under the sheets, you wriggled your toes to feel your body. you suddenly felt as if you were on fire. as if somebody had slayed you alive. you were laying down, for once, and not escaping the endless turmoil thrown at your back. for once, you didn't feel discomfort laying down and not doing anything. but it was hot under the sheets.

'sleep well?' remus asked, rubbing his eyes and fixing the angle of his spectacles. it surprised you, and you flinched slightly. he gets up, keeping his jacket on the chair he'd been sleeping on.

the dark circles under his eyes seemed to have deepened. you felt his eyes wander over you. he lower lip was tucked under his teeth, his hands buried in his pockets. he waits patiently for you to answer.

'yes, mr. lupin. where am i?'

'call me remus please. you're at my house. the order's headquarters weren't safe for you anymore. that's because the death eaters are after you. well specifically bellatrix, because you dodged the curse she threw at sirius. for old times sake, she wanted to end it for once and for all.'

you gulp slowly, letting the realization settle into you. you move your fingers slowly under the sheets, testing your capacity to move. you felt bandage clothe rip into your skin.

'you've broken your fingers.' he says moving closer to your form, lying on the bed. 'it's brutal, because your skeletal muscles have been damaged too. do you understand?' he says patiently, gently. you feel a clump in your throat which burns down into your very core. it makes your eyes water.

'y-yes,' you say, your voice wobbly. he stands beside you, letting you fight your tears. he doesn't say anything. and perhaps, you don't want him to.

it's as if, he can't ever leave you. as if he would stay. so, for once, when his gentle, calloused hands touch your body, helping you sit up, you don't find yourself running away from him. you find yourself chased into his warmth, which echoes a gentleness that stills your heart.

because, there's no invisible smoke, or a fire within the crevices of your body. he helps you hold onto him.

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a/n 2- i know this is a self indulgent statement, but if any of my sirius girlies want me to write something like this with him, please let me know!!

[severussnapemylove]

Okay, but, imagine a universe where instead of being jerks, James actually makes friends with Sev and Lily and they become a proper friend group from the start. Having a solid support group helps Sev get out of his bad home life, like Sirius, and he doesn't fall prey to the baby death eaters in Slytherin house.

Two possible outcomes from this;

The addition of Sev to the group helps save James and Lily from Voldemort.

Or

James and Lily are still killed, which leaves Sev, Remus and Sirius raising Harry, Three Men and a Baby style.

I may write this, when my mind wants to play nice.

[ginevrapng]

Can I request something with remus for kinktober? Maybe you're a slytherin and you don't like each other. The kink being hatefucking

if someone asked you who's the worst person in all of hogwarts you'd be able to answer automatically, remus lupin, the bane of your existence. that gryffindor prefect who you always get paired up with on night duties as you're a prefect too.

"just piss of lupin," you hiss at him for the millionth time. even his breathing annoys you.

"oh don't get your knickers in a twist princess," he replies fed up with you.

"don't call me that." you hate when he calls you that, all because you're a slytherin pureblood.

next thing you know he's grabbing your tie pulling you towards him and kissing you, "shut the fuck up, god you're so fucking annoying." he mumbles angrily against your lips.

you want to stop and want to hate his lips against you, you hate him but you can't say the same about the way his lips are pressed against. you kiss him back with just the same passion as he's kissing you, his lips are slightly chapped and you can smell his sandalwood shampoo, making you heady. you bite his lip, making him groan and push you against the wall.

he tilts your head with his fingertips under your chin to look at him as you see pupils filled with lust. "i'm going to fuck you. hard. and you're going to take it," he says harshly and with his hands still on your chin he moves your head up and down.

"there's no way in salazar that is ever going to happen." you reply defiantly, not wanting to give in to him, not wanting him to get his own way.

remus chuckled darkly and looked down at you with dark eyes, almost like you were prey. "no? are you sure about that." you don't answer, you really do hate him. you pull his hair and pull him down as stand on your tippy toes meeting him half way and smashing your lips together again, giving him the answer he needs. he smirks, grabs hold of your hand and pulls you into an empty classroom.

one second you've walked into the room, the next he's lifting you onto a desk, surprising you with his strength. he doesn't talk and keeps silent as he shoves down his trousers just enough to be able to pull his dick out. you look at him in a daze, thinking that you've never been with someone as big as remus before and you're finding it hard not to stare. when remus notices it makes him cocky but his irritation for you and need to dominate you overshadows it.

"what are you waiting for?" he spits out venomously. you rush to take of your underwear, just wanting him in you. as he looks down at you, he grabs your throat, not choking you just putting his hand around your neck. "i'm doing to fuck you so hard you won't even be able to talk."

"that's a lot of talk lupin." you snap back at him.

he grins darkly and it makes you shiver, "oh princess, it's not talk." he thrusts into you, pushing into you without stopping before pulling out and setting a brutal pace, hard and fast. you wince at the sudden pain and remus groans at how good you feel wrapped around his cock. the pain quickly subsides to pleasure and you start moaning loudly.

"tsk princess, don't be so loud. do you want the whole castle to hear you?" he says condescendingly. you moan louder. "fuck, you're such a slut." he forces two fingers down your throat he's about to tell you to suck them before you do it yourself, moaning and sucking around his fingers causing him to get closer to his finish. you grab hold of his arm, trying to stabilise yourself, remus is thrusting into you so hard the table is shaking and you're nearly falling off.

you're crying constantly, the pleasure overwhelming. "lupin. pl- plea- pl," you're trying to get the words out but you can't through his fingers down your throat.

"pl.. plea.. pl, what? what slut?" he mocks you. the next thing either of you know is that you're pushing your body against his, arching your back and cumming hard. remus groans and leans down in the crook of your neck before your own orgasm triggers his. he pulls out and flops down on the table next to you, placing his arm on his forehead, "i hate you," he says breathing deeply.

"likewise," you say controlling your breathing and wiping the tears from your face.

[moonstruckme]

hey! could i request a james potter x reader fic pls?? i have been thinking about him specifically non stop and now i just wanna be domestic and cute with him-

Me too lovely :')

James Potter x fem!reader ♡ 661 words

You’ve told James that you’re painting your toenails on the kitchen counter because it has good light, but he knows it’s really because you want to be near him. He’ll have to clean the counter again after you go, but he’s not complaining. He wants you near him too. 

And anyway, the kitchen does have good light. It streams in through the window to tangle in your hair and glance off your skin, illuminating the concentrated set to your mouth as you bend over your foot on the counter. 

James kisses you lightly, and one corner of your lips quirks up like you’re trying to stop it but can’t quite manage. You taste sweet and a bit tart. 

“Don’t mess me up,” you warn. “This is my last coat, it’s do or die.” 

“Stop eating my blackberries,” he counters, “and we’ll see. No promises.” 

You finish with your nails, setting the brush back in the polish and nabbing another blackberry from his bowl. James gasps, betrayed though not surprised. He pinches your side.

You laugh, leaning away from him fruitlessly. “Stop, I’m going to knock polish onto the rug!”

“You could at least vary your snacking,” James says. “My fruit salad is going to have hundreds of pieces of melon and two blackberries if you keep on like this.” 

“I just like blackberries best.” 

“So does Remus,” he chides with no real severity. “And when he gets here later today and they’re all gone, who do you think will be blamed?”

You bat your eyelashes at him, smiling angelically. “He doesn’t need to know there were going to be blackberries in here to begin with, does he?” you ask. The hope in your voice sparkles like sunshine off the ocean. 

James caves instantly at that tone, but he pretends to take at least a second to mull it over before capitulating. “Fair enough. Have at them, lovie. Leave no trace.” 

You descend like a hawk upon your prey, clawing through the bowl of fruit and popping blackberry after blackberry into your mouth. 

“I’m thinking of going to the store in a bit,” you say. 

James grins down at his cutting board, slicing the skin off a wedge of cantaloupe. “To replenish Remus’ blackberry supply?” he asks. He knows you’re too tenderhearted to truly rob his friend of something he enjoys; you’d be racked with guilt for the rest of the night. 

“To get lemons for lemonade.” You touch your big toe delicately, testing the dryness of your polish. “And if I stumble upon blackberries that look good while I’m there…” You shrug, turning away from him like you think you can hide your smile. As if he can’t hear it in your voice. “Then maybe I’ll grab some. To keep the peace.” 

James reaches over and grips your foot, channeling as much love as he can fit into a good squeeze. You gasp and nearly shriek when his thumb digs into a ticklish spot on your arch, grabbing onto his shoulder to keep from tipping off the counter. He sets a hand on your side to help, and he can feel your ribs shaking as you laugh. 

“Sorry, sorry,” James laughs. “I forgot about that spot.” He didn’t. “Wait for me to finish and we’ll go together, yeah?” 

Your nose scrunches with your smile. “Why, you wanna keep an eye on the blackberries?” 

“I was thinking we’d just get extra,” he proposes. 

You hum contentedly, and he takes the invitation to get further into your space, his hip bumping against your leg. “That’s very chivalrous of you,” you reply, your teasing softened by fondness. 

“Well, I do try. Pretty girls need to be kept happy, yeah?” 

You laugh again, grabbing James’ face in both hands. He knows when you let go, there’ll be sticky purple fingerprints on both of his cheeks. He doesn’t mind. 

“Flirt,” you accuse. 

James pushes forward until his nose is pressed up against yours. “Only for you.” 

[ellecdc]

⚡️ - angst, ☀️ - fluff, ⛅️ - hurt/comfort, 🌶️ - smut/spicy, 🌈 - crack [comedy] 🫧 = elle’s favourites

Talk to Me (the boys comfort you when people make fun of your accent)⛅️ You weren't hiding (during Remus' time of the month) 🌈 The hunter & the prey (you try running from your boyfriends) 🌈 Mistake (you feel insecure in your new relationship)⚡️ -> Happy Accident (the comfort part of the hurt from Mistake)⚡️⛅️ Sibling Squabbles (Remus protects you [& Sirius] from your brother, James) 🌈🫧 Safe in the Quiet (they notice you occluding during an argument) ⚡️⛅️🫧 I can fight (your banging bod at the ball causes Sirius grief) 🌈 All this over a hug? (Potter!sister feels touch starved, hurt/comfort) ⛅️🫧 We're coming out (you & the boys tell your brother about your relationship)🌈 Red Carpet (Oscars after party, modern band AU x fem!reader) ☀️ Drunk [&] in Love (the boys are very happy to come home to you) ☀️🫧 Our Job (fem!reader opens up to the boys about past SA)⛅️🫧 a 180 near the moon (wolfstar x fem/afab!reader near the full moon)🌶️ poly!wolfstar headcanons pregnancy headcanons the book club (Sirius [& Remus] interrupt your book club for cuddles)🌈 🫧 the action of loving someone (sick fic w/ fem!reader)⛅️🫧 a child who knows they're loved (Reg reassures dad!sirius)⛅️ fashionably late (the boys arrive to find shy!reader looking smashing at the party)☀️ reflections (the boys help fem!reader when she's not happy with her reflection)⛅️ Sirius' Admirer (Remus struggles) 🌈🫧 Running Late (feat visually impaired fem!reader)⛅️ bi-panic and gay awakenings (poly!wolfstar x male!reader) ~🌶️ broken bowls & hearts (visually impaired!reader, hurt/comfort)⛅️ the prophecy (the boys fall in love with a 'muggle') ☀️ it worked (potter!reader + one bed trope) 🌈 of stolen jumpers and loving cats (x animagus!reader) ☀️ 🫧

Pretty Woman au - series masterlist