A bloody header
Come on, James, it’s Hufflepuff! Bloody Hufflepuff is a given win!” Peter squeaks, his voice echoing across the Gryffindor table as he waves his fork in the air. “I could play them and win”
Sirius stares down at his plate, wishing for the hundredth time he could fling it across the table at Peter. Six bloody years, and Peter still hadn’t figured out just how difficult Quidditch was—he could see how it wore James down that one of his closest friends was still so ignorant. And Peter’s cheerfulness wasn’t helping. “ Wormy if you want a chance maybe lay off the pumpkin pastys every now and then aye?”
Peter’s mouth snaps shut instantly, and James snorts, clapping Sirius on the shoulder. “Easy there, Padfoot. Don’t take it out on Pete just because you’re in a mood.”
“I’m not in a mood,” Sirius grumbles, stabbing at his toast. “I’m just not a fan of people underestimating a match before it’s played.”
James raises an eyebrow, but before he can press the issue, Lily leans forward from across the table, resting her hand on James’ arm. “He’s right, you know,” she says, there’s a flicker of amusement in her green eyes as she glances briefly at Sirius. “Hufflepuff’s Seeker is good this year. And their Beaters are brutal.”
James sighs, dragging a hand through his already-messy hair. “Yeah, yeah, I know. But we’ve got Sirius.” He smirks, jerking his thumb at his best friend. “Best Beater Gryffindor’s ever had.”
Sirius forces a grin, though his stomach twists at the way Lily smiles at James in response. He knows James doesn’t say things like that lightly—it’s one of the reasons Sirius loves playing with him. On the pitch, they’re untouchable. A force to be reckoned with.
And yet, sitting here now, all Sirius can think about is how Lily’s hand lingers on James’ arm, how her laugh is soft and warm, and how he can still feel the ghost of her lips on his. The words “I care about you” stinging his insides.
“Damn right,” Sirius finally says, flashing one of his signature grins. The one that makes half the school swoon and earns him glares from jealous boyfriends. “You’d be lost without me, Jamie”
“Absolutely,” James says, grinning back, though his attention is already shifting back to Lily. He leans in closer to her, murmuring something that makes her laugh again, and Sirius clenches his jaw.
“Sirius,” Remus’ voice cuts through his thoughts like a lifeline, and Sirius turns to find his boyfriend watching him with a distant expression.
Remus doesn’t say anything, but his eyes—their quiet, steady intensity—say everything. Sirius feels a pang of guilt twist in his chest. He knows Remus can sense something’s off, even if he doesn’t know the details.
“I’m fine, Moony,” Sirius says quickly, forcing himself to reach for Remus’ hand under the table. It’s familiar, grounding, and it helps. A little.
Remus hums softly, brushing his thumb over Sirius’ knuckles. “You’re a terrible liar.”
Sirius flashes another grin, though it feels hollow even to him. “And yet, I keep getting away with it.”
For now, anyway.
Across the table, James leans over to steal a kiss from Lily, and Sirius looks away quickly, forcing his attention on Remus instead. It’s not fair to him—any of this. But Sirius is nothing if not an expert at compartmentalizing. At burying it all.
But then Lily glances at him. Just a flicker, just a second too long, but Sirius catches it. Her green eyes don’t lie. He swears he sees something there—a flicker of guilt, of recognition. A memory of last night.
And then she mutters it.
“Bloody hell, it’s hot,” she says to no one in particular, her voice low enough to be ignored by most, but Sirius hears it loud and clear.
He looks up, glancing at her neck—and there it is. The faint bruises and hickeys left on her jaw and collarbone, peeking through her turtleneck like secrets trying to escape. Her Glamours are failing. Whether from the heat or the sheer power of his marks, Sirius doesn’t know, but it doesn’t matter.
She’s wearing him.
Nobody else seems to notice. James is too busy rambling on about Hufflepuff, explaining in detail why their Keeper’s weakness will guarantee a win, and scolding Peter for betting his coin money on an absurd 0-200 score. Remus, patient as ever, is teaching Mary Macdonald how to perfect some charm Sirius couldn’t care less about.
Sirius takes a sip of pumpkin juice, keeping his face neutral, and then—under the table—he kicks her.
Lily almost yelps but doesn’t. Instead, she snaps her head toward him, her glare sharp enough to draw blood. He knows that look all too well: What the fuck are you doing?
Sirius meets her gaze with a smirk, entirely unbothered. He drags a hand slowly down his own jaw and neck, motioning with exaggerated clarity so she’ll understand.
For a moment, she just stares at him, her expression caught somewhere between fury and disbelief, like she’s on the verge of laughing. But then, realization dawns, and Sirius watches the color drain from her face. Her hand flies to her neck, brushing over the exposed skin, and he can see her mind racing.
In a sick, twisted way, Sirius feels a rush of satisfaction. She’s marked. Not as James’, but his.
She shifts in her seat, clearly about to excuse herself, and Sirius feels the faintest twinge of relief. She’s getting up. Crisis averted.
But of course, Mary fucking Macdonald chooses this exact moment to ruin everything.
“LILY EVANS, IS THAT WHAT I THINK IT IS?”
Her voice rings out, bright and chirpy, and Sirius swears under his breath. Bloody Mary. Always too observant, always too loud. They’d dated on and off for three years, and if he had any affection for her left, it’s gone now. He wants to hex her into oblivion.
Lily freezes, her hand still pressed to her neck, her eyes wide with panic.
James looks up from his Quidditch rant, confused. “What is what?”
“Oh, nothing,” Lily says quickly, her voice too high, too forced. She drops her hand and reaches for her drink, as though acting normal will somehow erase the moment.
But Mary isn’t having it. She leans closer, her dark eyes sparkling with amusement, and Sirius knows she’s about to cause chaos for the sake of it.
“Lily,” she says sweetly, “you’ve got a bit of something on your neck. Or rather… someone.”
The table erupts in laughter, James included, though his laugh is more confused than anything.
Lily flushes a deep crimson, fumbling with her turtleneck, and Sirius has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smirking. He knows he should feel bad—Remus is right there—but all he feels is vindication.
She’s his. Suck it James.
“Oi, Evans,” James says, his tone half-joking, half-suspicious, “what’s Mary on about? You’ve been hiding something from me?”
Lily opens her mouth, desperate for an answer, but Sirius doesn’t give her the chance.
“Honestly, Prongs,” he drawls lazily, stretching his arms behind his head, “it’s probably just your handiwork. You’re always snogging her, aren’t you? Don't tell me the sex is so good your getting amnesia?”
The words are laced with enough innuendo to deflect suspicion, and James shoots a grin, throwing an arm around Lily’s shoulders.
“don't talk about my girl like that” James says smugly, planting a kiss on Lily’s cheek.
Lily stiffens under his touch, her eyes flickering to Sirius for a fraction of a second. He holds her gaze, and in that moment, everything is clear.
She might belong to James in every obvious way, but in the shadows—in the bruises she’s trying to hide—she’s his.
The laughter dies down in waves, and Lily has her masks back on, the girl from a few seconds ago already slipping away, replaced by the Lily everyone else knows. The girl from last night—vulnerable, open, real—is gone. Godric, it seems, has a knack for pulling this shit off.
Sirius watches her, the grin still carved into his face, but his fingers dig into the wood of the table. Steady. Stay steady. He should go back. Let the small wins satisfy him enough. Lean back, ruffle his hair, make some joke about how Peter’s got a better shot at getting laid than Hufflepuff does at winning on Saturday.
Be the bipolar asshole they all love.
But he doesn’t.
The table shifts, the chatter continues, but Sirius’ body is already moving.
“Alright, mates, as much as I love our stimulating conversations, I owe Slughorn some detention time and I’ve already buzzed him off last week—adieu,” he says, barely sparing them a glance.
James looks up, confused. “Oi, mate, you still owe time for the bloody truth serum we did on Snivvey? ”
“You know it, mate. You bloody know it,” Sirius mutters, already turning his back and walking away from the table.
Fast.
Faster.
His boots scrape against the stone floor as he weaves through the benches, out of the fire-lit warmth of the Gryffindor table, away from James’ questioning gaze, from the sharp green eyes that track him even when they shouldn’t.
He doesn’t slow down.
James calls something else after him, something teasing, something about detention not being the worst thing he’s ever run from, but Sirius just gives a lazy half-wave, half-salute and keeps moving.
Past the Ravenclaws. Past the wide-eyed first years who shrink back when they see him.
Sirius Black, the reckless legend, the untouchable idiot who’s never had a care in the world.
He’s moving too fast.
The hallways stretch long. Longer than they should. Like he’s walking through a tunnel. The stone underfoot shifts, changes. His pulse pounds louder in his skull. It’s too sharp. Too fast. Too everything. He needs to come down.
Now.
Detention with Slughorn? Not bloody likely.
Sirius takes a hard left, his vision blurring for a moment, the walls smearing before snapping back into focus. His body is moving at two speeds: too slow—like wading through water—and too fast, jittery, like the very air around him is charged.
He needs out. He needs something real.
The halls are empty now, the muffled echoes of breakfast fading behind him. His fingers twitch against his thigh. He knows where he’s going. His body knows the way.
Past the old Transfiguration classroom. Down the back staircase that creaks when you hit the third step. Through the passageway behind the statue of Lachlan the Lanky. The damp stone archway that smells like mildew and regret.
And then—
A door.
He doesn’t knock.
The room is small. Dark. A forgotten broom closet in the dungeons. But it’s stocked.
Jonah—or Jeremy, whatever the hell his name is—leans against the far wall, lazy and uninterested. Pure-blood, a couple of years younger. Someone who learned early that money is money, and Sirius’ money is just as good as anyone else’s.
He glances up, flicking his wand to pull a tiny glass vial from a shelf behind him. “Didn’t think I’d see you this early, Black.”
Sirius grins, teeth flashing, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, well. Early bird gets the worm, and all that.”
Jonah—or Jeremy—chuckles, shaking his head. “That’s not how that saying works, mate.”
Sirius doesn’t respond. Just rolls a few Galleons between his fingers like it’s nothing. Casual. Like his skin isn’t crawling with heat, like he’s not feeling the constant hum in his veins. Like he’s not thinking about green eyes, red hair, marks on skin that don’t belong to him.
Jonah passes the vial over. Sirius takes it.
It’s small, the glass cool against his fingertips. Inside, thick, golden liquid. Shimmering. Iridescent when it catches the dim light. Not exactly legal. Not exactly illegal either. Hogwarts has its own rules.
One drop under the tongue, and everything slows. Two, and the world becomes a dream.
Sirius stares at it for a moment. A beat. Then—
He pops the cork with his teeth, tips the vial back.
One drop.
Two.
The effect is immediate.
Fast and slow. The world tilts. Then, it settles.
The lanterns overhead blur at the edges, their glow stretching, warping. Like ripples in water. The stone under his boots feels softer, almost welcoming, like the ground is meeting him halfway instead of pushing back.
His pulse, once a hammer in his skull, levels. The restless energy that’s been gnawing at his limbs melts into something looser, something slower. Better.
He exhales through his nose, rolling his neck. The sound of it echoes through him, reverberates in his bones, louder than the world around him.
Jonah’s saying something. Distant. Muffled. It’s like he’s talking through a wall.
Sirius smirks, wiping a thumb over his bottom lip. “What was that, mate?”
Jonah just shakes his head. “Nothing. Just—try not to get caught, yeah?”
Sirius is already moving, turning. Walking back out into the corridor.
Back into the shifting, stretching walls of the castle.
Everything feels light. Untouchable. Like he could float through the ceiling. Like he could disappear into the air and nobody would ever know he was there.
For just a little while, everything falls away. The noise, the pressure, the expectations.
And for a little while, for just a fucking little while, Sirius doesn’t feel like himself at all.