#regulus black being gone for james potter | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

colouredbyd · 1 month ago

Text

'Til All That's Left Is Glorious Bone—

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

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

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

w/c: 9.8k

based on: this request!!

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

part two part three dalia analyses of this!! masterlist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She froze.

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

Silence trembled between you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You let out a tiny, hiccupping laugh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod. “Thank you.”

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

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

“There you are!”

James Potter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re ridiculous.”

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

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

“Can’t. Tragic, really.”

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

“I should hex you.”

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

“I deeply, deeply don’t.”

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

You stare at him. He stares right back.

Finally, you sigh. “Potter?”

“Yes, my heart?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He blinks, then grins. “Which one?”

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

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

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

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

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

He looks wounded. “Yet.”

You glare. “Never.”

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

“Neither. You’re just insufferable.”

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

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

“Both, probably.”

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

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

It pisses you off.

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

James looks genuinely confused. “Like what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She should’ve aimed higher.”

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

You glance away.

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

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

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

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

“In your dreams, Potter.”

“You’re always in mine.”

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

You throw the other pillow at his back.

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

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

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

Then, you hear it.

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

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

And then—his voice.

Sirius.

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

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

You swallow hard. The taste of metal still lingers.

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

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

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

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

Instead, you walk.

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

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

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

Only because you know you can't stay.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The days fold over themselves like tired parchment.

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

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

The world goes on.

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

Regulus.

Your twin. Your mirror, once.

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

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

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

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

It guts you.

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

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

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

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

And now—he doesn’t need you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There’s no winning in a house like that.

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

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

Because Regulus sits like he belongs.

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

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

But then it comes.

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

The pain does not scream. It settles.

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

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

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

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

And still, you are breaking.

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

But it’s already too late.

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

And then you’re on the floor.

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

It’s not just pain. It’s possession.

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

White fogs the edges of your sight.

And then — darkness, cool and absolute.

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

Like your bones always have.

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

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

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

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

It’s James.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your chest tightens like a fist around your heart.

You hadn’t expected this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink. Just once.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s strange.

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

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

And he looks like he’s breaking.

Because of you.

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

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

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

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

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

It feels terrifying.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not in some dramatic way, not yet.

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

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

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

And yet here is James.

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

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

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

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

“She’s—James—she’s awake.”

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

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

But none of that matters.

Because you are crying.

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

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

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

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

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

But you do. You do.

You just never learned how to ask for it.

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

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

You hear your name. Once. Twice.

Gentle, then firmer.

James.

You flinch like it’s a wound.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A week passes.

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

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

James has not left you.

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

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

It makes you furious.

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

It’s worse than pain. It’s exposure.

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

Except today.

Today, he isn’t there.

And you know why before you even ask.

Because today is Sirius’s birthday.

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

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

All of them.

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

Regulus used to crown him, once.

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

You loved him then. You love him now.

But everything has changed.

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

No one looks up.

Not even James.

Not even him.

You keep walking.

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

How much it feels like disappearing.

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

Your stomach turns at the scent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hasn’t looked at you in weeks.

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

You can’t do this.

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

Especially not James.

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

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

This is the third time this week.

It’s never been three times.

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

But your throat stays closed. You keep walking.

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

Except you know the storm is you.

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

What if I just didn’t wake up tomorrow?

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

And then you see it.

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

Still, you pick it up.

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

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

That’s it.

That’s all.

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

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

And then something inside you slips.

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

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

But nothing stops it.

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

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

You don’t want to go home.

You don’t want to keep going.

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

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

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

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

You move like your bones aren’t breaking.

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

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

So you go to the mirror.

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

Your reflection barely looks like you anymore.

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

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

Then you begin.

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

You need to. You have to.

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

He loved those crowns. He kept every one.

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

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

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

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

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

You divide it into three sections.

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

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

By the third strand, your eyes are burning again.

You begin to braid.

Over, under, over.

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

Over. Under. Pull.

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

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

But at least now, you look fine.

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

But you can still feel it.

Inside.

Worse than ever.

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

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

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

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

And no one is looking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The silence wraps around you, waiting.

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

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

The silence wraps around you, waiting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stop.

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

“Not today, James.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

And for once, he listens.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Sirius sees you.

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

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

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

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

You won’t have to feel this anymore.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your grip tightens on your books.

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

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

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

You don’t hesitate. You don’t think.

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

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

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

But something is different now.

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

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

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

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

Sirius.

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

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

He doesn’t recognize you at first.

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

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

“Hey—”

But you’re already passing.

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

You’re already turning away.

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

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

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

And still—he doesn’t call after you.

He watches. That’s all he can do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s his birthday.

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

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

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

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

You think of Sirius.

And it hurts so much you almost change your mind.

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

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

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

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

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

You bring it to your lips.

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

You close your eyes.

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

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

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

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

And there — Sirius.

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

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

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

He doesn’t speak.

Neither do you.

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

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

You were supposed to be gone by now.

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

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

Like he’s known all along.

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

And you can’t take it back.

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

And still. Even now.

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

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

‘Til all that’s left is glorious bone.

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my-castles-crumbling · 2 months ago

Text

crisis - jegulus - @into-the-jeggyverse - word count: 441

Regulus took a deep break, trying to steady himself as he stared at the blank parchment in front of him. He felt so stupid. He’d surely gone through so much worse than having to write a damn essay. He’d lived with Walburga Black for sixteen years, damn it. This hardly qualified as a crisis.

But after spending the last week in the library preparing for his NEWTs without having taken more than a ten minute break for food, Regulus was beyond burnt out. He was overwhelmed, overstimulated, and he felt like he was climbing a mountain that had no peak.

Fingers twitching, he looked towards the small mirror he always carried with him, but never used. He always felt so needy, calling James when he was at his adult job with his adult friends. Like he was holding his boyfriend back, or something. Sure, James called him at least a few times a week, but it wasn’t the same.

Still…what he wouldn’t give to see the older boy smile.

Sighing, heart racing in his chest from the simple vulnerability of what he was about to do, he picked up the mirror and tapped it with his wand, whispering, “Jamie?” close to the surface.

Immediately, James Potter appeared, beaming so widely he took Regulus’s breath away.

“Hi, baby!” he said so loudly Regulus had to look around to make sure he wasn’t disturbing anyone, even as his own lips broke into a smile. “I miss you! How’s studying going?”

“It’s going…” he wanted to say ‘good.’ Or at least, that it would be over soon. But instead, he trailed off, blinking furiously, trying to hold back tears. Hands shaking, he cursed himself. Fuck, he was being so stupid!

But James’s grin slid off his lips quickly, and he spoke much softer the next time he spoke. “I know, love. It’s awful. But I’m so proud of you, and I can’t wait to see you in twenty-eight days, eighteen hours, and��.five minutes!”

Wiping a bit at his eyes, Regulus smiled slightly. “You’re such an idiot. You’re counting down to the minute?”

“Yeah, I used to have a countdown in the flat, but Sirius tore it down after I ate the last of the pudding one night,” James laughed. “Would it be helpful if I stay on for a while? I’m just reading the new Chaser Weekly, all the boys are out. You study, I’ll read?”

Trying not to cry again with the wave of emotion that overcame him, Regulus nodded. “Yeah, that’d be good. Thanks.”

“Anytime, love.”

They sat like that for the next few hours, content to be together even while they were apart.

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ethereacals · 5 months ago

Note

hi ! could you please write a barty c jr x reader were they have a really flirty friendship and he gets jealous over her and ends up confessing ?

this got lost in my inbox i’m so sorry 😭

every girl gets her wish

pairing: barty crouch jr x potter!fem!reader

content: barty being a menace, background jegulus

warnings: none

HIS PRINCESS WENT on a date, and it wasn’t with him.

Now— Of course Barty was supportive and happy for you when you announced that you had gotten asked out by a 6th year Hufflepuff.

And of course Barty wanted you to be able to date anyone.

And of course Barty wasn’t jealous! He was just feeling or showing an envious resentment of someone or their achievements, possessions, or perceived advantages.

But what if you fell in love with this guy? What if you never spoke to him ever again?

He was getting ahead of himself— there’s no way his butterfly was going to never speak to him again.

“Barty? I’m back..” You crept quietly into his dorm, seeing as girls weren’t typically allowed in the boy’s dormitory.

“Butterfly? Ugh! I missed you.” Barty flung himself around you, his face nuzzling into your hair.

“I was gone for two hours?” You questioned sweetly, and he pulled back to see your face.

“Exactly, two hours is much too long to go without seeing my Butterfly.” He sighed dramatically.

“You’re being dramatic.” You cooed, fixing up his disheveled hair.

“I am not, you were prancing around Hogsmeade with some bloke i’ve never met. That’s very unsafe.” He insisted, sitting both of you down on his bed.

“He wasn’t horrible, I promise. He was just… a bit mundane.” You sighed, flopping onto your back as Barty laid next to you with a smile.

“That’s good to hear.” He let out a breath of relief.

“Why do you say that?” You turned to face him, a confused expression on your face.

“My life’s plan was to be so interesting and exciting that you would never be able to find someone as fun and exciting and interesting as me.” He joked, wrapping his arms around you.

You giggled, his chin resting on your chest as he laid on top of you.

His eyes searched your face, you were so ethereal.

“I don’t think I could ever find someone as fun and exciting and interesting as you.” You whispered, stroking his hair gently.

“… I could never find someone as beautiful and elegant as you, Butterfly.”

“Surely you could.”

“Absolutely not, it’d be impossible.”

Barty sat up, and pulled you with him.

Your eyes met, his full of admiration.

“Butterfly?”

“Yes, Barty?”

“Can I kiss you? Please?” He breathed out, his hand gently caressing your cheek.

You were convinced Barty had never been this gentle with someone, seeing as he looked so cautious.

“M—Mhm..”

Before you could really understand what was going on, his lips locked with yours.

The passion between you was palpable, and Barty kissed you like he would never ever be able to again.

His hand traveled down to your waist, as your arms rested on his shoulders.

You stayed like that for a while, taking short breaks to breathe.

It was heavenly.

Until suddenly—

Regulus had previously opened the door and let out a shriek when he saw the scene.

Barty’s hand up your skirt and on your hip, your hands running up and down his shirtless back.

“Godric— Get a room!” He sounded utterly disgusted.

“If i’m not mistaken, Black— This is my room!” Barty shot back, as you looked down from embarrassment.

“It’s our time, actually.” James strutted in behind his shorter and angrier boyfriend.

“Why is he here?” You muttered, hiding behind Barty.

“Junior, you and your girl have to lea— IS THAT MY SISTER?”

What a fun, exciting, and interesting way to start a relationship.

#marauders era #fem!reader #marauders #fanfiction #james potter #potter!reader #barty x reader #barty crouch junior #barty crouch jr x reader

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unconventional-lawnchair · 9 months ago

Text

Little Lupin {Blurb}

James Potter x Lupin!Reader

Part 2 - Part 3

AN: I wrote this on my lunch break, so it's not proof read. Just needed it out of my head RIP.

WC: 1313

“Mate! We are bloody brilliant!” Sirius bellowed out, getting applause from a few of the other red-robes. “Mate! Mate?”

Sirius’s shouts slowly lowered and he looked at James curiously, who was simply staring across the grand hall with heart eyes.

The clatter and hum of students and professors fell on his deaf ears. News of one of the Marauders' newest pranks on Slytherin had sent the hall into a frenzy of giggles and explosive laughter. Watching as the poor Slytherin tried to hide their red hair, the Gryffindors were practically doubled over. Sirius brandishing their win socially while James remained in his own little world.

Eyes on {Y/N} Lupin, who stuck out like a sore thumb. You looked around at your fellow green-robed seatmates and made a playful jab at Dorcas, who then threw a bun at you. Ignoring the glares from Snape and Avery, who were even more pissed that you didn't fall victim to your brother’s trick, you always managed to find some humor in the situation.

Even Regulus Black had his hair dyed; not that he didn't use a potion to change it back instantly. His usual icy demeanor was barely ruffled, but he shot a glance towards you, a mix of curiosity and annoyance. It was no secret that being related to Remus Lupin put {Y/N} in a peculiar position within Slytherin House. Unlike Regulus, she refused to delve deeper than necessary into mediocrity.

"Honestly, you'd think they'd come up with something more original.” You quipped, your eyes twinkling with mischief as you deftly dodged another flying bun.

Dorcas laughed, "Maybe next time they'll get you too, Lupin."

Your shouts across the hall faded further out as Sirius hit James on the shoulder.

“James!” He laughed and James shot up with a loopy smile, glasses sloppy on his face.

“What?” He cheeked, sticking his tongue to his cheek and stealing a glance at you again.

“Oh dude, don't tell me.” Sirius smirked.

James's cheeks flushed slightly as he tried to play it cool, pushing his glasses up to sit properly on his nose. "What are you on about, Pads?" He smirked, a hint of defensiveness in his voice.

Sirius waggled his eyebrows suggestively. "You're gone, mate. Absolutely smitten with {Y/N}, aren't you?"

James's eyes widened, and he quickly looked around to make sure no one was listening in on their conversation. Wrapping his arm around Sirius and yanking him down so they were closer to the table. "Keep your voice down!" He scolded, though his tone was more embarrassed than angry. "It's not like that."

Sirius grinned, like he had just learned the secret of a lifetime. James knew he was screwed. "Sure, sure. You’ve been staring at her for the past ten minutes like she's the Snitch and you’re about to win the Quidditch Cup.”

James opened his mouth to retort, but the words died on his lips as he caught another glimpse of you, laughing and shoving Evan Rosier’s shoulder was he inspected your hair playfully. He couldn't help the small smile that tugged on his lips at your smile, he couldn't even bring himself to be jealous, he'd play with your hair too if you'd let him.

James glanced back at Sirius when he realized he had zoned out again, looking like a guilty puppy as he smiled up at him, talking far louder then he intended to. “You know, Remus’s sister.. she's fit, yeah?”

As if Merlin was having a laugh at their expense, two large hands grabbed their shoulders. Remus peaked his head between them with a chillingly sweet smile, tooth and all.

“I'll cut your eyes out, James.”

James's face went a shade paler as he felt Remus's grip tighten on his shoulders. He gulped audibly, trying to muster a nervous laugh, but it came out as more of a squeak.

"Moony! I-I didn't see you there," James stammered, his eyes wide with a bright nervous smile, trying to play it off.

Remus's smile didn't falter, but his eyes were steely. "Oh, I bet you didn't.” He said, his voice calm but hiding a threat. "Now, what was that about my sister being 'fit'?"

Sirius, deciding to abuse his power as boyfriend, leaned forward to smirk at Remus. “She is though, yeah? It's the Lupin genes. Glad I got mine when I did.”

Remus glared down at Sirius with a scandalized look.

"Sirius.” Remus practically growled through gritted teeth, "I can deal with you later. Right now, I'm more concerned about our dear James."

James looked pleadingly at Sirius, silently begging him to stop making the situation worse. Sirius, however, was having far too much fun to let it go.

"Oh I bet you will.” He smirked and looked Remus up and down before leaning back into his hand. “Come on, Moony.” Sirius chuckled with a playful grin. "It's not like Prongs is planning on asking her out. He's just… appropriating her beauty.”

“Sirius-” James hissed before they were all interrupted.

You had walked up, with a playful glare and a bright smile. “You boys are ridiculous. When I let you into the Slytherin commons I thought it would just be a handful of us. Everyone? You dyed everyone's hair? You laughed in disbelief.

Sirius smirked, crossing his arms. “No clue what you're on about, bird. Do you, Remus?”

“Not a clue.” Remus hummed, playing along with Sirius's game of plausible deniability. Still glaring at James.

“Do you, James?” Sirius then looked down at James who was giving that same love sick look, a million miles away. James snapped back to reality, his eyes widening as he realized you were standing right there. He stammered for a moment, the color returning to his face tenfold. “Uhm- nope,” His voice cracked and he looked like he wanted to die. Looking down at his plate absolutely ready to jump into the black lake.

You couldn't help but laugh at the sight of James looking so disjointed. "It's alright, James. Next time, maybe don't make me guilty by lack of evidence?” You laughed, gesturing to your hair with a teasing wink, though you had no idea just how much that affected him.

James's cheeks flushed even more, if that was possible, and he muttered, "Ya, yeah agreed, {Y/N}."

You curled your eyebrow at him and your smirk deepened. Instead of tease him further, you nodded and turned your attention to Remus. “Hey, Rem, can you help me with my transfiguration study today?”

“Why would I do that?” Remus smirked as you gave a helpless scoff.

“Well.. if you don't, I'll tell Sirius on you.” You challenged and Remus looked down at Sirius as he gave a dramatic gasp.

“Do as she says, Remus, we'd hate for that to happen.” Sirius chuckled and you smirked triumphantly.

“I'm still not done with you.” Remus grumbled to Sirius before he looked at James. “You either.”

“Thank you Rem!” You chirped as turned to leave, meeting up with Dorcas and Pandora at the entrance of the grand hall.

The second the grand doors closed behind you Sirius nearly lost it as he fell over laughing.

Remus covered his mouth and snickered as well as James flushed and hid his face in his hands.

“Merlin! You practically proposed to Lily Evans but you can't even look her in the eyes!?” Sirius fell back and Remus was quick to catch him, equally amused.

James groaned, his face still buried in his hands. "You're not helping, Pads.” He groaned, absolutely mortified, his voice muffled.

Remus shook his head, though he couldn't hide the amusement in his eyes. "I think what Sirius is trying to say, is you need to relax, James. {Y/N} isn't going to bite your head off."

“At least not with that attitude.” Sirius cheeked and earned a hard smack from Remus.

“I'll end you both.”

#harry potter #harry potter fanfiction #james x slytherin!reader #james fleamont potter #james x reader #james x you #james x y/n #james potter x reader #james potter #james potter x you #james potter x y/n #James potter x Lupin!reader #Remus Lupin x sister!reader #remus lupin x you

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velvetypoets · 8 months ago

Text

Mister pitch perfect

The perfect Gryffindor golden boy has gone off his rails to catch a Black daughter.

Warnings: James Potter x reader fanfic, James is down bad, I tagged marauders but no peter, Slytherin reader, Black family reader, reader is portrayed as she/her, reader centric, forbidden love trope, SFW, James perspective

havent done this in a while and this will be the first time im posting on this platform. im very sorry if its quite messy!

this was supposed to be a oneshot but i drag it too much. so it'll be some sort of a series oneshot? will also be posted on ao3 soon!

————————————————————————————————————————

It was never meant to be. James Fleamont Potter was basically molted into the perfect specimen of man and every soul who has ever walked Hogwarts knew. Sure he would cause trouble every then and again with his fellow mates. Yet of course, James would always dazzle his way out of it with a few charming smiles or reasonings to squeal his way out of being blamed.

[ part 1|part 2|part 3 ]

He was confident, charismatic, spotless.

And when he meets eyes with you, it was set. James is sitting at his usual spot with the marauders at supper when the moment arrives. You were fixing your necklace to your neck at the Slytherin table, struggling with the clasps as your face scrunches in frustration. James almost walks the whole way over to you and offers his assistance right then and there.

"Stop undressing my cousin with your eyes, Prongs," Sirius brings James back to reality with a slap on the back of his head. He seems to still be having his feast so that was new of him to pick on James in that setting. Remus raises an eyebrow as he stares at the two, "Since when do you care about the other Blacks?"

"That was foul, Pads!" James yell as he rubs his head and glares at his mate, he's used to Sirius playfights but that slap seems to be sincere. He tries to focus on the conversation as he tries to find you again on the table across. You seemed to have moved next to Regulus as he helps you with your necklace. James lets out an involuntary sigh.

"She's different, Moony. She's on the edge too. Pretty sure she's going to find a way to run when she hits 18," Sirius lets out a scowl, "Heard she is to be arranged with Nott. Bloody brilliant that."

"Nott? That Nott? Surely you're joking. That bastard can't even keep his owl alive for a week! How's he going to keep a wife that young?!" Remus exclaims in disbelief. Whipping his head to take a good look at you now that you're a big deal. "I wish I was. I love you but seriously mate, don't. You're big enough trouble yourself," Warns Sirius with his fork right to to James face. A juicy piece of meat dangling right on it.

He bites it though. Sirius lets out a shrieking squeal of, "My meat!", erupting laughter at the Gryffindor table as James chews proudly with a sly smile across his face. The boisterous sound turns a few heads, including yours. Your brows raised at the sudden commotion, only to have the red of your cheeks creep in as you find one of your cousin being the center of it. He watches as you rub your cheeks to hide the tint.

James gulps the meat down. He's quite full himself but he must admit, it's nothing like he has ever had.

——————————————————————————

The next time he sees you, you are sitting by yourself writing in parchments on a patch of grass by the lake. James is in a broom practicing to catch the golden snitch on Hogwarts grounds. Quite foolish but he's gotten bored of the arena and its currently being used by the Hufflepuff team anyways.

He's worried about you sitting all alone in this breeze though. It's quite cold and you don't seem to be wearing enough layers. He keeps a distance near a tree so as not to scare you, although he is quite discontent with seeing just your figure by the lake.

You whipped your head to the skies behind you, "Reggie? Is that you?" You ask calmly, your eyes not missing the shadowy figure blatantly hiding behind a tree, "I saw you from the reflection. Very funny, Regs."

James cracked a smile at your sarcastic tone. He even finds your voice perfect. He fixes himself a little before he reveals himself off the shade and lands in front of you, "So I'll take it you find me quite funny?"

Your eyes widened as you process the man in front of you. Why would James Potter—the Gryffindor golden boy—be here? And why is he talking to you now?

"You're not Reggie." You said still in shock, almost sounding like a question. Your brows are raised as you try to study his demeanor. He's holding his broom awkwardly in his arms, you've always thought James Potter's confident composure was permanent.

"Well if your standards of humour is a certain Regulus Black, I'm sure I'd be comical, love," He cracks a small smile and a hand extended to you, "Potter. James Potter."

You look at James like you're Newt Scamander finding a newfound beast, "I know who you are. Everybody does," You said in disbelief, finding the whole situation suspicious. The breeze of wind moves his curly hair to his face, framing it gracefully, "What I want to know is why are you doing this? We're not exactly fit to be friends."

"Why that's quite bold of you, lovely. Who said I'd like to be friends?" He said as he leans closer. You never noticed it before but his glasses are rather clean today, his hazy eyes look at you with glimmer in them you've never seen on anyone before. You think to yourself if its one of the charisma of being James Potter.

You stood your ground, you would have never thought to ever be face to face with this dazzling man in front of you. You are a Black though, your legs won't give in even if you try, "Well that's settled then. Are you here to pick a fight?" You ask him plainly, crossing your arms upon your chest.

James finds it adorable, he knows full well of his effects on people and especially of course girls. What he doesn't understand is the effect you have on him. "The contrary, darling. I have a proposition for you."

You lift a brow and yet let him continue, "I heard you're in quite the predicament with Nott. Now I know a way to get you out," His claim makes your eyes open, you let him continue. Words dripping in confidence, "A date. With me."

This time, you can't help but let out a laugh–of which James can't help but take in the sight. He's completely enamoured.

'What? Huh– Hold on. You can't be serious," You looked at him as if he had gone mad, the thought of a Black and a Potter dating is out of this world, "I don't know what kind of prank you're up to, but do you seriously think I'll fall for that?"

"Wait, I am serious! Picture this, if Nott knows you're going out with me he'd be livid, enough to break off the arrangement. I mean have you seen the way that scum looks at me? It's like he has this permanent face of eating vomit flavoured Bertie Bott's Beans!" He rants as he joined in on the laughter with you.

You are smiling as the laughter reduces to giggles. As stupid as it is, it has a good chance of actually working. You pondered, there's still one thing on your mind, "What's in it for you? Would I have to do anything?"

James let out a smile, his palms are sweating like he's deep into a Quidditch game, "Well I get to see Nott lose his bride—" He pauses, confronting himself whether to tell you the real truth or not, "I mean I'll also get a beauty on my side."

You roll your eyes at that, "Don't you try to charm me, Potter. Give me the real reason or its off. I have a feeling you need this more than I do,"

She's right, James thought. He was about to play it off if you denied it straight away, he wasn't entirely sure you would actually take him seriously. He grasps the sight of you for a bit before closing his eyes tight, "Okay, how about I tell you the reason in a week— Maybe a month. You don't have to do anything, we'd just go out like normal couples do. Sounds good to you?" He said, he extends his arms to you for a handshake. His thoughts full of prayers to Merlin so you wouldn't notice the tremble in his arm.

You grin the same one James had seen a million times on Sirius's face, the Black's grin of content. You shake his hand firmly, his big ones almost encasing yours, "You've got yourself a deal, Potter."

James is using every atom on his magical being to control his ecstasy as he smiles widely at you. Once the handshake is done he reaches for his scarf over his neck and wears it on you, "Nice doing business with you, sweetcheeks. I do hope you start wearing warmer clothes though. No snogging will be done if you're in Pomfreys care."

She looks good in my color

Well technically so is the color of a quarter of the schools because of course its a Griffyndor scarf.

"You surely don't expect me to go back. To my dorm. Through the halls, the stairs and the common room. With this on?"

Oh I won't regret this one bit, James thought. He chuckles at your words dripped in such a sarcastic tone, "Of course not, darling. Do you think I'm mad?"

He extends his arms for you to hold, "We'll go back together. Through the halls, the stairs, even the common room. I heard you folks have lovely parties there."

You let out a chuckle as you circle your arms around his, "Oh, the best ones. Your Gryffindors ass is so not invited though."

"Well at least I do have a lovely one, don't I?"

"Oh shut it, Potter!"

——————————————————————————

Another storm of commotion is coursing through Hogwarts. A lot has played it off as a mere prank. James grins at the thought of it. He has only you on his mind lately, cherishing the bits of conversation you and him had.

He's on his way to charms class this morning, one that inconveniently does not have you in it, he checked. He checked your schedule last night sneaking through administration with the invisibility cloak.

Moony and Pads by his side as usual. Sirius seems to still haven't caught wind of it, his hair tousled from a good sleep. Apparently he was up all night helping Remus solve a 10k piece magic puzzle.

Won't be long with how loud the students are gossiping though. James let out a coherent sighs. He had an amount of grins with knowing looks from a couple male students and even a pat on the back by a random Slytherin, "Alright, what is going on?" Remus breaks first. Stopping the two boys right before the class door.

James crackles a laugh, "What's going on? Nothing's going on, mate! What?" Moony lets out a drawled scowl on him, one he makes when he pieces that they're in some kind of trouble, "Why is everybody on Hogwarts up your pants then, Prongs?!"

Sirius yawns as he hugs James by the side to lean his head on him, "Yeah... Saw that too even if my eyes were closed the entire walk. You can tell us mate, come on," He does notice the lack of scarf on his mate's neck though, none in this rapidly chilly morning? "Prongsie, where's your scarf? I could really use a pillow here–"

"Oh! Thank Merlin! One second late and I would've thrown this in the bin. Here, take this off me," There you are with James Potter red and yellow scarf on your hands, just coming out the door. All three boys were quite startled, "What? Wait. This isn't your class," said James. His eyes land on the presence of a Slytherin scarf wrapping your neck. James wishes he could take that one instead.

"Yeah... I'm sort of risking being late to Dark Arts for this but I can't take the whispering anymore. I might square the next person who even looks at me!" You told him, your grip on his scarf tightens and James wishes the fabric would stretch upon your nails.

Sirius is well awake now, his bagged eyes darting between you and James as if you're both insane, "Hold–Hold on! What is this? What is happening, Why do you have James's scarf?" He cuts, going between you and James to put a distance and blocks James view. Remus gives James a 'he did warned you, mate' face at the side.

James on the other hand, in too much of a thrill of seeing you this early in the morning, "You could also just admit ya didn't want me to get cold, love. Thanks for the thought there," He said almost shouting as he stands on his tips to try and see you from above Sirius's head.

You let out an annoyed grunt, "Ugh I don't have time for this. Here Siri, give this to that stupid friend of yours. I'd like to keep my Dark Arts seat next to Cissy and Malfoy's been eyeing it like the vulture he is," You throw James's scarf to your cousin's head not caring if it covers his vision, it earns a few chuckles from nearby students. He trashes to take it off and looks at you in betrayal.

You're about to run off to Dark Arts and leave your cousin and his foolish mates when your feet stop and turn you back, "If you still want that date to happen. Expect my owl, Potter. She's a snow named Emerald."

"Oh and it is lovely to meet you, Remus. Do take care of my sod cousin and my idiot boyfriend. Make sure they're out of trouble," You smiled sincerely at Remus, you actually do admire him a little. You love dark arts and your professor rants and rants about Remus's talents.

Remus seems taken aback, but that would make the three of them. You left after he reciprocated your smile and responded with a polite, "You too, (Y/N)."

And as such, you scurried off in a rush to go shoo away Lucius Malfoy from your seat and save Narcissa. Leaving behind a bewildered Remus, an angered Sirius, and a lovestruck James.

James keeps his eyes on you until you turn the corridor, a stupidly huge smile stays on his lips. He turns to find the reality of Sirius's wrath upon him. Remus is quite literally holding back Sirius with his whole body, it's quite an advantageous turn of events that Sirius hasn't had his proper sleep yet.

"Boyfriend! Boyfriend?! When did you even– How is this— Let me go, Moony! He's going to have an earful!"

He definitely will get that earful later. James grins an apologetic smile at Remus as he picks up his scarf that fell to the ground. He could already smell the sweet of your scent from a distance.

Remus lets out a huffed noise, "You really do always get what you want don't you?"

James doesn't reply. He wraps his own scarf on his neck, embracing the warmth it does to his skin. Your scent crashes onto him like tidal waves. A tint of rose blooms on the pale of his cheeks.

He smiles faintly at the open skies over the hall window. He wishes for an owl he hadn't even met for safe travels.

#james potter #james potter x reader #james fleamont potter #marauders fanfiction #james potter fanfiction #forbidden love

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exhaustedcatte · 1 year ago

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You’re a Wizard.

Remus bit his cheek, the juvenile words “Detention, Prewett” died on the tip of his tongue.

No, he reminded himself harshly. That’s Fred and George Weasley. Not Fabian and Gideon.

I’m not a Prefect, I’m the bloody Professor, Remus grit his teeth.

Luna Lovegood floated into the room and Remus saw unwelcome visions, the present melting away to accommodate the past. Regulus Black was there, guiding Pandora when she was batting her lashes at Xenophilius Lovegood.

Draco Malfoy was an amusing mixture of Lucius and Narcissa. He stuck his nose up and raised one manicured brow like his mother, but his ugly words and prideful manners were all his father.

Remus laughed guilelessly, what was wrong with him. Fraternising with the enemy, Moony? A very familiar voice chirped in his head.

It hurt so bad.

Every time Hermione Granger raised her hand, to the chagrin of the rest of the class, Remus saw Lily Evans. Her fierce intelligence and determination a weapon to dismantle the prejudice faced by Muggleborns. Lily would’ve loved her.

He wiped his face with tired hands.

Honestly, Remus was never meant to survive this. He was simply unfortunate, unlucky. An anomaly.

Hah, now suffer.

There was Neville Longbottom, with ears that stuck out like his father and a shy smile to match his mother’s. I’ll watch over him now, Remus promised the smiling Alice and Frank in his memories, apologising for the years gone by.

Then there were the little things.

Snape always caused a spark of his old Marauder spirit to overtake his senses. It also brought forth very vivid sounds of two devils whispering into his ears. Potter and Black, always at the crime scene.

No, no. He batted that thought away before he could spiral.

Remus found himself shocked by the streaks of white in Minerva McGonagall’s hair, which 15 years ago that would’ve caused an uproar. Not even his own greying roots had caused him so much sadness.

His heart ached when he saw Madam Pomfrey pressing her knuckles into her strained back. How much had he missed while hiding from this wretched world?

But what struck a raw nerve was Harry Potter, of course.

The toad green of his eyes and the bird’s nest of his hair. It had been so long but all he could see in the young Potter boy was his friend. A friend who had betrayed him, but his friend nonetheless.

I know you, he pursed his lips to prevent screaming that when he was addressed as Professor Lupin and not Unc’e Moo’y. He had to remind himself that he wasn’t the one who could get Prongslet to burp or take a nap anymore. He was the weird, mismatched man for a teacher.

You know Harry doesn’t think of you like that. Ah, Lily, wise as always.

The James in Harry Potter stuck out like a sore thumb, much like his hair, when he whizzed across the quidditch pitch with innate talent, when he couldn’t hold back his tongue while talking to Snape, when he faffed about in lessons. But it pained more to see Harry stand up for his friends, like his father had always done, and when he went searching for trouble despite being explicitly warned against it.

Oh, how I miss you Prongs.

He sat back in his chair, creaky and hard as it was. There was only one person he hadn’t found in his students.

Remus closed his eyes.

Sirius Black grinned at him from behind his eyelids. Miss me, Moony?

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jallerentrags · 1 year ago

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Better than him.

James Potter x Reader, based on 'Boyfriend' by Dove Cameron.

James Potter thought of himself as a lucky man.

He had everything he wanted: Good grades, good friends, a good life. The only thing he wanted, which he worried he might never have, was you.

Y/n Cassiopeia Black, twin sister to the elusive and handsome Regulus Black. But despite being at the same school, and being best mates with your older brother, the space between the both of you was almost impossible to cross. You were cold and indifferent - sticking with your friends and Regulus - and avoided James like the plague. You rarely spoke, supposedly scorned by his theft of your older brother, and when you did converse, it was usually under the watchful eyes of Charles Nott, your betrothed.

At the age of 16, you had been auctioned and sold to the highest bidder, wrapped in his vice like grip. James watched from the side-lines as the eyes that used to shine like her brother's name-sake, faded.

He had tried to become besotted with Lily, a beautiful and intelligent girl, but it was futile. Your power over him was strong, his urge to move on with Lily too weak. But a strong friendship between the Head Boy and Girl did blossom, so James ended up ranting to Lily about his situation.

“James I don’t know what to say. Y/n is one of the most prized girls in school and her circle is small. Your best bet to get her attention is to ask Sirius to introduce you,” Lily paused to brush her long hair out of her eyes and behind her shoulder with a thoughtful look, “Of course, that’s if she’s willing to speak to Sirius, I don’t think I’ve seen them together since last year.”

James sighed. He already knew that you had closed yourself off after losing your brother, and he grimaced thinking about how hurt you must feel. He knew that Sirius was still mourning his loss as heir to the House of Black, and heard him crying at night when his ache for his little siblings grew too heavy.

“I know,” James fiddled with his glasses, face heating up. “Maybe it’s best if I just leave it. It’s a pipe dream that a girl like that would ever go for a guy like me.” James moved to pick up his books from the library table and head to his dorm, mood low. Lily gasped and slapped his hand away.

“Definitely not! I remember Remus telling me that you two were completely smitten and oblivious to it despite belonging to rival houses. The James Potter should definitely not give up this easily,” Lily’s brows were lowered in an expression of seriousness, her lips thin, “I’ve got an idea. You know the Christmas Ball is this weekend?”

Of course James knew the Christmas Ball was this weekend. The whole school had been preparing for it since it was announced early November, a night of bliss and relaxation to temporarily ignore the deteriorating state of the outside World. James’ parents had already sent him his dress robes, and he saw that last Tuesday you had received a large parcel in the mail which he guessed must of been your dress.

“Yes, but I don’t see why that matters? She’ll be going with Charles. He proposed in August.” James spat, anger lacing into his words. Lily merely rolled her eyes and huffed.

“So? Steal her away! Ask her to dance and charm her! I’m sure it won’t be that difficult, it’s not as if she’s in love with Nott,” Lily placed her hands on the table and leaned towards him, “She’ll definitely leave him for you, she’s always been sympathetic towards muggle-born’s and I heard her talking about how she wishes she didn’t have to marry Nott. Give her a reason, Be her reason, and she’ll leave her supremacist family and be with you.” James scoffed and leaned back in his chair, watching as Lily reclined also.

“I don’t think it’ll be that easy. She loves Regulus and she fits the role as ‘Slytherin’s Princess’ perfectly. I don’t want to put myself out there for her if she’s already too far gone.”

“Believe me. She’s not. People don’t look at each other like you two do.” Lily smiled at him, certainty blazing in her emerald eyes, “You could be her new beginning, and I really think she wants that. She loves Regulus and she always will, but I know that he would value her happiness and I doubt that she wouldn’t love to have a reason to escape,” Lily’s hand reached over to James’ and clasped it, “I really believe that you two would work. I want to see you happy James, please trust me.”

James’ lips formed a smile, and he felt hope blare in his chest. If Lily, the smartest girl he knew, believed that he stood a chance, then he had faith. He squeezed her hand and stood up, collecting his books and shoving them into his bag.

“I trust you, now watch me get my girl.”

————————————————————————-

The Great Hall looked beautiful, you thought, as you entered. The ceiling showcased a clear starry sky, and the decorations shone and sparkled in the candle light. Ice sculptures decorated the corners, and 12 great circle tables surrounded a square dance floor and far off, adjacent the teachers table, was a long buffet and drinks table laden with Honeydukes delights and crisp pumpkin juice. Charles, your financeé, gripped your hand tighter and dragged you to a table with his friends, only slightly admitting how beautiful you looked in your F/c gown. Charles' friends briefly acknowledged you (with a few appreciative eyebrow raises) before ignoring your presence entirely. Across the room, you spotted your older brother and his friends, who hadn't seemed to notice your entrance just yet. Sirius looked remarkable like always, a classic example of the Black families striking looks. Even Remus looked quite handsome in his robes, and Peter had cleaned up nicely. Admittedly, you thought, James looked incredibly good in his robes and had caught your eye as soon as you entered the Great Hall. His robes were tailored to his fit physique perfectly, and his hazel eyes shone with excitement. Although he hadn't managed to tame his hair, you secretly appreciated how well it framed his face.

"Admiring the blood traitor, Y/n?" Rosier, one of Charles' close friends, scoffed. You turned back to the table, missing James' look your way, and shot a smile in Rosier's direction.

"Of course not," you replied, entangling your arm from Charles' grip, "But you have to admit that he does look very enjoyable in his robes." you smirked, watching as Charles' face contorted into a sneer. He made to grab for you, already muttering about your incompetence with an extremely angry look on his face. He wrapped his hand around your arm hard, pulling you close enough to whisper in your ear. Despite being pulled into his side, his body still angled away from you, like you didn't matter at all. From across the hall, you wondered whether it looked like it was a lover's embrace. It was anything but. You spared no love for Charles, and it was no secret. Rosier and the others all sniggered, slurs tumbling from their lips and their faces a mixture of disgust and outrage.

"Y/n, you should watch your mouth. You don't want people thinking that you agree with your mutt of a brother, do you?" Charles asked, his face settling into a blank stare. Your brows lowered and your lips curled, before quickly schooling features once more. You simply hummed, avoiding Charles' eyes. "Now run along to Regulus. I'll come to you when I need you." He unwrapped his hand from your arm and pushed you away, before turning back to his group. You wondered through Hall, greeting friends, before making a bee-line for your twin. The dancing had begun, a light tempo that sent couples soaring over the floor. You watched in admiration, the way they held each other, looking into each others eyes like no one else existed, souls mingling and stretching across the floor. You wished you could be swept along the floor, lost in the steps and the feel of your partners hands. The partner you imagined never had the Nott green eyes and cigar scented yellowed palms, he always had the face of your older brother's best friend.

From behind you, you heard somebody cough to catch your attention, and you turned on your heel to come face to face with James Potter, watching his already huge smile grow wider. His hands were in his trouser pockets, his body angled towards you so completely that you couldn't even acknowledge other's brushing up against you.

"I can't believe we're finally alone, I've been trying to catch you since you arrived, you look so beautiful," James revealed, blush drifting across his cheeks, "I almost went back up to the dorm."

"Well that would've been a shame, Potter" you smiled back, easing towards him, "I was hoping to see you on the dance floor."

James laughed, a sound that sent shudders down your spine and took his hand out of his pocket to push up his glasses that had fallen down his nose. "What are the chances? I wanted to see you on the dance floor too," James squared his shoulders and cleared his throat "Everyone's dancing, yet you aren't, somebody that I know is stuck by dance fever frequently, and he's not with you," James leaned forward and smirked, "the Universe must of divined us, little Black, it looks like we're destined to dance together tonight."

You could almost see the thoughts fly across his face as he grabbed your wrist before you could even object, pulling you towards the dance floor. The music had changed to a sweet, mouldable beat, sweeping partners across the floor in unique waltzes and dips. James positioned you on the floor, a large hand leaving a burning touch on you waist and the other slipping into you awaiting hand as you breathlessly laughed. Your hands fit together perfectly, just like his hand rested so perfectly on the curve of your waist. He started leading, smiling down at you as though you placed the stars in the sky, a twinkle in his bespectacled eyes. You followed readily, returning his smile and placing you hand on his shoulder, heat building and spreading under your dress at your close contact.

You were flying, soaring, just two people in a sea of revellers. You didn't slip from his gaze, totally unfettered, lost in him. You never stumbled, never faltered, you recalled every conversation, every lingering glance, every lasting touch, knowing you were utterly enthralled. James looked the same, captivated by your presence, stuck in your energy. You saw the words bubble in him, and your heart soared when he stopped biting his tongue.

"Y/n," he whispered, drawing you closer, his face a picture intimacy, "I could be a better boyfriend than him," you sucked in air, but didn't draw from his arms. James tightened his grip on your hip as you looked deeply into his eyes, "I could do all the shit that he never does," he flared his fingers against your waist, "I'll stay up all night for you, I won't quit. I'm thinking that I'm going to steal you from him," he dropped his head to press against your forehead, your joined hands tight as you still manoeuvred around the floor, "I could be such a gentleman, plus all my clothes would look so good on you." You slowed to a stop, dancers fluttering around you as you ended up at a loss for words, mouth agape and your heart singing. "I could be so much better for you than him."

"James..." you unlaced your joined hands, already missing his touch, as he stared at you desperately. You knew that everything he said was true, and James was nothing if not an honest man. He made you smile, kept you safe, always thought of you as the prettiest girl in the room. You were in love with James Potter, but it wasn't as easy as that. You had to worry about your brother, Regulus, and the future of your family. While your parents were definitely not kind and nurturing, they were all you had. You didn't have James Potter to whisk you away if Sirius didn't allow him too. You wanted James, more than you'd ever want Charles and his prejudice. Your eyes watered, and you suddenly felt lost.

"I don't need to tell you twice all the ways he can't suffice, he wouldn't care about your happiness, or your dancing or your smile," James' unwavering hope warmed you, cocooning you in a safety net when you felt like you were falling from the Astronomy Tower. James wanted to be your new beginning, your second chance. He wanted to cuddle you on cold nights and to show you the beauty of the muggle world and all its secrets, "If I could give you some advice, baby, I'd leave with me tonight." His desperation slipped from his face, replaced with a confident smirk, as if he saw your facade melting, as if he could see you melting in his arms, as if he knew that you were going to choose him, just like you would every single time.

"You'll help me get through it?" you asked, and James immediately knew that you meant the sparking fall out between you and your parents, and the Nott family. James took your face in his hands, love shining in his eyes, before placing a chaste kiss on your forehead.

"I'd give you my heart if you asked, darling, of course I'll help. Besides, what's another Black sibling in my house? if your brother comes I'll have the full set." you shared a laugh, biting back the tears that threatened to spill.

"You'd like that." you said between laughs.

"I'd love it." he answered, leaning back and taking your hand in his once again. He led you back off the dance floor, both of you blushing madly and smiling merrily. Towards the left of the hall, you spotted James' friends watching you both intently, glasses raised. Lily Evans seemed particularly excited, emerald eyes aglow with excitement as she waved enthusiastically and gave James a thumbs up. Sirius and Regulus stood further away, small smiles on their faces as they watched their little sister walk out of the hall with the resident trouble maker. No complaints rose up their throats, just unbridled joy for their sister who finally looked happy. James and Y/n didn't look at anyone else as they left hand in hand, not even at a furious Charles Nott, whose hands were balled in tight fists. They ignored the open mouthed stares and muttered remarks, completely absorbed in each other.

The next day, Charles would arrive at his dorm to an owl waiting by the open window. Tied to his leg was a envelope, and Charles reached for it immediately. Ripping it open, he tore the piece of paper out and dumped its contents on his bed. Gleaming back at his sneering face was the ring he gave Y/n when he proposed, and scribbled on the letter was one sentence:

'I suppose you were right Charles, I do have a taste for blood-traitors.’

- Y/n Black and James Potter

#james potter #james potter x reader #harry potter #hogwarts x reader #harry potter x reader #james potter imagine #regulus black twin!reader #mauraders #mauraders x reader

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sexymoonmansslut · 30 days ago

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simp reg again <3

love them sm :,)

also happy pride month <33

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corrodedcoffins-blog · 10 months ago

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Getting Together

main masterlist

regulus black x potter!reader universe

word count: 1.4 k

note: been sitting on this for a while lol

takes place during the marauders 6th year and Reg's 5th

Sat criss-cross on the bathroom counter, Y/n held her hair out of her face in a make/shift ponytail while she finished her eyeliner, Sirius was sat on the toilet lid while he waited for his turn with the girl’s eyeliner.

The gang™ was getting ready for a Hufflepuff party, they may be kind and hard-working students but damn that house could party.

“I probably won’t stay long, I've got a tummy ache.” “Well, I’m sure Remus would be willing to come back here with you.” – “What about Remus?” James said, walking into their shared bathroom to brush his teeth before the party (planning to kiss Lily, though he will most likely fail once again)

“Nothing.” Y/n said casually before going back to her eyeliner, hitting her brother’s hand out of the way of opening their mirror cabinet.

James asks, with his mouth full of toothpaste and his toothbrush hanging out of his mouth, “Are we balding?”

“‘We’?” She looked at him through the mirror and planned to tell him how thick-headed he sounded, but got distracted by her small bald spot. “Wait- do you’ve the same?” “Yeah,-” “I think it’s just our hairlines.” “You think?”

Sirius may have a brother but, much to his own dismay, never had that sibling dynamic with Regulus, they loved each other but due to their upbringing they showed their love quietly. So he always found James and Y/n’s back and forth moments as foreign as the rest of the boys did since neither Peter or Remus had siblings.

The group of five entered the Hufflepuff common room, James immediately went to the drinks, dragging Remus with him, while Sirius dragged Peter and the girl with him to the dance floor. The two others eventually brought the rest their own cups, Y/n danced but it felt like whenever she looked up she noticed her newest roommate.

This past summer break Sirius and Regulus run away and have since been living at the Potter’s, which both twins were relieved about, they knew about the Blacks.

Regulus was nursing his drink while leaning against the fireplace, his long fingers wrapped around the cup, mumbling some sarcastic comment to Barty, until they linked eyes through the room full of wasted students. Though it felt like it broke as fast as it formed when Sirius tapped her on the shoulder and informed her of the girl Peter was about to ask to dance, pushing him aside she began to fix Peter’s hair by brushing pieces out of his face and flattening his shirt.

“Go get ‘er, Pete!” “Okay.” She laughed at his awkwardness. Peter could always make her laugh, though that could be said about all the boys, Peter had the type of humour that even he himself didn’t know when he was being funny and the biggest laughs came when he wasn’t trying.

Overall the party went well, Sirius didn’t leave too long after that interaction, Remus going with him for whatever fake reason he gave this time, Pete ending up leaving with that girl, and James after not winning over Evans yet again, went back to the dorm no doubt unknowingly interrupting a moment between Sirius and Remus.

But Y/n couldn’t bring herself to go back to the dorm just yet, she liked the fresh air and the time away from the boys. It was when she went farther down a trail for a smoke that she saw the black-headed boy she’s grown to know well after the summer.

“Hey, Reg.” “Hello.”

Regulus was just getting comfortable around her when school came around again, one of the many reasons it took so long to be comfortable around the older girl was since he could remember he had liked her. The summer after Sitius’ first year he showed Reg some pictures of his new friends, and the second he saw Y/n he was gone.

The girl walked closer to the bench Regulus was sitting on and sat herself next to him, neither’s eyes leaving their view of the black lake for more than a couple seconds.

“My brother and your friends just abandoned you?” “Sirius went back to the dorm, had a stomach bug and Renus went with him an-” “Those two finally?” “How’d you know about that?” “Sirius is my brother and I know him rather well.” “I guess you do… Want-?” She gestured for him to grab her cigarette, he shook his head ‘no’ which was an uncommon answer around here, but it sorta made sense that Regulus wouldn’t, she supposes he’s proper that way.

“So what about your friends?” “Pandora doesn’t really do parties, and I’m sure Barty and Evan are off somewhere.” “Well I’m glad we both got abandoned.” She looked up to face the crescent moon, not thinking too hard about how Regulus would interpret her words. She liked when he did. All summer she had made comments like that one, she enjoyed the blush that would rise to the tips of his ears.

“Why’s that?” “I like being with you.” The boy’s head shoots up from it staring at the grass beneath their feet to look at her beside him.

“Y-you do?” “Yeah!...” Her pause made Regulus assure that he read that ‘being with you’ thing wrong, because of course she wouldn’t date him; she’s a year older, the most gorgeous girl he’s ever seen, as well as the nicest. But in actuality, Y/n has been trying to hint that she likes Regulus since the beginning of the summer. Yet the boy was most oblivious to people truly caring about him, he didn’t believe it possible; that only made her want to show him even more.

“Reg, I really like being with you..” She said, expectantly, enunciating every word to get it through his self-loathing skull. It was when she raised her eyebrows at him that it hit him, he was not imagining it. Not at all.

“Really? Me?” “Yes.” “Oh… I did not expect that.” Whether it was meant to be said out loud or not, it made Y/n laugh so Regulus was thankful he did, he liked her laugh. Still unmoving, Y/n makes the first move yet again.

She grabbed the end of his Slytherin tie, twirling it between her finger tips before grabbing it in a fist to pull the younger boy in. Her lips covered his own, gently they moved together, her hand went to his and placed them on her waist and then hers went to the side of his neck, all while holding her cigarette in the other. The taste of said cigarette lingered in her mouth adding to the addicting taste of her and her almost gone strawberry lip gloss.

Finally pulling back, both slightly out of breath, they took a moment to gather themselves. The Potter girl took a final drag before putting it out with her heel.

“I gotta get going, Reg.” “Oh-” “If you're free after classes tomorrow I’d love to meet back here.. We could talk, or just be with each other.” “Yeah. I would really like that.” “Good. Okay, I’ve really got to go though, James gets worried when any of us stay out too late.”

She waited a second before turning on her heels to begin her walk, though the sound of footsteps stopped her in her tracks and Regulus came up next to her, “As you mentioned it’s late, it would be the gentlemanly thing to do to walk you to your common room.” “Well gee, what a gentleman I’ve got on my hands.”

Their conversation flowed as they walked the long walk to Gryffindor Tower. And though they got plenty of time together Y/n couldn't help the slight disappointment when they arrived at the portrait hole.

“This is my stop.” “Yes.” “I don’t feel very gentlemanly now that you have to walk all the way to the dungeons now, why don’t I walk you?” “Then I would walk you back here and we would be in a terrible loop.” “The loops not so terrible if I’m spending the whole time with you.”

If another student were to hear their conversation, see the love stricken grin on the girl's face, and the red face of Regulus they would most likely throw up from the sheer cheesy-ness. And to make matters for the state of the blush on his face worse, Y/n placed a soft peck on Regulus’ lips one last time.

“Now get outta her, I’m not allowed to let other houses hear the password, especially not snakes like yourself.” That sentence from just about any other Gryffindor would have offended him, but everything Y/n said felt like it came from a good place.

“Okay. Goodnight.” “Night, Reg.” She laughed out, due to his seriousness. She then held on to her word and didn’t say the password until he was out of ear shot, watching him as he left.

#regulus black #regulus black x potter!reader #regulus black x female reader #regulus black x fem!reader #regulus black x reader #regulus black fic #regulus black fluff #regulus black fanfiction #james potter x sister!reader #marauder!reader #regulus x reader #regulus x fem!reader #regulus x potter!reader #marauders #james potter #background wolfstar

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morwap · 6 months ago

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𝑌𝑜𝑢'𝑟𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑚𝑜𝑜𝑛 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑟𝑠, 𝐼 𝑎𝑚 𝑎𝑠ℎ𝑒𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑡𝑎𝑟.

regulus black x fem!reader

light hurt/comfort, angsty with cute moments

part 1 • part 2 • part 3 • part 4

nav • r.a.b m.list • mini series m.list

artist!regulus, swearing, platonic!regulus x pandora, jily, a tad bit of reg being obsessive and possessive, james potter x reader, platonic!regulus x evan roiser, a little bit of jealous!james he’s a dick, bsf!remus, wolfstar, dorlene

───────✧ 𓆩♡𓆪 ✧───────

you chewed on the inside of your cheek, standing in front of mcgonagalls class room, hoping regulus was inside so you didn’t have to do a little walk of shame back to your common room.

peeking into the room, a soft smile formed on your face. regulus stood by his things, his fingers covered in paint as he swiped his brush into the paint on his palette.

you tapped your knuckles against the doorframe, catching regulus’ attention.

regulus tensed, his grey eyes flicking to where you stood. regulus could feel his cheeks grow hot, you, it was you coming in here on your own time—your own will not just your curiosity.

regulus had told pandora and evan about the time you two spent together, telling evan when he arrived at his dorm and informing pandora at breakfast making her not be able to take her eyes off of you the entire time you and your friends ate, making regulus constantly nudge her arm or pull a strand of her blonde hair to tell her to stop.

pandora had always accepted regulus’ feelings for you. noticing his longing gazes on you and how he became more and more agitated with james, knowing he was and is upset that james and sirius have a relationship he wanted to have with his brother, but this was just the cherry on top to the point where regulus couldnt stand seeing james in the hallways—just the mention of his name soured his mood.

at first she did think he liked lily, thinking that the redhead that james sang love songs to was his crush and almost confronted him about because james would chase off anyone or anything that got near lily but stopped herself when she noticed that regulus didnt even bat an eye at lily, then something caught her eye.

they were both in the library, regulus was slumped in his chair after quidditch practice then suddenly perked up. pandora hadnt heard anything concerning to earn that type of reacting, so she was naturally concerned for her best friend. though for regulus this was an opportunity to just get a simple glimpse of you, to see if you were smiling or if you were okay. pandora was now flicking her eyes from regulus to you then back and forth.

pandora was taken back by how fast regulus’ face had heated up, his cheeks red and the tips of his ears grew pink. she hoped this is what Xenophilius looked like when he heard her voice. pandora just needed something to solidify her thoughts.

regulus’ sketch book was the thing that solidified her thoughts, he used to show her his newest drawings and would let her touch it whenever she pleased but now he kept it under his watch 24/7, not letting her have access to it and only allowing her to touch it and look in it if he was paying attention.

the time she actually got to see inside of it felt like it was meant to happen, evan had brought her to the slytherin common room to hang out with him, barty and regulus but regulus was gone, they waited up for him but it went late into the night and evan and barty ended up falling asleep on the common room couch. pandora was worried, her minding going wild and it drove her crazy and decided that she had to find him or her worries wouldnt ease.

pandora knew that regulus and mcgonagall set up a little agreement, now he spent a lot of time in there, whenever she wasnt using the room it seemed like regulus was. pandora made her way to the professors room, making sure not to get caught by any prefects or head girls or boys in the process. her nerves settled when she finally made it there, regulus was asleep beside his sketch book, his face on one page of it and his hair covered his eyes.

smiling and walking towards his sleeping frame, admiring him as he looked so peaceful. the only time he truly looked calm and relaxed. pandora almost didnt want to wake regulus up but she needed to get him to bed. before waking him, taking a glance at the sketch— you, it was you. furrowing her brows as she tried to think of where the sketch took place, you sitting down on the grass, then it cross her mind — realizing why it felt familiar.

it was you sitting in the courtyard earlier today, remembering you were with your friends thats why you were smiling and laughing. pandora quickly came back to her senses and woke regulus up, him being too tired to worry about the sketch book when he awoke and just nodded half listening and followed pandora back to his common room then to his bed. pandora had grabbed his things and carried them and told him goodnight before getting evan and barty.

the next day consisted of pandora mentioning his crush on you in the library which he tried to deny at first then he admitted it then the next week it had accidentally slipped from her mouth when her, regulus and evan were in the astronomy tower late at night. evan was a bit skeptical at first but just accepted it as time went on.

“would you like some company?” you asked, giving him a soft smile. regulus stood there for a second, processing your words.

“oh uh- yeah” regulus choked out, twitching in a nervous way to scratch at his temple and sniffling a bit. He could hear the little rubber grippers on the bottom of your slippers on the floor as you walked to him, coming closer and closer, way closer than he thought you’d ever get, you were basically bumping into each other.

“It’s still as beautiful as the first time I saw it” you said, a smile growing on your face. Regulus stood behind you, he had his paintbrush in the murky water to his left and his palette on his right.

You picked up his brush, “show me how” you said, looking over your shoulder at him and moving the brush in your hand to fit nicely.

Regulus didn’t move, he was zoned out on you and only came out of it when you laughed and repeated what you said. you looked over your shoulder and nodded your head to the painting.

“c'mon” you teased before looking back to the painting.

Regulus was almost shaking, being so close was intoxicating and it was like every time he wished and hoped something would happen was happening at this moment.

he stepped closer to you, moving the palette to your other hand and then putting his over yours. you smiled and leaned back against him just a bit, it was so lovely to be close to someone, like breathing fresh air after you’ve been inhaling smoke your entire life.

Regulus started to move your hand, painting some flowers he had half done. he could smell your shampoo which made him take deep long breaths. He moved your hand, light strokes on the canvas, watching the paint transfer to it. He brought your hand back to the palette to mix some colors.

Painting more flowers then dipping the brush into murky water then wiping it on his shirt before getting a new color on his brush.

“Are you going to the quidditch game?” Regulus asked, you weren’t wanting to go since you normally went to support James but you knew now wasn’t the right time, the air between you two was so thick and it just felt awkward.

“i’m not sure” you sighed.

“well what else is there to do on a friday afternoon?” regulus joked, it came naturally and he didn’t know why he didn’t feel as anxious as he did 5 minutes ago, you made him feel comfortable even though he always felt anxious around you.

you laughed, your shoulders moving up and downing slightly.

“you’re right. i’ll tell you what, i’ll go and support slytherin only if you promise that you’ll try to win” you said, turning your head to the side to look at him, you smiled.

“what if we don’t?” regulus asked and cleared his throat, he avoided your gaze.

you hummed as you thought.

“you have to wear a gryffindor sweater the next day” you said, hoping that would be on the same level.

“deal” regulus laughed softly, he was still moving your hand, guiding your hand with his, making art.

you were always so friendly, the way you were acting like you had been his friend for months made him feel warm, it was like a glimpse of what your friends had way before he could have it. the opportunity of a friendship blossoming made his lips curl up, not just a best friends brother that you felt the need to greet and be nice to, a real friendship and of course on his end a longing that he would never push onto you unless you felt the same way.

“my father would like you, he really likes art and things like that” you spoke freely, regulus looked at you again and he couldn’t fight the butterflies in his stomach. “hes really into pottery, half the cups in my house are made by him” you added with a giggle.

regulus smiled, “did he teach you?” he asked, his hand still moving yours as he mixed a new color.

“he tried, i was just so terrible” you laughed, regulus wanted to combat the degrading comment.

“everything takes practice” he whispered, regulus grabbed a paint tube and squeezed out more white.

“that's not what i've heard about you-“

regulus paused, his stomach dropping, what have you heard about him? it was evident him and sirius didn’t have the best relationship so what did he tell you, his mind wandered.

“- i heard that you practically came out of the womb with a paint brush and good manners” you finished, a smirk on your face.

regulus forced himself to break from his thoughts and give you a reaction, “now that i can agree to” he said. He had always been told he was a good child but it was never by choice.

hours passed and now you were sitting on the floor going through his paints.

“y/n! cmon we aren't going to get good seats” peter grumbled.

it was friday, a week had gone past since you were with regulus, studying had taken over a lot of your time and when you had passed McGonagall's class you didn’t see him but every time you saw him in the halls you smiled, you thought of maybe striking up a conversation but when you saw him there was slytherin boys around him and if you stared too long at least one of them would sneer at you.

you looked around for something green, you knew your friends would say something about it and others would give you weird looks.

“Okay okay im coming stop rushing me” you sighed, running down the stairs.

“What the fuck are you wearing?” dorcas gasped, her hand grabbing the green sweater you were wearing.

“James is gonna be so pissed” peter whispered.

“We have to take risks sometimes right? Lets go” you put your hands on your hips as you grabbed your wand. Remus grabbed peter by the shoulders and pushed him out of the common room.

The wind bit at your cheeks, you could hear cheering and roaring. Slytherin vs gryffindor, the tension was thick. You sometimes hated quidditch, it made people mean and stressed out but thats what others liked about it.

You sat with your friends, odd one out in the red and gold sea of people, eyes constantly wandered to you and a few dirty looks here and there which would be scared off by remus. Pandora noticed you, a slight point and Evan's eyes caught on.

The game started, people cheered and boo’d, names were chanted. James and you locked eyes, his tongue pressed to his cheek and a scoff with a head shake was made.

Regulus’ stomach was uneasy, you were on his mind while getting ready, he couldn’t lose he had been practicing and coming up with strategies for the past week. His muscles strained and sweat poured off of him. He was nervous just getting on the broom.

He couldn’t look in the crowd, he had to focus. The game started quickly and james was already playing rough, almost knocking him into the posts and beams.

Hours passed, they were tied. You chewed on some popcorn that mary got you, dorcas cheered for her girlfriend and knocked over her drink. Remus laid back against your legs, he would sometimes go from watching to writing things down in his notebook. Peter and lilly talked, she held james’ sweatshirt in her lap.

One more point, thats all and slytherin could win. The snitch, it zipped around regulus, his eyes lighting up. James saw it too, he brows furrowed as he went for it.

They were going so fast, regulus looked to the side. It felt like everything slowed once he saw you, your eyes big and you sat up straight. You looked good in green. James knocked into him.

Regulus chased him, catching up to him quickly then surpassing him. Regulus strained as he reached for it almost falling off the broom. His eyes watered from the air.

Regulus closed his fist, he got it, the snitch was in his hand.

Hollers and roars came from slytherin and silence fell over gryffindor. “Fuck” james yelled and sirius caught up to him. James’ chest heaved, his fists clenched.

You jumped and screamed for regulus. Soon later people were leaving the stands, you all went to meet up with james and sirius.

Pandora and evan waited on regulus and barty, you laughed with remus and mary rubbing in that “your” team won.

Regulus was the first to walk out, his hair wet and you smiled at him and walked up to him. Meeting him halfway. Pandora held evan back and gave him a look.

“You did amazing reg!” you said, hugging him tightly. Regulus’ body froze, he’s never felt so good in his life. The pain on his muscles faded when normally if someone touched him he’d be so sore. He could smell your perfume, it was intoxicating. You soft with your touch, so soft he wished you’d press harder against him and never leave.

“I-i- you know im just glad i didn’t lose so i wouldn’t have to wear that stupid thing” regulus tried to joke, hoping it went well.

You pulled away, smiling even more “you know supporting a different team isn’t that bad” you laughed. Regulus rolled his eyes with a smirk, he made eye contact with evan, even smiled and nodded.

“You know id love to see you at the party tonight” you said, fiddling with your rings. Regulus’ face flushed. He went to some parties, never stayed more than an hour though.

“Yeah i’ll-”

“Are you fucking coming y/n we ain’t waiting for ever” james yelled, his hands on his hips and his face flushed.

“Ill talk to you later.” you sighed and waved. Regulus blinked a few times watching you walk away, your head hanging in shame. Remus threw his arm over your shoulder as the group walked away.

–

Music was loud, but the people were louder. It was dark and lights were shining on ceiling and walls. Slytherin’s common room was cold, your arms were chilly as you sipped on your drink.

You watched lily and james, he had her against a wall, a hand beside her head dipping in and out to whisper in her ear. It was hard to swallow. Sirius was going around bumping into people and dancing while peter chased after him.

Regulus watched you a minute before approaching, evan had made him pregame just a little before going to the party.

James was keeping an eye on you.

You smiled when you saw a familiar face walk up to you.

“Hello” regulus greeted.

You laughed, “you’re drunk” you sat your drink down and took his.

“Maybe” regulus smiled. He was barely tipsy but it was sweet to watch you try and take care of him. He rubbed his arm, his eyes on the ground. “i appreciate you supporting me” regulus added.

“I told you i would, you think i just wouldn’t keep my end of deal?” you asked with a soft laugh.

“No i-”

“y/n come here” james ordered sternly, another conversation interrupted, he was doing it on purpose. Regulus scoffed and looked at james.

James grabbed you hand and nodded in the other direction, “i have to talk to you”

You looked at regulus, “ill be back kay?” you smiled and started to follow james.

Regulus nodded, his face dropping and his eyes went back to the floor. He grinded his teeth. James thought he was better than everyone, no doubt his complex was threw the roof. Regulus dug his nails into the palm of his hand.

“James you are being fucking rude” you scolded as he walked you into a room.

“What did i tell you, stop hanging out with that fucker” james huffed, his chest was puffed.

“What the fuck is wrong with you james?” you asked him, throwing your arms out.

James got closer to you, he knew how to fuck with you. His hand pushed your hair out of your face. His voice softened to a whisper.

“You’re too good for him, he’s just gonna use you.”

You inhaled sharply. His hand grazing your cheek and you leaned into his touch.

#marauder era #regulus black #artist!regulus #marauders #the marauders #regulus black x y/n #regulus black hurt/comfort #regulus black angst #regulus black x you #regulus black x reader #regulus black x reader hurt/comfort #james potter #remus lupin #regulus black fanfiction #marauders era x reader

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theglassofmiddleearth · 10 months ago

Text

Real or not real?

Teaser

James Potter X reader. Slow burn. Warning for domestic abuse and neglect (Black family)(no Lily slander) Around 3.3k words? Fifth year start.

A Spotify playlist of some ambient music!

Autumn in the Scottish Highlands was, in itself a reason to attend Hogwarts. Blue September skies, speckled with wispy clouds. The falling bronze leaves and the red hued sunsets.

This was no less than a second home to most students. A safe haven if you will. It was good to be going home.

She had grown up with Sirius and Regulus so her regular residence wasn't much of a home. Her parents Ignatius and Lucretia (Black) Prewett had left her to Orion and Walburga often so they could travel around France. Noone actually knew where they would be or for how long they would travel. Only that they were always gone for indefinite amounts of time. They never sent letters, maybe an odd postcard or two. Y/N kept them hidden in a drawer in her room. (Call her sentimental if you will.) The terrible house of Black had adored her until she was sorted into Gryffindor along with Sirius. After that, they were both called blood traitors and treated as such. However, being someone else’s child, they treated her with less disdain than Sirius. That being said, they weren't the kindest of people, if at all.

Y/N would bring Sirius half her food when he would get sent to his room early without dinner. (which was quite often.) Sneaking things in her long sleeves and pockets whenever she could. Strangely, Kreacher had caught her once, but he said absolutely nothing and pretended that he saw nothing. (She would not forget this kindness.)

Things only escalated when they reached their, now, fifth year. Y/N always took her yellings, occasional threats, and hexes in silence whereas Sirius would fight back. In a way, she admired him for his bravery, knowing that he possessed the strength that she lacked. Whereas, his admiration for her resided in her refusal to back down, cry or beg. They had a mutual respect for one another. On another hand, she was somewhat envious of Regulus, he was apparently the perfect child who was, (seemingly) loved.

That was until she started to notice the bags under his eyes at the beginning of this year. She hadn’t really had the chance to talk to him, between Walburga’s looming presence and by the younger boy’s being sorted into Slytherin. However, she had the feeling he wasn’t exactly taking up his family ideals to heart.

Ever since fifth year began, Y/N and Sirius had never again called 12 Grimmauld Place home.

Y/N kicked her feet rhythmically, leaning her head on Lily Evans' shoulder. Their Hogwarts express compartment was filled with chatter, a welcome distraction from her thoughts. Somehow, over the past four years, she had been adopted into the gryffindor group of girls in her dormitory. Lily, Alice, Marlene, and Dorcas, had patiently and painstakingly, coaxed the girl out of her shell. Y/N was truly grateful for their friendship. In the beginning she couldn't help feeling that their kindness was based on pity. That had made it hard for her to trust them. This meant that before fifth year, she had never really interacted with them outside of the Gryffindor house dorms.

Marlene and Dorcras were pelting question after question at Alice, wanting to know the details of her crush on Frank Longbottom. Ever the curious couple, Y/N felt slightly glad that she wasn’t on the receiving end of their questions.

‘You’ll be “Alice Longbottom” one day.’ Y/N grinned teasingly at the girl with the pixie cut.

Alice laughed before shrugging good naturedly, 'We’ll see. Frank is awfully shy. I might have to be the one initiating everything.’

Marlene cut in with her arm around Dorcas, ever a picturesque couple. ‘And Lily’s last name will be “Potter!”’

Y/N stifled a giggle at the comment.

Lily gagged before letting out a sigh, ‘It’s not that Potter isn’t just a complete tool. I’m also just not into men.’

Y/N shrugged. ‘Yeah, you keep making eyes at Emmeline Vance during charms. It’s actually kind of sickening how adorable your pining face is.’

Lily flicked Y/N’s nose. ‘When are you going to start hanging out with us outside the dorms? All you do is go to the library or hide in the kitchens and bake while chatting with the elves.’

Dorcas pouted, adding, ‘You don't even sit with us during class!’

Y/N winced while casting her eyes down. Another thing, she really didn’t like drawing attention to herself or loud noises. Those things usually lead to shouting and maybe a raised hand back at Grimmauld Place. They caused an unpleasant reaction out of the girl.

‘I can’t do crowds, I really am sorry. It’s not that I don't want to, you’re all lovely but-’

‘That's alright, you take your time love. You'll come talk to the rest of us when you're ready.’ Alice gently reassured her, patting the girl beside her on the arm.

Y/N smiled gratefully. The girls weren’t at all pushy about getting Y/N to hang out with them. However, they did always ask. They wanted her to feel and be included. None of them ever took a rejection personally. It was what made Y/N lower her walls all the more.

Lily ruffled Y/N’s hair affectionately. The rest of the girls continued their chat whilst the introverted girl stared out the window, still leaning on Lily’s shoulder, taking in the view and enjoying the company. The dark pine trees that littered the lands surrounding all the lochs, glittered in the rare sunlight. She let out a soft sigh, allowing herself to relax, just for that moment.

The hustle and bustle of the students, all ecstatic to see each other again made Y/N giddy. She had, however, skipped the feast, opting to go say hello to all the elves who had finished preparing the feast. She particularly enjoyed Wigby’s desserts. (He was admittedly her favourite house elf.) He made the best sweets which led to Y/N learning all her baking skills from the friendly house elf.

The halls were electric with energy, almost tangible. This year Y/N and her friends were to be taking their O.W.L exams. To be honest, she was completely ready, having already studied up to the N.E.W.T level of all her subjects. Studying and reading at Hogwarts was her escape, truly. She padded into the first class, Potions. She slipped into the seat next to Lily, quickly giving the red haired girl a gentle squeeze on her hand and flashing a smile at the rest of the girls who greeted her enthusiastically. They had convinced her to sit with them during classes this year instead of her usual spot at the back away from prying eyes.

As they continued their conversation, Y/N unpacked her quill, and parchment while waiting for the lesson to start. As she doodled a small picture of a cauldron, a cocky voice crooned out. ‘Ah, my sweet girl, how I’ve missed- Who are you and why are you in my seat?’, James Potter. Lily’s self proclaimed “sweetheart” word vomited at the poor girl.

Y/N gripped the desk tightly, her knuckles turning white. Confrontation, how lovely. As much of an amusing topic of complaint he was that she had heard from conversation with the girls. He was completely unfamiliar to her. She found a spot on the table and stared at it with the utmost concentration, unable to bring her eyes to meet the owner of the voice. Lily also ignored the voice. Instead opting to cover Y/N’s hand with her own, continuing her conversation with Marlene, and Dorcas about the importance of studying for their O.W.L’s

‘Ah, you’ll survive the lesson James, come on,’ a voice drawled, waving James away. A voice which Y/N immediately recognised as belonging to Sirius.

Y/N looked up and turned around, wanting to meet Sirius’s eyes to mouth a, “Thank you” but her eyes met hazel ones instead.

‘Oh.’ James mumbled with wide eyes. He was standing right behind her, not having moved back to his actual “spot”.

Y/N’s eyes darted away immediately before finding Sirius’s. His eyebrows were raised with mirth and he smiled, shrugging his shoulders. She flashed him a small smile before turning around, basically ignoring James Potter. This was new. People didn't usually ignore him. They would at least retort with something witty, but to be completely silent?

‘Mr Potter, I trust you will be able to find your seat?’ Professor Slughorn called out, striding into the classroom, his large belly preceding him through the door. He was Y/N's favourite professor. He was kind to Lily and Y/N. (Probably due to their prowess in potions but nonetheless!)

‘Yes sir.’ James sat down without protest, his gaze lingering on her before his thoughts were interrupted by Professor Slughorn. He hadn’t noticed her before. How had he not noticed someone for four years?

‘Today, we will be assigning our first assignment of the year. An essay on polyjuice potion. Four weeks sounds like ample time does it not?’

As the professor announced their first assignment. James couldn't help but notice how Y/N avoided looking in any direction that wasn't the front or her notes. He leaned in close to Sirius, whispering just loud enough for him to hear amongst the groans of the class,

‘What's her deal?’ He asked, glancing at Y/N again.

Y/N dutifully jotted down the specifics of the assignment, (unbeknownst to her) under James’s gaze, allowing Lily to periodically glance at her notes. She whispered something into Lily’s ear to which the redhead smiled at her and nodded.

‘What are they whispering about?’ James nudged Sirius again.

‘Y/N probably asked if Lily wanted to pair up.’ Remus interrupted. ‘She is rather shy.’

‘You know her?’ James gaped at the sandy haired boy.

‘James, Y/N has been in our classes since first year. She just doesn’t really talk.’

‘Besides, you’re too busy pining over your “Lilypad” to really notice any other women.’ Sirius mused with his arms crossed, feeling slightly protective of his little cousin.

‘And how do you know her?’ James retorted. Ignoring Sirius's quip, however true it could have been.

‘She’s my cousin.’

‘Huh.’ Remus blinked.

‘You didn't know that?’ James glanced at Remus ‘I thought you knew her?’

‘No, I just know she’s practically topping almost every class, she doesn’t really speak to-’

‘Now boys, would you like to share your conversation with the rest of Gryffindor and Slytherin?’ Slughorn called out to the boys, his large walrus moustache twitched above his lip, the man seemingly amused by their chattering.

‘No sir.’ Remus replied evenly.

‘Well then! I shall announce the pairings for the assignment!’ He smiled merrily, ignoring the cries of protest from the rest of the class.

Y/N’s face paled and she whipped her head to look at Lily. Usually they were paired off in their seats, not randomly. Y/N had truly enjoyed his classes up till now but this? Suddenly Slughorn was rapidly losing his status as favourite professor.

Lily looked at her worriedly, “Lets just hear who you have to pair with. If it's someone obnoxious, we’ll go speak to the professor or I’ll swap with you.”

Y/N’s heart swelled with emotion at her friend's empathy.

‘I couldn’t ask that of you Lily.’ Y/N whispered, misty-eyed. Kindness was a luxury that Y/N had so often been not able to afford for so long. Seeing it up close and displayed just for her, she couldn't help but be slightly overwhelmed.

‘It’s okay, I’m the one who offered.’ Lily patted her arm, reassuring the fidgety girl.

‘If I could marry you Lily Evans, I would do it in a heartbeat.’ Y/N tugged at Lily’s sleeve, looking down bashfully.

‘Now if only you were into women.’ Lily grinned, squishing Y/N’s cheeks with her hands gently. ‘What a treat you would be.’

‘Lily!’ The shy girl pouted, batting away the other girl's hands playfully.

‘Ms Mckinnon, and Ms Meadowes,’ To which the couple let out a happy cheer.

‘James Potter, and Lily Evans,’ Lily slumped over immediately, letting her head rest onto the desk with a quite audible Thwump! To which Y/N giggled, at her sudden change in demeanour.

James was completely caught off guard when Professor Slughorn announced his partner for the assignment. He had been so preoccupied with the revelation of Y/N being related to Sirius and trying to figure her out that he hadn’t even been paying attention to the teacher. He couldn’t help but let out a small chuckle at Lily’s exaggerated head bang onto the desk after hearing her own partner. Before he could think of a witty comeback, he heard the next pairing.

‘Sirius Black, and Y/N Prewett.’ Y/N perked up, looking at Lily with bright eyes, shaking her head with a smile. This was one of the people she would be able to work with!

‘Remus Lupin, and Peter Pettigrew.’ The two boys subtly high fived. Strangely enough, James wasn’t making a huge fuss over being paired with Lily. Strange enough for even Y/N to take notice, though she refrained from commenting.

Remus took a side glance at James, he wasn't sure if he would regret asking his friend his question.

‘You're not ecstatic over being paired with Lily?’ Remus questioned.

‘I am, I just...’ James shook his head. At this point, he knew Lily wasn't into him. In fact, he wasn't even sure she liked men. He wasn't the only boy in Hogwarts to have ever asked her out. At this point, it was just a long bit and a way to keep other girls from approaching him.

Sirius smirked knowingly. He may have been a lazy student but he sure as hell wasn't stupid. He could tell that after third years incessant rejections, James had no desire to date LIly ever since.

‘Since you all feel the need to cheer at each pairing. I shall leave the list on the board and you can all cheer at the same time. Take this time to move into your pair and discuss your assignment. That'll be all for this lesson. Welcome back students.’ Slughorn's eyes glimmered with amusement, revealing the quip towards the class to be good natured. The professor sat back down at his seat as the class began to disperse once again into chatter and movement. He generously answered stray questions from the students who wandered to his desk in need of assistance.

Y/N stood up and walked over to Sirius’s desk and nudged his foot with her own. Grabbing his attention soundlessly.

Sirius gave her a genuine smile and shoved James with his shoulder.

‘Go over to your “Lily flower”. I’ve got to discuss the assignment with my partner.’

James blinked owlishly at Y/N, still taking in her very existence.

‘Sorry?’ Y/N whispered, looking at him hesitantly.

‘Quite alright,’ James nodded, standing up to walk towards Lily without his signature smirk.

Y/N sat down with Sirius and smiled shyly before asking, ‘Is Potter alright? I thought he would be thrilled to be up partnered with Lily?’

Sirius blinked, ‘You keep up with this stuff?’

Y/N tilted her head from side to side, ‘Not particularly, more like I listen to Lily complain in the dorms. It’s hard to miss. She says he's quite…’

‘Stubborn?’

‘We’ll go with that.’ She quickly agreed, not wanting to rat out her friend.

‘Hey so this means you finally have to talk to me outside of our house.’ Sirius teased.

Y/N grinned at him and retorted, ‘I’m not sharing my food with you here at home Sirius, we get plenty to eat here.’

They shared a smile. Knowing they had each other's backs even without constant catch ups was a good feeling. The unspoken bond they shared wasn’t obvious to outsiders, but Sirius and Y/N knew, and that was enough.

‘So, the assignment. We’re describing how to brew the potion, all the ingredients and for extra credit, we can list out the dangers of the potion such as the errors.’

Sirius sighed, ‘I’m not really good with the-’

‘You’re good at finding information, I’ll handle the writing, you just tell me the information and I’ll make it sound good!’ Y/N nodded excitedly.

‘What do you mean?’ Sirius stared blankly at the girl, completely unconvinced.

‘You always know where, how and who to prank! It's the same thing!’

‘It’s completely different.’ Sirius deadpanned.

‘Where did you learn the hair changing spell?’ Y/N crossed her arms.

‘In a transfiguration textbook. I was putting the books back in the library after Remus and oh-’ Sirius nodded slowly as he came to realise what the girl meant by being “good”.

‘See?’ Y/N smiled at him brilliantly, seeming proud of his (apparent) talent.

‘Y’know, this is nice, why don’t we do this more often.’

‘I don’t do-’

‘Crowds, yeah I know, and at the house, we’re too emotionally exhausted to talk.’

They both let out a heavy sigh before chuckling at their shared experience. Comfortable silences were rare, but with each other, the cousins were able to revel in each other's company. A truly unique connection formed by trauma. 'At least something good came out of it?' They had mused.

As the rest of the class chattered away, discussing the project or just gossiping, Y/N and Sirius decided to meet up after dinner that night and every wednesday. The pair knew they had Defence Against the Dark Arts next. Sirius offered to walk with her to class, to which she accepted gratefully, mentioning Lily and Alice would probably also be with her.

As the class began to filter out, Lily and Alice had walked over to Y/N to wait for her.

‘You’ve got DADA next, with us right?’ Alice beamed.

Y/N nodded, somewhat feeling excited to have people to walk to class with. Being with three people wouldn't be a crowd!

‘There's a new teacher this year!’ Lily supplied this new information.

‘Again?’ Y/N wrinkled her nose. It was rather strange actually, ever since professor Merrythought had retired, it seemed as if every Defence teacher had resigned after a year.

A rather strange situation, but, none of her concern.

‘Who is it?’ She asked as a passing question, not overly invested in the answer.

‘Some guy named Knittingley.’ Remus piped up from behind them, startling Y/N into almost dropping her books.

‘Sorry love,’ he grinned sheepishly, ‘you alright?’

‘Ah, you down right scared the poor thing, Remus. Now she won't ever talk to us again.’ Sirius whined before breaking into a cheeky smirk, waggling his eyebrows up and down.

Y/N considered throwing something at her relative but then decided it would be too much work and that her books weren’t made for throwing.

‘What’s the hold up?’ James questioned from the doorway, calling out to the group, ‘lets go, Peter’s already gone ahead.’

Suddenly it wasn’t only three people anymore.

Somehow, Y/N had been looped into walking to class with five other people. Technically five was a group, not really a crowd, right? Sirius had swung his arm over Y/N, as if preventing her from running away.

Lily and Alice were in the front, enthusiastically discussing the topics of the next class. They were fervently hoping that their first class wasn’t going to be a revision on Boggarts, as they knew it would be in the curriculum.

Meanwhile, in the back, James was asking Remus about something about mandrake leaves and cycles of the moon.

In the midst of her conversation with Sirius, their formation, Y/N noticed. It seemed like almost a barrier against other students? Y/N internally shook her head. Most likely a coincidence, right? Why would it be intentional?

Sirius was babbling on, about the effects of conditioner on hair and how he found it amusing that James would use one that had a charm to make his hair extra bouncy. Y/N had stiffened a chuckle at this while James whined as he heard this and protested that he needed the extra shine and bounce.

‘It makes me look nice!’

To which Y/N nodded along, looking at Sirius, not noticing that James had beamed when she seemingly agreed. Remus looked on with a rather pleased smile, his nose scrunching. He had always wanted to befriend the shy girl. Now that she had somehow mustered up the courage (been practically physically restrained) to keep up with their group. He, along with the rest of the group, was excited to witness this side of the girl they had never seen before.

Unbeknownst to Y/N, her fifth year would be the true beginning of her life at Hogwarts.

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

AND THATS CHAPTER 1 DONE! Lucky for you guys (all like 7 of you) I have the ENTIRE story planned out! All there is, is for me to flesh it out! Please like or comment if you'd like another part! (if not I'll still probably post it, I'm too excited about this!) This isn't inline with my Pethryn story line and I have taken some liberties! I'm sorry again if you don't particularly like this! We will be delving into Remus being a werewolf, the Marauders map and fleshing out Regulus and Snape's characters! (possibly Peter as well. I kinda hate that guy 🤬) ALSO YES THE TITLE IS LOOSELY INSPIRED BY THE HUNGER GAMES!

edit-

Okay, I changed my mind, I want this to be a long form fic- THIS IS NOW JUST THE TEASER

#james potter fanfiction #james potter x reader #sirius black #sirius black x reader #sirius x reader #remus x reader #remus lupin x reader #marauders x reader #marauders era #james potter imagines #sirius black imagines #remus lupin imagines #marauders fluff #the maraunders map #wizarding world of harry potter #harry potter imagines #harry potter fanfiction

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