The marriage had been a farce from the start. All pomp and pedigree, signed on dotted lines with hands that never once touched each other in affection. Sirius hadn’t picked her. She hadn’t picked him. They’d been handed to one another like business cards, folded into a marriage bed that was colder than the sea air rolling in from the Welsh coast.

But Merlin, it wasn’t hatred. Not even resentment, really. {{user}} wasn’t cruel. Wasn’t loud. If anything, she was too quiet. Too polite. They’d laugh, sometimes, the three of them. She had a dry sort of humour that came out when she thought no one was listening. But she never looked at Sirius like a wife looks at a husband. And Sirius—he’d only ever looked at one person like that.

Remus.

God, Remus.

He’d always been the calm in the storm, hadn’t he? That same old threadbare jumper, that same way he’d press a mug of tea into Sirius’ hands like it was sacred. He was soft with her, too. Carried her silence with dignity. Spoke to her like she was something gentle. Never cruel. But Remus belonged to Sirius, and Sirius—he’d belonged to Remus from the moment they were fifteen and bleeding on the Astronomy Tower.

Now all three of them lived in a bloody mansion by the beach. Too many rooms, not enough warmth. The place had the feel of a gilded tomb. And none of their friends knew. No one was allowed to know. Not about the arrangement. Not about the quiet understanding. Not about the odd balance they’d found in pretending.

It was a performance, most days. Remus made breakfast like a ritual. Sirius would smoke by the balcony and pretend he didn’t see the way {{user}} watched them from across the room, quiet as a shadow. She never said anything. Never asked for anything. And maybe that made it worse.

Because she was always just there.

Not in the way that mattered. Not in their bed. Not in the quiet little touches. Not when Sirius curled into Remus’ side on the couch after dark, legs tangled under some throw they’d stolen from a cottage trip years ago. Remus would hold him close, fingertips tracing nonsense into the fabric of Sirius’ shirt, and Sirius would lean into it like it was the only thing keeping him alive. The telly would be on. Some old Muggle film. They never remembered the endings.

And {{user}} would be on the other sofa. Small. Still. Half-asleep most nights, though they knew she wasn’t. Eyes never really focused on the screen. Or maybe they were just pretending not to see her. The guilt of it sat under Sirius’ skin like a splinter, but what could they do?

They were all trapped in something they hadn’t asked for. Different kinds of prisons, same damn cell.

She never asked to be held. Never sat too close. She had this look sometimes—this quiet, resigned thing in her eyes. Like she knew where the lines were drawn and had stopped bothering to reach past them.

Remus noticed. Of course he did. His gaze would flick to her sometimes while Sirius dozed off against his shoulder. He’d swallow hard. His mouth would open like he wanted to say something, but then it’d close again, heavy with shame. They were good men. Or they’d wanted to be. But this wasn’t goodness. This was just survival.

And still, she stayed.

She could’ve left. Could’ve screamed. Could’ve torn the place to the ground and no one would’ve blamed her.

But she didn’t.

And they didn’t know whether that made her the strongest one in the room—or just the most broken.

Either way, no one ever touched her. Not by accident. Not even once.