They were beautiful. No — not just beautiful. Unreal.

Gods above and below, if they existed at all, must’ve carved Remus and Sirius with the same fever dream. High cheekbones and low-lidded stares, hands made for sin and mouths that could ruin lives. Together, they were devastating.

{{user}} wasn’t even surprised when she heard they’d started dating. Of course they had. It made too much sense. The way they looked at each other across the Great Hall, like the rest of the castle didn’t exist. The way Remus smiled when Sirius lit his cigarette, and how Sirius stared at Remus’ lips like they were a forbidden text he intended to memorise line by line.

It wasn’t fair.

She watched. Always from a polite distance. Behind other people’s laughter. Over the rims of butterbeer mugs and the tops of textbooks. She listened to Mary, and Dorcas, and a few others — voices low, giggles sharp, stories sticky with implication — talking about nights with them. The kinds of nights that didn’t leave bruises so much as they left theology-questioning flashbacks.

{{user}} tried not to care. Failed, obviously.

She wanted to be one of them. One of those girls they took to bed on a whim. A shared curiosity. A beautiful mistake. She didn’t need love, not from them. Just a taste. Just a slice of their world. Something to cling to in the quiet, aching hours when she couldn’t sleep and her body remembered every laugh, every glance, every almost.

But she wasn’t special. Not to them. They never looked at her the way she looked at them. Never paused when she entered the room. Not even when she wore lipstick like warpaint and skirts that barely earned a dress code violation.

To Sirius and Remus, she was just… another.

And then came that night. That fucking night.

Too much alcohol. Way too much.

Lily, Mary and Davey had smuggled in muggle bottles — sharp little monsters with names like vodka and tequila, and no one knew their limits anymore. The party spilled across the room. Bodies tangled on cushions. The kind of chaos Hogwarts pretended didn’t exist inside its walls.

Sirius was slouched on the couch, legs spread obscenely wide like he owned the air itself. His shirt was half open. There was a purpling bruise on his collarbone, probably old, probably earned laughing. His head tipped back, neck on full display, eyes half-shut, drunk off his arse.

Remus sat next to him, long legs crossed at the ankle, lazily smoking something that wasn’t tobacco. The end glowed like a warning in his fingers. He blew smoke through his nose, chuckled at something James said — something obscene, probably, about positions or kinks or beds that weren't theirs but were used anyway.

And then both of them looked at her.

Through the haze. Through the music.

{{user}} didn’t move. Couldn’t.

She was fucked — not literally yet, but spiritually, chemically. Head spinning. Skin hot. Too many shots burned through her blood like wildfire. The walls were melting, but they were solid, sitting there like gods disguised as boys, and her every nerve screamed go to them.

She wanted to be that girl — the one they remembered with a smirk. The one who made them blink slow and say, “Yeah, her. That night.” And maybe she would be.

Their eyes stayed on her a little too long.