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maraudereestauderelb · 2 months ago

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What if you're the defendant in one of the trials after the first War against Voldemort?

Hello everyone,

but a special "Hello" to those who love morally grey characters and who imagine themselves a little more "layered" when it comes to the World of Harry Potter and the Marauders.

We can't all be noble Gryffindores who never make any mistakes or wrong choices, can we?

Don't tell me, you've never imagined yourself using a little...dark magic...

Join me and be part of your very own trial! Sounds like fun, right?!

Are you guilty? What have you done? Who are you on the inside? - Let's find out together!

Oh and if you want a little music to set the tone, I've got a little recommendation.

It was a dark room. The tall walls and floor were covered in black marble tiles with the result that every step taken by one of the wizards and witches and every word said inside the biggest courtroom of the magical ministry was echoing, making the volume almost unbearable.

The wooden stands at the end of the room were filled with about fifty rather old witches and wizards dressed in plum-covered robes with elaborate silver initials on them, the members of the Wizengamot. Next to them sat one wizard dressed in black at a tribune. His name Bartemius Crouch, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, the prosecutor.

The rows around the circular room overcrowded with spectators waiting for the trial to begin, amongst them a lot of journalist. In the center of it all was one single chair on which a young woman was sitting, magically bound to it. Behind the chair in the center was another bench filled with five witches and wizards, the witnesses. On the left to the bench was a tiny desk with a chair on which another woman was sitting, her lawyer.

The young woman in the center was nervous, her body slightly shaking, but nobody seemed to notice. On the outside she looked strong and unfazed. But she was worried. Worried she would lose the trial, worried about the two dementors guarding the door, worried she had to go back to the prison which had been her home for the past month, Askaban.

She had been in the room on the tenth floor of the Ministry of Magic before, but as one of the visitors. The trial back then had been extremely private, the ministry trying to keep everything as secret as possible without getting much attention, but her very own trial was different. The room filled with those who wanted to see another Death Eater and murderer locked away for life.

Her heartbeat was going crazy and she was on the verge of tears already. She didn’t dare to look back to the witnesses behind her. The people who had her fate right in their hands. The odds weren’t good and she knew it.

The past month in Askaban had her losing her mind.

The young witch cringed when suddenly the prosecutor cleared his throat and with magically enhanced voice said: “Case 5895026. The magical ministry against Miss Y/N Y/S/N Y/F/N.” Within the blink of an eye, everybody had gone quiet and Y/N’s heart had stopped beating for a second.

“Miss Y/F/N”, he continued looking at her with disgust, just like everybody else: “You have been brought here to the Council of Magical Law so that we may pass judgement on you, for a crime about betrayal, plotting and murder. You are being charged with the murder of seven witches and wizards including two children of the ages four and three. What do you plead?”

“Not guilty”, her lawyer suddenly got up from her chair. “The defender Hailey Cornelia Carter”, Crouch said: “And todays witnesses are Professor Filius Flitwick, former teacher of the accused, Y/M/N, mother of the accused, Arabella McKinnon, family member of the victims, Alastor Moody, Auror, and Rabastan Lestrange.”

The witnesses nodded one after another before Crouch went on: “You’re advised to leave the court room until you’re called.”

Until each and every one of them had left the room, Y/N hadn’t dared to turn around. She couldn’t look at them. Couldn’t look at her mother. She had no idea whether her mother believed the accusations or not. Y/N hadn’t talked to her for months. What if she believed her very own daughter was guilty?

“Today we are talking about the events during the night of the 26th of July in the year 1970, where three Death Eaters attacked the McKinnons with Fiendfyre and burned down their house, killing seven witches and wizards. Paul McKinnon, Elisabeth McKinnon, their daughters Marlene McKinnon and Juliana Miller, Juliana’s husband Alfred Miller and their daughter, Pauline, and son, William. Ladies and Gentlemen, we are talking about a crime involving very dark and mighty magic. A forbidden curse. A curse which was purposely used to kill not only adults but two little children as well. On the night of the 26th of July in the year 1970 seven people had to die a horrible and extremely cruel death. It had been a quiet night like every other until their house went up in smoke and fire, because a coward had attacked them from a distance without a warning. And Miss Y/F/N here is accused of being said witch.”

During Crouch’s speech the young witch in the middle of the room hadn’t raised her head a single time. Her brown eyes were glued to her hands. Never had she ever imagined she could end up in this position. She had been a good kid, a hardworking student, a loyal friend. And yet she was right where she was. In the middle of a courtroom, magically bound to a chair, in front of her the Wizengamot. She didn’t belong there and yet she felt guilt heavy on her shoulders.

James’, Lily’s and Peter’s deaths, Sirius’s and then her arrest felt like they happened years ago, in another life, but she knew they had only happened a months. Her friends…they were all dead, or worse.

“And I know what everybody in this room is thinking right now: Why? Why would a young witch do something as horrible as this. And the answer…the answer is simple, ladies and gentlemen, out of love.”

Sirius. They were trying to blame this on him as well?

“Miss Carter”, Crouch looked at Hailey: “You have the word.”

“Thank you, Mister Crouch”, Hailey nodded in his direction and got up with an almost unrecognizable sigh. Y/N knew how nervous she was. This was only her second trial, but she had fought so hard to even get her a trial, although everybody already seemed sure about the outcome. It was hopeless.

“First of all”, Hailey shrugged and casually leaned against the chair Y/N was sitting on: “Mister Crouch, you were wrong. Not everybody in this room was thinking what you pointed out mere seconds ago, because the question I have been asking myself ever since my client got arrested is: Why now? My client got arrested on the third of November 1971, a month ago, but the crime she is being accused of happened more than a year before that. So, I’ve been wondering…why not earlier? ...And then I knew the answer to it, because you never had the slightest evidence, you never had and you still don’t. My client, a young witch who never did anybody any harm, is suddenly accused of killing not only one person, but seven with a curse so dark, I bet, not even you as the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement would know how to successfully perform it. How should a twenty year old witch do it then? This entire trial is ridiculous! There is no proof and my client is innocent!”

“So what you are saying Miss Carter is that your client, Miss Y/F/N, never would have been able to evoke a Fiendfyre? That she is lacking the skill to do so? Miss Y/FN, are you supporting this statement?” But before she was able to answer Hailey said: “Of course she does!”

“Why don’t we ask someone who could give us a more competent opinion on this. I call Professor Filius Flitwick to the witness stand.”

Hailey stepped aside as the small figure of Professor Filius Flitwick entered the courtroom. His hesitant steps echoed off the black marble walls, each one punctuating the rising tension in the room. Y/N kept her gaze locked on her trembling hands, unable to meet the professor’s eyes. She had always admired him, had always seen him as more than a teacher—a guide, someone who had encouraged her love for magic before that love became an obsession.

Flitwick climbed into the witness stand, his expression betraying his reluctance. “Professor Flitwick,” Barty Crouch began, his voice sharp and cutting. “You were Miss Y/F/N’s teacher during her time at Hogwarts, correct?”

“Yes,” Flitwick replied, his voice soft but steady. “I taught her Charms throughout her seven years at the school.”

“And how would you describe her abilities?” Crouch leaned forward slightly, his sharp eyes narrowing.

Flitwick sighed, wringing his hands. “Y/N was… exceptional. She was one of the brightest students I’ve ever had the privilege of teaching. Talented, driven, and deeply curious. In her final years, she was the top of her class in Defense Against the Dark Arts and Charms.”

A murmur rippled through the audience. Y/N’s heart clenched as she felt every word like a dagger in her chest. Her gaze flicked up for a brief moment, catching the face of someone she desperately wanted to avoid, seated in the audience. Her former friend’s face was a mask of cold contempt, and Y/N quickly looked away.

Crouch’s lips curled into a slight smile. “A prodigy, then. Surely, someone with such talent would have the knowledge and skill to perform a curse as advanced as Fiendfyre?”

Hailey interjected, her voice calm but firm. “Professor Flitwick, in your opinion, would my client ever have been interested in such magic?”

Flitwick hesitated, his small hands gripping the edge of the stand. “Not at first,” he admitted, his voice laced with sadness. “Y/N had always been eager to learn, but in her last year, I noticed… a change.”

“What kind of change?” Crouch prompted.

“She became distant, withdrawn. One day, I discovered a forbidden book in her possession. A text on the Dark Arts. I confiscated it, of course, but… she was different after that. She looked tired, as if something was draining her. She seemed... lost.”

Y/N closed her eyes, memories flooding her mind. The long nights pouring over that book in the Room of Requirement. The allure of knowledge so forbidden it felt intoxicating. How she had used the Marauder’s Map and Sirius’s Invisibility Cloak to sneak into the restricted section. Her thirst for understanding had felt insatiable, but it was never meant to harm anyone. It was for knowledge, for power over her own destiny, not for destruction.

“Professor,” Crouch’s voice broke through her thoughts, “do you believe Miss Y/F/N was capable of summoning Fiendfyre?”

Flitwick’s face crumpled, and he looked directly at Y/N for the first time. She finally met his eyes, pleading silently. But she knew the answer before he spoke.

“I do,” he said softly, the words falling like a death knell. The room erupted in gasps and whispers, but all Y/N could hear was the pounding of her own heart. Flitwick turned to her, his face etched with regret. “I’m sorry,” he said.

The words felt heavier than the chains binding her to the chair. For the first time, Y/N felt tears prick her eyes, but she forced them back. Her voice—her defense—felt smaller than ever.

Hailey stepped forward again, her tone sharp. “Professor Flitwick, isn’t it also true that Y/N excelled in all forms of magic, not just the Dark Arts? That she showed immense skill in protective spells and healing charms? Skills that contradict the accusation that she would ever commit such heinous acts?”

Flitwick nodded, but his earlier words hung in the air like a specter. The damage had been done.

As Professor Flitwick stepped down from the witness stand, the tension in the room seemed to coil tighter around Y/N’s chest. Her breath hitched, and a cold shiver ran down her spine. She knew who was next.

Her mother.

They hadn’t spoken in months—since her arrest, since everything fell apart. But even before that, the rift between them had widened, starting the day her sister was killed. The guilt was unbearable. Her younger sister, bright and determined, had followed Y/N’s footsteps into the Order of the Phoenix. It was unusual for purebloods, but their family had stood firmly on the right side of this war. Her parents had been proud.

Then came the mission with Marlene McKinnon.

The night she didn’t return.

The news had shattered their family. Y/N had stopped going home after that, unable to face her parents. She had joined the Order first, after all, and without her, maybe her sister wouldn’t have followed. Maybe she’d still be alive.

A rustle of movement brought her back to the present. Her mother stepped into the witness stand, her robes slightly askew, her face pale and drawn. Y/N didn’t dare lift her eyes to meet her mother’s. She couldn’t bear to see the grief, or worse, the doubt.

“Please state your name,” Barty Crouch instructed, his tone professional but with an edge of impatience.

“Y/M/N Y/L/N,” her mother said, her voice trembling slightly.

Crouch nodded. “Mrs. Y/L/N, you are the mother of the accused. Can you tell us what you know about your daughter’s allegiances?”

Her mother took a deep breath, glancing briefly at Y/N before looking out over the courtroom. “For what I knew… my daughter joined the Order of the Phoenix with good intentions. She wanted to fight against You-Know-Who and protect those who couldn’t protect themselves. When her friends had asked her to join them in the order, she had been excited!”

A murmur rippled through the audience, but it was quickly silenced by a sharp look from Crouch. He stepped forward, clasping his hands behind his back. “Which friends are we talking about?”

“James Potter, Sirius Black-” Gasps echoed through the room.

“Good intentions, you say. But do you have any evidence to support this claim?”

Her mother hesitated, her lips parting as if to speak, but no words came. Finally, her shoulders slumped, and she shook her head. “No. I don’t.”

Tears welled in her mother’s eyes, and her voice cracked as she continued. “But I know my daughter. I know she couldn’t—she wouldn’t—do something so… so monstrous. I don’t believe it. I can’t believe it.”

Crouch pounced. “When was the last time you spoke with your daughter, Mrs. Y/L/N?”

“Months ago,” her mother admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “After her sister’s death… it became too painful to—”

“And did you notice changes in her behavior?” Crouch interrupted, his tone cutting. “Did she seem… different?”

“Yes,” her mother said reluctantly. “But the war has changed all of us. It’s taken so much from us. Her sister’s death…” Her voice broke. “It broke her.”

“And what about her relationship with Sirius Black?” Crouch pressed. “How would you describe it?”

Her mother seemed taken aback by the question but answered after a pause. “Strong. Impulsive. She loved him deeply, perhaps obsessively, as young people often do at that age.”

“Could he have influenced her?” Crouch asked sharply.

“No!” Her mother’s response was immediate, almost panicked. “I don’t believe he would ever…”

But Crouch wasn’t finished. “Didn’t you just say that your daughter wouldn’t have joined the Order of the Phoenix if not for Sirius Black?”

Her mother’s eyes widened, realizing her mistake too late. “I—yes, but—”

“Thank you, Mrs. Y/L/N,” Crouch cut her off, his tone triumphant. “You’ve made your position clear. If Sirius Black could influence her to join the Order, who’s to say he couldn’t influence her to commit darker acts? Perhaps their loyalty to You-Know-Who was simply well-concealed, a strategy to infiltrate and betray.”

“That’s not true!” her mother cried, tears streaming down her face. “She’s innocent! She would never—she couldn’t—” Her voice broke completely, and she looked at Y/N, desperation in her eyes. “I’ll get you out of this,” she promised, her voice trembling. “I know you’re innocent, sweetheart. I know.”

Y/N couldn’t look at her. Her mother’s words cut deeper than any accusation. Innocent. The word felt like a stone in her chest, because she wasn’t sure it was true. She had never intended to hurt anyone, never wanted to stray so close to the darkness. But her thirst for knowledge, her reckless love for Sirius—they had all led her here, to this chair, with her prisoner number inked into her skin like a brand.

And for the first time, she wondered if maybe she did belong here.

Arabella McKinnon walked into the witness stand with a presence that silenced the room. Her grief was palpable, etched into her features like a permanent scar. She knew Arabella’s job today wasn’t to present facts—it was to stir emotions, to make sure no one left this courtroom doubting who the villain was.

Arabella spoke with a quiet dignity at first, her voice steady but heavy with sorrow. She described the McKinnons—their warmth, their bravery, the way Marlene had laughed so easily, even in the darkest of times. She described the children, their lives snuffed out before they had even truly begun. Her words painted vivid, haunting images, and the room hung on every syllable.

“They were everything to me,” Arabella said, her voice breaking. “And they died screaming. My family burned alive because someone—because she”—her trembling hand pointed directly at Y/N—“decided they didn’t deserve to live.”

A sob erupted somewhere in the audience, and Y/N felt like the floor beneath her chair was crumbling. She wanted to scream, to deny it, but the words wouldn’t come. Her throat felt like it was closing, the air in the room thick and suffocating.

“And for what?” Arabella continued, her voice rising. “For power? For loyalty to that… that monster? You knew them, Y/N! You knew them, and you did it anyway!”

“I didn’t—” Y/N began to whisper, but Arabella cut her off, her grief giving way to fury.

“Don’t you dare speak!” Arabella’s voice cracked like a whip. “You don’t get to sit there and pretend you’re innocent. You deserve Azkaban. You deserve to rot there for the rest of your miserable life, with nothing but the screams of my family to keep you company!”

The courtroom erupted into chaos. Shouts and murmurs filled the air, but all Y/N could hear were Arabella’s words, echoing like a curse in her mind. Her stomach twisted painfully, nausea clawing its way up her throat. She tried to suppress it, to hold herself together, but the pressure was unbearable. As Arabella was escorted out of the courtroom, still sobbing and shouting curses at her, Y/N doubled over.

She barely managed to turn her head before she vomited onto the cold marble floor next to her chair. The bile burned her throat, but it was nothing compared to the searing pain in her chest. She stayed hunched over, her hair falling in a curtain around her face, trying to catch her breath as tears streamed down her cheeks. The courtroom was silent now, save for the faint echoes of her retching.

Her gaze, blurry and unfocused, drifted upward, searching the crowded bleachers. She was looking for one face. One pair of eyes. She found them, but the expression she saw was ice cold. No sympathy, no compassion.

Her former friend stared down at her, and Y/N’s heart shattered all over again. The words they had once exchanged, years ago, came rushing back with painful clarity.

“We may fight for different sides, but I’ll never betray you, Y/N. You’ll never find a dagger in your back held by me.”

The promise had been made in the shadow of their diverging choices, shaped as much by the war as by the men they loved—Sirius and Rabastan. But now, it felt hollow, broken. Y/N dropped her gaze to the chains on her wrists, unable to bear the emptiness in her friend’s eyes.

She wasn’t sure what hurt more: Arabella’s fury or the silence of someone she had once called a sister.

As Hailey stood to cross-examine Arabella’s devastating testimony, Y/N could feel the weight of hopelessness settling deeper into her chest. Her defender was determined, her voice steady as she tried to redirect the courtroom’s focus. But it was no use. The emotions stirred by Arabella’s words hung in the air like smoke, suffocating any attempt to shift the narrative. The damage was done.

Hailey returned to her seat, her hands clenched tightly, and for the first time, Y/N saw doubt flicker in her eyes. There was no saving this. The audience murmured restlessly as Barty Crouch called the next witness.

“Alastor Moody.”

The sound of Moody’s wooden leg hitting the marble floor was loud, deliberate, as he approached the stand. Each step sent another dagger of dread into Y/N’s gut. She knew Moody would bury her. He’d never trusted her, not from the moment she joined the Order. A pureblood with ties to the Black family, the Lestranges? To him, she was a walking liability. What would he say now that Sirius and her had both been arrested? The thought that Sirius was being dragged through the mud, even in her trial, made her feel sick all over again. She clung to the belief that Sirius’s trial, whenever it came, would vindicate him. She knew him better than anyone—it simply didn’t make sense that he’d betray James and Lily.

“State your name and occupation,” Crouch said as Moody settled into the stand.

“Alastor Moody. Auror,” he replied, his magical eye spinning wildly, taking in every corner of the room. When it passed over Y/N, she felt as though her soul was being laid bare.

“Mr. Moody,” Crouch began, “you’ve known the accused for some time, haven’t you?”

“I have,” Moody said gruffly. “Worked with her in the Order of the Phoenix.”

“And what was your impression of her?”

Moody’s lips curled into something between a grimace and a smirk. “I never fully trusted her,” he said bluntly. “She’s got the bloodline, the connections, and that… feeling about her. You’ve been an Auror as long as I have, you start to recognize it. The way the Dark Arts cling to someone.”

Y/N’s heart sank. She clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms as she avoided looking at the audience. She didn’t need to see their faces to know what they were thinking.

“Interesting,” Crouch said, leaning forward slightly. “And what do you mean by this… ��feeling’?”

Moody gave a sharp laugh. “Dark magic leaves traces. Most people can’t sense it, but after years of chasing dark wizards, you learn to pick up on it. And with Y/N, it’s always been there. A subtle hum, like static in the air.”

Crouch raised an eyebrow. “Fascinating. And yet, you worked alongside her?”

Moody shrugged. “I liked her sister well enough. She had a good heart, didn’t deserve what happened to her. But Y/N… I kept my guard up.”

Y/N stared at the floor, her mind racing. Where is Dumbledore? she thought bitterly. He had promised to protect her, to protect all of them when they joined the Order. But now, with everything falling apart, he was nowhere to be seen. He hadn’t been there for Sirius either, leaving him to rot in Azkaban. What had been the point of their loyalty if it was only met with abandonment?

Crouch continued. “Mr. Moody, have you ever witnessed the accused using dark magic?”

Moody hesitated, just for a moment, before nodding. “I have. In battle. It was during a skirmish with Death Eaters. She used spells that were… questionable.”

Y/N closed her eyes, her chest tightening. I only ever used it to protect my friends. The memory flashed before her eyes: spells cast in desperation, the heat of battle, the need to keep her friends alive. She thanked whatever shred of luck she had left that Moody hadn’t been there the one time she had crossed the line entirely.

The Imperius Curse.

She could still remember the way it had felt—the surge of power, the absolute control. She had forced three Death Eaters to their knees, stopping them from killing Lily. The effort had drained her so completely she had nearly passed out, but for a brief moment, she had felt pride. That single act, if anyone had seen it, would have been enough to condemn her to Azkaban without trial.

“And what do you make of her capabilities, Mr. Moody?” Crouch asked, his voice sharp. “Do you believe she is capable of casting Fiendfyre?”

Moody didn’t answer immediately. His magical eye swiveled to Y/N again, and she felt like it was peeling back every layer of her being. “Aye,” he said finally. “She’s capable. Doesn’t mean she did it, but the skill’s there.”

It was the final nail in the coffin, and Y/N knew it. She didn’t even flinch as he stepped down from the stand. Her thoughts were elsewhere, drowning in regret and anger.

I did what I had to do, she told herself, but the weight of her choices felt heavier with each passing second. And still, she couldn’t shake the question echoing in her mind: Where is Dumbledore?

As Rabastan Lestrange strode to the witness stand, his smirk alone was enough to send a chill down Y/N’s spine. He looked far too composed for someone who had been convicted of his own heinous crimes. Y/N couldn’t understand why they had brought him here. What could he possibly add?

She gripped the arms of her chair tightly, her fingers digging into the wood. Her gaze darted briefly to the audience, scanning for her former friend, Rabastan’s wife, and found her sitting stiffly among the crowd. Their eyes didn’t meet.

The courtroom fell silent as Crouch began the questioning. “State your name and affiliation.”

“Rabastan Lestrange,” he said smoothly, leaning back in the witness chair. “A convicted servant of the Dark Lord.”

There were murmurs from the audience, but Rabastan seemed to bask in the attention. His dark eyes flicked to Y/N, glinting with malice.

“You’ve claimed to have knowledge of the accused’s activities. Please, enlighten us,” Crouch said, his tone cold.

Rabastan chuckled. “Oh, I know more than a little about Y/N Y/L/N. She and her beloved Sirius Black were always slippery, but I’ve seen through their charade from the start. Working for the Order of the Phoenix? No, no, they were playing both sides, working for the Dark Lord all along.”

Y/N’s head shot up, her chest tightening. “He’s lying!” she shouted, her voice cracking, but Rabastan barely flinched.

Crouch raised a hand to silence her. “The accused will remain quiet unless addressed.”

Rabastan leaned forward, speaking directly to the Wizengamot. “I’ve seen her wield the Dark Arts like a master. I was there the night the McKinnons died. She was wild with rage, casting Fiendfyre like it was second nature. Enjoyed every moment of it, too.”

Y/N’s vision blurred as her pulse thundered in her ears. “That’s not true!” she cried, her voice breaking.

Rabastan ignored her, smiling cruelly. “I even offered her that place among us. Told her the Dark Lord would appreciate her talents. She was delighted?”

Y/N felt bile rising in her throat. The sheer audacity of his lies was almost unbearable. It was true, he had offered her said place, but she had declined. She had hated him from the start—hated everything he and his kind stood for. But she had stayed silent about his crimes, out of a twisted sense of loyalty to his wife. A loyalty that now felt painfully one-sided.

Her eyes flicked to her former friend. She sat motionless, her face unreadable. Y/N wanted to scream at her, to demand how she could just sit there and let this happen. Her for him. Every time.

When Rabastan spoke again, his voice was almost gleeful. “I saw her kill them all.”

Y/N froze. Her heart dropped into her stomach. It was a lie, twisted and reframed, but it wasn’t entirely baseless. There had been a moment—a stupid, reckless moment during one of her secret meetings with her friend—when she had spoken too much, blinded by grief.

Rabastan’s grin widened. “She’s been playing everyone from the start.”

“I’m not a murderer!” Y/N screamed, tears streaming down her face now. “You’re lying! You’re all lying!”

Hailey stood abruptly, her voice trembling with barely contained anger. “This is ridiculous! These are baseless accusations from a convicted Death Eater. If he’s so certain, let’s prove it.”

There was a beat of silence before Hailey said the words Y/N had been dreading.

“We request the use of Veritaserum.”

Gasps echoed through the courtroom. Even Rabastan’s smirk faltered slightly.

Crouch raised an eyebrow. “A bold request. The accused will need to consent.”

Y/N’s hands trembled as she clutched the arms of her chair. She knew the truth wouldn’t completely exonerate her. The things she had done—the spells she had cast—would seal her fate, even if she hadn’t killed the McKinnons.

But what choice did she have?

Her voice was barely a whisper as she said, “I consent.”

The room fell silent. It was over. One way or another, it was over.

The vial of Veritaserum sat glinting on the prosecutor's desk, the liquid inside swirling like molten silver. Y/N stared at it for a moment, her heart pounding in her chest. She knew what it would do. It would lay her soul bare, tear away every veil of secrecy she had ever crafted. And there were things—truths—that could never see the light of day.

With trembling hands, she lifted the vial to her lips. It tasted bitter and metallic as it slid down her throat. Almost instantly, she felt its effects—a strange, floating sensation, as though her mind had been disconnected from her body. She fought the pull, digging deep into her resolve. You can’t lie. But maybe, just maybe, you can choose how much you reveal.

“Miss Y/L/N,” Crouch began, his voice sharp and eager, “did you kill Marlene McKinnon and her family?”

The words struck like a physical blow, but she didn’t flinch. Her gaze darted to her former friend in the bleachers. There was no sympathy in her eyes, no shared history, no bond of trust. Nothing but cold detachment.

Y/N’s mind reeled back to that moment—the fateful conversation with her friend. She had been blinded by grief, suffocated by rage. Marlene McKinnon, her sister’s partner on that doomed mission, had survived. Her sister had not. That bitterness, the unjust cruelty of it all, had spilled out.

“Do you think Marlene deserves to die too?” her friend had asked softly. A simple question, laden with dark implications.

And Y/N, angry and lost, had nodded. Just a single, damning gesture.

She didn’t have to say it aloud to know what would happen next. Her friend had treated it like a gift—an act of warped kindness, an answer to Y/N’s unspoken grief.

But did that make her the killer?

“I didn’t cast the fire,” Y/N said at last, her voice steady but hollow. It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the whole truth either.

The courtroom held its collective breath. Crouch’s lips curled into a predatory smile. “Then who did?”

Y/N hesitated, the weight of the serum pressing on her, demanding an answer. She looked directly at her former friend, whose face betrayed no emotion.

“I believe it was Rabastan Lestrange who killed Marlene,” Y/N said. Her voice rang out clearly, each word deliberate.

Murmurs rippled through the audience, but Y/N didn’t care. She couldn’t look away from her friend. The betrayal cut deeper than any spell, deeper than the scars she carried.

“Have you ever cast Fiendfyre?” Crouch pressed, his voice rising with impatience.

“I’ve never cast it,” Y/N replied, and it was the truth.

Crouch’s frustration was palpable now. He paced before her, searching for a crack in her armor. “Have you done anything that could send you to Azkaban?”

Y/N’s heart thundered. She thought of the curses she’d used, the lines she had crossed to save her friends, her loyalty that had tied her hands and sealed her fate time and again. She could feel the truth clawing its way to the surface. But with the last vestiges of her will, she clung to one thought: He has to accuse me first. Don’t give him the power to condemn you.

Her voice was quiet but firm as she replied, “You will have to accuse me of a crime first if you want to convict me.”

For a long moment, silence hung heavy in the air. Crouch’s face twisted with anger and frustration. He knew he had lost.

Finally, he turned to the Wizengamot. “There is insufficient evidence to convict the accused of this crime. I am forced to call a verdict of not guilty.”

The words echoed in the chamber, and for a fleeting moment, Y/N felt a wave of relief. The chains binding her to the chair vanished, clattering to the ground.

But as she rose shakily to her feet, that relief turned to bitterness. The cheers from her lawyer, the gasps from the crowd, none of it mattered. James and Lily were gone. Peter was gone. Remus thought her a traitor, just like Sirius. And Sirius...

Sirius was in Azkaban. Alone, broken, abandoned, just as she had been.

She turned to leave the courtroom, her gaze falling once more on her friend in the bleachers. No words passed between them, but the message was clear. They were strangers now. Whatever bond they had shared was gone.

The freedom she had just won felt hollow. What was the point of any of it if she couldn’t save the people who mattered? If she couldn’t get Sirius out of that hellhole, what did this verdict even mean?

As she stepped into the cold air outside the Ministry, her prisoner number still etched on her arm, Y/N made a silent vow. If the world had given up on Sirius, then she would be the one to bring him back.

MASTERLIST

#the marauders #marauders #sirius black #sirius black x reader #angst #harry potter universe #your trial #imagine #james potter #lily evans #reader insert #death eaters #order of the phoenix #mad eye moody #bad or good?#morally grey characters #morally grey reader #powerful reader

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starsandsnakes · 4 months ago

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Top Gun x Marauders ff?

Top Gun: the elite training program where the best naval aviators in the world come to compete. For Sirius "Padfoot" Black, it's more than just a proving ground - it's a chance to escape the shadow of his powerful family, live up to the legacy of his late uncle Alphard, and carve out his own path in the sky. Alongside his best friend and RIO, James "Prongs" Potter, Sirius enters the high-stakes, high-speed world of aerial combat training, determined to prove he’s earned his place.

But not everyone is convinced. Severus "Phantom" Snape, a cool and calculating pilot, believes Sirius is only there because of his family name, a suspicion that fuels an intense rivalry. While Padfoot and Prongs soar to new heights, Marlene "Snippy" McKinnon and her wingwoman and girlfriend, Dorcas "Valkyrie" Meadowes, dominate the competition as the duo to beat. But it’s not just about being the best - I t’s about earning the respect of legends like "Mad-Eye" Moody, the grizzled veteran who sees echoes of Sirius' uncle in him.

When Sirius crosses paths with Remus "Moony" Lupin, a brilliant instructor with a sharp mind and a passion for the sky, he finds himself facing his toughest challenge yet - one that’s both thrilling and terrifying. As sparks fly and emotions run high, Sirius learns that there’s more to flying than pushing the limits; sometimes, you have to trust someone else to guide you through the turbulence.

Meanwhile, James and Lily navigate their own journey as James struggles to balance his reckless bravery with the responsibilities of being a team player, while Lily provides support from the ground, mirroring her bond with her late husband. Their story is one of love, loss, and finding the courage to let go.

As the competition intensifies, alliances form, rivalries deepen, and the stakes grow higher. With Phantom in his rearview and Snippy pushing him harder than ever, Sirius must confront his past, his doubts, and the ghost of a family legacy that looms over him. Can he prove to everyone, including himself, that he belongs, or will he crash and burn under the weight of expectation?

This fanfic will be dropping eventually

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braveclementine · 9 months ago

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Chapter 19

Warnings: Mentions alluding to non-con sexual content/rape (no rape happens however)

Copyright: I do not own any Wizarding World characters that J.K. Rowling wrote. I do however own Elizabeth Kane (main character) and Trang Nyguen (best friend). There should be no use of these two names without my permission. I also do not condone any copying of this.

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𝕴 𝖜𝖔𝖐𝖊 𝖚𝖕 sometime to a nearly empty house. I yawned as I walked down the stairs. Kreacher was reproachfully cleaning them- or pretending to- and nearly tripped me. I caught the banister and hurried down the rest of the stairs before he could attempt to kill me again.

"Where is everyone?" I asked Sirius, yawning again when I came into the kitchen. I noticed he'd shaved, bathed, and changed. The dirty dishes were all gone and the kitchen was lit with real light now. It was quite a dramatic difference.

"They went with Tonks and Mad-Eye to St. Mungo's" Sirius said, sliding toast onto a plate and giving it to me. "How are you feeling?"

"Better." I said, sitting down at the kitchen table, gazing thoughtfully at the toast as though it could explain to me what emotion I was feeling. "You didn't look like you'd been doing well when we came over. I thought Dad was staying with you."

"I haven't seen anyone from the Order in weeks besides Dung." Sirius said. "And of course Phineas will come over with messages from Dumbledore."

"But then," I said, looking up in alarm, "Where's dad?"

"Still in the underground." Sirius said, passing me grape jam, prompting me to eat. "I wouldn't be surprised if you didn't see him all break. Convincing werewolves has been harder than he thought it was going to be. Most of them are too bitter with the magical world and of course, some of them are Muggles and it doesn't matter which side wins- nothing can be done for them. They can't take potions because their muggles and of course, there's nothing on the muggle side of the world for them either."

"That sucks." I muttered, finally eating my toast.

"How's your hand?" Sirius asked quickly, looking at the bandage. I looked down too. The bandages were that yucky brown, purple, red colour of dried blood for a long time.

I sighed, unwrapping the bandage and throwing it away. I washed it again and then bandaged it again. "Worse." I muttered. "I had a whole months worth of detentions that I just skipped out on by coming here. She'll be pissed when I get back."

"Umbridge?" Sirius asked.

I nodded. "Course, I don't really care about my hand. It only hurts when I start writing those stupid lines. But she keeps threatening to take away my Quidditch Captain badge- she already nearly has because she doesn't believe Half-breeds or their brats should be in positions of power." I smiled bitterly. "course, both Sprout and McGonagall fought for me so now I have to worry about whether or not their going to get put on probation. She already put Trelawney on probation and it looks like Hagrid might be next."

"Bitch." Sirius muttered. "Can't believe Dumbledore hasn't gotten rid of her yet."

"I don't know..." I said softly. "I don't think he can. You wouldn't happen to have any murtlap essence in the house would you?"

"No." Sirius said with a shake of his head.

I got up and went to the cupboards and grabbed a healing salve, slathering it on the cuts and bandaging my hand again. Then I sat back down, slathered my toast with grape jelly, and ate.

We sat in silence for a bit longer. I could hear Kreacher muttering in the front hallway. ". . .other masters wouldn't be talking about poor-half breeds. . . stupid half-breeds. . . Malfoy's would be hating on them just the same. . . oh if only he'd order me to leave the house. . ."

"I told you." I whispered softly.

"I'll be careful." He promised, a cold look on his face.

"You haven't told dad about me being an. . . Animagus." I whispered even quieter so that Kreacher couldn't repeat the information back to anyone.

Sirius shook his head. "I haven't seen anyone, remember?"

"Oh." I said guiltily, "right."

More silence and then I said, "Can I just stay with you instead of going back to Hogwarts?"

Sirius looked at me in surprise and asked, "Why would you want that?"

I shifted in my seat uncomfortably. "I have this feeling. . . like if I go back to Hogwarts, it'll be the last time I see you. . . I can't stand the feeling. . . I think. . . I think you're going to die Sirius. . . and I can't see it right now. . . I'm so afraid for you and if you do die. . . well. . . I hope you don't. . . but still. . . I want to spend as much time with you as possible."

Sirius put both of his hands on mine. "I'm not going to die, Eilís . We've discussed this before."

"My parents didn't think they were going to die either." I whispered. "Please Sirius! You have got to promise me that no matter what, no matter what people say, you have to stay here, you have you stay safe, please?"

"Eilís, I already promised that I would." Sirius said, squeezing my hands. "I'm not going anywhere. . . unless you want to walk me."

I brief smile flitted across my face. "I wouldn't mind that, no. Do you want to go right now?"

Sirius shook his head. "I don't want to leave this place unsupervised right now. I'm trying to er- keep tabs on Kreacher." he said, lowering his voice.

I nodded, but the bad feeling didn't go away. My trunk had come while I had been sleeping and it was full of my Muggle clothes. I brought it up to my bedroom and unpacked, getting dressed in a sweater and jeans.

Then, I went down to where dad's room was and opened it. There was a layer of dust covering everything- proof he hadn't been here in weeks. I closed the door gently behind me. It smelled like dad in here, a warm, comforting smell. Like musty books, vanilla beans, a faint touch of cologne, and something else I couldn't name. Just that smell that made you recognize your dad from everyone else. That smell that couldn't be put into words. Safety. Love. Protection. Dad.

I looked around. I hadn't been in here even over the summer- or ever before for that matter. His bed was made neatly- everything was always clean and neat with him. The covers were a faded blue. There was a suitcase in the corner that was zipped up and a shabby, old broomstick behind that. There was only one set of robes hanging in the wardrobe- his best pair. The window was covered with black drapes. There were small stacks of books on the dressers, the windowsill, the chair. Most of them were about defensive arts. One, however, caught my eye and I picked it up.

It was a guide to parenting daughters. There were many dog-eared pages and it looked like it had been read through a lot. I grinned. I wondered how long he'd had the book and how many tips he'd used out of the book.

I flipped open to a random page called 'fits of moodiness'. I grinned even wider.

When single fathers try and raise daughters, they notice that they come to a period of time between the age of 13-15 where they become extremely moody, rebellious, and otherwise, out of character from the daughter they'd raised since birth. This is because girls- and the female sex in general- go through a phase of puberty called 'periods'. While we will get more in depth on this particular topic later in the book (page 90) these periods cause girls to become extremely moody and sensitive. They may cry for no reason at all or become angry for no reason at all. It is usually best to let them be during these time periods.

I closed the book, placing it back on top of the stack. Poor dad, resorting to books to make sure he was parenting me properly. I felt horrible for a second and then moved on to the desk in the corner.

There were many pictures on the desk, all of them in small frames. There was a picture of me at the zoo, a picture of me and him for a father-daughter dance at my Muggle school when I was 8, him, James, and Sirius somewhere, a picture of me and Trang at the amusement park, a picture of me as a two year old baby, a picture of me at an award ceremony for fifth grade, smiling with a gap between my two front teeth, holding a paper award. All of them were moving, smiling, waving.

My heart ached-looking at them and I tried to imagine what it would be like, coming across these photos if he was dead.

I fell to my knees, covering my face with my hands, and burst into tears. Oh God, why was I thinking like that? He wasn't dead, I would know if he was dead. . . wouldn't I? Surely I would see it! It just felt like he was dead. . . that was all. It just felt like it because his room was empty and covered in dust and dark and he had pictures of mostly me on his desk and I missed him. But he wasn't dead- just gone. . . just not here right now. . .

I sobbed again, covering my face with my hands. Usually, when I cried, I used to think there was something wrong with me. Now, I knew that I was just crying because I felt that dad was going to die. The same way that I felt Sirius was going to die, and Uncle Moody, and Tonks, and Fred, and Dumbledore, and Severus. They were all going to die, I could feel it. I just didn't know when. I didn't see when. I didn't know how to prevent it.

Or maybe, just maybe, my imagination was running wild. Maybe just the fact that Voldemort was back made me think that they were all going to die, leaving me here alone on this Earth. That must be what it was. It was knowing that a dangerous bad guy was out there and my family could possibly die. But they weren't actually going to.

I wiped away my tears with the sleeve of my sweater and got up from where I was kneeling. "Miss you dad." I whispered to the room and then I left, shutting the door behind me.

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𝖂𝖍𝖊𝖓 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖂𝖊𝖆𝖘𝖑𝖊𝖞𝖘 and Harry got home from the hospital, I greeted them normally. Harry didn't say anything, he just went up the stairs, and I looked at Ginny and the others curiously. Ron looked apprehensive, but Ginny pulled me into another room, and the others followed her.

"What's wrong with Harry?" I asked automatically.

"You mean, you didn't see it?" Fred asked, trying to make a joke, but he sounded a bit stressed.

"Ha Ha. If you keep asking me that question," I said cheerfully, "I'm going to break your nose for you. "

"We overheard Tonks, mum, dad, and Mad-Eye talking in the hospital wing." Ginny said.

"You mean Extendable Ears?" I asked, amused.

"Yeah." Ginny said. "Anyways, We heard Tonks say that they searched the area for the snake, but couldn't find it. And then mum said that You-Know-Who couldn't have expected to the snake to get in. Mad-Eye reckons the snake was sent as a lookout and that dad was just in the way. Then mum mentioned that Harry had seen it and that she thought it seemed like Dumbledore had almost predicted Harry would foresee something like it and then Mad-Eye said that You-Know-Who must be possessing Harry and that's when he pulled his Extendable Ear out."

I had dropped my smile and joking manner now and looked serious.

"Is You-Know-Who possessing Harry?" George asked in concern.

I hesitated, wanting to say that I didn't think so but didn't say that. After all, hadn't I felt that it wouldn't be okay to tell Harry that I was an Animagus? That I had thought- or had a feeling- that Harry and Voldemort were somehow connected?

"Of course not." Ginny said first. "At least, I'm pretty sure he's not. I would know."

"I don't about possession" I said slowly. "I think it's more like reading his mind. . . in a way. . . but to be completely honest. . . I don't know."

"Do you think he's going to avoid us?" Ginny asked, looking up the stairs.

I nodded, "Yes, I see that much. At least until Hermione comes and drags him out. I'll go up and talk to him, alright? Maybe he'll listen to me. Or maybe I'll let the visions play out and let you berate him."

I headed up the stairs and knocked softly on the room Harry was supposed to be in. "Can I come in?" I asked. There was no answer. I sighed, going up the stairs to the piano room.

I started playing Christmas tunes on the piano again. It was a bit choppy with my bandaged hand but I kept practicing over and over so that I was able to play even with the limited movement with my bandaged hand.

Sirius entered the room at that moment and said, "I should move the piano downstairs so that you can play during Christmas."

I grinned at him. "No one knows I play, you know? Not even dad."

"Actually, he, Kingsley, and I watched you play the piano the day that you got your Hogwarts letter and found out about becoming Quidditch Captain. Harry was sitting next to you that day." Sirius said, leaning against the door. Unlike Severus, his black hair was curly and didn't hang in his face.

My mouth went dry, "Dad was watching?"

"He said he had no idea you were that good. He was thinking about getting you a piano for Christmas but I told him not to, you can have this one." Sirius said.

"Thanks!" I said, excited. "But I'll keep it here so I have an excuse to visit."

Sirius grinned. "Have you seen Harry?"

"He's sleeping." I said.

"He looked upset when he came in." Sirius said, frowning.

I didn't want to throw Fred and George's Extendable Ears under the bus so I said, "I think he feels guilty. . . I mean he thinks he was the snake. . . so he must think he was the one who attacked Mr. Weasley even though he wasn't. . . but he'll come around. I'm going to talk to him soon."

Later that night, I waited by the front door and predictably, Harry came down to the front door, dragging his trunk behind him. But before he even reached me, Phineas spoke from his portrait, "Running away, are we?"

Harry looked around and then looked at him and said shortly, "Not running away, no."

"I thought, that to belong in Gryffindor House you were supposed to be brave. It looks to me as though you would have been better off in my own house. We Slytherins are brave, yes, but not stupid. For instance, given the choice, we will always choose to save our own necks." Phineas said.

"It's not my own neck I'm saving." Harry said, turning back around and coming face to face with me. I had my arms crossed and I raised and eyebrow as he jumped back. "Elizabeth!"

"Oh, I see. This is no cowardly flight- you are being noble." Phineas said, mockingly. Harry didn't answer, staring at me, blocking the door.

"Move Elizabeth." Harry said.

I have a message for you from Albus Dumbledore." Phineas said, ignoring both Harry talking to me and- me.

Harry spun around. "What is it?"

"Stay where you are."

"I haven't moved! So what's the message?" Harry asked.

"I have just given it to you, dolt. Dumbledore says, 'Stay where you are'".

"Why? Why does he want me to stay? What else did he say?" Harry asked eagerly, dropping his trunk end.

"Nothing whatsoever."

"So that's it, is it?" Harry asked loudly- angrily. "Stay there? That's all anyone could tell me after I got attacked by those dementors too! Just say put while the grown-ups sort it out, Harry! We won't bother telling you anything, though, because your tiny little brain might not be able to cope with it!"

I privately agreed with him but I put a comforting hand on his shoulder, "Harry. . ."

"You know." Phineas said, even louder than Harry. "this is precisely why I loathed being a teacher! Young people are so infernally convinced that they are absolutely right about everything. Has it not occurred to you, my poor puff-up popinjay, that there might be an excellent reason why the headmaster of Hogwarts is not confiding every tiny detail of his plans to you? Have you never paused, while feeling hard-done by, to note that following Dumbledore's orders has never yet led you into harm? No. No, like all young people, you are quite sure that you alone feel and think, you alone recognize danger, you alone are the only one clever enough to realize what the Dark Lord may be planning. . ."

"He is planning something to do with me, then?" Harry asked swiftly. He looked back at me.

"Did I say that? Now, if you will excuse me, I have better things to do than to listen to adolescent agonizing. . . Good day to you. . ." Phineas said, walking out of his portrait.

"Fine, go then! And tell Dumbledore thanks for nothing!" Harry bellowed at the portrait.

"Harry. . ." I whispered. "Go back to bed, alright? Let's talk in the morning, okay?"

Harry stormed back up to his bedroom and I sighed, going back up to my bedroom too. Well, that was taken care of.

I lay in my empty room, wishing that Severus was here to lay next to me. I was to angsty, I needed to get out.

I went back down the stairs, unlocking the door. I stepped out into the crisp air before locking the door behind me again. I hurried into a side alley before turning into a black cat. I jumped up on a windowsill and turned back down into an alley.

I alternated between sprinting and walking as a cat while I explored the city. I pounced on a small mouse but let it go, not really wanting to eat it. But it had been a fun chase, darting around and trying to grab it.

I was much quicker about getting to where I wanted to go, despite my rather short kitty legs, because of my speed. Cats are rather fast, faster than humans- and dogs- and so traveling was a breeze.

I followed a scent trail to a bakery even though it was closed. The lingering smell of bread was maybe six hours old, around the same time that the bakery had closed. A café across from it was open though, a 24-hour one. There was a sharp smell of bitter coffee and I headed away from it. I was surprised by my heightened sense of smell, hearing, and taste. I hadn't expected to develop the senses of the animal I turned into when becoming an Animagus.

Of course, now that I thought about it, my hearing had seemed a bit sharper ever since becoming an Animagus- even as a human. Strange. I should research it. I wondered if Sirius had any extra senses from being a dog- like knowing when a bad storm was coming.

I traveled halfway across the city in about an hour before I froze, hearing something. Human feet. I jumped into the shadows and looked up. My tiny cat heart started to pound. What the hell was he doing here? Surely he wouldn't slime his shoes stepping in this Muggle place?

I watched Lucius Malfoy walk down the street. Surely. . . but no, I was very far away from Grimmauld place- nearly fifty minutes, 5 miles away. Looking around, I realized I'd never been to this part of the city before. In my cat adventures, I'd wandered away from the familiar. I hesitated, wondering if I should follow, or if I should leave.

I turned back into a human, drawing my wand and crept behind him. I watched him turn a corner and I crept up. I knew it was an alleyway. I could hear him talking briefly to someone else. Then, I felt a wand press into my neck and I froze.

"Turn around." A voice hissed.

I turned carefully, looking to see who it was. I didn't recognize him, but his left arm had the Dark Mark on his arm and his eyes lit up. He started to laugh and then Lucius and the other Death Eater- Macnair, appeared from around the corner.

Lucius Malfoy's eyes lit up as well, and his mouth turned into a smile, "Well, well. . . If it isn't Elizabeth Kane. . . and what are you doing here?"

The other lowered his wand, stuffing it into his pocket. I was frozen, trying to figure out how to get out of this. Why hadn't I stayed as a cat? I was so stupid.

"Let me have her." The one who had put his wand to my throat. "Before we take her to the Dark Lord. . ."

"Go ahead." Macnair said with a grin, interrupting whatever Malfoy had gone to say. Malfoy frowned at Macnair in what almost seemed like disapproval. "Be quick about it though."

The first Death Eater dragged me into the alleyway and I whimpered in fear. My wand was up my sleeve, but I didn't know how I was going to get out of this. Why had I left the house? Which way was Grimmauld place? Oh Merlin, I was never going to see dad again!

I jerked against his tight hold, panicking, and he chuckled. I thought about Muggle girls who got raped and killed and I let out a scream of fear. He slapped me across the face and I shut my mouth. I was trembling all over. Oh, why had I followed him? And why had I followed him as a human?

Then the Death Eaters lips were on mine and I squirmed underneath him. This was much different than Severus. This was horrible. I would rather being tortured by Voldemort. I kneed him in the groin and he groaned, letting go to clutch his private parts. I was up in a flash and racing down the alleyway and past the other two, flying as fast as possible.

I heard Lucius Malfoy yell and I ducked, continuing to run as a spell flew over my head. I jumped a fence and turned into a cat, streaking under a bush, hiding. I squeezed through the bush and through a hole in a fence and was running and running until I had lost them and had thoroughly lost myself.

I continued to run however, until I finally had to stop. I was in a backyard of a Muggle house. I debated about knocking on their door and asking which was was Kings Crossing but thought I should wait until morning. I crept up into a tree and curled up in a branch and fell asleep.

When I woke up, there were Muggle kids around the bottom of the tree, pointing up at me. The mother shooed them inside, shivering in her thin nightdress and they went in reluctantly. Once their faces disappeared from the window, I crept down from the tree and leaped onto the fence and then down.

I circled around to the front of the house, looking left and right, became human and went and knocked on the woman's front door, looking around nervously.

"Hello?" She asked, answering the door.

"Hi." I said, shivering. "I'm lost. Can you point me in the direction of Kings Crossing please?"

"Oh you poor dear, you are quite a ways away from Kings Crossing. Here, come on in." She opened the door a little longer and I hesitantly stepped in, looking around nervously. Her son came running over and shouted, "The cat is gone!"

She smiled down at him and then at me and said, "I'll be right back."

I nodded, standing awkwardly where I was. She went upstairs and came back down a few minutes later, dressed warmly with a sweater, coat, and scarf. Her husband came down the stairs in a red dressing gown, bleary eyes, and an unshaved face. She stuck a coffee mug in his hands, told him to watch the kids, and then came back to me "I'm going to drive you." she said, smiling, grabbing a set of keys off a small table.

"Thank you so much." I said gratefully. Sometimes I forgot there were simple, good people in the world.

I followed her out to the garage and got in the passenger seat. She drove me to Kings Crossing and I thanked her again. She waved and left me there. I wished I could've done more than thank her. But I'd never be able to find the house again. I didn't even know her name.

I hid and became a cat and then made my way to Grimmauld place. I didn't see anyone and I entered Grimmauld place, becoming a human and then stumbled up to my bedroom and collapsed on my bed.

I broke into nervous sobs, burying my head in the pillow. I fell into an uneasy sleep.

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𝕴 𝖜𝖔𝖐𝖊 𝖚𝖕 sometime in the afternoon to Mrs. Weasley saying that lunch was ready. I simply rolled over and fell back asleep. I was so shaken by last night that I didn't even want to leave my room. Around five thirty, I woke back up and stayed awake. Around six, I heard the doorbell and Mrs. Black started screaming.

I headed into Harry's bedroom on the second floor. Ginny and Ron were filling in Hermione about what had happened at St. Mungo's.

"Oh, you're awake." Ginny said. "About time."

"Sorry." I muttered, curling up into a ball on the bed. I had a pounding headache and I felt like I might throw up. Sleeping out all night had not been good for my health.

Hermione went upstairs and after a few minutes, she managed to bring Harry down into the room. "I came on the Knight Bus." She said, informing all of us. "Dumbledore told me what had happened first thing this morning, but I had to wait for term to end officially before setting off. Umbridge is already livid that you lot disappeared right under her nose, especially Elizabeth, even though Dumbledore told her Mr. Weasley was in St. Mungo's, and he'd given you all permission to visit so. . . She also told me to tell you, if I saw you of course, that your detentions have been extended for leaving early." Hermione said, sitting down next to Ginny.

I didn't say anything. I wondered if maybe I should've let them take me last night instead of doing more detentions.

"How're you feeling?" Hermione asked, looking at Harry.

"Fine." Harry said stiffly.

"Oh, don't lie, Harry. Ron and Ginny say you've been hiding from everyone since you got back from St. Mungo's." Hermione said impatiently.

"They do, do they?" Harry asked, glaring at them.

"Well, you have! And you won't look at any of us!" Ginny exclaimed.

"It's you lot who won't look at me!" Harry said angrily.

The headache started to pound, seemingly behind my right eye, and I closed my eyes. I felt very cold.

"Maybe you're taking it in turns to look and keep missing each other." Hermione suggested, sounding amused.

"Very funny." Harry snapped.

"Oh, stop feeling all misunderstood. Look, the others have told me what you overheard last night on the Extendable Ears-"

"Yeah? All been talking about me, have you? Well, I'm getting used to it. . ."

"We wanted to talk to you, Harry, but as you've been hiding ever since we got back-" Ginny said.

"I didn't want anyone to talk to me." Harry said, shooting me an angry look. I felt a bit dizzy. And now I felt warm, perhaps a bit too warm.

"Well, that was a bit stupid of you, seeing as you don't know anyone but me who's been possessed by You-Know-Who, and I can tell you how it feels." Ginny said angrily.

My vision was swimming. Eyesight vision, I mean, not visions vision. Was I thinking coherently?

"I forgot." Harry said after a stunned second.

My stomach turned.

"Lucky you." Ginny said coolly.

"I'm sorry." Harry said, sounding like he meant it. "So. . . so do you think I'm being possessed, then?"

"Well, can you remember everything you've been doing? Are there big blank periods where you don't know what you've been up to?" Ginny asked.

"No." Harry said.

"Then You-Know-Who hasn't ever possessed you. When he did it to me, I couldn't remember what I'd been doing for hours at a time. I'd find myself somewhere and not know how I got there." Ginny said simply.

"Elizabeth?" Hermione asked hesitantly, "Are you okay?"

In response, I fell out off the bed and vomited on the ground twice. Footsteps exited the room and two pairs of footsteps entered the room quickly.

"Elizabeth?" Sirius asked carefully, bending down next to me. "Are you alright?"

I shook my head and moaned. "I feel terrible."

"Were you looking into the future?" He asked seriously.

"No, it just came on all of a sudden. Like the flu I think."

I felt Sirius pick me up and carry me until he put me down in my bed. "You feel hot." He murmured. But that couldn't be right- I was shivering violently. "Fred, can you grab me an extra blanket?"

There was some movement and then Sirius put another blanket over me. "I'll be right back, okay? I'm going to make you some tea."

He hurried out of the room. I had my eyes closed, trying to fall asleep. I must be sick from staying out in the cold all night. I couldn't rebuke myself enough for trailing Lucius Malfoy. At the thought of it, I leaned over the bed and threw up again. I heard it hit metal, not wood, and cracked an eye open. There was a pail below me. That was good to know.

I flopped back on the bed. The night was painful, altering between to cold and to hot. I tossed and turned all night. Sirius kept coming in and out and once or twice Mrs. Weasley came in to check on me.

In the morning, a horrible surprise was waiting for me. An extremely irate Severus Snape. I groaned, vomiting again. "What are you doing here?" I asked hoarsely.

He sat down next to me, putting his hand on my forehead. His teeth were gritted and he was trembling in anger. "Just a cold, Sirius. She'll be fine soon."

Sirius left the room a few minutes later and Severus immediately attacked me. "Are you stupid? Why the hell did you end up around Lucius Malfoy by yourself?"

"I don't remember." I mumbled, sleepily. "I was just outside and then I found that I was far away from Grimmauld place and then Lucius was there and then there were two other Death Eaters. The only reason that I got away was because one of them. . . er- wanted me, he was kissing me and touching me and I kneed him in the groin and managed to escape. . . it was close though. . ." I eyed him curiously, "How'd you find out?"

"Lucius reported you were in the area. Of course, they're going to be scoping out where they had come across you mostly."

I sighed. "I'm so sorry." I broke down into tears away and then turned away from him, embarrassed.

"Elizabeth. . ." he said in a much more gentle voice. "Don't. . . I'm sorry. . . sweetheart. I just got scared."

I sat up carefully and place my forehead on his shoulder. "My fault. . . its my fault. . . I should just be thankful Voldemort isn't torturing visions out of me right now."

Severus hugged me, apparently not caring if Sirius came in again. "And Sirius said I might not even see Dad this break and I miss him so MUCH!" I sobbed. "And I miss you and Sirius and the other day, I had the most horrible thought that everyone I loved was going to die and I just needed to get out and then I ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time and I don't even know why he was there!"

"Shh. . . Elizabeth. . ." Severus murmured, kissing my cheek. "It's okay. We're all still here. . . okay? We're all still here. . ."

I kissed him on the lips briefly. "So why did you come?" I asked, wiping away tears. My head was starting to pound again because of the crying.

"Because I was worried about you of course." He said softly. "when I heard- well I had to check on you."

"Thank you." I whispered.

"I should go back." Severus said, kissing me gently again.

"You're going to get sick." I moaned, but didn't let go of his hand.

"Well then, I'll try to pass it on to Umbridge, alright?" He asked, standing up and winking.

I grinned. "Alright."

He ran a hair over my hair and said, "I love you Elizabeth."

"Love you too Sev."

He left the room, giving me one last kiss. Strangely, I felt much better as though he'd taken the sickness with him- or had made it dissipate into the air.

He had taken away my worries with him too. I no longer cared about Lucius Malfoy or the other two Death Eaters or Voldemort. I no longer worried about whether dad was going to die- surely he wasn't. Dad was indestructible. He was the one who'd saved me when the Muggle had robbed our house. He had saved me every time and the only reason he wasn't there last night was because he was doing important work for the Order.

And besides, how could I worry about anything when Severus loved me?

My mouth was dry and I looked around. There was a glass of water on my bedside table and I drank half of it and fell into more sleep.

⬅️➡️

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lippskinn · 10 months ago

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Blackinnon Fest 2024 ¦ Day 4

Word Count: 459

Prompt: Purpose

Order meetings were a fixpoint in the lives of many Order members amidst the chaotic war times: an evening spent with good food, drinks and like-minded people. Each member was assigned a mission on which they had to give a weekly report, followed by Alastor Moody's motivational speeches and tactical insights.

As fierce duellists, Sirius and Marlene were tasked with patrolling Hogsmeade. Their duty was to check all passageways from Hogsmeade to Hogwarts and inform the Order about any suspicious activities.

According to Dumbledore, Hogsmeade was a rallying point for spies and recruiters. He feared they would have easy access to the students and the castle if they left the village unsupervised; luckily, Sirius knew all about secret passageways.

One starlit evening, they sat by the Shrieking Shack after their shift and enjoyed the warm summer breeze away from the village. The moon shone brightly onto the grounds and covered everything in a silvery light, reminding Sirius of all those nights they had stayed with Remus in their animagus forms.

No one could know.

Not Dumbledore, not Lily and not Marlene.

If anyone found out, they would go straight to Azkaban. But Sirius could keep a secret like nobody's business. Because if he leaned in to kiss Marlene, they would break every single one of Moody's rules and lose their mission. So, he kept his feelings to himself.

He had moved his chair to the opposite corner of the room and avoided eye contact all evening. In fact, he had been suspiciously quiet.

"Before I close this meeting," Moody announced, "I need someone to take the Hogsmeade shift on Thursday."

Marlene raised her hand.

"Someone else?" Moody asked a little too quickly.

Moody's magical eye moved between Sirius and Marlene. Sirius knew Mad-Eye could see through the back of his head and that he watched every moving muscle. However, on the inside, his guts began to twist painfully, and his heart sank.

Moody looked around the room, but everyone shook their head, "No one? Just this Thursday."

"What's wrong with Marlene and Sirius?" Frank asked.

"For tactical purposes, Marlene leaves the mission. Since Gideon and Fabian are… well… I need a replacement." Moody looked visibly upset and had one last pleading look around the room until his eyes rested on Sirius.

"Why is she leaving?" Sirius asked politely.

"Because I broke a rule", Marlene sighed.

Moody took a deep breath and shook his head disapprovingly, "I really put my faith in you. With Gideon and Fabian gone, two pregnancies and Caradoc missing, I cannot afford more losses. Is it so hard to stick to one bloody rule?"

"I think I broke it too."

#blackinnonfest2024 #blackinnon #sirius black #sirius black x marlene mckinnon #sirius x marlene #first wizarding war #mad eye moody

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thesweetestofdreams · 3 months ago

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black cat confessions

poly!marauders x reader

warnings: patching up bruised knuckles very pg allusions to violence

a/n Times are tough so please enjoy a sleepy drabble with a slightly whimsical reader who will always defend her boyfriends

“Hello gorgeous, where’ve you been?” James asked as you came into the boys’ dorm. It wasn’t like you to be so late, unless of course a portrait got to talking. You could never turn down a good story, no matter how many times you heard it.

“Detention,” you said. This garnered the attention of all three of your boyfriends. Remus set down his book, he had been trying to read instead of worrying about you, and Sirius ceased spinning his wand in his hand. James sat up from where he was laying on his bed. Oblivious to their shock you dropped your bag onto the floor.

“Detention?” James asked at the same time Sirius said “You’re joking.”

“Yeah,” you said, sounding almost as confused as they were.

“May we ask why?” said Remus abandoning his book.

“Well Barty said that black cats were bad luck, which is rather rude.” You fell onto Remus’s unmade bed, arms flopping on either side of you.

“And how did that turn into detention for you?” Sirius asked as patient as could be, a trait reserved almost especially for you.

You rolled onto your stomach yawning as you rested your chin on your hand. “I told him that was hardly true but he wouldn’t give it up.” You were interrupted with another yawn. “Then he said the worst bad luck was black dogs. You could never be bad luck, Siri.”

Sirius could pretty much feel himself melting. James, as endearing as you were, was practically on the edge of his seat ready to find out what on earth their sweet girl could do to warrant detention. Remus was getting tired just looking at you and he had to fight the urge to join you where you lay.

“Well then he started talking about werewolves and of course he had nothing nice to say and he was looking right at me, so I punched him.” Just like before you were completely oblivious to the shock your statement caused.

“You punched him?” Remus asked, and despite your tired eyes being closed you could hear the smile in his voice. The boys shared a conspiratorially prideful look.

“He wasn’t mad. I think he thought it was funny.”

“Sounds like he had it coming,” Sirius said, fully in agreement.

“Professor Slughorn was mad though,” you mused.

“Merlin, what I would have given to see his face.” James laughed at just the thought.

“I bet he went red head to toe,” Sirius added. You smiled in tired amusement. The sound of their laughs made your chest buzz, warm and full.

“Punching people hurts,” you said looking down at your hand.

The energy of the room shifted as the amusement died down. Remus was already making his way to you, pulling your hand into his lap as he sat on the bed next to you. You didn’t fight him. He tsked at the sight of your knuckles and your fingers were dry and cracked. He turned them over in his hands ever so gently.

“Slughorn made me wash all of the potion bottles,” you offered in explanation.

James wordlessly pulled a small first aid kit from Remus’s nightstand, while Sirius grabbed a set of pajamas they kept for you. Caring for eachother was a well practiced routine. It was an achingly good feeling to be taken care of.

Remus spread dittany over your knuckles and any deep cracks, careful never to press too hard. James pulled off your shoes, and Sirius turned down the lights grumbling softly to himself when James reminded him of an early morning quidditch match.

“You can sleep with me then,” Remus whispered loudly, teasing as he softly wrapped a bandage over your knuckles.

“Now this is just torturous,” Sirius groaned from his bed. James threw a pillow at him across the room. “I’m keeping this.”

After some coaxing from Remus, you summoned enough willpower to stand and change into your pajamas. From across the room, you saw James dive into bed with Sirius who held the pillow above his head. James pinched at Sirius's waist earning a withering look from him that quickly dissolved into lazy smiling kisses.

Finally you were lying in bed with your head on Remus’s chest. You could hear his heartbeat thump beneath you, the steady rhythm and warmth lulling you to sleep better than any lullaby. You weren’t helped by the slow circles he drew into your back.

“Thanks for defending me, brave girl,” Remus said into your hair.

Fighting a yawn you said, “you would have done the same for me.”

He would have done worse for you, and he would spend the rest of everyday grateful for the love he’s found.

#poly!marauders x reader #poly!marauders #marauders x reader #james potter #james potter x reader #sirius black #sirius black x reader #remus lupin #remus lupin x reader #marauders #x reader #marauders era #the marauders #dead gay wizards from the 70s #marauders fluff #I hope my Remus favoritism isn’t showing 🙃

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sunnami · 8 months ago

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

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

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

wc. 24.1k.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(When will your cursed lullaby finally end?)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How repulsive.

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

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

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

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

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

What a bunch of insufferable fools.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Quite,” replies Lily, lips firmly pursed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alas, it is not Persephone Parkinson you head towards.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Reveal yourself,” you whisper curtly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He furrows his brow. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Children.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A firebird caws in the distance.

And, scene.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Occlude! Occlude—you must occlude immediately!

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

That, after all, is how you learned.

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

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

What’s wrong?

The question echoes in your head.

Ha!

You scream inwardly, if they only knew!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Turns out, you are not fine.

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t bloody care,” you snide.

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How arrogant.

How very Gryffindor of him.

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They’ve made it all too easy for you.

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

Sirius staggers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Has loneliness ever felt so suffocating before?

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

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

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

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

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

When does duty end? And when does life begin?

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

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

You want to go to sleep already.

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

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

You miss your cat.

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

You want to die.

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your blood runs cold.

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

Dimwitted fool.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harry’s dragon has broken free from its chains.

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

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

“Daphne!”

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

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

“Daphne, get away from there!”

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

But there is nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Has kindness ever felt so real before?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You believe her.

You believe her with all your heart.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How confusing.

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

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

(Hogwarts is the best!)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everything changes on the eve of your sixteenth birthday.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lily says thank you, by the way.”

“Oh? For what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Agatha Fawley closes her eyes, and you understand perfectly.

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

“You will.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Do not let them see you are afraid.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, how easy they make it for you.

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

Marlene lunges.

(You are so tired of it all.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hate her.

You hate her with all your heart.

But even monsters need a heart to breathe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bile rises to your throat.

Tears fall from your eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

You pass out in her arms.

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

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

You are tired.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You toss the newspaper into the fire.

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

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

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

Maybe. . .

If you move a few inches forward. . .

If you just fly.

You’d be free.

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

I don’t care.

Go away.

I want to die.

If I disappear, would you care? Would anyone?

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

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

You let your weight shift over the window.

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

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

You sigh.

Maybe tomorrow, then.

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

You shrug. “Nothing to talk about.”

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

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

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

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

You stay silent.

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

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

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

You nibble on your bruised lip.

Could you really?

Maybe just this once.

You’re only human, magic as you are.

You take one step forward.

Then another.

Another.

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

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

To do what is right.

To endure.

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

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

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

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

Your mother.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She’s not!” you scream.

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

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

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

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

Tom snarls, “Good.”

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

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

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

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

“Mum, wake up, please!”

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

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

“Kill her!” Voldemort rages into your ear.

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

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

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

There’s a faint smile on her face.

“I’m. . . sorry.”

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

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

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

Tom Riddle.

“Avada Kedavra!”

He will know your pain.

Not today, not tomorrow.

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

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

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mrstellmeafuckingsecret · 3 months ago

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sirius who joins the order and is on an adrenaline high 24/7 and says i'll wing it & alastor who's tired of life and over plans and is paranoid

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unconventional-lawnchair · 2 months ago

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okay, because you broke my heart with everything is blue, I want a barty x potter!reader where it's the mauraders seeing how barty and the reader love/take care of each other. I need to be healed, I might die

They'll Be Alright

Barty Crouch Jr. x Potter!Fem!Reader

AN: I've taken out all the stops to mend your heart

WC: ~5k

Summary: James Potter learns to like tolerate his sisters taste in men.

Warnings: Grumpy James, Snogging, cursing, tooth rotting fluff, self indulgent, this is literally the cheesiest things I could come up with

“I can't do this much longer, I'm going mad.” James hissed as he sat on the grass, watching from across the courtyard as you stood outside the Quidditch pitch with a bit of a pacing form. You were sitting with your big brother and his friends just moments ago, but RavenClaw was out for practice and you just couldn't wait for your precious boy to leave the stands.

“I think it's cute.” Lily sang sweetly. “She's as obsessed with him as he is with her. Only a Potter could match a Crouch’s insanity.”

James groaned, dragging his hands down his face dramatically as Sirius burst out laughing, collapsing onto the grass beside him. “It’s not cute, Lily,” James hissed, throwing a wild gesture toward you. “It’s deranged. She’s my little sister, for Merlin’s sake! And she’s practically glued to the sidelines for him. Him! Of all people.”

“She’s not glued, mate. Look- she’s pacing,” Sirius pointed out helpfully, grinning as he threw a snitch up into the air and caught it lazily. “And, to be fair, Barty’s just as bad. Didn’t he travel all the way from Hogwarts to the Potter Manor once just to say, what was it? Right!” He sat up sharply and threw in some jazz hands. “Hi, to her over winter break?”

James groaned louder, flopping onto his back in the grass. “Don’t remind me. He’s the one who’s mad, and now she’s gone mad too. My family’s turning into a bloody soap opera.”

“It’s not madness,” Lily argued, her voice soft with a knowing smile as she plucked a daisy from the grass. “It’s love, James. Messy, consuming love. And if you can’t see it, then you’ve forgotten what it was like when you were chasing after me.”

“Oh, don’t start,” James grumbled, sitting up to glare at her, though his face was tinged with a hint of pink. “That’s completely different.”

“Is it?” Lily asked, raising a brow as she tucked the daisy behind her ear. “Because I distinctly remember you doing some insane things for me- like charming the entire Gryffindor common room to play my favorite song every time I walked in.”

Sirius let out a loud bark of laughter, nearly choking on his snitch when he forgot to catch it. “Oh, that was brilliant! What was it again? Some Muggle tune about sunshine?”

“‘Here Comes the Sun,’” Lily said smugly, her smile widening as James grumbled under his breath. “And I’ll remind you, Potter, that it worked.”

“That’s different!” James protested again, jabbing a finger in your direction. “I wasn’t a bloody Crouch!”

Remus, who had been quietly reading nearby, finally looked up from his book with a raised brow. “And what, exactly, is wrong with being a Crouch?” He asked calmly, though his tone carried a faint edge of amusement.

James floundered for a moment, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. “You know what I mean! He’s- he’s- he’s bloody Barty! He’s reckless, obsessive, and- and-”

“And utterly devoted to her,” Lily interrupted firmly, her eyes softening as she looked toward you across the courtyard. “He’d send us back to the stone age if she complained it was too busy, James. And she’d do the same for him. That’s not something you get to stand in the way of.”

James sighed, his shoulders slumping in defeat as he ran a hand through his messy hair. “I just want her to be happy.” He muttered. “And safe.”

“She is happy,” Lily said gently, resting a hand on his arm. “And as for safe- well, that’s why she’s got you, isn’t it? To make sure nothing gets in the way of her happiness. I'm also quite sure if anyone is to defend her like you have all these years.. it would be him.”

James let out a long, slow breath, watching as you finally stopped pacing, your face lighting up as Barty appeared at the top of the Quidditch stands. Even from across the courtyard, the way your shoulders relaxed and your smile softened was undeniable.

“She looks so bloody happy,” James mumbled, almost to himself.

“She is,” Lily said softly. “Just like you were when you finally got me.”

James turned to her, his face scrunching up as though he’d tasted something sour. “Don’t make me feel good about this, Evans.”

Lily just laughed, leaning her head on his shoulder. “Sorry, love. It’s my job.”

Remus chuckled. “Just watch mate.”

~~~

“My dazzling girl!” Barty called down from the steps as he hurried down. You couldn't help but feel a humiliating bubbling of excitement in your chest. Normally, you wouldn't be so shameless and public with your affections, but since dating the brazen Bartemius, you had forgotten what it meant to hold private affections.

“My brilliant boy.” You cooed back and he hurried across the yard to meet you. “How was it?”

“Dreadful. Humiliating. Humbling.” He rambled and stepped closer to you, taking your hand and kissing it, before slowly leading the kiss up your arm to your neck. You laughed and attempted to free yourself, only for him to wrap his arm around your waist and pull you in, flush against him. “You simply must make me feel better.”

“It was only practice!” You laughed and cupped his cheeks in your hands, stilling his unconventional attack before it could reach your face. He gave you that signature woman eating smile with dimples that pressed so far into his cheeks you could about die. “It couldn't have been that bad.”

“It was, you see.” He started and gave you a playfully firm dip before he spun you around to scoop you back up to a proper stand. “There was this dazzling girl-”

“You've used dazzling for today, Barty.” You teased and he gave you a wolfish grin.

“This beautiful, magnificent, breathtaking, awe inspiring-”

“Barty!” You laughed and he leaned in with a flurry of kisses to your cheek, effectively freeing himself from your hands.

“Irresistible, bewitching, stunning-”

“Barty-”

“Absolutely exquisite witch who promised to watch my every game, and yet, not this one.” He moped and you shook your head.

“That was practice, my love.” You muttered and he gasped.

“And thus it does not deserve your full undivided attention?”

You couldn’t hold back the giggle that escaped your lips, your hands playfully swatting at his chest as you shook your head. “You’re insufferable, Bartemius Crouch.”

“And yet, you’re still here,” Barty countered, his grin widening into something wickedly charming as he tugged you closer. “Which makes you either as mad as me or utterly bewitched. Shall we flip a coin to decide?”

“Bewitched, obviously,” You teased, raising an eyebrow as you leaned in closer. “But don’t let it go to your head, Mr. Crouch.”

“Too late.” He replied with a laugh, his lips brushing your temple before trailing down to your cheek. “My head’s been full of you for years, my star. You’ve left no room for anything else. I think it's only fair I consume your every thought from now on.”

“Sweet words don’t excuse your theatrics.” You teased, your hands gently slipping to his shoulders as you pretended to push him away, though neither of you truly let go. “You’re going to give James a heart attack if you keep this up.”

Barty’s grin turned mischievous, and he tilted his head to glance toward the courtyard where your brother and his friends were undoubtedly watching. “Good,” He said with mock seriousness, his tone laced with humor. “If I can survive Quidditch practice, he can survive the sight of me adoring his sister.”

You rolled your eyes, trying to keep the smile off your face as you sighed dramatically. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re perfect,” He murmured, his hands sliding down to rest on your waist. “So I think that makes us even.”

“Even?” You repeated with a laugh, shaking your head as you leaned your forehead against his. “I think it makes you a menace.”

“I’ll take it,” Barty replied, his voice softer now, his green eyes locked onto yours with a sincerity that made your heart skip. “As long as it means I get to keep you.”

For a moment, the playful banter between you faded, replaced by the weight of his words and the warmth of his presence. You knew the world saw Barty as reckless, obsessive, even dangerous. But in moments like this, when he looked at you like you were the only thing grounding him, it was hard not to feel the same pull that had always drawn you to him.

“I’m not going anywhere.” You said softly, your hands brushing down his arms before entwining your fingers with his. “Just… promise me you’ll try not to antagonize James too much. He’s already halfway to pulling his hair out.”

Barty smirked, his dimple deepening in that way that always made your heart flutter. “No promises,” He teased, though the glint in his eye told you he’d try- for you, if nothing else.

“Bartemius Crouch,” You huffed, feigning sternness as you tugged his hand. “I mean it.”

“And I mean it when I say you’re irresistible,” He countered, spinning you again for good measure before pulling you back into his arms. “Now, my alluring, charming, pretty girl- are you ready to make James’s day a little more unbearable?”

You let out a laugh, the sound bright and lighthearted, as he laced your fingers together and led you back toward the courtyard. You could already see the exasperation on James’s face from across the field, but Merlin did you hear it. Him and Lily.

“I wasn't THAT bad!”

“Oh yes you were!”

~~~

It was a quiet afternoon in the Gryffindor common room when James finally let out a dramatic groan, throwing his head back against the couch. “I can’t take it anymore!” He exclaimed, startling Lily, who had been peacefully reading beside him.

“What now?” She asked, though the amused quirk of her lips showed she already knew the answer.

“It’s them,” James hissed, pointing toward the window where you and Barty were clearly visible in the courtyard below. You were both sitting on the edge of the fountain, laughing at something Barty had said as he carefully wrapped a scarf around your neck, adjusting it as though it were a delicate treasure. “They’re insufferable.”

“They’re adorable,” Lily corrected, leaning over to peek out the window. She sighed softly, her expression turning fond as she watched Barty tuck your hair behind your ear and press a quick kiss to your temple. “Look at him. He absolutely dotes on her.”

“Exactly!” James groaned again. “Dotes! It’s unnatural. He’s supposed to be a Crouch-brooding and conniving, not… not whatever that is.”

“Love,” Remus supplied calmly, not even looking up from his book.

“Obsessive devotion,” Sirius added with a smirk, throwing a piece of popcorn into his mouth as he sprawled on the armchair.

“Same thing,” Lily said with a shrug. “And besides, James, weren’t you the same way with me? You practically worshipped the ground I walked on.”

“Still do,” Sirius muttered, earning a glare from James and a stifled laugh from Lily.

“That’s different,” James argued, his voice petulant. “I wasn’t… that. Look at him! He’s practically wrapped around her finger.”

“And she’s wrapped around his,” Lily pointed out, motioning toward the window again. Sure enough, Barty had pulled you to your feet and was holding your hand as he led you toward the castle steps, pausing every few moments to make you laugh with his animated gestures.

“He carries her books half the time,” Sirius added. “And she carries his cloak when he forgets it.”

“She fixes his collar when it's crooked,” Remus chimed in. “And he charms her quills when they snap.”

James groaned louder, dragging his hands down his face. “You’re not helping.”

“Prongs,” Sirius said with a chuckle, sitting up and clapping him on the shoulder. “You’ve got to admit, they’re good together. Annoyingly good, yes, but still.”

“Annoying is an understatement,” James grumbled, but his protests faltered as the portrait hole swung open and you entered the room, Barty trailing behind you with an armful of books and an easy grin on his face.

You turned to him with an exasperated laugh. “You didn’t have to carry all of them, you know. I can manage.”

“Nonsense,” Barty replied smoothly, setting the books down on a nearby table before tugging at his crooked collar. “If I can’t carry a few books for my treasure, what kind of wizard am I?”

“A dramatic one,” You teased, stepping closer to him to fix his collar with practiced ease. “There. All better.”

“And this is why I adore you,” He said, grinning as he caught your hand and brought it to his lips for a quick kiss.

James let out a strangled noise from the couch, causing you to turn with a startled look. “Everything alright, Jamie?” you asked, tilting your head.

“Perfectly fine,” he said through gritted teeth, glaring at Barty, who had the audacity to wink at him.

Lily leaned over to whisper in James’s ear, her voice low but teasing. “Admit it, James. You’re just mad he treats her as well as you treat me.”

James’s face turned scarlet, and Sirius howled with laughter, nearly toppling out of his chair. “Got you there, mate!”

~~~

The clatter of hurried footsteps echoed down the stone corridor as you stopped in your tracks, turning just in time to see Barty sprinting toward you with an energy that bordered on reckless. His tie was slightly askew, his school robes flaring behind him as he called out, his voice full of dramatic flair, “Treasure! You simply must hear this- you’ll have no choice but to reward me with a kiss once you hear of my heroics.”

You furrowed your brow but couldn’t suppress the amused smile tugging at your lips. He always had a way of making everything sound like the most exciting tale in the world. As he skidded to a halt in front of you, panting slightly but grinning ear to ear, you took a moment to properly look at him.

For once, Barty had made an effort with his appearance. His robes, usually a little wrinkled or hanging off his shoulders in that endearingly careless way, were perfectly straightened. His tie was knotted neatly (if a little loose), and his hair was slicked back in a way that made your stomach twist, the gleaming coil of one rebellious strand falling charmingly over his forehead. He was maddening, and he knew it.

“Oh?” You replied, your voice playful as you arched a brow.

Barty straightened, smoothing the lapels of his robe with an exaggerated air of importance. “Correct me if I’m wrong- I hardly ever am- but you look like you might just kiss me unprompted.”

Your cheeks flamed at his words, the boldness of his statement making your heart skip. “Crouch!” You hissed, swatting lightly at his chest in mock indignation.

He caught your hand easily, holding it against his chest with a dramatic sigh. “See? Even your instincts betray you. Your heart is telling you to reward me already.”

“And what exactly did you do to earn this so-called reward?” You asked, your tone laced with amusement.

He tilted his head, his dimpled grin widening as he leaned in slightly, lowering his voice as if sharing a great secret. “I managed to survive an entire Transfiguration class without turning our professor’s patience into dust. Surely that deserves a small token of appreciation.”

You laughed despite yourself, shaking your head at his antics. “That’s your big heroic tale? Restraint in a single class?”

“Not just any class,” He countered, pulling you closer with the hand still held captive against his chest. “A full fifty minutes of maintaining decorum. You, of all people, should know what a trial that is for me.”

“Decorum, huh?” You teased, your lips twitching as you fixed his slightly frazzled lapel. “Then why are you so out of breath, running down the halls like a maniac?”

“Because the faster I reached you, the sooner I’d get my reward.” He grinned, tilting his head closer to yours. “Now, treasure, let’s not delay-”

“Barty!” You cut him off with a laugh, stepping back to put some space between you. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, here you are, utterly smitten,” He said cheekily, but there was a softness in his eyes that made your chest ache. He reached out, brushing an errant strand of hair from your face, and you felt your heart skip again.

Before you could respond, a voice broke through the moment, sharp and incredulous. “You two are going to make me lose my mind.”

You both turned to see James standing a few feet away, arms crossed and a look of pure exasperation on his face. Sirius was behind him, grinning like a Cheshire cat, and Remus stood a little further back, his book tucked under one arm, an amused glint in his eye.

“Honestly, mate,” James continued, throwing his hands up. “Must you be this dramatic? She’s my sister, not the bloody queen.”

“And yet,” Barty said smoothly, not missing a beat as he turned to James with a smirk, “she deserves nothing less than a royal treatment.”

James groaned, dragging his hands down his face as Sirius burst out laughing, clapping him on the back. “He’s got a point, Prongs.”

You shook your head, trying to suppress your own laughter, but Barty caught your chin with gentle fingers, turning your gaze back to him. “Pay no mind to the peanut gallery,” He said softly, his tone dropping to something more intimate. “I’m only interested in you, treasure.”

Your heart swelled, and for a moment, you forgot all about James’s groaning, Sirius’s laughter, and the knowing look Remus was undoubtedly giving. All you could see was Barty- your boy, maddeningly confident yet infinitely tender, his green eyes locked onto yours as if you were the only person in the world.

And as maddening as it was, he certainly did deserve that kiss.

~~~

The firelight flickered warmly in the Potter living room as the group gathered for the holidays. Snow had blanketed the grounds outside, creating a cozy atmosphere inside the bustling house. You were curled up on the couch, a blanket draped over your lap, a steaming mug of hot chocolate in your hands. James sat nearby, watching with a sharp eye as Barty leaned down to adjust the blanket around your legs, making sure you were tucked in properly.

The sight grated on James- he was used to being the one to look after you, his little sister, not this Crouch boy who had somehow wormed his way into your life. But then Barty turned, sitting cross-legged on the floor beside you, and James found himself watching the interaction more closely than he’d care to admit.

“You didn’t have to go out into the cold to fetch the marshmallows, you know,” You said softly, your voice filled with affection as you sipped your drink.

“Of course I did,” Barty replied, grinning up at you. “Your hot chocolate isn’t complete without them. It’s a crime to deprive you of anything less than perfection.”

James rolled his eyes, but Lily elbowed him gently, a knowing smile playing on her lips. “Watch,” She whispered.

As if on cue, you reached for the plate of marshmallows to pop one into your drink, but Barty’s hand shot out to stop you. “Ah, ah, allow me,” He said with a dramatic flair, picking out the largest marshmallow with precision. He placed it delicately into your mug before handing it back with a flourish. “Perfectly placed, as all marshmallows should be.”

You laughed, a bright sound that made James pause. He couldn’t deny that it was genuine, the kind of laugh he hadn’t heard from you in a long time. And the way Barty looked at you in response- like your happiness was the only thing that mattered- made James’s chest tighten in a way he wasn’t prepared for.

As the night went on, James watched the two of you more closely. It wasn’t just the over-the-top gestures or the playful banter; it was the way Barty noticed the smallest things about you. How he shifted your mug away when he noticed you leaning too far forward, how he reached for the book you’d left on the side table before you even asked for it, how he listened intently to every word you said, his focus unwavering.

Merlin even their parents loved him.

Later, when the others had dispersed to different parts of the house, James found himself in the kitchen with Barty. The younger boy was rinsing out a mug, his usual bravado toned down in the quiet moment.

“You really care about her, don’t you?” James asked suddenly, his voice steady but curious.

Barty looked up, surprised by the question. But then his expression softened, and he nodded. “More than anything,” He said simply, his tone devoid of his usual dramatics. “She’s everything to me, Potter.”

James leaned against the counter, his arms crossed as he studied Barty carefully. “You know, if you hurt her, I’ll-”

“Spend every waking moment trying to kill me?” Barty interrupted with a small, knowing smile. “I know. But you won’t have to. Because I’d rather tear myself apart than see her hurt.”

James blinked, caught off guard by the raw sincerity in Barty’s voice. For the first time, he saw past the theatrics and charm, and what he found there surprised him. There was a genuine devotion, a steadfastness that even James couldn’t deny.

“You’re good to her,” James said finally, his voice quieter. “Better than I thought you’d be.”

Barty smirked, but there was no arrogance in it this time- only a quiet confidence. “She deserves nothing less.”

James nodded slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. For the first time, he found himself believing that maybe- just maybe- Barty Crouch wasn’t the worst person his sister could have chosen. In fact, as he watched Barty quietly return the mug to the cupboard, James couldn’t help but think that she might have chosen someone who truly knew how to love her the way she deserved.

~~~

The tension between you and Barty had been simmering all day, ever since that small disagreement in the courtyard earlier. It wasn’t anything monumental- just one of his reckless decisions clashing with your cautious nature- but it had left you feeling irritated and, perhaps, a little hurt.

Now, as you sat at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall, picking at your dinner, the weight of the silence between you lingered in the back of your mind. Barty hadn’t come to sit with you, choosing instead to stay at the Ravenclaw table. Every so often, you caught him sneaking a glance your way, but neither of you made a move to close the distance.

“You’re brooding,” Lily said gently, nudging your arm with her elbow.

“I’m not brooding,” You replied, though your tone lacked conviction.

“She’s brooding,” Sirius confirmed from across the table, earning a glare from you. “You’ve got that ‘he’s an idiot, but I still love him’ look all over your face. I'm very familiar."

You rolled your eyes, but before you could retort, Remus leaned in, his voice calm and measured. “You know, he’s been sulking at the Ravenclaw table since lunch. Practically hasn’t touched his food.”

“I don’t care,” You muttered, stabbing at your mashed potatoes.

“Sure, you don’t,” James said, his tone laced with sarcasm as he leaned back in his seat. “That’s why you’ve been glancing at him every five minutes.”

“I have not,” You snapped, though your cheeks flushed in betrayal.

James smirked, folding his arms across his chest. “Look, I’ll admit it- he’s an absolute pain sometimes. But he’s your pain, and frankly, I’ve put a lot of effort into liking this one. Don’t break his heart.”

The entire table froze. Lily’s fork clattered against her plate, and Sirius let out a loud, exaggerated gasp, slapping a hand over his mouth like he’d just heard the most scandalous news of the year.

“Did… did you just admit you like him?” Remus asked, his tone full of disbelief.

James shifted uncomfortably under the weight of everyone’s stares. “I didn’t say I like him,” He grumbled, though the tips of his ears burned red. “I just said I’ve put in the time.”

“That’s the same thing, mate,” Sirius said with a grin. “And we’re never letting you live this down.”

Lily laughed, nudging James playfully. “I think it’s sweet. It only took him months of watching them make heart eyes at each other to admit it.”

“Shut it, Evans,” James muttered, though his scowl softened as his gaze flicked to you. “Seriously, though. He’s mad about you. Don’t let this stupid fight ruin something good.”

You blinked at your brother, caught somewhere between gratitude and shock. “You really think that?”

James sighed, his expression softening. “Yeah. I do. Just… go talk to him, alright? Put me out of my misery.”

You couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped you as you stood, smoothing out your robes. “Fine. But if he’s still being a prat, I’m blaming you.”

“Fair,” James said, though he shot you a rare, encouraging smile.

As you crossed the Great Hall, you could feel the weight of everyone’s eyes on you, the murmurs from the Gryffindor table blending with the soft hum of conversation around the room. When you reached the Ravenclaw table, Barty looked up, his green eyes widening in surprise as you stopped beside him.

“Treasure,” He started, his voice tentative, but you held up a hand to stop him.

“We need to talk,” You said firmly, though the corner of your lips twitched upward.

Barty stood immediately, his end of the bench scraping against the stone floor. “Anything. Anywhere.”

You nodded toward the doors, and he followed without hesitation, leaving behind his untouched dinner and a flurry of whispers in his wake.

Back at the Gryffindor table, James let out a heavy sigh of relief, leaning back in his chair. “Finally.”

“I can’t believe it,” Sirius said, shaking his head in mock astonishment. “Prongs has feelings. Actual, human feelings.”

“Don’t push it, Padfoot,” James muttered, though the faint smile on his face betrayed him.

Lily rested her chin on her hand, watching as you and Barty disappeared through the doors. “I think it’s sweet. He finally gets it.”

“Better late than never,” Remus added with a small smile. “Though I’m sure he’ll deny it by morning.”

Sirius, smirked devilishly and Lily’s smile twitched just a bit.

“It's almost like we didn't catch them snogging a few days ago.” He sang and James's face turned pale and his eyes widened.

James shot up from his seat so quickly that his table toppled backward, the loud clatter echoing through the Great Hall. “WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY?”

Sirius threw his head back in laughter, nearly choking on his pumpkin juice, while Lily covered her mouth with her hand, clearly enjoying the chaos.

“I said,” Sirius repeated slowly, his grin widening, “it’s almost like we didn’t catch them snogging a few days ago. Almost.”

“You- you WHAT?” James sputtered, looking between Sirius and Lily with a mixture of horror and betrayal. “And you didn’t tell me? Evans! You’re supposed to be on my side!”

“I am on your side,” Lily said, struggling to keep her composure as she shrugged innocently. “I just didn’t think it was a big deal. They’re dating, James. What did you expect?”

“What did I- what did I- NOT THAT!” James shouted, flailing his arms toward the doors where you and Barty had disappeared. “I didn’t expect him to be sticking his tongue down her throat in public!”

“It wasn’t public,” Sirius said with a mockingly thoughtful expression. “It was a little alcove near the library, actually. Quite private. You’d be proud of them, Prongs- very stealthy, very romantic. A solid 9 out of 10.”

James groaned, dragging his hands down his face dramatically as Remus finally chimed in, his tone calm but amused. “James, they’re in a relationship. This isn’t exactly shocking.”

“It is to me!” James snapped, glaring at Remus as if he’d just committed treason. “And you lot just sat on this information like it was nothing?”

“Mate, you’ve been watching them practically live in each other’s pockets for months now,” Sirius said, still grinning. “I figured you’d have put it together by now.”

Lily patted James’s arm consolingly, though her eyes still sparkled with mischief. “I think you’re just mad because you’re starting to like Barty, and this makes it harder for you to yell at him.”

James opened his mouth to argue, but the words caught in his throat. He closed his mouth, glaring at the table as his face turned an impressive shade of red.

“Admit it, Prongs,” Sirius said, leaning forward with a gleeful grin. “You like him. He’s grown on you.”

“I don’t like him,” James muttered, though his voice lacked its usual conviction. “I tolerate him. For her.”

“You tolerate him enough to tell her not to break his heart,” Remus pointed out, his lips twitching.

James groaned again, collapsing back into his seat with the air of a man defeated. “Fine. I don’t hate him. Happy now?”

“Ecstatic,” Sirius said with a wink. “Though I’d be happier if you didn’t look like you were about to throw a fit every time you saw them hold hands.”

Lily leaned in closer, her voice soft but teasing. “He loves her, James. And she loves him. That’s not something you need to fight.”

James sighed heavily, running a hand through his messy hair. “Yeah, well… if he hurts her, it’s still open season.”

“Fair enough,” Sirius said with a laugh. “But you’ll have to get in line behind her. She’s got a mean right hook.”

The table erupted into laughter, and even James couldn’t help but crack a small smile. Somewhere beyond the Great Hall doors, you and Barty were likely making amends, and for the first time, James felt a reluctant sort of peace about it.

He still didn’t like Barty- he probably never would- but he could admit, quietly and only to himself, that the boy made you happy. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

#harry potter #harry potter fanfiction #sirius black #james potter #james potter x sister!reader #barty crouch jr x you #barty crouch x reader #barty x reader #barty crouch fanfic #barty crouch jr fanfic #barty crouch jr x reader #barty crouch junior #barty jr #lily Evans

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pretty-little-mind33 · 7 months ago

Text

James Potter x best friend!fem!reader

Summary: You and James stumble upon an ancient book of spells rumored to enhance pleasure.

Genre: SMUT (nsfm) + hurt and comfort

Warnings: sex while under an 'aphrodisiac' of some kind, unprotected sex, penetration, cock warming, quickie, public (not seen by anyone), riding, insecurities, porn with plot ✨

JAMES POTTER MASTERLIST

"Someone is gonna see us," you whisper, feeling James Potter's hand in yours, his thumb occasionally soothing circles over your palm as you stumble in the dark corridors under his invisibility cloak.

"That's the point of the cloak, love," James answers, holding in a laugh as he guides you towards the entrance to the library and he mutters the spell for the lock as you hold your breath.

"Hear us then," you counter, unconsciously squeezing his hand for reassurance.

James doesn't hesitate to return the squeeze and he smiles when the lock opens with a click. He opens the door and you both squeeze inside.

Once the door shuts behind you, James drops the cloak and you let out a shaky exhale, adjusting your hair. The room is dark and it smells like dust. You hold in a cough as James mutters, "Lumos," and then grins like he'd gone mad.

"Told ya we'd be fine," he sing-songs and kicks your shoe in a playful manner as he walks by you to look at all the restricted books.

You groan and take out your wand, walking along the shelves as you pick up dust with your index. "Are you looking for something in particular?" you ask, your voice low as you read the names of books, realizing just how dangerous this could become.

James nods. "Yeah, I bet Sirius I could find "Moste Potente Potions" so we could make some Polyjuice potion," he says casually.

"And you needed me, why?!" you turn to glare at your best friend.

James looks at you with a smile. "Didn't really. I'just like your company."

You bite the inside of your cheek and go back to looking at the books. "Polyjuice is dangerous, James. Are you sure you want to meddle with that?"

James nods again and he hums, "I'm top of the class in Potions, I'm sure I can handle some Polyjuice." He sounds smug and you roll your eyes at his behavior.

James is reckless and impulsive and honestly, you're worried about him making that potion with his friends. You don't dare bring it up, because who are you to tell James what to do? You aren't his girlfriend or anything—

"Woah," James's voice interrupts your thoughts as he walks over to you. You turn, standing in front of him as he flips the pages of some old dusty book. "These spells are ancient—and completely forbidden—" he mutters, his eyes round with excitement.

You tilt your head and read the title; "Antiqua Cantus." Ancient Spells.

"Bloody Hell, there's a pleasure-enhancing spell–like a sexual thing—" James exclaims and holds the book open to you so you can see. You walk over and stand next to him, looking over his shoulder at the spell. James begins to recite the spell and you read along, entranced by the words on the worn-out parchment.

By moonlight's glow and stars above,

Ignite the flames of lustful love.

Let passion's heat our bodies bind,

In ecstasy, our souls combined.

Whisper soft this sacred plea,

Unleash our wildest fantasy.

Once he's finished, you glance around the page and frown. "Shit." You grab the book from James and then look up at him with wide eyes, "James, this is a wandless spell!" you whisper and his eyes widen like yours did as he realizes what happened.

He grabs the book from you and reads the instructions. His shoulders relax and he points to the small print— "It says the participants must have already existing feelings for this to work," he mumbles and looks up at you, smiling reassuringly and unsure all the same. "So—"

"Yeah—" you whisper, stepping away from him.

"I feel fine," James starts.

"I do too," you say, feeling completely normal.

James shuts the book with a slam and his smile returns. "Thing is probably too old to work, anyways," he says confidently. You nod, less confident than he is but you push those worries down.

He doesn't like you like that—so why would it work?

Once James finally finds the book he's looking for, you both cram under the cloak and you make your way back to the dorm. You ignore the feeling, but your head feels fuzzier than it should. Every brush on James's arm against yours sends shivers up your spine. You're extra aware of how he smells and it's intoxicating. You bite your lip, hoping the pain will distract you from the pleasure building.

The spell.

James looks normal. He's even humming the Hogwarts song under his breath, his eyes trained forward as you make it to the Common Room. It feels so unfair—that he's fine and your stomach twists with butterflies as your nipples harden painfully against your bra.

It isn't fair.

As soon as you have the chance, you pull away from James and sit on the couch, pressing your thighs together. You glance up at the stairs to the girl's dorms, wondering if you should run up and take a cold shower to quench the ache.

"Hey, you okay?" James asks, folding up the cloak as he looks you over.

Bloody fuck, his voice.

"Mhmm," you nod, focusing your attention on anything but how turned on you are or how hot James sounds and looks. How much you want his lips on yours.

You clench your thighs again, nervously pressing your hands in between them and your breath hitches when James sits next to you, his hand flat on your thigh. You inhale.

"Are you sure?" he asks, looking at you behind his glasses with a look that makes you want to pounce on him. This is so humiliating. You move your thigh so his hand slips onto the couch and James's frown deepens. "Hey," he whispers again, "What's happened?"

You feel like your entire body is on fire. You need to touch yourself or throw yourself out a window—you can't make up your mind.

"The stupid spell—" you say, your voice soft as you avoid his gaze and stare at your knees, feeling your hands shake. "it's working and I- I can't handle it, James,"

He doesn't answer for a moment until you hear a familiar laugh. "Oh, darling," he says, his hand finding your chin as he turns your head around, grinning. "Look at me."

You do so but he shakes his head, his eyes shimmering. "No. Look at me," he whispers, his voice husky and deep and your eyes widen when you understand what he means. Your gaze falls from his eyes to the painful-looking bulge tenting his trousers and you inhale sharply, the sight causing your mind to haze over. How had you missed this!?

"Look at what it's done to me, love," James finishes as his thumb strokes your cheek. "We really messed up this time, didn't we?" he hums.

"You messed up," you whisper, leaning into his touch. Thank Merlin no one is in the Common Room at this hour because your desperation is embarrassing.

"I messed up," James says with a strained smirk and he twirls some of your hair in his fingers. "Can I make it up to you, darling? Can I make the ache go away?"

James knows this is wrong. You're both under some kind of sexually enhancing spell—this is so many shades of messed up. Still, his heart and dick yearn for you. Somehow, he's managed to hide it well, most likely because he'd had experience in that department—James was constantly turned on to some level when he was around you. He can't help himself.

"H-how?" you ask, the idea of giving in to the desires not even crossing your mind.

James smirks, looking at you as his glasses fall down his nose. He pats his thigh. You look down, your eyes widening. You shouldn't. This is wrong. Still, your body responds to him without your brain's permission as you lift yourself to straddle his lap. Your skirt bunches up your thighs as your arms wrap around James's shoulder. You gasp for air at how sensitive you are and you can't look him in the eye.

You can feel him hard and needy against you and you swallow.

"Look at me," James whispers once more, his voice husky and deep as his hands grip your hips and he moves you up and down his trousers. You whine and bury your face in the crook of his neck, your skin clammy and flushed from need.

Suddenly the movements stop and your grip tightens around his shoulders.

"Look at me," he says again, lips pressed to your ear as he sounds as desperate as you are. "O-or I'll stop," he threatens, not sounding convincing considering the spell is starting to hit him hard and he's about ready to come in his trousers.

You pull away, looking at him as your mind buzzes and you search his eyes for some hint that you both need to stop this. You see none so you say, your voice strained, "James. Fucking need you, please."

You lift your hips, finding his zipper and fumbling with his trousers as you push aside your panties. It's rushed and sweaty and not at all romantic like you'd planned—not to mention public. You pray everyone else is asleep and won't walk in on you sitting on your best friend's cock.

With a moan, you press down and he slides in easily. "Shit, you're so wet," James mumbles as he kisses your neck, holding you close as his cock twitches inside you. You both don't even think of the fact he's not wearing a condom or anything. You're too lost in the pleasure for any rational thoughts.

"Fuck," you groan, keeping him inside you without movement for a while. You hold him as close as possible, needing him. Needing his warmth.

James groans, his eyes shut in pleasure as he holds himself back from fucking you roughly. He's going to explode at any moment if he doesn't feel you move. "Y/n," he warns, his hands tightening even more on your poor hips.

You take that as an invitation and you move, your movements slow and languid in the beginning, feeling every pull and stretch and you can't tell if James's cock just feels so much better than any others you've been with, or if the spell is messing with you.

Perhaps it's a little of both.

"Bloody hell," James grunts, losing control, as he moves you with him, his hips snapping up into you. You gasp, falling onto his shoulder as you hold him even closer, the pleasure almost unbearable.

You don't know if it's been hours or mere minutes but once James spills himself into you, his hands around your back as he continues to move your body to his liking, you can't hold it in and your mouth opens, a silent moan catching you by surprise as you finish around him. You feel weak and fuzzy almost instantly as if the string master that kept you aware suddenly cut you loose.

James's hand soothingly runs in your hair as he pants, his eyes shut. The only sound you can hear is your and James' ragged breaths and all you can smell is the burnt-out firewood and sex. You feel much calmer now as your brain tries to catch up with the events that just transpired, and when it does your blood runs cold.

You sit up, looking down at your best friend. He's looking at you, not daring to speak. You'd just fucked him with such want and need and yet all you can think about when you look at him is how you did all that without knowing the feeling of his lips on yours.

Shame burns your skin and you scramble off him, the feeling of his cock leaving from inside you makes you wince as you hold in all the emotions that threaten to overwhelm you.

"Hey," James whispers, his hand reaching for yours as he stops you from running away, standing up in the process so he's looking at you. He drops your hand and, clearly embarrassed, tucks himself back inside his trousers. You stare at him, feeling dirty from an experience you'd wished had been amazing.

And it was more than amazing if you were honest with yourself. You'd never been more satisfied in your life, but it also wasn't what you'd really wanted. Was it too cliché to want roses and candles? A steamy kiss and some swoon-worthy romantic confession?

Instead, you'd gotten love bites and finger dents.

"What's going on in your head?" James's voice interrupts your thoughts as he moves closer.

"Hmm?"

"Darling, come on, please talk to me," he insists, wanting to know exactly what you're feeling so he can understand his own feelings.

You cover your face with your hands, head dipping down as your body finally calms down from the surplus of hormones you've experienced.

"We shouldn't have done that, James—I–it was wrong," your voice fades as his hands find your wrists and he pulls them down. He looks hurt, sad, and guilty all in one emotion painted on his handsome face.

"Do you regret it?" he asks, his voice wavering.

You open your mouth to say yes but hold yourself back. It's more complicated than that. "I don't know– I just didn't think it would happen like this and—we didn't even kiss," you ramble, avoiding looking at him. You should have been looking because then you could have seen his next move coming.

James gently takes your cheeks in his hands, pulling you into him so he can kiss your lips. For something surprising, it isn't forceful at all. He doesn't kiss you longer than a few seconds and he doesn't use his tongue. He's delicate with you, making sure he isn't crossing any boundaries.

When he moves away, your eyes are open and you're silent for a moment. Then, you grab his collar and pull him in, crashing your lips onto his. You kiss him like he's your last meal on earth--like you've been starved of him. He feels so good pressed against you, his hands in your hair and then your cheeks again, and then your waist. You feel dizzy and you pull away. Your lips feel swollen and love-bitten and you're a flustered mess.

James continues to hold you close as he presses his forehead to yours, his thumb rubbing your waist. "You're amazing," he speaks so softly as a faint smile graces his lips.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I don't tell you enough, do I?" James smiles and tilts his head. He leans in and kisses your neck. "You're amazing—so wonderful," he inhales your scent but doesn't comment on it and a shiver runs up your spine.

"I– we–" You want to bring up the fact you had sex with him but James puts his finger on your lips, his thumb rubbing under your chin and he shakes his head.

"Stop worrying so much, lovely. It's okay. I promise it's okay. I didn't hurt you did I?"

You shake your head and James's smile turns into a grin.

"Good. So we're okay, hm?" he looks at you expectantly. "You're still my best friend."

Your heart thumps loudly in your ears. Best friends. "Y-yeah, you're still my best friend, Jamie," you say, your voice strained as you smile reluctantly.

You want to be so much more than best friends.

James can sense your hesitation and he takes a breath. "W-would you want to try to be more than just friends, Y/n?" he pauses, and then his voice picks up, "and I'm not saying that because we just fucked. No. I'm saying this because I'm hopelessly in love with you and I think you love me too. You kissed me like you love me. I want to try to make this work."

You feel like the world is crashing around you. Your skin feels clammy and your head is dizzy. Still, an unfamiliar warmth spreads all around you. You feel blissful and you reach for James's hand, needing to hold him. He lets you hold his hand and he intertwines his fingers into yours. He looks nervous like he's expecting a rejection.

"I do love you, James. So much. I want to try this too," you whisper, looking at him with a shy smile.

James's grin widens and he picks you up, spinning you around as he keeps you close when your feet touch the ground again. "I'll do right by you, my love," he whispers in your ear and you hold your hands behind his neck.

"So no more late-night trips to the restricted sections and trying old, dangerous, spells?" you tease.

James nips at your ear. "I kinda liked this one."

You laugh and swat his pec, your hand trailing down his chest as you fist his shirt and look up at him with a mockingly stern look. "Don't be a smartass, you wanker."

James returns your laugh and kisses behind your ear. "No more trips to the restricted section and trying old dangerous spells. Pink swear."

You pull away and hold out your pinky, which he takes and you grin.

"We can still have sex though, hm. We don't need a spell to do that, right?" he teases but the question almost sounds serious.

You roll your eyes. "James."

"I'm just making sure!"

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lulublack90 · 1 year ago

Text

Prompt 7 - Star

@jegulus-microfic February 7 Word count 743

ok this wasn't meant to be another multi-prompt story but here we are 🤣

CW- someone is tortured but it's not described but you know it's going on.

First part

Sirius had blindfolded him once they’d cleared the building. He could feel Sirius’s face still close to his.

“We’re going to apparate in a second. Are you going to behave, or do I have to stun you?” Sirius growled into his ear. Regulus tried to twist his head away from his brother.

“Stunning it is.” Sirius sighed before Regulus felt a spell hit him, and then…

***

“Did you have to do that, Sirius?” James huffed as he rearranged Regulus’s limp body on his shoulders.

“If he messed around, he would have splinched himself, and you might have as well. This was easier.” Sirius shrugged at James as he explained. “Come on, Mad-Eye will want to question him.” Sirius held his hand out to James, and they disapparated to their designated safe house.

***

Regulus’s body felt stiff like he’d fallen asleep sitting up. Slowly, he cracked his eyes open. He was in a dark room, possibly a cellar. He wasn’t sure. If magic was being used, he could be anywhere.

He tried to move and found he was strapped tightly to a wooden chair.

“Ah, so you’re finally awake?” A gruff, gravely voice said from the shadows. Alastor Moody moved so he was just visible in the low light.

Regulus supposed it was meant to be an intimidation tactic, but it wasn’t strong enough to work on him. The Auror clearly hadn’t asked Sirius for input, as he’d know that after dealing with Walburga Black, nothing these silly little men could do would get to him.

“Hmmm, braver than you look, hey, Black? Let’s see how brave the lionhearted star really is.” He raised his wand, pointing it directly at Regulus’s chest, and all Regulus could think was this man was an idiot. The Regulus star wasn’t lionhearted. It was the heart of the lion, and as it was, his heart belonged to only one lion, a Gryffindor lion.

He used thoughts of James to get him through the waves of torture Moody was about to perform.

***

Above them, in the kitchen, James and Sirius paced. Frank Longbottom had his wand on them, and they had been warned that if they tried to get into the cellar, he’d stun the pair without hesitating. So they paced.

James flinched at every scream, and Sirius ranted and raved about how torture wouldn’t work on him because Walburga had made it her life’s mission to torture her sons until they could endure anything.

“Just talk to him like I said to. He’s a twat, but he’ll talk more if you don’t piss him off with spells first.” He bellowed at the door.

James couldn’t speak at all. Every cry emitted from Regulus broke a piece of him. If he’d have thought even for a second that the Order would do this to him, he’d have taken him and run.

Eventually, it went silent, and familiar clunking footsteps pounded up the stairs. The door to the cellar opened, and Mad-Eye walked out, looking tired and not at all satisfied. James and Sirius went to step around him, but he shot his arm out, blocking them.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” He growled at them. “No one is to go near the prisoner.”

“What the fuck Mad-Eye?!” Sirius cried as he tried in vain to get around him.

“He’s not talking yet. But don’t you worry, he will.”

“No, he won’t! I’ve already told you, Moody, you won’t break him like that. All you’ve done is piss him off. He’ll never say a word to you now. Let us try. I know we can get through to him. He’ll talk to James and I. Please let us try.” By the end of his tirade, Sirius was pleading with the older wizard. James was glad Sirius had taken over. He was in no fit state to fight Mad-Eye.

“Go on, Mad-Eye, it won’t hurt to let them have a crack at him.” Frank offered as he tried to defuse the situation and get the head Auror to see reason.

The grizzled wizard grunted something incoherent but nodded before he stomped out of the kitchen. They all understood he meant that James and Sirius could go down to Regulus.

James stared at the cellar door. He felt sick at the thought that whatever had happened to Regulus was his fault if he hadn’t picked him up. None of this would have happened.

He put his hand on the doorknob and turned it.

Next part

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brokenmenswhore · 7 months ago

Note

i need more of that dont look seriesss i need sirius and reader to go against remus’ rules or summmm please and thank you if u choose to do so

whatever the people want, i shall give them 🙇‍♀️

don’t look | remus & sirius

part 2

pairings: remus lupin x fem!reader, sirius black x fem!reader

warnings: smut (MDNI 18+), language

part 1

────── ☾ ──────

Sirius opened his mouth to say something as Remus approached, but Remus put a hand up to cut him off.

“Nope, don’t even, I’m still mad at you,” Remus stated, walking past Sirius.

“Oh come on!” Sirius called to him, “look, I said I was sorry.”

“I know, but I’m still mad,” he called back, “and jealous, I guess.”

Sirius shrugged, “well maybe you should stop eating out your hot girlfriend in a communal space, Moons, what did you expect?”

Remus stopped in his tracks. He turned around and approached Sirius, stopping only a few feet away from him.

“You know you aren’t supposed to look at her like that.”

“Jeez, Moony, you aren’t my dad.”

Sirius’s nonchalance bothered Remus. Remus was hot-headed, and it was nearly the full moon, which meant his emotions were heightened even more than usual.

It also meant he was hornier than usual.

He marched to your dorm, swinging the door open, despite the two other girls sat on the floor, textbooks sprawled across their laps as you all studied together. “I need you.”

Your eyes shot up at him, the other girls scanning his figure up and down. “Rem, I’m studying,” you told him, as if he couldn’t see you doing just that.

“Please, I just need to borrow you for a minute.” Remus tried not to sound desperate, but he most certainly did. He didn’t care if the girls knew he wanted to borrow you to fuck you senseless, he only cared that he remained level-headed until he was alone with you.

You gave a smile to the other girls, closing your textbook and placing it on the floor before standing up and following Remus to his dormitory. He anticipated that it would be empty, but instead he found Sirius, cross-legged on his bed, a book in his lap.

Remus contemplated his options. Ever since Sirius’s infraction, he had avoided being with you in front of him, worried Sirius would try something again. However, today, he was angry, and he wanted to piss off Sirius by asserting his authority and dominance over you.

He pushed you onto the mattress, immediately hiking up your skirt and pulling down your underwear.

“Remus!” you squealed, taken aback by his haste.

He shushed you, saying, “need you bad.”

“Remmy, it’s not even a full moon tonight, you can usually wait until later in the da-“

Remus cut you off by shoving two fingers into your hole, not caring about warming you up as you squirmed from his touch.

“Shit,” you whined as his mouth connected with your clit, his tongue lapping up any wetness.

You moaned, your hands gripping his hair as he continued to shove his fingers in and out of you, his unoccupied hand pushing (with difficulty) his trousers down until he was left in his underwear, his hand sneaking past the waistband to lightly stroke himself at the sight of you.

Sirius was already in a fight with Remus over watching you, and part of him didn’t want to make anything worse. Part of him also thought that since they were already in a fight, what did it matter? He would just have to be more careful.

You whimpered when Remus hit a particularly good spot, and Sirius looked toward you through hooded lids, ready to retreat his gaze if Remus checked in on him, but Remus was focused only on you.

He had almost forgotten Sirius was in the room, his desperation and need growing more intense with each moan and whine you let out.

He pulled away from you, pulling his boxers all the way down before crawling on top of you.

“I need to feel you, pretty girl, are you ready for me?” he cooed, stroking his cock faster and faster as he waited for you to respond.

“Please, Remmy,” you begged, and he nearly came in his hand at the sound.

He lined himself up at your entrance, slowly pushing in despite his need. He would never give up watching your face as he pushed into you, even if he was desperate. The way your face contorted, the small whimpers that left your lips, the way your hair looked sprawled out on the pillows, the way your skirt bunched up around your waist-

He bottomed out inside of you, immediately starting to thrust in and out of you.

“Shit, Rem,” you moaned at the feeling, “you can use me.” You knew what he needed when the full moon was near, but your statement still drove him crazy as if he had never heard it before.

Remus placed both of your wrists above your head, holding them with one hand as his head dipped in the crook of your neck, his unoccupied hand finding your clit and rubbing fast circles as he fucked you. He didn’t care about timing, he just needed you bad. He needed to come inside of you, but he needed you to come first, even if it all happened quickly. He adored the feeling of you coming on his cock, and needed to feel it to achieve his own high.

You turned your head so that Remus had more room to rest his on your shoulder, and you glanced at Sirius, who shifted his seated position as he heard you moan. You remembered the last time he was in the room, and you hoped he would look over at you again, your eyes focused on him as Remus pounded into you at a ruthless pace.

He finally did glance at you, but he did a double take, checking if you were really looking at him, and you were. You nodded your head up and down, a way to tell him it was okay with you if he watched, and that you wanted him to do as such.

His eyes remained on you, scanning your body up and down, watching your thighs fall more and more open as Remus’s hand moved faster and faster on your clit.

He loved seeing you with your hands above your head, a new sight for him, Remus having full control over your body.

Your back arched off the bed, causing the pressure on your wrists to increase as your climax threatened to hit, Remus’s hand and his cock almost too much to hold it together.

“Sir- shit, I’m gonna-“

You squeezed Remus’s cock like a vice, your high washing over you as your thighs shook.

“Shit, baby,” Remus breathed.

He didn’t catch your almost-slip, but Sirius certainly did, his eyes darkening as he watched you come down from your high, your body still shifting back and forth on the bed from the force of his best friend’s hips snapping against yours.

“Gonna come in you,” Remus moaned, a final few, sharp thrusts sending him over the edge as he came, groans in your ear that only you could hear as he spilled his seed inside of you.

You signaled for Sirius to look away as Remus let go of your wrists, pulling out of you before standing up and gazing at your fucked-out frame.

“Thank you, baby,” he placed a gentle kiss to your forehead, “let me get you cleaned up.”

He stretched a hand out to you, and you took it, allowing him to guide you to the bathroom.

✶

Sirius did not speak to you for an entire week after that.

You tried to spark conversation, but he always found an excuse to leave the room or divert his attention. Remus noticed, but assumed it was because of the first time he watched you, and he quite enjoyed the thought of Sirius leaving you alone.

You were seated in the common room, everyone apart from you and the boys at a party in the Ravenclaw dorms. The boys had decided to skip this particular party thanks to Remus, who was falling behind in Transfiguration, and who cursed the Ravenclaws for throwing a party the night before a massive Transfiguration exam.

“I can’t fucking focus,” Remus spoke, annoyed at his inability to comprehend the subject.

“I have some extra notes in the dorms,” James spoke, “I can try to find them, maybe they’ll help?”

“Yeah, alright,” Remus agreed, “worth a shot.”

Remus sighed, placing a kiss on your forehead as he and James retreated up the stairs to search for James’s extra notes.

You turned to Sirius, who avoided meeting your gaze.

“Please talk to me, Sirius.”

He ignored you completely.

“Siri, please.”

The pet name broke him out of his mindset. “Don’t call me Siri.”

“Why not, Siri?” you teased.

“Because it does things to me. Stop.”

“Why?”

“Seriously, Y/N-“

“Seriously what? Why won’t you talk to me?”

Sirius lowered his voice, whisper-yelling, “what do you mean why won’t I talk to you? I’m finally in a decent spot with Remus, what am I gonna do if he finds out I eye-fucked his girlfriend again while he was in the middle of railing her?”

“What does that have to do with you speaking to me?” you questioned.

“Because every single time I look at you, I see- I see you like that.”

You raised your eyebrows in surprise at Sirius’s confession. “Really?”

“Shut up.”

“You like what you saw?” you teased.

“Shut up.”

“You wanna see more?”

“Stop,” Sirius warned.

You listened intently up the staircase, and heard James yell, “I fucking swear they were here! Check in that one.”

You propped your legs up on the coffee table, allowing your legs to fall open and give Sirius an unobstructed line of sight to your core.

“Do you wanna see more?” you asked again, running a finger over your underwear, just above your folds.

“Don’t fucking tease me.”

You nodded your head no, you were indeed not teasing him. You really were going to touch yourself.

You moved your underwear aside, giving Sirius full view of your most sensitive area as you put one of your middle fingers into your mouth.

You made a show of sucking on the digit, wetting the skin before slowly inserting it into your now-wet hole. You let out a light whine, so as not to alert Remus of what you were up to.

Sirius tried to restrain himself, but he quite literally could not take his eyes away from you. He was obsessed; a man starved who finally found sustenance. He couldn’t look away if he tried.

You began to move your finger faster and faster, your other hand coming up to squeeze your breast over your shirt.

“Shit, Siri,” you moaned, and Sirius nearly lost it right there.

He stood up and approached you, gripping the wrist that was moving your finger inside of your hole.

You assumed he would stop you, but instead, he pulled your finger out, pressing two of his fingers to your lips and allowing you to suck on them.

When he was satisfied with how wet they were, he replaced your finger with his own, his pointer and middle entering you slowly as you threw your head back.

Sirius turned his head to the staircase, hearing “well why wouldn’t they be with literally every other set of notes?” and “fucking hell, can you check the trunk over there?”

Sirius met your eyes, watching you squirm as he fingered you, his thumb finding its way to your clit and rubbing circles, a small smile finding its way onto his lips as he watched your reaction to his touch.

As he pumped his fingers faster and faster, he began to curl them against your spongy walls, a euphoric feeling.

“Siri, fuck,” you whined.

Sirius’s unoccupied hand went to your mouth, covering it to keep you from being loud enough for Remus or James to hear.

“You’re so fucking pretty, did you know that?” Sirius spoke, hand still ruthless on your core, “staring at me with someone else’s cock in you, thinking it won’t affect me?”

You whined under Sirius’s hand, your hips beginning to grind on his hand as he continued speaking.

“Silly little girl, don’t you know Remus said we shouldn’t look at you? You keep breaking his rules, and that’s only something bad girls do. You’re not a bad girl, are you?”

Sirius only moved his hand from your mouth to hear you respond. “Maybe I am, Siri,” you moaned.

Sirius placed his hand back over your mouth, his fingers fucking you faster and faster after you spoke. “You wanna be a bad girl? I’ll treat you like a bad girl. Isn’t that what you want, huh? Staring at me when you have Remus inside of you?”

Your high was dangerously close, Sirius’s fingers better than you could have ever imagined, when Sirius heard “fuck this! I’m just gonna go back downstairs.”

Sirius immediately pulled away, placing your legs back in a normal seated position as he sat back down across from you, scanning the pages of his textbook as if nothing had just happened.

“Sorry that took so long, dumbass couldn’t even find the extra notes,” Remus said, plopping down next to you and throwing an arm around your shoulders, “did I miss anything good?”

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cratlord · 2 years ago

Text

Timely Picture Chapter 3

Sirius Black wakes up after spending 20 years trapped in a portrait by his own family. When Old magics are invoked, and ancient entities recognized, how will events change? How differently does everything play out when Harry gets a few more snakes in his corner, namely, the true face of the Ancient and Noble House of Black, one of the few houses who still remember the old ways? As always when a story involves the House of Black, things go to madness quickly

Series Page

A few days to settle in had turned into a week and a half. Sirius was settled into what had once been his fathers office, where he had moved Orion’s portrait, where he was just putting the finishing touches on a letter he was writing to his new legal team. Those poor bastard really had their work cut out for them. Apart from his own freedom, which he needed to secure sooner rather than later, there was also quite a few people he needed to file suit on for their swindling of Black family assets while his golem had been in Azkaban. While the cat’s away and all that.

He ran his hand through his hair as he waited for the ink to dry. His week had been quite productive, really, but it just shown light on how much really needed to be done. He needed to find some allies quickly, because if his week of paperwork and information gathering had taught him anything, it was that he wasn’t nearly ready to run the Black family business empire yet.

The Law Offices of Fawley and Selwin had been a magic sent, as he knew of their reputation for pure honesty and trustworthiness in regards to business. Already they had found him a new more suitable steward for the house’s holdings, as well as initiated proceedings to get him a trial. They figured it would be an open and shut case. For one thing, his golem was the one who was accused, for another, even the golem was innocent. They were painting the whole thing as Sirius being an innocent victim of multiple misdeeds from unknown perpetrators, likely after the family’s assets. After all, Orion and Walburga both had plenty of enemies. Apparently the current minister was in the process of getting sacked, so it was the perfect opportunity to slip in a controversial trial, as it could just be painted as just another example of the old administrations corruption.

That was just the legal side of things. When it came to the war, it was even messier. Apparently his golem had offered Grimmauld Place as a home base for some group led by Dumbledore called the Order of the Phoenix. Even after his golem’s death, they were still in the townhouse for meetings almost every night. There were several dozen members, and they seemed to operate in cells, with seemingly only Dumbledore himself knowing what all of them were doing. He was spying using the portraits and his own mastery of the house itself. So far, they had no idea he was still here. A couple of them had reported whispers of the Black estate stirring, but nobody knew who was behind it or what their goal was. The running theory was Narcissa Malfoy.

That had been gag worthy news. He could hardly believe his cousin had gone through with marrying that pompous ass. Last he remembered she was almost as irritated by his arrogance as the rest of the family seemed to be. Must have been a business match… the Malfoy’s did have a lot of money after all, but lacked in English holdings. Most of their financial base was still on the continent, in France and Belgium. Perhaps he had mellowed out over the years, but based on their reports, it didn’t sound promising for her. Their poor kid. Little fucker never stood a chance.

The Order did have a lot of information, but they also just seemed to be as lost on what to actually do as he was. The dark lord certainly used his year incognito to its fullest. They had slivers of so many potential plots, but no bigger picture, and no certainty on exactly how far the taint of evil had spread so far. The paper was increasingly depressing, and only a couple weeks after the announcement of the dark lords return and already people were fleeing England in droves.

From what Sirius could tell, the Order was also a very reactionary force. Dumbledore, for some reason or other, seemed opposed to any plan that could be considered taking initiative. It was like the old codger was waiting for something and only he knew what. Either that, or he knew something extremely important that nobody else did. He was very careful to have everybody avoid a direct confrontation anywhere that Voldemort could potentially show up in person. It made Sirius wonder if the old man knew about the horcruxes.

His followers though, lacked that information and it was obvious. Several of them were muttering mutinously behind his back and Sirius wondered at how long it would be before they began acting outside of orders and getting themselves killed. It was frustrating to watch. Even he knew this was not how to fight a war. Some casualties were inevitable, but if he was going to try and keep everyone alive till he could, possibly, hunt down the horcruxes, then he really needed to be more open with his people. As it was, it just looked like he didn’t have the balls to do what was necessary. Meanwhile, innocent uninvolved muggles and muggleborn’s were paying the price.

There was also very little word on Harry. Sirius had heard all about his little adventure in the DOM which had gotten the golem killed. It sounded traumatic. And apparently Dumbledore’s idea of giving the kid space to deal with it was to send him to his relatives, which Regulus had told Orion were awful to him. As soon as he was ready, he was going to have to go rescue him. No way in hell was Sirius letting his best mate’s kid rot in a shit hole filled with hateful wankers.

The ink was dry. There really was no more putting things off. As soon as this letter reached his barrister, they would be off to the ministry to hand it to Amelia Bones, the current head of the DMLE. That would be the final step required before the scheduling of the trial itself, which would be a matter of public record. She had been working with Selwin to get the details of his case, and had apparently already wrapped up her side of the investigation. Apparently all it took was a few memories from Remus and Snape of all people to prove his innocence. She was framing it as a post mortum investigation, which is required for any person who dies on Ministry property.

There would be no hiding after that happened.

He sealed the letter in an official looking envelope, pressing his signet ring into the wax activating the magic of it. Only Amelia would be able to open it now, and she would be able to trust beyond the shadow of a doubt, that it was Sirius himself who put that letter in there.

It would definitely mean his life would take a turn for the hectic. The elves would be thrilled though. All but Kreature had been restricted to the Manor, leaving the Townhouse to decay to a truly horrendous state. Kreature himself was not well. According to the other elves, he had been slowly going mad due to an order he hadn’t been able to complete which was given to him by his brother before Reg’s death. Even after Sirius had blasted the horcrux with fiendfire, it would take time before the poor elf would be able to recover. Even over a week later, the poor thing still burst into hysterical tears of thanks every time Sirius saw him. Once he reclaimed the townhouse he would put Kreature back to work where he belonged. In the kitchen. Kreature had always been their chef and pantry keeper. Going back to it could be just what the little blighter needed to sort his mind out. Elves were powerful beings, but at the end of the day, they were simple little people with simple needs and desires.

He handed the letter to a plain barn owl Selwin had given him to use. The bird took it, fluffing up and standing a little taller. It it nodded one last time to him self importantly before leaping off the perch and out the window. Sirius chuckled, amused at the birds antics. It was a borderline boring looking owl, with almost no distinguishing markings, but it was just so pompous. It was a bird with a ‘very important job, thank you very much’. It was clear the world would stop turning if he didn’t deliver his letters in a timely manor. He watched the silly creature for a bit as it made a direct line for the office, which was only a few miles away in Diagon Alley.

Eventually the bird began to descend in the distance, and he couldn’t see it anymore around the buildings of London. He turned back around to the office he had made his.

As a child, he had always looked at this room in wonder. His fathers home office. This was where he filled out his paperwork for the Black family estate and the Hogwarts Board of Governors, where he would one day run the family Wisengamot seat. It had always seemed like such an important place.

The room sure looked impressive enough. Sirius hadn’t changed much when he took it over, enjoying the drama of the setup. It had impressive ornate double doors, carved with two swooping ravens over a grim. The animals from the family crest. Once in the doors, one would get a view of an expensive traditional office. The room had dark wooden beams, trim ornately carved into patterns of vines creeping around the room, veined in silver. There was another black marble mantle in here, but unlike the dining room, this one was also veined in silver. There were several sturdy bookshelves, and a set of file drawers near the desk. Portraits of previous heads of house were hung between the shelves, all life size and stately paintings, a couple of which were painted in this very room, though some of the furniture had been changed since then. Everything was lit by a magical ambient sort of light, which seemed to shine from the ceiling itself, and was easy on the eyes like a toned down sunlight in color. It was lit like there was always afternoon sunlight shining from a nearby window, but with no visible light source. The desk itself was magnificent. It was a piece commissioned by his grandfather Arcturus. It was huge and ornately carved, with no less than a dozen ravens hidden in the patterns on the desks sides. Each drawer had silver grims head with a loop in it’s mouth for handles. The whole thing screamed ‘Black family aesthetic.’ The whole room was so ridiculous and extra he loved it.

Taking one last look around, he figured it was time to make his grand entrance into the townhouse. Looking to his grandfather Arcturus, he asked, “Who is currently at the townhouse?”

Arcturus, a much younger version than Sirius had ever met, smirked. “According to Phineas as of about an hour ago, the only current guests are Mr. Lupin, Andromeda’s daughter Dora, and an auror named Kingsley Shacklebot who is asleep in one of the upstairs bedrooms.”

He lifted an eyebrow at the abnormally snarky look on the man, but didn’t acknowledge it. He had found out in the last week that he may have gotten his sense of humor from Arcturus, which meant he knew the old man wouldn’t give up a thing if he thought it would be funnier if Sirius walked in on it and found out the hard way. Sirius decided he would play along. After all, it wasn’t like there was much for a portrait to do through the day. Perhaps they would all get a good laugh out of whatever it was.

With a polite word of thanks, he turned and made his way towards one of the connecting halls the Manor shared with the Townhouse. The Manor itself truly was a marvel of magic. Technically it didn’t exist in the physical plane at all, being in a pocket dimension where there existed expansive grounds and perfect weather. The marvelous part though, was how it seamlessly interacted with the real world. Within the confines of the estate, the land truly looked as it did before London was build around and throughout it. Gently sloping hills, beautiful gardens, even a small forest with a herd of unicorns and many other magical creatures. It was this land that you saw when you looked out the windows of the Manor. The only way into the manor though, was through the Townhouse. They connected on every floor, as if the manor was an extension of the house. Each hallway in the townhouse opened up into the manor from every side, if one had the required Black blood in their veins. There were also certain rooms which existed in both houses simultaneously, one but separate. Each of the main family members bedrooms as well as the Lord’s office were such rooms. That meant they could see whichever dimension they wanted when they looked out the windows of those particular rooms.

This also meant it was always a short walk to get from Manor to Townhouse and visa versa. Sirius simply walked out of the office, down the first floor hall to the end and simply had to keep going. He didn’t though. He stopped right at the border between the two homes, looking through the now invisible barrier.

It appeared there were now more than simply three people. The hall itself was empty, but he could hear the sounds of people discussing something that sounded important. Their voices were muffled, as if they were drifting from downstairs. Wanting to know what he was about to walk into, he turned around and made his way to the ground floor hallway. Turning about from the grand stairs he went down the short hall behind them till he got the the barrier to the entry hall of the Townhouse. Peeking through, he heard a few people arguing, being drowned out by the maddened screams of his mothers insults. Merlin that woman had lungs on her.

It was a group of six people, all he recognized from the Order. He saw Moony standing just a hair closer than was his norm to Dora. An interesting tidbit Sirius filed away for later. They seemed to be content standing and watching the other four people arguing. The grizzled old auror named Moody was grumbling and bickering with the vagabond looking twit people called Dung. From the bits he could make out,they were debating whether it was safe to stay in the townhouse with it’s master dead. The smooth radio quality voice of Shacklebot seemed to be attempting to deescalate the situation. Meanwhile, one he thought was the oldest Weasley son seemed to be trying to get a read on the magic in the very walls of the manor, and appeared to be frustrated by the whole situation. Sirius couldn’t help but chuckle at the man. If he was trying to unravel the secrets of Grimmauld, then good luck to him. Much greater wizards then him had tried.

Figuring there was no real good time to come back from the dead, Sirius decided to intervene. Besides, his mothers screaming was starting to get to him. Taking a deep breath, he began to walk forward. Oddly it was the raving portrait who noticed him first.

It was almost immediate. As soon as he stepped out of the wall his mother spotted him. She stopped screaming, making a sound almost like choking, as her hand flew to her mouth in a comic look of shock. The sudden silence is what got the attention of everyone else in the hall, but at this point Sirius only had eyes for his mum.

Finding out what had happened to her had hurt, really badly. Sure they fought like cats and dogs, but they always knew they were family. He never wanted to hurt her that badly. He had put off seeing her portrait because he wasn’t sure how she would react. His father had filled him in on how well Walburga had gotten along with the homunculus, and the eventual banishing of it from the house and the family. He had been worried that she wouldn’t be able to tell it was the real him.

It seemed he had been worried over nothing. The moment she laid eyes upon him, she seemed to know. Her shock seemed to have completely stunned her for a moment. Then, with tears forming in her painted eyes, she fell to her knees. “My boy…” she sobbed. “It’s really you? My perfect boy!”

Sirius couldn’t help the soft smile that tugged at his lips. Of course she knew it was him. In the secret Black family tradition, her very soul was painted into that portrait, so of course she recognized her own son. He paid no attention to the exclamations of his other relatives as they proclaimed their astonishment at his return, nor did he pay any attention to the six very stunned people now gaping in his foyer. He went straight to his mother and knelt on the filthy floor in front of her portrait, putting him eye level with her. He put one hand to her portrait, where she put her hand on the other side, as if there was only glass between them and not death.

“I’m awake now, mother. I’m sorry I took so long to come home.” He felt his own emotions threaten to overwhelm him. His relief was like the first breath after finally breaking the surface after staying a bit too long underwater.

She was still crying, but had at least seemed to get her voice under control. “I told those fools that creature was not my son. I told them. Now here you are.” She took a moment to wipe the tears from her face. “Have you come home to take up your place as the lord of this house?”

He held back a chuckle. Of course that is what she would be concerned about. Then again, having seen the state of the townhouse, it was a valid concern. “Of course mother. I have reopened the Manor, you are free to join father whenever you wish.” He felt his magic release into the house as his words themselves became law within the house. His mother appeared to have felt it too. She smiled at him.

“Thank you, my sweet boy. I will go to see him now. You will come speak with me later?”

It was strange watching her. He knew the members of the family got painted when they were young and in their prime. When he had entered the foyer, she had looked older and more than a little mad. As she looked at her son, took in his magic and his presence, she seemed to be getting younger, more beautiful. She was looking already much more like the powerful and beautiful woman he remembered. She wiped her eyes once more before taking her feet and giving him a small curtsy, as befitting his new status as lord of the house. She grinned at him, then rushed out of her frame, probably to reunite with his father.

Sirius watched her go for a moment, then slowly got to his feet and turned to face the gaping intruders in his hall. They all stood silent, staring at each other, Sirius with a cocky look which had overcome his face when his mother left, and them with gaping looks of utter shock. Finally, Sirius didn’t think he could take anymore without just laughing at them, and based on what he had seen of the one called Moody, that would probably end with him being cursed.

“Hey Moony. You know, you grew up a lot more dashing than you said you would. I’m impressed.”

And he really was. His friend did have a few wrinkles, which was odd for a wizard considering he was only in his mid thirties, and a few gray hairs at his temples, but really it just gave him a distinguished look. His scars merely added to it. His soft light green eyes still shone with kindness, but everything else had gotten a big manly kind of vibe. He was taller, broader, and leaner than Sirius had anticipated him being. Built like a rock climber, lean muscle, with a rugged sort of scruff and messy hair. It all worked well with his librarian Chic fashion sense. All and all, he looked like the kind of man who would be an adorable snuggle monster, before throwing a bird over his shoulder to bring out the wicked wolf. He chuckled lightly at the thought. Well, his thoughts along with the fact that little Dora seemed to agree if her appraising side eye was anything to go by.

Remus, for his part, seemed to intensify his gaping, if that were possible. His mouth moved a couple of times, once even making a small grunting noise as if he just couldn’t remember how to form words.

The moment was broken by the pop of of Kreature appearing between them. The old ragged elf bowed low to Sirius. “Now that the master has unsealed the Manor, would he be liking the elves to cleanse the Townhouse?”

He looked down to the lanky little creature, bowed so low his bulbous nose was almost touching the ground. “Yes, Kreature. If you could please let the rest of them know that the cleaning of the townhouse is to take priority until it is passable to the family’s standards again. I would like for you personally to see to the kitchens. I will be wanting your best work, as we have guests.”

“Yes, Master.” With that he popped away. The other elves must have been listening in, as he heard several faint pops sound throughout the townhouse already signally the arrival of the cleaning crew.

“Well. Now that’s sorted,” Sirius clapped his hands in front of himself, then rubbed them together, a mischievous grin stretching across his face, “who wants a drink?”

He looked at all of them expectantly. The Weasley was the first to crack. “Bloody hell. It appears I could use one.”

Sirius took a couple steps towards him, thrusting out his right hand. “I’m Sirius, but you seem to have figured that out. Let’s have that drink and you can tell me what you are doing waving your wand around my walls.”

The man had the decency to look chagrined, rubbing the back of his neck a bit while shaking Sirius’ hand. “I’m Bill Weasley. And yeah, sorry about that mate. I thought you were dead. Obviously I was mistaken if you can manipulate this house so effortlessly.”

That comment seemed to have jolted the rest of them out of their stupors. Moody was quick on the draw, pulling his wand and instantly moving into a defensive stance. Remus reeled back, almost as if he had been struck. Dora and Shacklebot both pulled their wands, clearly following Moody’s lead, but it was clear by their posture it was more out of habit than any real sense of threat. Dung took a few steps back, obviously trying to get out of what was quickly escalating into a potential duel.

Sirius slowly put his hands up, his grin still full force. “Easy there, old timer. I would hate for you to strain something.”

He didn’t look amused. “What was the first thing I said to you when I saw you after Azkaban?”

Sirius rolled his eyes melodramatically. “How would I know. Must be a trick question. I have never been to Azkaban.” Moody’s eyes narrowed dangerously, but Sirius decided to keep needling. “You know, you’re an ex-auror right? You should know it is illegal to send a minor to Azkaban.”

That seemed to be enough for the crazy bastard. His wand barely moved, but almost faster than Sirius could realize a sickly green spell was blasting out of it. Lucky for him though, this was the ancestral home of the Black family, and he was the Lord Black. The spell stopped almost a foot in front of his face and hovered there, like a bizarre green comet of malevolence. Within seconds tendrils of pure black magic began to pull themselves out of the floor, lazily wrapping themselves around the spell. The spell slowly shrank into nothing, being absorbed by the black tentacle, before it slowly faded back into the floor.

Through it all, Sirius didn’t even flinch, and his grin never slipped. For an auror, he seemed a bit slow on the uptake. No spell could harm a Black in the Black family home. Ancient and powerful magics would always prevent it. The only exceptions to that is if the spell was cast by a member of the family, or explicitly approved of by the lord of the manor. Naturally, Sirius did not approve of himself coming to harm in his own foyer.

Bill started laughing, pushing his words through his chuckles. “You done yet Mad-Eye? I don’t pretend to understand, but if you had been listening to me before, the blood magic in this place is bloody unreal. This kid is, beyond the shadow of a doubt, Sirius Black, and you just saw what happens when you try to harm a Black in their own wards.”

This didn’t seem to convince the old man, though little Dora let out a little “Hmmm” before lowering her wand and settling for looking mildly confused. Shacklebot looked confused, but apparently decided to err on the side of caution and kept his wand up.

“Well, Weasley,” the grizzled old auror growled out, “if you had been paying attention two weeks ago you would know beyond the shadow of a doubt that Sirius Black died. Saw him fall through the veil myself. That is a one way trip. This thing is not Sirius Black.”

Sirius suppressed a chuckle. “You aren’t wrong, but you aren’t right either. ‘Sirius Black’ did die,” he said the name with exagerated air quotes, “But I am most certainly Sirius Black.”

He spared a quick glance to Moony whose eyes seemed to narrow. He had that look he got when he was rapidly thinking, putting things together. Dora seemed to have less patience for games, and clearly not enough information to make any meaningful conclusions. She huffed and shook her head. “He sure sounds like the wanker.”

Bill seemed to have a good head on him. He stepped quickly between Moody and the snarky teen, his hands in front on him in a pacifying gesture. “Look, Moody, stop remembering what you know and take in what you are seeing.” He gestured back to Sirius. “This kid just walked out of a wall. He looks and sounds just like a younger version of exactly who he says he is. The Black family elves call him Master, something they would only do if they were certain it was the Lord Black. Finally, the house itself confirmed it is a Black. The portraits recognized him, the blood wards protected him, and he was capable of connecting Walburga’s portrait to another, something he could only do if he was the master of the house. Kings already told us that official ministry records are somehow still reading Sirius as the Lord Black, ergo, with the evidence before us, the only logical conclusion is that somehow, this boy is Sirius.”

Moody only seemed to double down on his suspicions. “That isn’t possible. Nobody comes back from the dead. That isn’t how things work.”

It was Moony that answered this time. He stepped forward a little closer to his oldest friend. “But you didn’t die, did you?”

“Bingo! And the big prize goes to Moony! Now, why don’t you fill in the rest of the class on why that is?” he smirked to his old friend.

He almost felt bad for Moony, but then again, he also had mixed feelings that the wanker never noticed he was replaced with a soulless homunculus. He felt his pity rise for the poor bloke though, as the older man’s face began to fall. It seemed he had finally realized the truth.

“The dead one was the fake…” he mumbled, his voice clearly distraught. “All these years and James was right all along…”

Sirius scoffed. “You would be surprised at how often that turned out to be the case.”

“What the bloody hell are you talking about!” Moody almost yelled.

“How?” Remus croaked, moisture beginning to build in his eyes.

Sirius never could stay irritated at Moony. He was such a genuine soul. He stepped forward and embraced his distraught friend, ignoring everyone else, but still speaking loudly enough that they could all hear. “It wasn’t your fault you didn’t know. Well not entirely anyways. Reg drugged you lot. Gave you a sort of permanent confudus so you just wouldn’t notice. But really, how could you possibly believe I would ever try to use you as a murder weapon?”

Remus broke at this. He slumped completely into the embrace and a couple sobs escaped. “I am so sorry…” he gasped, while crying into Sirius’ shoulder. “I am a terrible friend. How could I have believed you would be like that? It all makes sense now.” His words were broken up by a lot of gasps, and a little muffled by Sirius’ shirt.

“Well I’m glad it makes sense to someone.” Moody grumbled.

Sirius ignored him, focusing instead on holding Moony, rubbing his back and lightly holding his head. It was an oddly tender embrace for two blokes, and for many men it may have seemed uncomfortable, but ever since he completed his animagus form, he found he was a bit more tactile than he ever thought he would be. Apparently dogs were snugglers. Remus had been noticeably less stressed since Sirius got his new found touchy-feelies, so he assumed the same held true for wolves. They never really talked about it, and usually they avoided being too cuddly in public, but it was there.

The others in the room looked a little uncomfortable, save Moody, who just looked pissed, but they seemed content to wait out the rather emotional reunion. Sirius was rather grateful to them. Remus had so few, at least in his time, that he was comfortable feeling vulnerable around. It took several minutes but eventually he calmed down enough to take a step back and wipe his eyes. Remus looked at his friend, looking slightly lost for a moment, before a touch of irritation crept onto his features.

“What the bloody hell, you wanker. This is completely unfair. James is dead, I am old, and here you are, still bloody gorgeous.” He gave Sirius one more once over, a slow dramatic one. “Disgusting.”

Sirius couldn’t help it. He let out a loud bark like laugh, slapping his old friend on the shoulder. “I’ve told you before, Moony. It’s all in the blood.” He tossed his hair dramatically. “I come from a long line of beautiful people. I mean, just look at little Dora over there.” He took note of a slight tinge in Moony’s cheeks as he brought up his young, not so young, cousin. “Clearly we Blacks are just made of finer stuff then the rest of you ugly mugs.”

The woman in question scrunched her nose as she pocketed her wand, apparently deciding Sirius was not a threat. “I’ll give you one free pass, but the name’s Tonks.”

“Sure thing, Dora.” He said breezily, deciding to ignore Moody for now. “Now, about that drink? Shall we adjourn to the parlor? I imagine it is presentable by now.”

A couple of the people in the hall gave him a strange look, which he ignored, as he flounced down the foyer to the stairs, leading the way to his favorite sitting room. The one with the secret booze stash hidden behind a painting of a great great uncle. He was pleased to see the parlor was indeed presentable. It was by no means perfect, but it was much better. The dust and grime was gone, the windows were wide open to the natural sunlight, as the curtains had been taken down for replacement. They were likely irreparable after that bad of a doxy infestation. The seating would likely also eventually need replaced, but it would serve for now, since it was at least clean. The walls had been magically cleansed as well, their old rich hues looking regal again. The portraits looked far more comfortable than they had when they were reporting to him before. Elves really were amazing.

He made his way to the picture of his Uncle Cassius who was drunkenly dozing in his frame, reaching right into the picture itself to grab a bottle of old scotch. Taking it back to the table, he plopped down in his favorite squishy armchair, which admittedly was less plush than he remembered it being, and snapped his fingers. Instantly, seven crystal glasses appeared on the table. Being a proper host, he poured two fingers for everyone, serving himself last. Finally finished, he put the bottle down, grabbing his own glass and looking up at everyone who had meandered into the room.

Most everyone looked somewhere between confused to shocked. Remus looked amused more than anything though. Sirius cocked his head, causing the werewolf to chuckle slightly.

“I had always wondered why the other Sirius would argue with that portrait so much. I guess he wasn’t allowed to partake.” Sirius joined him in a chuckle as they both took a sip. It went down very smooth, truly a marvelous scotch.

“Well, I can’t say I blame Uncle Cassius in the least. It’s far too good of liquor to waste on a soulless golem.”

This seemed to shake the old auror. “Speaking of golems, boy, why don’t you finally tell us what the blazes is happening here.” He took a seat across from Sirius, keeping a close eye on him.

Sirius shrugged slightly, before going into his prepared story. He had thought long and hard about how much to tell the Order. He and his father had argued about it for hours. Eventually, they settled on the Order knowing everything. Normally, Sirius would like to keep certain things a bit more under wraps, but considering the amount of help he was likely to need in the coming months, if not years, they decided it would be unwise not to have at least one group who knew everything as it was.

This was especially important if their suspicions were right, and Dumbledore did know about the horcruxes but hadn’t told anybody. It made far more sense to have more eyes out for them, within reason. They were unlikely to believe him about the horcruxes if they didn’t also have a solid reason why he was trapped in a painting, and being a Confessor was certainly a solid reason. While most didn’t remember much about the old ways, and details of family magics were usually kept secret, every pure blood child knew about the Blacks and their place as the final arbiters of Death. Hell, it was the main plot point of one of the stories in Tales of Beetle the Bard, and a mention in rare older editions in the story of the hallows. It was a Black, after all, who killed the first bother after he used the Death Stick for evil, the power of confession overcoming even the raw killing power of death. It was Confession that also drove the second brother to kill himself, after he was made to feel the suffering he had selfishly inflicted upon the dead.

By the time Sirius was caught up to the present, the room was dead silent. Moony looked worried, Dung looked queezy (probably a guilty conscience), Moody looked thoughtful, and the rest looked like they didn’t know what to think.

Kingsley seemed to pull himself together first. “So the stories about the Black family really are true then?”

It was MadEye who answered. “Damn straight they are. You can read the records of the times they were let loose on the world in the old archives downstairs at the Ministry. For every Confessor that has awakened, a great revolution has occurred in the magical world. They tone down the effects they have in the history books, but the old archives tell the real story. When you get promoted to Senior rank, you get access to them. It’s pretty closely guarded.”

Both of the younger aurors looked surprised at this. There were very few closed doors to law enforcement after all. Remus though, just looked even more worried.

“So, you’re telling me, both you and Harry are tied up in prophecies? Both of you?” he shook his head. “And the whole reason this shite was necessary, was because James and Lily had to die? What does this mean for Harry? I’m afraid I was never as versed in the ancient ways as you were.”

Sirius pursed his lips for a moment, pondering how to word this. “Harry will have to be brought in on this. Horcruxes are pure evil. Light and dark don’t matter, but evil does. True evil is a corruption, and due to the circumstances of Harry’s birth and the sacrifices of his parents, he is the safest champion we have.”

Surprisingly Bill Weasley picked up when Sirius trailed off. “Born of true ancient love would already give him a boost against evil, but with the willing sacrifice of those lives who loved each other so purely, he is essentially incorruptible. If You Know Who is an ancient evil, like Sirius said, then he would be completely incompatible with Harry. His magic wouldn’t work well against him, like oil and water. It’s probably why he fled after trying to control Harry in the atrium two weeks ago. It probably hurt him quite badly to even attempt such a direct mental assault.”

“Hrm!” Sirius looked up surprised, incapable of stopping the surprised grunt noise at hearing ancient wisdom coming out of a Weasley.

“Oh don’t look so surprised Black.” Weasley shot back, a slight smirk on his face. “The Weasleys may not have taken to such lengths to teach their children the old ways as the Blacks, but the Goblin Nation never forgets an enemy. I work for Gringotts, and have been given the honorable title of ‘Tolerable Wizard’. As such, I was given a copy of their enemies list. Put me on a two year long research spree, but I figured it out.” He paused, looking thoughtful. “You know, that does give me an idea. You’re sure You Know Who is possessed by an Ancient Evil?”

Sirius squinted his eyes at the redhead, thinking he could see where this was going. His father had said the goblins were on the verge of declaring war before Harry took down the dark lord. “Yes. My brother was my prophet. At the time he wrote it, he said he wasn’t sure which evil it was, but that it was definitely one of the ancient ones.”

Bill grinned widely. “And when will you be going public with your status as a Confessor?”

“As soon as Amelia gets me a trial.”

“Great.” He rubbed his hands together, still grinning. “I’m gonna need a copy of that prophecy. With this, we could castrate their entire movement! Just imagine! To get the goblins to declare war on the Dark Lord would basically end his foothold in the Ministry and severely limit their recruitment.”

Kingsley sighed deeply, not looking nearly as excited. “Am I the only one a bit depressed that so much of this comes down to money?”

Sirius shrugged. “I was raised in this shite. Their greed can be a powerful tool if you can find the right leverage. Getting the goblins involved seems like a good call. Few can keep up financially with people like Malfoy, but the Goblins can cut that prattish dandy down to size.”

Moody seemed to be overcoming the shock of Sirius’ tale, and had begun mumbling to himself while rubbing his scarred chin, drawing the attention of the rest of the room. Finally the grizzled veteran seemed to come to a decision. “Well, I’ve decided I believe your story, Black. I apologize for attempting to disembowel you in your own home.”

Sirius couldn’t help but chuckle at the old mans attitude, as if it was the location of the disemboweling which was at fault. “I forgive you. It’s not like you didn’t have good reason to mistrust me at the time.”

“Good.” With that he clapped his hands together and made to stand up, grabbing his staff for support. “I am going to flu to Albus and get him over here. This development is big, and he will want to be involved.”

He limped out of the room, everyone else silently watching him go. It was barely a moment later that Dung made his excuses, and Kings then mentioned he would be going back to bed, leaving Sirius with Tonks, Bill, and Remus.

“So…” Sirius began, wanting to test a theory, “Remus, how long have you been shagging my cousin?”

He wasn’t at all disappointed with their responses.

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#Sirius Black #Remus Lupin #order of the phoenix #remus x tonks #mad eye moody #bill weasley #Black Family #Harry Potter Fanfiction #hp fanfic #the black family swears a lot

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