I write Remus Lupin and poly!wolfstar x fem!reader content. At the moment I have no plans to expand to other ships. Let me know in the comments if you’d like to be added to my permanent Remus and poly!wolfstar taglists. 🌙 🔆 ⭐️
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No we don't think it's weird if you kudos or comment an older fic. Quite the opposite. We love it! I often end up rereading my old fics and remembering who and were I was when I wrote them and the memories I have attached to them.
A string of emojis is better than no comment. I don't need eloquent paragraphs.
Similarly keyboard smashes are also fun! They almost always make me laugh.
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Likes and kudos are great if that's what you have spoons for, but if you can leave even just a heart or a reblog with no tags then it will always mean the world to me.
Sending me asks about my fics will probably make my day!
"FAN fiction" as in i am literally just doing it for the love of the game. there's no reason to come into the comments complaining about how you disliked such and such aspect of the story. you are eating at my table for FREE and you have the audacity to complain
"fan FICTION" as in its not real!! its my personal spin off of the canon material meaning it has no impact on canon or your interpretation of the story at all. "this is such a mischaracterization of hornkus binglefuck 🥺🥺" Correct!! my source is that i made it the fuck up
i love ya’ll and i say this with kindness bc i know people dont mean it badly, but commenting on a fic/piece of writing just asking for more is not the compliment you think it is… like it actually kinda sucks to take the time and energy to write and post something to then get requests/demands for more
if you enjoyed a fic say so!! comment WHY you liked it! maybe say that you’d love to see more of it in the future!! but only saying “gimme more” like brooo i just DID and you have provided no further encouragement or incentive… i am not a machine lmao
SUMMARY: Day five is here. Everything is about to change.
TAGS: Exes-to-lovers. First Wizarding War. Canon-divergent. Marauders Era. Remus Lupin is the loveliest broody boy, I'm not talking questions at this time.
WARNINGS: Mild angst. Hurt/comfort and FLUFFY FLUFF!!! (YESSSSSS!! WE ALL NEED IT, BITCH!!) Language. Suggestive content. Bit of filthy humour, courtesy of our favourite marauders! And Peter, whatever! (LOL I hate him! 🤡)
A/N: Shorter chapter — but no less epically significant. Aaaand... I got it out sooner, yay! WE’RE IN THE TURNAROUND, LUVS! This one made me cry, and I hope it gets to you too, MUAHAHA... ♡
DAY FIVE: Wednesday, 15 July 1981
The Sleeping Draught was good for twelve hours instead of sixteen. Just a small miscalculation, commonly known to happen. Which means, before the sun — and you — are up, Remus is.
He does feel quite refreshed and ninety-percent pain-free, which is major. Goes to show why some things in life are justifiably rare to obtain and overpriced for legitimate reasons. Like Patagonian moon-salts and extra-whimsical shimmery violet flower petals… whatever their name is… he already forgot (even though he still smells like them).
Just a few more items to the mental list of “Things I’ll never be able to repay or thank my Y/N for.”
This not-quite-morning feels… different, in several ways. It’s — if he can believe it — cold. Proper cold. London-in-March cold. Strange but not that shocking, given this place has not behaved normally since he arrived here, and even more so since you came. He wonders why that is sometimes.
At least the settee is leaving you alone. Or maybe it’s just because you’ve gone out of your way to have nothing to do with it. Not even draping a bath towel over its back. Taking a wide berth to make sure no part of you touches it. The rain fiasco still makes him secretly grin like an idiot, and even more secretly thank it with soft pats throughout the day. He swears the thing purrs a little when he does it.
Although, sharing a bed with you has been heaven and hell; he's glad for your comfort above all, and also your nearness. But your nearness is also... problematic. And your sweet smell. And the warmth that radiates from your body and your being that no one else can match. And your morning touches... It's been pure bliss, and sheer torture.
Case in point: the ‘pretzel’ situation he finds himself in yet again… well, at least it doesn’t throw Moony into a frenzy like yesterday, thank Merlin. He figures (while unconsciously making little figure-eights between your shoulder blades with his thumb) that the first-time novelty brought horny chaos to an unprepared lonely wolf-boy in love, but the second-day sort-of familiarity is rewarding him with enough self-control to briefly enjoy and endure.
Well, Remus still has to exercise incredible willpower to extricate his arms and legs from you. Your hands are so warm under his tatty Bob Dylan t-shirt, and they feel achingly perfect sitting on his ribs and chest like this. Your temperatures match everywhere you touch, and he hates to break the comforting feeling. And yeah — he also hates having to stop touching you, to be shamefully honest. Even though this is accidental and happening in your sleep, it still isn't right, and he will not cross any boundaries with you, ever again.
The chilly dawn of day five brings a forced clarity to face yesterday’s fuckups whilst filling his dizzy head with unwelcome thoughts and feelings way too early, so…
...what’s a bloke to do but to journal about it?
If James was here, the infinite piss would be taken, as he’s done every chance he’s got over the years since the three lads discovered his secret self-soothing hobby.
“Oh, I know! It’ll say, ‘Dear diary, today Y/N looked especially delectable in potions when she loosened her blue tie while brewing Pepperup. Pretty sure I saw the top of her tit-crack. When will I find the courage to ask her to make a man outta me, or at least polish my poor wand, my oh my?’”
“Shut up Prongs, she’s right there.”
“Yeah, Prongs, shut up ya twat. Leave sweet innocent Moonybuns alone, will ya? Besides, he’d write something way classier, like, ‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? ‘Cos thou art hot as all fuck and I’d give anything to dip my thirsty tongue into thine sweet puddle of—’”
Next thing, the two idiots were shouted at to scrub Professor Slug’s sludgy cauldrons after class, due to the silent but lethal Rictumsempra that hit James and Sirius so hard, they knocked half the class’s work all over the dungeon floors, squirming and screaming in ticklish agony.
Peter was useless the rest of the day, crying-laughing every time he remembered the scene. It’s still his best memory of fourth year. “Don’t sleep on Remus Lupin, the quiet ones are always the real danger!”
And still, Remus journals, to this day. Aspiring-writer-and-poet-and-scholar-shunned-by-society problems and all that.
Pouring out on the page what he can't tell you directly seems to be the best outlet at the moment. And so, what was meant to be just a typical stream of consciousness entry, a freehand brain-dump, if he will… shapes up to be more like a painful regret-filled love letter. One he never intends for you to see, of course.
I’m so sorry, dove. I was such an arse yesterday, even more than usual. Orders or not, you're being so good to me, pausing your whole life to come to this godric-forsaken place just to take care of me. You don't deserve what I've done to repay you.
Yesterday morning I touched you like I shouldn't have, taking advantage of your vulnerability. For a moment you felt so soft, smelled so bewitching. All wrapped up in me like that… as if you were still my girl. You moaned my name (I think) and you kissed my skin, and I lost my head for a moment there, wishing for all the saints to make it true. To let me have you again.
And now I can’t forgive myself.
And then I spent the rest of the day being a prick to you, to offset that.
Will I ever stop hurting you, one way or another?
I will confess this egregious transgression to you before you leave, so it doesn’t interfere with your remaining days here; you can hate me in your own time, free from the burden of looking at my face and sleeping in the same bed with me. Does this make me a complete creep? I should sleep outside like the mongrel I am.
I suppose I should stop calling you ‘dove’ as well.
Does Eriksson call you a pet name? Something Swedish and saccharine and stupid? Do you love him now? Are you dreaming of him when you latch onto me during the night? It would make sense.
I know — not my business. Whatever you do with your love life, whoever you end up with. I forfeited the right to any of that.
I’m so sorry. I hurt you, and I keep hurting you. You deserve so much better. You shouldn’t have to subject yourself to this. To me.
I’ll talk to Dumbledore. Figure out another way, so you don’t have to come back here if I’m still in exile, next moon.
I’m sorry for shouting and marding. I’m sorry for pushing you away when you’re just trying to do what you were sent here for: to help me. I’m sorry for acting so ungrateful and bratty.
But I’m really, really sorry for being a creep behind your back. I’m deeply ashamed.
I know you don’t love me anymore. I fucked that all up, royally. I deserve way worse than how you’ve been treating me. You're too good a person. Angel girl.
I love you. So much. And I’m weak. Pathetic. When you touched me in your sleep, it felt… so real. Like it used to be with us. I wanted a piece of our past so badly. I had no right. I’m sorry.
I love you. And because of that, I have to let you go. I promise I will. I’m not going to be a burden for you much longer.
Thank you. For everything. My sweet Y/N. Wonderful girl.
You are slowly roused by the sound of whisking. It soothes and surprises you, the instant comfort of such a mundane thing — the rhythmic clink clink clink against the porcelain bowl.
When you move your bare legs just a few inches, the sheets underneath feel like they're wet, making you twitch and shudder. Why is it so arse-freezing cold today? The rest of you starts to catch up to it, shivering spasms like little electric shocks all over.
Is it selfish to wish Remus was still next to you? His lupine temperature of around forty degrees celsius comes in handy on days like these. You hug his dark chocolate brown jumper around you a bit tighter, trying to find the courage to get up.
It's a dark grey morning outside the large window. Drizzling too. That type of drizzle that looks half-frozen, halfway to snowy-ish… just a bone-cold, bizarre climatic twist of a day. So much like London when it stubbornly refuses to transition to Springtime.
You hate being cold and unprepared for it as much as you hate being hot and trapped, but more importantly, the sober feeling in the air raises some contradictory feelings inside you: You miss home. Your bed, your mum's food, music, the telly, your patients. But here, you have Remus. So what if everything else is a tad bizarre and miserable?
— ☽ ☀︎ —
Your approach to the kitchen is slow, fuzzy socks and fleecy pyjama bottoms now on. Remus is placing two cast-iron skillets onto the hob. Not turning around yet, he murmurs, “Good morning.”
Upon a brief hesitation on your part, you tell yourself it's just to ascertain that ‘grumpy Moony’ is not in the room right now. What you find when he turns his head momentarily is well-known kind eyes and a barely there upward twitch of his lips.
Well then, it doesn't look like he'd be glad to see the back of you today. That's nice.
“Um… Good morning. What’s all this?”
“What I like to call Apology Eggs. And… Atoning drop scones?” He points at the table, sheepishly. You follow and see the creamy batter sitting in a different bowl, waiting for its turn on the hot pan.
“Mm. Heard of those. Delicious, most of the time. As long as those are blueberries and not… Nightshade…”
This time a breathy laugh escapes him.
“Want me to take the first bite to prove I’m not out to poison you?”
You smile, tentatively, arms still hugging yourself. “Maybe. Everything looks great. How're you feeling?”
“Good. Bit sluggish, but barely any pain at the moment.”
“That’s great, Remus. Brilliant for day five. How’s your hand?”
“Look.” He fully turns to show you, and sees what you're wearing: his favourite jumper. The one you knitted for him with the help of his mam, and he couldn’t find this morning. The very one you two stretched out, when he kissed you for the first time, on the old pier near the Snowdonia mountains.
“I borrowed this... Hope it's okay.”
“Yeah. You look… yeah, it's okay.” He backtracks from what he almost said, which would definitely be too on-the-nose flirty. “Bit nippy today, yeah?”
“You can say that. Definitely unexpected.”
“Not unheard of, though. We’re quite high up, wherever this place is.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
Two seconds of silence feel like two minutes. You pinch the long woolly sleeves caressing your knuckles.
“Are you warm?” His question is so dangerously soft and dripping with boyfriend-concern, it warms you from the inside out, threatening to discombobulate you beyond recovery.
“I’m alright, thanks. Um, can I see your hand?”
You extend your hand and he places his healed one, palm up, on top of it. A bandage-free palm with brand-new smooth skin, not a trace of a cut anywhere.
“Wow. That's really good.”
“Yeah, you can’t tell at all.”
“That's the snow-mermine oil. Wicked, huh?”
“Mm. Yeah...”
You caress his palm with two fingers, feeling the new skin the magical oil created, in awe. You fight the urge to feel it on your lips, your cheeks. When it’s getting way too long for the examination excuse, you finally let his hand go, clearing your throat. Remus flexes his fingers, not quite looking at you.
“You’ve been up long?” you ask.
“Couple of hours.”
“Oh no, I must've miscalculated the sleeping potion. I'm sorry.”
He looks up to you, his gaze open and vulnerable. “Please, don’t apologise. The only one who should be apologising here is me.”
He’s now fully focused on you. You wait in silence. You both take deep, silent breaths.
“Y/N… First of all, I’m really sorry for yesterday. I was completely out of line. Out of sorts, just… out of it. Not an excuse though, I was a total arse.”
“Don’t worry about it. Moon days, I know they're difficult.”
“Maybe. But still, not an excuse. You deserve better from me.” He takes a step closer. “I'll do better. For you.”
You squeeze your own forearms a bit harder, forcing your hands to find tactile comfort in the soft wool that smells like him and you, instead of going to his biceps, his shoulder, his face, his hair. The silences between you feel charged — not with heavy tension like yesterday, but a different kind of static.
“Second of all... I have an announcement.”
“Mm?”
“I am happy to announce that I'm officially done throwing hissy fits.” He does a little flourish of the hands and curtsy and you snort a laugh. His bashful smile sweetens the air in your lungs.
“You sure Moony is okay with that? He does love a hissy fit from time to time, doesn't he?”
“Well, I can't always speak for him, but I can make sure mister Lupin behaves like he was raised proper. How's that?”
You bite your knuckles to suppress the dorkiest smile, along with the urge to pounce on him with kisses. “That's very reasonable, mister Lupin. I reckon I'd like to pledge the same on my own behalf.”
“Shall we shake on it?” He extends his hand and you take it, firmly. “No more hissies.”
“No more hissies.”
You reluctantly let go, fingers brushing all the way. He doesn't seem to mind the extra touch, still smiling sweetly.
Mind your boundaries, your conscience chides.
“How can I help?”
“Want to do the eggs while I do the drop scones?”
“Sure.”
His hip bumps yours when he turns around to grab the bowl of eggs for you, and then again when he comes back to your side. Space is limited, you tell yourself with barely suppressed giddiness, absolutely not minding the way his body keeps making contact, and his right forearm brushes your left as you both move your cooking utensils around.
Remus uses a large serving spoon to drop the dollops of thick blueberry-sprinkled batter into his greased cast-iron skillet. It's impressive how good he is at calculating the exact quantity and dropping motion to produce the four-inch immaculate circles of Scotch pancakes, which come out perfectly golden and fluffy every time.
The greasy surface sizzles and the smell instantly comforts, reaching the deepest parts of your core memory. He's ready with the fish slice to flip them over once the bubbles appear on top.
“It's good that you're doing the drop scones. I still second-guess myself when it's the right time to flip them… always end up with scorched bottoms.”
“I remember. Gotta trust the bubbles, love.”
You smile into the jumper collar. “But they look so pale and undercooked, every time!”
“But they're not. Trust the bubbles, they don't lie.”
“I can’t trust the bubbles!” you laugh-argue.
“See? Come, look.” You lean in, pressing against his arm, and he hums. “Mm. There, wee bubbles on top. Now... you watching?”
“Oui, chef.”
He flips them with all the grace and dexterity of a world-renown cook. “See? Perfectly golden-brown.” He presses a bit more into you, his head leaning in closer to your ear. “Gotta trust the bubbles, love.” His tone is low and breathy, and so is your response.
“Well, I trust you.”
Remus huffs a shy little laugh, cheeks rosy. This is stupidly domestic. Just like it used to be a million heartbeats ago.
A desperate little part shoved deep inside of him hopes nothing breaks the spell, as he slowly plates the first four perfect small pancakes onto a large plate trying not to disturb what is fluttering between you two, and just as gingerly he drops four more dollops into the sizzling pan.
“We got Lyle's Golden Syrup for them? I mean, honey is fine if not.”
“We do have it. Molly sent me some last week.”
“Well done Molly.”
He swishes his wand over the serving plate and you watch the heat waves of the charm that will keep them at the perfect temperature and texture until the rest is done. Then, he'll finish the stacks with squares of creamy butter that will melt all over them, before you drench everything in the syrup.
Your mouth waters. These were always your favourite breakfast items at Hogwarts, and Remus never forgot.
The sizzling combined with the aroma of grease and fried batter also transport your daydreaming mind to lazy Sunday mornings at the small kitchen you once called your own, clad only in one of his oversized T-shirts or soft jumpers; usually followed by being hoisted onto the worktop, and being kissed so thoroughly the first batch of drop scones almost burned to crisps. Proof that even sexy perfect chefs can get distracted.
You were so indescribably happy then.
— ☽ ☀︎ —
After the delicious breakfast, Remus does the washing up while you start prepping for the Wolfsbane brew. You two continue to share the confined space in a companionable silence and long learned choreography, bodies brushing softly, brief words exchanged when needed.
There's a feeling of uneasy anticipation in the air. Things that need to be said today. Intentions made clear, important information shared. Whatever you two missed over the past year and two months, as painful as it is, needs to be discussed.
And so… No one is saying anything.
You start on the Wolfsbane and Remus goes outside for a bit, becoming engrossed in something you don't quite recognise — a dirty bulky book of some sort he's spell-cleaning and polishing with a rag.
You turn your attention wholly to the task in front of you and all your mental checklisting. After all, no mistakes can be made for the next four to five hours.
The crackling of magic in the crispy air and the firewood in the hob, the clinking of vials and silvery instruments, the distant sway and shudder of trees in the wind, the crunching and chopping and slicing and juicing of ingredients, the bubbling and hissing of the cauldron, the twinkling of precisely charmed hourglasses… these are the sounds that dominate the rest of the morning. All familiar and strangely not. Comforting, and also not.
Something is about to change between you and Remus. Again. You have no idea what, or how, but you just know. You feel it all over. And judging by the furtive glances he sends your way whenever you're hyperfocused on something else, Remus knows and feels it too.
Focus. Think about that later.
Only after the potion's done, and only after he's drunk it, maybe even only after lunch is sorted... maybe then you can find within yourself the courage to look him in the eye and start a very long, very difficult conversation that will probably occupy the rest of your day today.
After a delicious creamy potato with spicy sausage and herbs soup, you do the washing up slowly, having sent a protesting Remus to bed, to rest his knees. “Go fiddle with your weird little book some more, I got it here.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Oi, dinnae talk tae me like I’m yer old girlfriend McGonagall.” You put on the daftest Scottish accent imaginable.
“Then dinnae dae such a good impression o’ her. My heart cannae take it.” Remus’s attempt is somehow even worse.
“Dinnae fash, maybe she'll come visit ye next, for a fortnight of passion.”
“Ach, lass, a man can only dream.” You both dissolve into idiotic giggles.
This is good. Some old piss-taking banter between good mates. Maybe the rest of the week won't be so hard.
After today.
You take your sweet time tidying up the old place for a good while, until there's nothing else to faff about with.
It's time.
“Remus?”
“Yeah?” He shoves the heavy tome inside his bottom dresser.
“I think… We need to talk.”
He lowers his head, a heavy feeling pulling down on his neck. But he knows you're right. He knows this needs to happen. “Right. We should.”
You two sit on the bed facing each other as best as possible — Remus rests his back on the headboard, you have pillows propped against the window wall; the duvet (and extra heavy blankets Remus has fetched from somewhere) covers your lower halves, providing much-needed warmth. If your fuzzy-socked toes touch his thigh or hands from time to time, you don't seem to mind. So, he lets it happen, an innocent placating gesture, he hopes.
“So… I think…” you start.
“D'you want some tea? Sorry, I just thought of it.”
“Maybe? If you want some. Yeah.”
Remus returns in a minute with a full kettle and two mugs. You accept yours with an easy smile.
Passionfruit and honey. Perfect for the nerves.
After sipping in silence for a bit, you try again.
“So… I think we should talk because… Well… I’ve been thinking and… I think… it's pretty evident that we're going to be in each other's lives again.”
His breath stutters, “Y-yeah?”
“Yeah. This is a forever thing, I think. At least… I hope that's still true.”
Remus's eyes are round and luminous at that ‘forever.’ Hope springs up like a flash of light inside his chest. You being back in his life is only everything he wants. He nods, so much like a little boy, full of expectations.
You go on. “Even if… we're dating other people.”
The light goes out as quickly as it came. Remus does his best to mask the sadness that drenches him head to toe like a bucket of ice water. So this is confirmation then: you and Eriksson.
“We just need to be… alright with that, I reckon. Our history is, you know... and we… well, we just need to…” You're so nervous, you can't string a coherent, adult-sounding sentence for your life. Then, you hesitate further, studying your mug before uttering the next words that are truly meant for yourself, with a couple switched pronouns and royal we's.
“We just need to learn to... love each other differently.”
You blink way too much after saying that. And Remus nods way too much in response.
“Right. Yeah. Right.”
You slowly lift your gaze to him, a tad more determined now.
“And I meant what I said yesterday. I will help you, whatever you need. We will change things for the packs. We will continue what you started, Remus. I don't know who else you have that you can count on, but I'm with you.”
Remus's eyes become misty. It's a good bet this will happen a lot today. “I can't tell you how much it means to me, to hear you say that. But I want you to know that, erm, you don't need to promise me that. You're not obligated to commit to something so… impossible.”
“I know. But I want to. It's my life's calling. I've always known it, since the day I learned about your condition, Remus. That hasn't changed.”
Now it's your turn to get all misty-eyed.
“I am sorry for not being there for you this past year. It was immature and selfish of me, shutting you out like that. It will never happen again.”
“Please. You don't have to apologise for that either, Y/N. I was incredibly cruel to you. You had every right to never want to see my face again.”
“Well... turns out that doesn't work very well for me, not seeing your face again. I couldn't really…” you swallow, putting the mug down on the windowsill and gathering the courage to get soul-bared and dangerously vulnerable. “Can't really live without... my best friend.” you finish in a choked whisper.
Remus has to use all his willpower again, to not pull you into his arms. So, he just finds your hands and his voice, instead. “Turns out I can't really live without my best girl either.”
You, on the other hand, are not so strong. With a choked sob, you lean forward on your knees and next thing you know, you find the curve of his neck and shoulders to hide your face there.
He wraps his arms around your torso and holds you to him as tight as possible, wishing to convey all the love he has for you. Wishing to never let you go.
You hold each other through a cascade of salty tears that have been trapped for ages, and the indescribable flood of sweet relief that follows. Remus hears the moment your hearts fall in perfect sync; your breaths slow and deepen, your bodies fully melt into each other, finding solace, home.
You nuzzle his neck that still smells like lavender and the incomparably delicious gentian petals from last night’s bath, wishing you could taste it. You also wish you could take the last fourteen months back, erase your cruel absence, replace it with all the unquestionable support and devotion he dearly needed then, whilst you were nowhere near to offer.
“Forgive me, Rem?” your words are muffled against his pulse point.
“Of course, love.” he whispers into your skin. “Forgive me too?”
“Of course, love.”
There's no rush, no pressure, no awkwardness, no guilt. This moment needed to happen, exactly like this. Two souls finding each other again, knitting back together. Because your love for each other transcends mere friendship, romance, or sex. It's eternal. It's solid. It's pure, and right, and life-affirming. You will never let anything or anyone rupture your bond, ever again.
When you break apart, you sit next to him against the headboard. Legs, hips, hands touching. Holding onto each other, clingy and free of judgement. Just like you used to in the hospital wing at Hogwarts. Just like you're meant to: like true best friends.
“Would you feel ready to tell me… everything I missed? I want to hear. Everything you went through in your mission.”
Remus takes a few calming breaths, his thumbs caressing the tops of your hands, his stubbly chin and scarred cheek on your head, which is resting on the curve of his shoulder.
“Yeah. I want to tell you. You're the only one I ever wanted to tell.”
♥️ 🐺 ♥️ 🐺 ♥️ 🐺 ♥️ 🐺 ♥️ 🐺 ♥️ 🐺 ♥️
|| NEXT CHAPTER ||
Nerdy Ravenclaw Notes:
REMUS’S BODY TEMPERATURE: According to recent serious research on my part (aka Google lol 😭), the average normal human body temperature that’s considered safe is between 36-37 degrees Celsius, or 97-99 Fahrenheit. If you present with a forty-degree fever (104°F), that’s a high-grade fever (hyperpyrexia) and it can cause delirious episodes; needless to say it must be brought down as soon as possible. Unless you’re Remus Lupin, or you are with Remus Lupin. Then, you cuddle up to all that hotness during cold nights — pyjamas optional. AYOO! 🥵 Lucky us!
DROP SCONES (SCOTTISH PANCAKES): So, instead of defaulting to American pancakes again (my favourite), I put on my nerdy glasses and found the UK equivalent. Now I want drop scones!
A/N: Yay for being besties again, hurraaaayyy... (some of you are rolling your eyes at me so hard right now, LMAO) Oi! Restore friendship first, romance later! CHECKLISTS, PEOPLE!
Day five is going to be BIG. Probably three-parts big! Next, we will finally get a full picture of what Remus went through in the fourteen months he spent with the werewolf communities of Wizarding Britain and Ireland. It will take me a bit to put all the lore and plot points into it, so I'm scared and excited! DAY FIVE IS CORE-MEMORY STUFF, PEOPLE! It's my favourite day of this series so far, I've been looking forward to getting here soooo bad! I hope I do it justice! PLEASE drop me a note in the comments to let me know what you like, any questions, if you are picking up all the crumbles (some the size of loaves) I've been dropping! Positive comments are my favourite – well, every fanfic author's favourite. Those of you who know me here on Tumblr know how true it is, hahaha! ✍🏼 ♥︎
I write Remus Lupin and poly!wolfstar x fem!reader content. At the moment I have no plans to expand to other ships. Let me know in the comments if you’d like to be added to this fic's taglist or my permanent Remus and poly!wolfstar Masterlist taglists. 🌙 🔆 ⭐️
SUMMARY: Day four afternoon stretches on and tensions stretch everyone thin. Remus is still going through it, and trying to survive his urges, his guilt, and his grief. You are both immature and you are both hurt, so unfortunately the ridiculous miscommunication and unnecessary pettiness persist on both sides. Two highly intelligent people, deeply in love, who for some reason believe the other despises them.
The rowing and emotional dart-throwing is painful, like a solitary drunken night in some dingy pub in Shitestreet London. But the love and care that still pops up in spite of it is endearing and cosy, like that very special deep chocolate-brown woolly jumper you two stretched out.
TAGS: Exes-to-lovers. First Wizarding War. Canon-divergent. Marauders Era. Remus is the hero he’s always deserved to be, whether he believes it or not.
WARNINGS: Angst is angsting full throttle. Use of Y/N. Language. Suggestive content. Descriptions of cleaning a bloody wound. Loud, emotional arguments. Mentions of lycanthropes’ deaths – adults and children. Descriptions of animal cruelty. They’re magical and fictional (although based on real, cute species), but that doesn’t make it less painful to read and imagine. Brief description of a magical ingredient of animal origin (extracted humanely and with no harm inflicted when done right). I'm really sorry if this concept upsets some readers. Maybe our genius-reader-heroine can figure out a plant-based equivalent or how to magically multiply and mass-produce this in the future.
A/N: Day four turned out to be a mammoth of emotions, angst, and important plot points (aka unhinged word count), so I had to split it. Thanks in advance for sticking through the drama with me! Day four was always going to be a heavy day of fighting, endless frustration (for them and for us, lol), and getting some major things off their chests. I promise they will make up soon! My Barbies always end up kissing! ♡
DAY FOUR: Tuesday, 14 July 1981
“AFTERNOON DELIGHT”
The bread is soggy. The roasties are cold. The sandwich he rejected earlier slowly disappears behind your slow bites and morose chewing. You could've spelled it warm again, or given it a quick re-toasting on the hot plate, but you simply can't be arsed.
If this jolly meal isn't symbolic of your current situation with your lovely shackmate…
You look over to the bed, at the irregular rising and falling of his slender frame on the mattress. Remus lies on his side, facing the window wall. You're not sure if he's actually sleeping at the moment. Your eyes are fixed on his form, unblinking as if in a trance. It’s a rare respite, to be able to contemplate him in plain daylight, unafraid of getting caught... just taking him in, getting your fill. Realising how badly you’ve missed just looking, basking in his physical presence, his nearness.
His neck looks painfully red from the sun under the old off-white Dylan T-shirt, the contrast sharp. You slowly move your gaze over the outline of his shoulder blades, the wiry shape of his torso, the soft curve of his waist and the skin over his bony hips, showing above the elastic of the tartan flannel pyjama trousers sitting a bit lower on him.
This is a silhouette you know better than your own, and — for better or worse — still elicits all sorts of forbidden feelings inside you; not because they're vulgar or illicit, but because you're forbidden by reality and circumstance to act on them.
He's not yours. Not anymore.
And yet, the vivid flashbacks of snaking your arms around that narrow waist, spooning his lanky and strong body when it's made tender by moon-pain like this… it causes your fingertips to tingle, your abdomen to heat up, your heart to beat so fast and full that you swear you can feel the outline of it thump-thumping underneath your chest, as you briefly press your hand to check on it.
Earlier, Remus finished his shower — quite a long one — and went straight to bed. And for the last couple hours or so, you've been hearing badly suppressed sighs, the near-constant rustle of sheets, and the groans of the bedframe under the mattress. He's moving minimally but it's still restless; probably trying to find a position for his bones and joints to settle.
To hopefully hurt a bit less.
As disabused of the notion as he must be, after all these years.
You know what the moon does to him, without exception. How it never lets up, never gets easier. The most beautiful thing in the night sky will always be the cruelest to him.
You're debating yourself in that compulsive checklisting of yours: you know he needs pain relief. You know he should rest, but he also should eat and drink something.
You also know that he'll continue treating your interventions like the greatest nuisance of his life. The ‘day-four-grumpies’ is turning out to be a right ball-ache this time around.
It's been so long since you've been through a moon-week together. You feel out of practice, out of your depth, out of your Remus-fluency.
No matter, though — you have a job to do. More importantly, a recently renewed personal vow to fulfill.
You finish your sad late-lunch, brush your teeth, do the dishes, tidy the kitchen. When you run out of avoidance fillers, there's nothing else left but to approach him, bracing yourself.
He's still facing away, so you choose caution by standing on the side of the bed.
“Remus?”
“Mm— what...”
“Are you alright?”
“Mm.”
“Is it your stomach? You nauseated?”
A sigh. “‘M fine.”
No one you know has ever sounded ‘less fine’ while saying that, you think.
“What do you want to eat? It’s almost three.”
“Nothing.”
You try and fail not to sigh audibly, already tired of the row that hasn’t happened yet.
“How about just some brothy soup?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“If you’re in pain, you need to eat something first so I can give you pain potions.”
“Who says I’m in pain?”
“Uh… Everything is saying it, except your mouth.”
When he says nothing in response, you know you have to push a bit more.
“I’m not blind, or deaf, Remus. I can hear you fussing.”
His back visibly tenses underneath the flimsy T-shirt. “I already asked you not to baby me.”
“There’s a difference between being babied and being a baby, you know.”
You ache with empathy for him, but you’re not made of honey.
Remus once again doesn’t respond to your little quip, which is in itself a response.
A response you can’t fully decode.
What you don’t know is this: Moony's frantic energy is relentlessly thrumming through his bloodstream and pricking his skin, hidden underneath its layers. Every extremity of his tingles in the most discomfiting way the closer you are, and he can only pray that you don't notice how it makes him twitch, flinch, spark like a live wire.
He’s been fixated on this one thing all day: to stay away from you until all of it mercifully, hopefully passes — lest he does something impulsive and reckless again.
You're not his. Not anymore.
Problem is, you won't stay away from him.
His whole nervous system is ignited and misfiring, merely from your nearness. And right now, unbeknownst to you, you’re making everything worse.
She’s not mine. His pragmatic conscience painfully hammers the reminder.
You love her, Remus. Never stopped. Hope’s final verdict echoes and repeats over and over, like a skipping record, louder than reason.
Remus is terrified of himself.
With an exaggerated sigh, he curls a bit more inward and pulls the duvet over his ears.
It’s too warm for a duvet, you think to yourself, frowning. And then you notice the subtle but present shivering with the occasional twitches.
Which means — he's running a fever.
Which means — you have to touch him to make sure.
“What are you doing?!” He jumps when you lean over him to touch the back of your hand to his forehead.
“I’m just checking your temperature.” you sigh through your words.
“I'd prefer if you didn't touch me right now.”
You swallow your indignation because he sounds quite dispirited for some reason, and not solely for the sake of being caustic towards you. As a mentally sound adult patient, Remus does have the right to refuse being touched. Even being treated.
Well… to a point, you reason. You will never concede to his wishes if they're to his own detriment. You will never do him harm, or ever again leave him uncared for. And you don’t care how he feels about it. Truth is, you'd have no qualms in breaking a few rules for the sake of Remus Lupin.
“I'm sorry, I'll be quick.”
You wave your wand over him, spell ready on your lips. The tip turns bright red, just like you thought it would. This method is not as precise as the muggle thermometer sitting in your satchel, but it tells you enough for now.
He's definitely too hot. Dangerously so.
You try to move your hands under his jaw to check his submandibular lymph nodes, but he squirms away, closer to the window.
Why is he so tetchy and jumpy today? Did something happen? You try your hardest to pinpoint a moment, something you did or said, something he did maybe, and you come up with nothing. You've barely interacted today, with all that “gardening” he had to do, apparently…
Must be the combination of minus-three days to the full, after being estranged for so long; Moony is probably confused and angry because of your sudden forced proximity, after all the time apart. If Remus doesn’t love you, his wolf must despise you on a visceral level too.
Getting the Wolfsbane textbook-accurate this cycle has never been so imperative.
The mental strain it takes to not probe and poke until you know for sure is driving you mad; repressing the urge creates an aggressive, barely contained frustration, quite contrary to your gentle nature. Although, when it comes to Remus, the relentlessness is nothing new. Everything about him always compels you to act, and jump, and give, and fix, before asking questions.
You miss being able to read him like a book. You miss so many things about him.
You both have changed so much. You feel like strangers at times and it's eating you alive. It’s quite obvious that he’s keeping things from you now, just as you’re keeping things from him. Important things.
Meanwhile, a storm of feeling keeps raging inside Remus with you none-the-wiser. Once again, he has to shove down the memories from this morning: Holding you. Touching you. Almost kissing you. Wanking over dirty thoughts of you.
His nausea intensifies.
“I just need you to leave me alone, alright?”
“Well, I can’t do that, not really.” You choose your next words knowing but not caring that he won't like them. “And I won’t.”
“Why? It’s my body, I’m an adult.”
The urge to grab and shake him is nearly irresistible. Or maybe you just want to kiss the stubbornness out of him. You banish the thought as quickly as it comes on, replacing it with a mighty eye-roll behind his back. And another sassy quip.
“Because— One, you're clearly in a lot of pain, besides the fever. Two, it's my job to provide care and comfort to all my patients. And three, my duties don’t change, irrespective of you being stubborn as a mule for some reason!”
“Oh, I'm clearly in pain? What, you're a seer now, are you?” Unfortunately for Remus, even the unnatural way he twists his body around to get back at you face to face gives him away.
His eyes look like a ring of molten amber around his huge pupils. His hair is tousled every which way and falling in front of his eyes. His face is flushed and shiny from the sun. You want to kiss his red nose, smother his entire face in kisses. Heat rises inside your chest, and you feel your face flushing too.
He's not yours.
“You were mucking about in the dirt under the hot sun for hours, Godric knows why. At three days before the full? Smart move, Remus. That can’t feel good at all now, can it?”
“You don't know how I feel.”
“You look like a bloody lobster. And I saw you wobbling about before you plopped down here. Your knees, your hips must be screaming. Your wrists and shoulders too, I bet.”
His eyes soften for a moment before he closes them to hide his angry fondness for you. He can't help but admit, deep down, how he loves and hates how well you know him. And he loves and hates the terrible softness hiding behind your doctor-y petulant tone. It's in your annoyingly bright eyes, which threaten to kill him. It’s everything that you are. If only he could wrap himself all over you, submerge himself in all of you, until there's nothing else but you, you, you...
You're not his.
“Remus.”
He's brought back from his little pity-party-tangent as soon as he looks up at you. His heart gives a thud inside his chest, like it’s going to give out for good. It's your eyes again. Your bloody eyes and the bloody look in them, doe-like and projecting a deep sadness that cuts deep through every defensive layer he’s erected for himself.
“Please, let me help you.” Now it has reached your voice. Like melted chocolate. Like real love. Like a chronic love-ache that overwhelms his system head-on.
This is dangerous territory. The old Remus would cave by now — tail wagging, eyelids fluttering, tongue lolling in bewitched surrender. His arms itch and his fingertips burn to wrap around your soft torso and squeeze your warm skin; his red lips thirst for the taste of you, like it’s the only thing that can make him survive this.
But the old Remus is gone. The one who had permission to do those things. The one who could afford to be calm and mellow and stupidly in love, despite the world falling apart outside the door.
Your sharp eyes are on him, like a sniper. Aimed at his heart no doubt, you look poised to kill. He wonders if you are aware of the absolute power you forever wield over him.
“Remus, c’mon… If we don’t treat your symptoms now, you’ll just feel way worse tomorrow.”
“I’m used to it.”
The only shield he’s got left to hide behind is this: the bitter memories of all the letters he wrote to you coming back unopened and unanswered; the ice-cold rejection, the total renunciation of your entire friendship; the blatant refusal to let him apologise or get close to you again, resulting in the complete absence of you from his life for the past year. And all the pain he’s seen, and felt, in his own body, without you. Absolute hell.
He knows, deep down, that he’s being unfair; he broke up with you, he chased you away. If you can barely stand him as a result, it's nothing more than what he deserves. And yet, like a cornered animal, he retreats deeper into the cages he built, rejecting the open hand that wants to come close, touch, feed, and heal him again. Hiding and running from what he wants and needs most.
You are left standing there, increasingly gobsmacked by his irascible, cantankerous demeanour.
“Remus, you can't honestly be choosing pain over relief. Why?”
“Can you please… just…”
The sun arrives at a particular position outside the window that hits his face full on, making his pupils turn to pinpoints, his skull throb like knives through the eyes. His body immediately overheats and tingles in the worst way. Before he remembers himself, he lifts his right arm to shield his eyes.
“What is that? What did you do to your hand?”
Shit.
“It's nothing, I fixed it. Just a cut— hey! Stop!”
You're instantly kneeling over him and pulling at his wrist, unwrapping the bandage.
“Let me see.”
“No!”
“Remus, your hand looks purple. Something’s wrong. Let me see.”
“No! I can take care of minor bloody injuries, Y/N!” He yanks his hand back, re-wrapping the loose bandage, unable to look at you.
“Why didn’t you ask me to do it for you?”
“Because I’m not completely useless, am I? I'm perfectly fine on my own. Been for a while now.”
There it is. The other, deeper wound he’s also trying to hide.
In another life, ages ago, when your souls were perfectly in tune with one another, you would have heard all the pain and loneliness behind that last mumbled sentence. And you’d have enough discernment and foresight to probe gently, to get him to open up to you.
Unfortunately, at present, both of you are caught in full combative mode: exhausted, confused, hackled up, unable to see beyond the triggers that keep firing up on both sides. Inadvertently feeding each other’s insecurities and grief.
“Here it is again, bloody… you’re just… You are not alone, but you insist on acting like you are. What’s so wrong with letting me help you?”
Remus scoffs. Oh, now you want to help me, he thinks bitterly. After ghosting him for months, and then showing up here like it’s just another Tuesday.
“What’s it to you?”
“Uh, it’s my job? The sole reason I’m here?”
The sole reason. Duty. Impersonal and unfeeling duty.
“Well, I didn’t ask you to come, did I?”
His words feel like a proper slap in the face. Before you can filter yourself, you jab him right back.
“Well, I didn’t ask to come either!”
And it lands. His eyes grow round before they look away.
“Why did you then?”
“Because Dumbledore told me to! I follow orders just like you and everyone else in this bloody war.”
You miss the pain that flashes over his features, because your eyes start to get misty and threaten to add to your present humiliation. Your mind wars with itself, concealing what you really want to say: the impossible urge to spill out your eternal devotion to this boy, who doesn’t want it anymore.
You would do anything for him, even while he ignores and despises you. You made a vow back in first year to do all you can to take away his pain, and hopefully someday cure his lycanthropy. Friends or not, lovers or not, you are not breaking it, ever again. You can’t take the last fourteen months back, but you can make it right from now on.
Although, Remus is certainly not making it any easier, with his stroppy attitude.
“Oh, how noble of you,” he mumbles between clenched teeth.
Why you continue to choose defensiveness over earnestness will be something else you’ll regret later on this mucky day.
“What the fuck is your problem? You need me here and you know it.”
“Is that what you think? That after fourteen fucking months of you doing fuck-all for me, suddenly I’m all co-dependent on you again?”
His hands clench into fists, trembling. He doesn’t even notice the sharp sting of his own nails digging into the injured palm. There’s a wolfish fire in his eyes, a barely contained fury, or… something else. He masks the pain, the anger, and the want behind the acrimonious attitude really well.
For you, it's yet another proverbial slap in the face.
You shove down the part of your reasoning that actually agrees with what he just said, about you essentially abandoning him to himself, and you choose petty violence instead.
“You tell me, Remus. Have you finally learned how to brew Wolfsbane without fucking it up, perchance? Somehow, I doubt it.”
Two can play at it. Time to do all the muddy laundry then.
“Not to keep bringing back the fourteen-month calendar mark—”
“—and yet, you keep doing it…” you cut in while he barrels on, even more irked.
“—but in case you didn’t know or didn’t care, I’ve gone through fourteen full transformations—”
“—and there it is again…”
“—without!—” he shouts right over you again, fists clenched harder, tone vicious, “—without bloody Wolfsbane. And lo, I’m still here. Dunno why Dumbledore or your royal prissiness is bothering with it now.”
You keep matching his fire with your own. “Because, in case you haven’t noticed, this bloody mountain has zero space for a werewolf to run amok! You’ll destroy this shack and then plunge down to your death before your werewolf pea-brain knows it!”
“Werewolves. Are not. Stupid!”
“How would you know? You don’t even remember anything that happens! And I’d rather not find out while I’m stuck here with you!”
Stuck here with him.
Remus recoils, pulling the duvet all the way up, covering his face and turning to the wall again. He winces from using his injured hand, definitely not from your last cruel dagger.
“Feel free to leave if it’s such a pain for you to be here.”
“Can’t, bloody Portkey is set for the nineteenth only, isn't it? So I got five more days of this— fucking…”
You two never, ever, fought like this; and yet here you are, throwing inflamed darts at each other’s hearts like pros.
“Would you just fuck off, then?” Remus’s voice breaks. His breathless tone sounds more spent and hurt than irate now.
The complete silence that follows is enough to make him freeze in place, bracing for how you will finish him off.
“Remus...” your tone lowers and softens instead.
“Please, fuck off.”
“Your hand. It’s bleeding.”
He uncovers his face and half-sits, examining it. “Fuck…”
You’re already moving to fetch your kit. Remus gingerly unwraps the quickly soaking bandage, wincing as the last layer pulls on the gash, having got stuck to the partly dried wound that never fully closed up, in spite of him using loads of Dittany on it earlier. He looks at it, worried. The blood looks too dark, with streaks of silver that are reminiscent of the sharp edges of the strange trowel after his blood touched the blade.
“Give me your hand, please.”
He turns to you abruptly — startled out of his self-examination — right before you sit on the edge of the bed, quite close to him.
Your movements are slow and careful. The moment your fingers touch the back of his hand, he feels it: the sparks. The jolting sensation he’s been avoiding since this morning, that’s already doing things to his body. It’s the hardest thing to just sit there and let you touch him, like this. So tenderly, like you’ve been trading endearments instead of barbs.
The wolf inside him is howling and whining because he wants to ravage you, wants to continue what he stopped. While you delicately examine the long cut on his palm, he squeezes his eyes shut and tries to rein in his desires.
“This is… different from a regular cut. What did you cut it with?”
“Gardening tool.” The strain in his voice is so pathetic, he wonders how evident it is.
You glance up inquisitively. “Magical tool?”
“No,” he says quickly, but it's clearly a half-lie. He does suspect that there's something mysterious about that trowel, which would be fully congruent with the rest of this place.
“Does it hurt too terribly?”
“It’s… fine.”
“Mmm…” you continue examining it as tenderly as you can, only lightly pressing on the purplish skin around the cut, observing coagulation patterns, looking and sniffing for signs of infection — both the biological and curse-induced kinds.
“I need to clean it, alright? It’ll probably hurt, I’m sorry.”
“Do what you have to.”
You feel a warm puff of breath on your cheek and lift your eyes. His face is right there, eyes on you before quickly switching to your hands; the tips of your noses are so close, almost touching. You think for a split-second that it's inevitable that one of you will close the distance. At that precise moment his eyes glance at your lips for a split-second as well, before he lowers his head down again.
Could he…? Could we…?
No. Focus. Don’t be daft.
He’s not yours. He’s not into you, delusional idiot.
You turn away, to grab your wand and murmur a few numbing spells you're not sure will help, before you begin to clean slowly and carefully, first just the skin around the angry dark crimson line; your dabs and wiping motions are practiced and precise, using your magically sterilised and softest gauze available, soaked in your best wound-cleaning potion: a mix of Wiggenweld, Argentine Plangentines, and Murtlap essence.
Remus recognises the bright green solution and he knows for a fact that the first two ingredients in it are quite expensive. He wants to protest, but at the moment he’s busy trying not to hiss at the antiseptic’s smoking sting; you were right: it is quite painful.
Your other hand cradles his soothingly, thumb moving back and forth over the length of his stretched fingers, to keep his palm open. You know how badly this antiseptic potion hurts, even with numbing spells. It’s the strongest, most penetrating formula that goes after any impurity or cursed infection.
Once the wound is properly clean, your diagnostic spells reveal the absence of anything life-threatening.
You breathe deep in relief. “It’s clean. You’re safe.” Your barely-there smile is transitory, but he can see your shoulders moving down, your eyebrows and forehead relaxing from a frown.
Your tenderness with him is nearly unbearable; he desperately wishes you’d go back to shouting insults at each other, for safety. The way you move your thumb around the edges, and he can’t tell if it’s clinical or… personal… makes his chest light up with that familiar, everlasting torch that can never be extinguished. He licks and bites his kiss-starved lips.
“For some reason this cut is behaving like… a dark-magic injury, or a… um, a werewolf-inflicted wound? Even though it is not either of those things.”
You look at him tentatively, and sure enough, you see something weighing in his eyes that are avoiding yours.
“I think I’ll try powdered silver… with snow-mermine oil, not just Dittany. That should seal it.”
“Did you say… snow-mermine oil?”
Remus remembers this very rare, ridiculously expensive, and nearly-impossible to get oil from his NEWT-level COMC textbooks. The magical and elusive marten-ermine crossbreed species, only found in limited spots in the Carpathian or Siberian ranges. Even harder to find is the humanely-harvested oil that comes from their magically-secreting glands — cruelty-free, non-poacher sourced, free of the fear hormones that render it nearly useless. Not even taking into account the horrible things that poachers do to these adorable little enchanted creatures, in the name of profiting as many galleons as possible out of the oil and their soft fur. Sickening.
You two have talked about this before. How you’d dreamed of having a vial added to your healing kit, but how you would only ever accept the precious substance after thoroughly researching its origins, to make sure.
“Yeah. I have a vial now.”
“Don't use it. You should save it for someone who really needs it.”
“Your hand really needs it. It's not cursed, but it's still seriously damaged.”
The oil is excellent to soothe not only severe burns and skin abrasions, but also promotes rapid and complete surface healing from serious magical wounds, while leaving a protective layer of brand-new skin. Exactly what an injured werewolf needs.
If it was easier to come by, you would have made sure Remus kept his skin as smooth as it were never touched by cursed claws or teeth. Alas, such quantities would be impossible, even with all the money in the world.
“That's… too much.” Shame and guilt threatens to overwhelm him. Your head starts to shake in rhythm with his, in rebuttal.
“It's not. Two drops should be enough to form the right paste, with the powdered silver and the Dittany.”
He just lowers his head, defeated. “D’you, um… have silver? I ran out a while back.”
“Yeah, I have it.”
You rummage through the hidden drawers and trays inside your magicked kit, until you find everything you need: a round silver snuffbox with a screwtop, containing the alchemically purified metal; next, the small scoop used to get the exact quantity of silver, and the spatula to mix it; one of the many vials of Dittany you carry with you; the singular crystal vial containing the silky-golden snow-mermine oil; and lastly, a shallow silver-lined crystal palette to mix everything.
Silently and fully concentrated on your task, you take two scoops of silver and mix in the two drops of the sweet-smelling oil (the unique sweet fragrance being the proof of its purity) and three drops of Dittany, using the little silver spatula to make a thick but pliant sealing paste. It hisses and smokes dramatically when the Dittany is added, before it settles into a silvery-gold pearlescent sheen.
“Alright. Give me your hand?”
The way you hold his palm up to carefully apply it, the tips of his fingers inadvertently touch the soft curve of your breast. You are too focused to notice. Remus, however, bless him — turns the faithful colour of beetroot juice.
“Um… how did you get the snow-mermine extract?” He tries to say, voice faltering.
“Oh, Newt Scamander himself introduced me to his personal supplier in January, can you believe it? We were in Tibet for a magical healing summit. Unreal.”
Your face lights up every time you talk about one of your heroes. Remus bites down his smile and his urge to kiss yours, so awestruck and dreamy-looking. He missed your smile so much.
“Must’ve cost you a fortune.”
“Worth it. Mr. Shamanov is now my direct supplier, on Scamander’s recommendation and in exchange for some of my original potions.” Your smile now rivals the sun outside. Remus’s eyes go misty before he frantically blinks it away.
“How does it feel?” you ask him after a few more passes of the spatula, smoothing the paste into the cut until it’s perfectly blended with the rest of his skin.
“It tingles a bit funny, but… it doesn’t sting like it normally does.”
“That’s the mermine oil. That’s good, it means it’s working as it should.” You let out a breath of relief. “Look, your skin is back to pinkish. That’s also good.”
A silence envelops the room while you wrap his palm with new, top-grade magical bandages.
“Thank you, dove.” Remus murmurs after you finish, not thinking. Your breath catches and your wrapping motion falters before you finish with the Spellotape.
Your eyes lift up to meet his, and again, the eerie quiet and close proximity overwhelm you both with self-consciousness.
You touch the curve of his jaw, and he freezes. You move your hand to his left cheek, feeling. Then, his forehead.
“You’re burning up.”
Oh. You were just checking his temperature again.
You spell your instruments clean and sterile, collect your kit, and get up. “Let me run you a bath that will lower your temperature, soothe the sunburnt skin, and alleviate your body aches, yeah?”
“Y/N, no…”
“I’ve got other new ingredients and formulas I’ve been wanting to experiment with. I got Tibetan Moonpetal gentians, and obsidian moon-salt crystals from Patagonia.”
You sound chuffed. Remus is horrified. Quickly calculating the exorbitant costs of all the rare ingredients and spiraling back down into his deep-seated issues, even as you bounce towards the copper tub to get it started.
“Y/N…”
“There’s a mental waiting list at the few European apothecaries that carry the Patagonian moon-salt, you know, but it just goes to show that taking a trip to the other side of the world while having the right connections can do you loads of good…”
“Y/N—”
“And the Moonpetal gentian… Ah… These are the most beautiful ones I’ve ever seen, perfect silver-blue like moonlight itself. They’re preserved in stasis, so they should be good for years—”
“Y/N! STOP! I don’t want any of it!”
You whip around. “What? Why?”
“Because it’s excessive! And fucking unnecessary!”
Great… So we’re back to this then.
“Managing your acute pain and discomfort is not excessive, Remus!”
“Yes it is! It’s excessive, unnecessary, and unfair!”
“How is taking care of you unfair? You have a right to all the same resources and quality of care for your condition as any witch or wizard! Rich or poor, blood status… it doesn’t matter!”
“It does matter, and it is unfair! When—when…” Remus is so red he looks on the verge of keeling over, but his voice is as loud and intimidating as you’ve never heard him before, not even as a Prefect. “When I’m here being babied and pampered like a bloody Pharaoh, while five-hundred of my kind are writhing in pain at this exact moment! Men, women, and children! Not being looked after by anyone, forced to hide and disappear and pretend they don’t exist, not knowing if they will make it through another moon!”
Oh.
“Do you know how many of them died in front of me, Y/N? In my fucking arms even? Bleeding out when I ran out of silver and Dittany, and no one could get me more? Or days later, from infection, because I didn’t have enough bloody Murtlap Essence or the most basic potions to prevent it? The most stupid, common ointments and potions that currently rot from disuse in the hospital wing at Hogwarts, while we went without every month? Adult werewolves waking up to discover the younger ones didn’t make it through the carnage of the night? Not knowing who inflicted the fatal bite? And I’m supposed to lie here in silky sheets and let you slather Tibetan snow-mermine oil and alpine Moonpetals and all this imported, expensive shite on me… while little kids bleed to death in front of their adopted pack parents and siblings?”
He barely sobs out the last sentences, before collapsing back into the mattress.
And, finally… You understand.
Why he’s been resisting your treatments. Your care, your tender touch. Your expensive potions and balms.
He feels guilty. Guilty of his privilege.
Because he’s seen and experienced how the other lycanthropes are forced to live: with nothing. No one to advocate for them, no one to care for them. You have no idea what he went through, but you imagine it hasn’t been easy, not a single day of it.
Remus lived among them. First he was forced to fight them, but then he fought with them, and for them. Led them through the deep valleys of hell. Turned victims into victors, waywards into warriors. Changed their lives in every way he could, with little to nothing at his disposal. But, at what cost?
Of course he couldn't fix everything on his own in a bit more than a year. Without appropriate support or resources — which, clearly, he didn't get.
You’re still learning about all he did, and you know there’s so much more to the story. Because you were in the dark for fourteen months. And you are partly to blame, for not knowing. Not asking. Not helping.
And — of bloody course, after fourteen months of all that… He’s profoundly changed. His worldview has changed. Forged in the fires of those rudimentary campgrounds. His soul has changed, scarred and calloused and shell-shocked by the extreme violence, suffering, tragedy, and injustice — everywhere he looked.
How could he not?
How could you not catch this until now?
You’re starting to see. Starting to understand. And your heart is breaking faster than you can hold it together.
But you cannot let his martyr complex — completely justified, you must admit — take him to such depths as to refuse what he needs.
Because you know this boy. This… man. He will give the clothes off his body to anyone who needs it. He will sacrifice his own comfort, his basic needs, his own life, for another.
He’s a hero. In the truest sense. Good through and through. Born to lead. To care. Untouched by the iniquity of the world, no matter how many excuses and justifications he’s had to just say ‘fuck it,’ and flip to the dark side.
Remus is pure light. Pure fire. He’s so much more than a survivor.
He's a true Gryffindor.
He is a hero.
And you’ve read enough epic novels and history books to know that heroes cannot do it alone.
They need a support system. They need people willing to carry them when the burden they carry — the weight of the world on their shoulders — becomes too much.
In Remus’s case — it's the sheer weight of five hundred men, women, and children he now feels responsible for. All alone.
You used to be his person. His rock. His safe place. You don’t know if he’s really got anyone else now. You know he’s got a girl (which you’re still not ready to really think about), and you now know that his best mates haven’t really been there for him, but you don’t really know the depth of his current relationships, or if he feels supported at all.
The truth is, you don’t know him as well as you used to. At all.
“I’m sorry. I didn't know.”
He scoffs self-pityingly. “No, you bloody didn't. Because you shut me out.”
“I shut you out because you threw me out, Remus. What did you expect?”
The silence now is heavier, nearly unbearable. A dark shadow takes over the room: dark and ominous clouds rush in and cover the afternoon sun, bringing premature night and heavy air pressure inside. The trees sway dangerously, their branches bending fully horizontal. The air feels ten degrees cooler almost instantly. You shudder. Remus shivers, twisting painfully to glance out the window before curling back into himself.
You slowly approach the bed, not wanting to cause him or yourself any more grief with proximity. You crawl over to the window to shut it. The clouds outside look thick as black smoke, with a golden lining from the setting sun around them. Shimmery dandelion fluff swirls in the angry wind. It looks ominously beautiful.
The sting of unshed tears causes you to blink rapidly before you have to rub your eyes to make it stop. You are so tired. You don’t want to fight anymore. You want to resolve your differences. You want to be close to him again. Be a friend, an ally. Be whatever he needs.
“Remus.”
He remains slumped, sitting on the edge of the bed, both palms pressing into his eyes, hard.
“Please, watch your hand. Don’t press it like that.”
“Don’t...” he sounds like he's sick of hearing your voice. Another tear falls before you wipe it hastily.
Still, you move his right wrist softly off his face, while standing in front of him.
“I’m sorry, but I have to. Your palm… it needs time to fully heal and close up, otherwise I’ll have to make more paste and apply it again.”
That works. He would hate himself if he caused you to use more of that precious oil on him today.
He’s breathing heavily. Trying to suppress whatever else is threatening to explode out of him. The shaking could be due to his fever, his wolf-nerves, or both; veins are popping out in his neck and forearms. There’s barely hidden agony in every gesture.
“Remus…?”
He remains folded onto himself, elbows on knees, struggling to regulate his breathing. Not even a glance your way.
“We will change all that.”
Your words make him pause. Take a breath. When he hesitantly looks up, you're kneeling between his legs. Welled-up eyes locked on him. Your words feel weighed on your tongue like a prayer, a vow on bended knee. A full resolution.
“We will. Not today, not this moon, unfortunately. But we will change that. I will do whatever I can to help you change their lives. I promise.”
His eyes become glassy and his lower lip wobbles, even as he remains stoically still. You slowly touch his knee, drawing soothing, featherlight circles with your thumb. His eyes zero in your hand, the feel of your fingers over the soft tartan flannel pyjamas.
“But right now, I can only take care of you. And right now we need to lower your fever. Werewolf or not, it’s getting dangerously hot, even for you.”
Remus shakes his head while his eyes look far away, probably thinking of someone in particular with whom he’s bonded, who he’d give everything to trade places with you.
“Whoever you’re thinking of, they need you alive. Strong. So when you go back, you can continue leading them—”
“I'm not their leader.”
You doubt that very much, based on the few but amazing accounts you heard before you came. “Okay. Helping them, then. I haven’t met them yet, but it’s not hard to imagine how much they must appreciate you. How they look up to you, and love you — for all you've done, yes. But mostly… for who you are.”
Deirdre. Little Deirdre’s face invades his mind and floods his eyeline with more tears. He would give anything to know that she’s safe. He’d give anything to have her here instead of him, kept away from harm and being cared for by you the way she needs. Remus is absolutely sure you would immediately love Dee as much as he loves her. And she would love you right back, as much as she loves him.
The elusive dream of a family won’t leave the hidden little crevices of his heart, even though he can’t fully believe himself to be so lucky, so worthy to have that.
He focuses back on your hand caressing his knee and your low voice, your sincere words, instead.
“You need to use this time in exile to heal. To get stronger again. For you. For them. Your pack. Your mum and dad. Your friends.”
Your eyes say what your words won’t: For me. For us.
His shiny eyes lock onto yours, unblinking. You lightly squeeze the soft flesh under his kneecap.
“Let’s do that, yeah? Let me help you. Let me use you as my test subject. Let’s discover, together, what these great new ingredients can do. What works best for pain, and fever, and wounds, and pre-moon emotional distress, so we can help the others later. Please?”
You hope to Godric this is persuasive enough. After about a minute, he finally relents.
“Okay.”
You exhale hours of tension you’ve been carrying.
“Okay. Good. Give me a couple minutes and the bath will be ready. Go drink a glass or two of cold water, please. And nibble on a few biscuits, maybe some chocolate. We need something in your stomach.”
“Okay.”
Remus makes it to stand with great difficulty. You hear his knees and hip joints popping, right before he tries to cover up his wince.
“You alright?”
He sways a bit on his feet. On instinct, you put your hands round his waist. His skin feels on fire; you can’t quite tell if his fever is worse or your cold hands make it feel hotter than he really is.
Remus sucks in his abdomen at the sensation.
“Sorry, my hands are cold, I know. The temperature is dropping quite fast.”
He knows that’s not the reason his body reacted to your touch. “It’s fine.”
“You dizzy?”
“No, just… I think I got up too fast. I’m fine now.”
“I can fetch the water and biscuits for you if you want to sit back down.”
“No. I can get it. Please don’t worry about me so much.”
He sounds so defeated, it’s hard not to let yourself cling to him tighter. Or tell him how not worrying about him would be impossible.
You let go of him, and he trudges slowly towards the sink. You watch his back for a bit before redirecting your focus.
You have a medicinal bath, some tea, and potions to prepare. Deal with emotional stuff later, you tell yourself.
— ☾ ☀︎ —
You mash the Moonpetal gentian with a few marigolds and generous amounts of aloe vera leaves in your marbled pink himalayan salt mortar and pestle — which will take care of his fever, inflammation, and have a deep-calming effect all over, including his sunburnt skin.
Next, you add the usual ingredients into the tub as the water rises: lavender, patchouli, eucalyptus, and mooncalf milk drops; soon the milky bath emits a calming and inviting aroma.
When you add the obsidian moon-salts last, the water turns dark like a black hole.
“Whoa,” Remus murmurs, standing behind you. “Is this a portal of some sort? You sure I won’t be thrown into another galaxy or travel through time if I get in there?”
You smile. “Wicked looking, innit? Just give it a minute.”
Sure enough, the water turns into a moon-like pearlescent sheen after a minute.
“The moon-salts will draw out your deep muscle and bone aches like nothing before, help with joint stiffness, and calm down Moony’s uh, pre-moon agitation.”
Remus nods, still looking down at it. Godric knows — and so do you, apparently — that this is exactly what he needs.
He feels an all-familiar pressure in his chest, reminding him that he could live a hundred lifetimes and never be able to repay your kindness.
“The water is a bit tepid, because of your fever. I'm sorry about that.”
“That’s fine. I’m used to bathing in freezing cold water now.” He huffs a microscopic laugh. You don’t.
The camps. Of course. Merlin, winters must be really brutal for the packs.
“Let’s uh—” you quickly swallow another jolt of grief for this boy, and all others like him you haven’t even met yet. “Let’s have you in it for forty minutes to an hour. I’ll check your temp then, if that’s alright.”
“Okay.”
You turn around towards the kitchen so he can undress, but he reaches for your wrist.
“Y/N…”
He lets go quickly, but you look at him with open and soft eyes, feeling each fingerprint on your skin, wishing for so much more.
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For everything.”
Blood rushes to your cheeks in record time. “You don’t have to thank me.”
His face falls a bit. “Right. Orders and healer oaths.”
“No, no, no. I just mean… I’m happy to do it.”
How can you give just the right amount of truth about how you feel, without making it uncomfortable for both of you?
Oh, well.
“It’s what I want to do… What I love to do.”
Remus swallows a lump the size of his whole heart back down. Surely you must mean your healing vocation in general, not…
“I still should thank you. And, um… I’m sorry for giving the impression I’m… not grateful.”
“I get it. Or, I’m starting to, at least.”
You both nod in the uncomfortable silence.
“Alright. I’ll let you get in. Don't let your right hand get wet, yeah? I’ll make you that calming tea.”
You busy yourself with your herbs and seeds and the kettle, while hearing the soft rustle of clothes leaving his skin and the subtle splash of the tub when he lowers himself in. You both let out an audible sigh at the same time.
Between May of 1980 and the night his secret mission ended abruptly two weeks ago, Remus had been able to come back to London (and Wales) exactly three times. Only three rushed weekends, packed with secret debrief meetings that felt more like interrogations, a quick visit to his parents for just a meal or even less, and to replace whatever was stolen from his personal belongings, or torn to shreds during the moons.
More often than not, Remus would find himself tucked away in some dodgy muggle pub, sitting alone at a small table for two, shoved deeply in the back. Several hours (and pints) later, when the landlord had no choice but to kick him out, he’d stumble home to a dusty flat he’d rather not be at, to lie all alone in a bed that no longer smelled of you. Since rent was covered by the Order, he didn’t have an excuse to vacate it, even though nothing in it felt like home anymore. Nowhere in the world did.
Peter had told him in passing during a quick catch-up that you were back living with your muggle parents in Guildford, where you grew up, and no one ever saw you anymore. He also returned all the rejected letters Remus wrote to you, with a mournful look on his face for his ‘misunderstood best friend.’
Shame and grief scorched Remus head to toe, to the thought of how your nice parents must hate him now, for breaking their precious girl's heart. As much as you must obviously hate him too.
Mr. and Mrs. L/N are a sweet, very pleasant and uncomplicated couple who own a lovely bookstore for used and rare books in the heart of picturesque Guildford. Remus still has fond memories — or rather, wet dreams — of snogging and touching you quite inappropriately, hidden between the bookshelves in the back, whenever you were alone in the store, when he came to visit and would help out over Christmas and Easter holidays during sixth and seventh years.
He’ll never forget the afternoon he embarked on his ‘mad Greek mythology phase’ (your words). He’d pressed you a bit too hard against one of the stacks while filling you up and devouring your lips, when he heard a loud thuddump: his hand on your bum had dislodged a couple of heavy volumes of a Greek encyclopaedia that covered everything from history to the deepest mythological lore available in print. As he scrambled to put the dusty and bulky hardcovers back, mortified (whilst you giggled so hard you laid flat on the floor), he became intrigued by the titles, and asked your parents later at dinner if he could borrow the collection. They told him he could have them for as long as he wanted. “They're yours, Remus,” your dad had told him. “We're just glad someone shares our refined literary interests so avidly.” Your mum giggled, you rolled your eyes all the way back into your skull, and Remus smiled so big his face felt garishly stretched.
He loved — loves — your family.
He still has the books. He doesn’t know why he’s been carrying them with him everywhere, why they remind him of you as much as the hidden photo album in his drawer does. It’s just an odd sort of comfort that no one can really explain unless one feels it.
Remus closes his eyes, getting lost in the smells of the anise and chamomile tea you're making, in the poems of Homer’s Iliad he has memorised, in the phantom feeling of the soft curves of your body, better than any ancient books he ever held in his hands.
The only things that still feel like home.
“Hey. Remus.”
Your gentle voice lures him back to wakefulness. He opens his heavy eyelids with some difficulty.
“How’re you feeling?
“Hm? I’m— I’m alright I guess.”
“May I—?” You’re holding a thermometer in your hand, a cup of tea in the other.
He nods, and slowly drinks the calming tea while you gently place the thermometer in his ear and hold it there for three minutes. Your other hand supports the back of his neck right where it meets the wet hair at his nape, to keep his head in place.
“Mm. Looks… normal. Well, Moony-normal, anyway.” You rotate the glass cylinder until the Mercury line is clearly visible. “Thirty-nine… point… eight. That’s… good.”
“Good.”
“How’s your body?”
“Pardon?”
“Your body? Any pain?”
“Oh. No.”
“Good. Good. Um.”
You wish you could just touch him more. To make sure. And because.
“I think we can get you out now.”
Remus blushes at the implication, the ever-intrusive memories. And the realisation that he will need your help to get up and out. His body feels ten times heavier, his muscles and joints seem to have gone out of order.
“It’s alright, Remus.” you reassure him quickly, as if reading his mind. “This stuff makes your whole body feel like both lead and jelly, I know. I don’t mind.”
You tentatively slide your hands up his slick arms, ready to pull and support him as needed. Your touch is firm but tender, raising gooseflesh and heating up his face.
“Slowly now... Get on your knees first.”
He hesitates, knowing the murky water can't keep covering him once he rises even a bit.
“You can hold on to me. Or the tub.”
He holds onto the tub. You move your hands to hold on to his ribcage gingerly. His heart leaps inside it.
He slowly rises onto his knees.
And… he's fully exposed now.
If he had the courage to look at you at all, he'd see how your eyeline is fixed between his collarbones and his eyes. Ever the professional. Pinkish cheeks notwithstanding.
“Okay?”
“Yeah,” he breathes feebly.
“Dizzy?”
“No. Just... weird?”
“That's normal with the moon-salts and the gentian petals. D’you need a minute?”
“N-no, I'm– I'm fine.”
He's not fine. Not with you using your healer voice: all breathy and low and unintentionally sexy.
“Okay then. Bend one knee only. Foot firmly on the bottom of the tub. We rise together, I got you.”
His breath stutters.
“Ready? One, two, three, up.”
You both groan comically with the effort to get yourselves up together. His legs definitely feel funny, all wobbly and nearly useless.
“Hold on to me, Remus.”
While he hesitantly grabs onto your shoulders, you quickly wrap a towel around his waist. Your fingers graze his hipbone dangerously low where you tuck in the towel, and he's pretty sure that the thermometer would shoot up several more numbers if it were still inside his ear.
Next, you wrap a second towel he hadn't even noticed around his shoulders. Then you hold firmly onto his waist so he can carefully step out of the tub, one foot at a time.
“Alright?”
“Mm-hm.” Remus cannot look at you, or quite find his voice.
You slowly guide him to the bed, where his warm pyjamas and fresh underwear already await him.
“Oh... Thank you. You didn't have to sort out my clothes.”
“Well, I did, actually. You won't be able to move about due to the relaxers. No worries, I'm used to it.”
You busy yourself with draining and charming the tub clean while he listlessly dries and dresses himself, feeling like a six-foot-tall slug, but blessedly pain-free.
He doesn't remember being completely pain-free like this in months.
Fourteen of them, to be exact.
“Have you thought about what you want for dinner then? I'll be cooking, of course, so don't expect anything fancy.” You smirk. He doesn't reciprocate your humour. Just keeps looking down at his hands, down at the floor, down on himself.
Dinners… and miracle pain relief baths and potions...
He tries not to think of wee Deirdre again… or Sofie, Rolf, Magnus, or Barak — who have become his lieutenants, sort of speak; he definitely tries not to think about old-man Billius, the oldest and grumpiest werewolf of all, who hand-carved hundreds of wandsticks on Remus’s instructions like a master wandmaker, even going on to train others with similar talents to do the same (while whinging about it the whole time, of course), and who wouldn't rest until there was enough for everyone.
Are any of them getting the ‘hero treatment’ they deserve? Are they getting a hot meal tonight? Do they have a place to sleep? Does anyone care about any of them, now that he's here, completely separated from them?
“I don't want anything.” His words come out heavy and raspy with revulsion.
“Remus, you haven't eaten anything, all day.”
“I know. But I'm not hungry.”
“Is it your stomach, love? There's more anise and chamomile tea, or I can—”
“No. Just...”
He's tired. So tired. He doesn't want another fight. He doesn't want to explain this chasm inside his chest that keeps ripping itself bigger and darker, with nothing to fill it back up, nothing to repair it.
He wants to tell you. Everything. You said you'll help him change all of it. So he needs to tell you, if you're going to be an ally.
He wants to tell you.
Just not tonight.
He's a tired tall slug tonight, and his body doesn't hurt but his heart does, and there's no potion for that beside the sleep-like-you're-dead one. And he’s desperate for it. And he's desperate for news of Dee, and his mates, old and new.
And he's desperate for you. But he can't have you.
Why would you ever want him back, after what he did to you? Especially now that you found someone else? Someone who makes you smile with hidden little notes inside your diary, and warm nights in a bed that smells like you and him? Someone like you… Someone better?
But at least you'll be his friend again (maybe), and an ally (hopefully). And that's great. But it still hurts, it hurts so much. It hurts worse than the moon, he realises now that this is the only pain tormenting him.
“Just give me the Dreamless Sleep potion, please.”
“Remus…”
“Please.”
A peculiar sort of fatigue hits you right between the eyes – pulling down on your eyelids. Weighing down on your spine.
Time to pick your battles, wave the white flag for today.
“Fine.”
He glances at his watch: it's almost six in the evening. “Give me enough for at least sixteen hours, please?”
You stare at him. Debating. What he needs, what he wants, what you think he needs, and what you want. Maybe… this is best. Let him sleep this fucking day away. Try again tomorrow.
“Please, Y/N.”
His eyes reflect such pain, the sort that goes beyond mere physical moon-pain, the sort you have no potion for. You can hardly resist the way his beautiful honey-green irises glimmer and moisten against his will.
“Okay, Remus. Lie down, then, I'll get you the DSP. Sixteen-hour dose.”
Once Remus is completely out, you decide not to cook dinner for one, opting instead for some quick tea and toast with marmalade and clotted cream. All things considered, you're not very hungry either.
Feeling the uncharacteristic wintry chill that has settled in the shack, you put enough charmed wood on the range to keep the fire going through the night, and indulge in a hot and soothing lavender bath to stop shivering. It's a great idea that succeeds in relaxing your tired body, but unfortunately it doesn't work on your thoughts.
You're hoping to Merlin that Remus will open up to you more. Tell you everything he's been through, so you two can sort out a plan. So you can understand what he's still going through. So he won't feel alone in it anymore.
You're not trying to be there for him like a girlfriend — it's obviously not what he wants from you. You're just trying to be his friend, his ally. Someone he can count on. Someone who will not turn their back on him or mistrust him over nothing.
You can learn to love him in silence. With your actions. Quietly and inconspicuously. You can give without taking. You can be who he needs, even if he can't be who you need.
You can do this. You want to. And you will.
The cold weather is absolutely ridiculous. The temperature keeps plummeting, the winds howling. It's like the bloody mountain up and relocated somewhere near glaciers. You need to get under the covers (and near his body heat) quickly.
You eye his bottom drawer. Maybe he won't mind if you borrow one of his thick woolly jumpers. There's that deep chocolate-brown one you love, nice and fleecy. You knitted it for him, after all. Well, Hope helped. Well, saved it from total failure, actually. That was such a great Christmas holiday, back in fifth year. Right during his impressive growth spurt.
Remus kissed you for the first time that New Year's Eve, out on the dangerously dilapidated Bangor Garth Pier, while wearing the jumper. With you also inside, stretching it out to twice its size, and almost ruining Hope’s craftsmanship.
When you pull it from the back right of the drawer, something familiar and unexpected pops out with it:
The suede-like leather cover. With the little window carved in it. Showing the same moving Polaroid you insisted on putting there. Capturing the moment you both said ‘I love you’ at the same time, like lovesick dorks.
You are instantly stunned, confused as ever. Your hands grab for it without thinking, certainly without permission. Surely he’s not kept all those…
Oh, Merlin. Oh, Godric. Fucking… what…?
Your whole body shivers for a different reason while you turn page after page. They're all here, every single one… exactly the way you two arranged them over the years.
Tears now cascade down your cold cheeks, salty and bitter, seasoned with that stupid delusional hope that cruelly claws out of your carefully erected walls. The frantic questions that flood your mind are so many that they threaten to choke you.
Why?
Why does he have this here?
Why does he still have this at all?
Why pictures of us? There's no us! He doesn't want us! He made that very clear!
Why? Why? Why?
Why me and not… her?
Why not him and his girlfriend?
The one he left me in such a hurry for…?
Why not…
…Emmeline Vance?
♥️ 🐺 ♥️ 🐺 ♥️ 🐺 ♥️ 🐺 ♥️ 🐺 ♥️ 🐺 ♥️
|| NEXT CHAPTER ||
Nerdy Ravenclaw Notes:
COMC: Care Of Magical Creatures. Both Remus and reader took NEWT-LEVEL COMC at Hogwarts.
Shamanov: A Russified surname from the Siberian region, meaning "descendant of the Shaman." A good surname for an intrepid healer who will work hard to obtain snow-mermine in the humane, non-cruel way.
Snow-Mernine: A magical beast I came up with by combining the Marten and the Ermine into one magical, rare animal who in my lore is only found at the snowiest peaks of the most remote ranges. The oil is secreted from special hidden glands, and the extraction requires building total trust with kind humans so they allow themselves to be touched, and don’t bite fingers off or necks (ermines are known to be aggressive and feisty irl). Poachers use cruel methods like trapping and forcing them to secret the oil, many times killing them in the process. When they’re in fear, the oil loses its efficacy by as much as 80%; and yet these horrible excuses for wizards continue their evil practices, all for profit. Newt Scamander has done invaluable work rescuing and rehabilitating several of these animals along other species that are targeted by poachers all over the globe, as well as advocating for cruelty-free trades only.
A/N: sorry it's taken so long. I'm glad you're still here. My poor mental health has been getting in the way of my creative productivity big time, but I’m not giving up on this story, no matter how long it takes to write it.
So, yeah… as you can see, there's more unknown factors I haven't fully revealed yet, on purpose. I hope it will explain why they are so scared of getting close to each other again. There will be more explosive revelations on the next one; I'm so excited about the next one!
I write Remus Lupin and poly!wolfstar x fem!reader content. At the moment I have no plans to expand to other ships. Let me know in the comments if you’d like to be added to this fic's taglist or my permanent Remus and poly!wolfstar Masterlist taglists. 🌙 🔆 ⭐️
SUMMARY: Day four comes along and it’s… excruciating. The mystery mountain begins to reveal strange secrets about itself. The moon continues to punish Remus's body right on schedule, while the past punishes his mind, right on brand. It's a day of mistakes and regrets, tensions, rowing, and difficult realisations. Welcome to the day-four grumpies, to put it mildly!
TAGS: Exes-to-lovers. First Wizarding War. Canon-divergent. Marauders Era.
WARNINGS: Highly suggestive content (18+ mdni). Mention of male masturbation. Brief mention of drug and alcohol use. A hint into Remus's brief bisexual history. Brief mention of suicidal thinking. Yes, we're full-on into “Angstland” now. Use of Y/N. Language. Exposition ad nauseam. Mention of bloody injury. A bit of dubcon and quasi-somnophilia behaviour, although nothing is carried out (pretzelgate problems). Don’t touch or kiss anyone in their sleep if you don’t have their explicit prior consent, boys and girls and non-binies! REMEMBER: FANFICTION IS NOT REAL LIFE!
A/N: Sorry for taking for freaking ever! I rewrote this chapter so many times and I'm still not sure how I feel about it… This whole story is growing and expanding in a HUGE way, and I'm having trouble reorganising the lore. I've had to scrap and restart, and scrap again, restart again, and storyboard it all with post-its, journal my ideas, create flow charts… I almost feel like a real writer, hahaha (I'm not LOL). I hope you like where this is going! Although this one is a bit hard to take. Kind feedback is always appreciated, and it encourages me to keep going. Please write to me! ♡
DAY FOUR: Tuesday, 14 July 1981
The harsh light of a grey morning (which has arrived way too soon if you ask him) hits his bleary eyes. Remus doesn’t remember falling asleep last night — it must’ve happened sometime during or right after your miraculous back massage. The last thing he remembers is how your delicate and firm hands brought him instant relief, every knot they touched. And how desperately he missed your touch.
Right now, however… he is in trouble. Deep trouble.
Because you two seem to be wrapped in each other like a pretzel.
And you’re only in your bunched-up sleep top, and knickers.
He can feel where the curve of your bum meets the thin, stretchy cotton underneath his palm, that just happens to be cupping you there. One delicate bare leg is hitched on his hip, whilst the other is slotted between his legs.
And your lips are softly touching — slightly drooling on, actually — his left nipple. In fact, your right cheek is snugly squished against his warm pectoral muscle, like it never lost its full permission to live there.
He knows you didn’t strip down for him. You tend to do this while unconscious, when it gets hot in the middle of the night. He fights a smile at the ill-timed memory, and something deep beneath his navel flutters at the consistency of your subconscious habits. Just another thing he sorely misses about having you.
Which is funny, really (well… funny might not be the word), because this morning is quite warm, as usual. And yet, you are snuggled into him like you used to do whenever the weather turned nippy.
You hate being cold even worse than being hot, and Remus’s natural furnace-like body is the best excuse to be climbed like a tree any chance possible.
Or, it was. Before he stupidly lost you.
Foggy confusion wrestles with fond memories, while the heady scent of you makes him woozy; his rational mind is forced to do some heavy lifting this early, negotiating the restraint needed to resist the sweetest temptation wrapped all over him, soft and warm under his fingertips, pure loveliness pressed to his skin.
His body… has other ideas.
His hand should have moved away from your bum by now… instead of softly caressing it. He should be gently pulling himself away from your body, instead of pulling you closer. His bare thigh (he realises he's in his boxers, which he also doesn't remember doing) is slotted right against your heat, separated only by your thin cotton fabric. He can smell you and he's losing all coherent thought.
“Mmmm… Rmm…” you moan.
“Dove…?”
No response. You're still gone. Except… you're moaning lazily. And grinding on his thigh. Mumbling something that sounds like… his name, maybe? And then you're closing your lips around his nipple, and… Oh Godric.
Before he catches himself, Remus is kissing your forehead and panting your name in return; his thigh meets your grinding motion, and the effect is evident on him. His lips move down the slope of your nose, your one exposed cheek, the corner of your lips — and a spark of desire radiates from where he touches—
No.
NO!
He untangles himself from you and sits up on the edge of the bed so fast, his head spins. You whine and groan at the sudden loss of him, curling into yourself while your left hand fists the fitted sheets, wrinkly and warm where his body just laid.
Moving swiftly to grab the top sheet and the duvet bunched up by your feet, he tucks them around your small body, tightly, as if to protect you from himself. You sigh deeply and continue sleeping.
His whole head throbs in protest and his vision swims, all blurry. He presses the meaty heels of his hands into his eye sockets, hoping that pushing his eyeballs in may take away the migraine, and the shame. Funny spots pop and float around behind his eyelids like a dim light show. This makes the blurriness worse, once he opens his eyes again.
Great. He's half-blind, semi-hard, overheating, and achy all over.
Fucking… hell…
He's just graduated to full-on pervert. First, peeping on you bathing in the rain. Now groping and kissing you while you're unconscious?
Bile threatens to come up his throat. He needs to get up and out of this shack. Away from you.
Next thing he knows, he's kneeling at the edge of the abyss that separates this place from the real world, doing something equally disgraceful and debasing in his eyes. It's been years since he had a ‘shame-wank’ over thoughts of you he shouldn't be having. He thought he'd grown out of those. But… here we fucking are, he thinks, after finishing on the weedy ground, panting like mad, and seriously considering the jump down over the present mortification.
Still breathless, he squints and covers his eyes with his non-sticky hand, since the morning sun chooses this moment to find a slot in the clouds and blind him, exposing all his sinful indignity to the heavens and making his head throb way worse.
Even the weird-looking dandelions spread all over the lot seem to be taunting him — strangely swaying despite the current lack of wind, both the golden-yellow blooms and the silvery-golden puffy clocks. Is his migraine playing tricks on him perhaps? They seem to have multiplied and completely covered the expanse of this high tepui plane. And they definitely look… a bit alien. Glowy.
He decides to investigate further. It will be a perfect excuse to stay away from you today. Away from his punishing mind, too.
There's a strong feeling in the air that this will not be a good day. The evidence is already mounting up, hammering inside his skull and bones.
— ☾ ☀︎ —
When Remus was dropped here two and a half weeks ago, he had found a funny and ancient-looking gardening tool inside an equally old wooden bucket. At that moment he’d made a mental note to maybe do something with the soil outside, once he recovered some of his sanity back from the shock of being snatched away from the camps, abruptly ending a nearly fourteen-month undercover performance that was more real than his former life, every day.
He remembers being jostled in the middle of the night inside his tent, like it happened yesterday.
“Headmaster? What are you doing here?”
“There's no time. Take my arm.”
“Are we in danger, sir? Are they in danger?”
“They will be evacuated too, don't worry. But you are the main target. Grab your rucksack and take my arm. Now!”
Two minutes later, Dumbledore had disapparated them right into the Order's HQ. It was empty. He then reached into a deep pocket inside his robes and took out a large ruby neck chain. And started muttering nearly silent incantations on it. Remus waited for a chance to speak to him again.
“Sir, where's everyone?”
“Everyone is on rescue duty tonight, Remus. All UK and Irish camps need to be alerted, and hopefully fully evacuated.”
That's about five hundred people, scattered across the two islands. Remus feels a cold shiver up his spine. How many will make it? How many won't? Did he do everything he could to prepare them?
Was little Deirdre safe? Oh, Godric. Yes, she should be. He did so many drills with her on what to do. She had to be.
“I reckon the spy found out then. About what I've been doing.”
Dumbledore looked at him with a mix of remorse, pride, and something new. And in that moment, Remus confirmed his suspicions: even his greatest role-model had been suspecting him of being a traitor.
“It appears so. We heard it from our own spy not even an hour ago. News of your… great work with the packs. What you've done, Remus, is quite remarkable. And in such a short time too. Fenrir Greyback and Tom are furious, as they should be. And the Death Eaters were sent en masse to find you tonight.”
His ancient but still strong fingers gripped Remus's shoulders, his blue eyes glistening with a particular spark. Remus felt his soul being probed.
“I'm… so very proud of you, son. And I'm truly sorry for not fully trusting you at times. You are a good lad. A great man.”
Dumbledore's words and the look on his face had crossed the uncomfortable territory. Remus couldn't take the attention.
“Are my parents safe? They need to be protected too.”
“Already done. Moody and Shacklebolt are on it.”
“Will you take me to them? I need to see mum.”
“Unfortunately, I can't.” He said, placing the ruby chain around Remus's neck, tucking it under his t-shirt; the stone rested on his sternum, warm and static with energy on his skin. “I have a special place for you, far away from here. A place no one will be able to trace or reach you, by any means. And we need to go with haste. No time for goodbyes, I'm afraid. It's the safest plan.”
“I can't abandon the packs! They need me!”
Dumbledore had never seen or heard Remus so passionate before. He's certainly a different person.
“They need you alive too, Remus. We need to get you out, you're in grave danger. I promise, the Order will take care of them. Make sure they're all safe.”
“They never cared before, why would they now? We're just worthless half-breeds to them.”
We. Remus Lupin is definitely a different man. There's fire in his eyes.
“Because everything is different now, isn't it? Thanks to you.”
The ruby started glowing and pulsing hot. Dumbledore reached inside his collar, and pressed his hand to the stone. And the world started spinning, spinning.
They landed here, and Dumbledore proceeded to give him a rushed overview of the shack, and then he left him with the promise of Moody's weekly visits to check on him and to bring supplies. But none of the answers Remus wanted.
And just like that, everything had changed. Stopped. His whole life uprooted, yet again. All the noise and all the life-or-death activity… replaced with silence and solitude, and a whole lot of nothing.
Plenty of time to wrestle with himself.
What now?
What do I do now?
Who am I now?
He often wonders if he’ll ever feel like his old self again. Whatever that was.
— ☾ ☀︎ —
While tiptoeing back inside to put on some sturdy jeans and an old t-shirt he doesn’t mind getting filthy, he tries really hard not to look at you, still asleep.
He's trying to silently open the bottom drawer next to the bed to procure the items of clothing when his fingers brush over the smooth leather of the Polaroid album he’s kept hidden there under a jumper, since you showed up. The little window in the leather cover displays his favourite one: a closeup of your flushed faces, laughing and kissing and saying “I love you” at the same time, before dissolving into giggles and going in for another snog. Then the magical loop resets.
Lily took it when you both weren't looking; normally Remus hates to be photographed, but this one turned out too perfect for him to have any issue. And you picked it for the cover. He'll never change that.
He can still picture it so vividly: It was so windy that afternoon, autumn having arrived early in Scotland and with a vengeance. But the Black Lake looked so beautiful sprinkled with all the yellow, orange, and red leaves from the surrounding trees. And you looked so beautiful, wearing his favourite jumper, so in love with him.
You start stirring awake, so he rushes through pulling the jeans up, taking the t-shirt outside to finish dressing on the porch.
He looks into the little nook in the back of the shack. The bucket and the weird trowel are still there. Good. Time to get his hands dirty like his mam taught him, and hopefully sort out his predicament while sorting out weeds and the dark black peat that looks as hardened and stubborn as the rest of this place (and its current inhabitants).
The morning is quickly going from balmy to oppressive, on this windless day. The early clouds have all dissipated and there's not a single speck of white in the sky. Trees stand perfectly still all around, as far as his eyes can reach.
Except the bizarre dandelions, that have quickly proliferated over the small piece of land where he stands. They are swaying, like a taunting little dance. Like they know what he wants to do, holding the little sad trowel in his hand. And how they will make it as hard as possible for him.
Remus's plan is simple: de-weed some of it. They are very pretty: the yellow blooms look larger than regular dandelions and sparkle like each petal has been generously brushed with powdered gold; and the puffy white clocks are haloed in a soft, silvery shimmer, their seeds glinting like stardust. But there's just too many of them. He only needs to get rid of enough to prep the patch of earth he wants.
The first step is to find a good spot where he can start a flower and vegetable garden, as soon as he can get word to his dad or Professor Sprout, asking for appropriate seeds. Dumbledore should know which ones to use, to not violate the ecosystem of wherever they are. He reckons he could get nice tomatoes and fresh herbs to grow here.
The ground underneath his feet feels squishy enough. Typical tropical climate plus daily rainstorms, nothing surprising or challenging. Yet.
This quickly changes as soon as he tries to uproot a small bunch. Dandelions are tricky things, due to their long taproots. If even a small piece of it remains, they grow back. And these are magical somehow. And they're not detaching, at all. Remus pulls and trowels the ground around them, but his strength and skill seem to mean nothing. Around him, they sway menacingly without any breeze.
Great, they're taunting him. Weird little buggers.
Already forced to wipe his forehead, he stands up and looks around. There's got to be a way. To try and understand these pretty-looking abominations so he can defeat them.
Why is everything so hard this bloody day? Why can't I just do some gardening that's easy and mind-clearing, like usual?
He is so very tired. Like a hundred-year-old geezer tired.
He starts walking around, observing the dandelions’ strange patterns, trying to track a weak spot, a good place to start. Unfortunately, walking is too easy, so his mind starts wrestling with itself again, trying to reason through his ever-growing predicaments, spreading like weeds all over his mind.
Remus Lupin has always been a quiet lad by nature. Lyall's carbon copy, really. He's always preferred to stay hidden in the shadows. As he grew taller and taller, the urge to shrink and hide became more intense. At six feet four, it's unbearable at times how he simply sticks out like a tower over almost everyone he knows.
The need to hide also manifests in other ways. He's a sucker for dark corners, quiet alcoves, shadowy, dimly-lit libraries. Always longing for the comfort and security of the blurred background, never the spotlight.
Inside him lives a foreign body, though. A cursed creature he never invited in. A wolf that has violently imprinted on his body, and tainted his soul. And it has disrupted his need for a dimmed, quiet, peaceful existence ever since.
His friends affectionately named it Moony. Or named him Moony, he can't really tell the difference. Doesn't matter, he has no affection for it. The creature, that is. The nickname is… tolerable enough.
Moony is loud. Fiery. Angry. Intimidating. Hungry and lustful for things no one should think themselves entitled to. Things that threaten Remus's peace. Things that bring exposure instead of privacy. Anarchy, instead of control. Lust for flesh. Lust for blood.
Every cycle is the same: the closer the moon gets, the weaker Remus gets, and Moony wins. Takes over. Tries to get Remus to do unimaginable things. Shameful. Mortifying.
Three days before the moon tears him open, the creature’s interference is significantly stronger — albeit still intermittent. Which means Remus is left to wallow in undiluted amounts of shame in the aftermath of whatever he did. In this case, what he did to you this morning.
Right now, Moony is making Remus feel brash, irritable, impulsive. And Remus is making Remus feel remorseful, ashamed, nearly-suicidal with guilt.
And this cycle promises more warfare to come. Why? Because you are here. And he wasn’t ready for you. Moony wasn’t ready for you. He — it — thinks you’re still his mate.
He feels the burn of illicit lust-fire running through his veins. Prickling under his skin. Today it feels especially tormenting.
Doing the rare but familiar self-check while trudging about, Remus can shamefully attest the following: He's aching. He's feverish. He's weak from fighting a losing battle against the wolf within.
It's nothing new. Nothing different. But nothing that ever gets any easier, no matter how many times it repeats and repeats and comes back again and again and again.
Remus is not fully himself today. Also not new.
What's new: Remus being stuck in this claustrophobic, cursed bloody shack with you. With no corners, no shadows, no safety alcoves. Nowhere to hide. Nowhere to run.
He can't run from all the thoughts that haunt him. All the urges that nearly do him in. Desire… Condemnation… two wolves that are eating him alive while fighting each other.
Regardless of who wins, he's the casualty.
— ☽ ☀︎ —
Remus notices a pattern in the arrangement of the golden-yellow and silvery-white dandelions. It looks like a spiralling, swirling pattern — leading to the very centre of the mountaintop: a nature-made bullseye.
And some strange force compels him to literally dig for answers. The dandelions around the core spot seem particularly gnarly and enticing at the same time. Like they're both keeping something from him, and leading him to it.
He kneels gingerly, and before he sticks the trowel in, he murmurs softly, “I don't want to hurt you. I just want to investigate.”
Great — he's officially lost the plot. Reasoning with weeds like they can understand him.
With careful movements at first that turn into sawing and hacking through a literal thick carpet of stubborn roots, he attempts to penetrate the top mat of this prehistoric-looking mess of waterlogged dirt and weedy moss.
After several minutes he manages to loosen the top soil, and lifts a thick tuft of dirt, about the size of a basin. The dandelions are still attached to it, and continue swaying menacingly.
“Thank you.” He sets the patch of hard earth aside, examining the hole.
The soil is the colour of heavy, obsidian black, not unlike coarse and wet coffee grounds. Where it's slightly dry, it turns a dark, bruised purple-grey. It should be rich for cultivation, but it isn't. Remus already recognises the signs of nutrient-poor, highly acidic earth. He would have to bring it back to life with all sorts of fertilisers, controlled irrigation, and special potions he doesn't have access to. Disappointed, he's thinking about what he can do instead, to kill time.
This is when the soil behaves strangely, yet again. It sucks his hand and the trowel in. The sucking sound of the clay-like substance is loud like a belch; the earth now clings to his tool like wet tar. At the same time, charcoal-like dry and caked-in dirt resists any attempts at being carved.
This strange patch the dandelions have led him to, is trying to do two things at once: keep him stuck in, and discourage any efforts to work it.
Remus decides to press on.
Digging hard through the inky black peat becomes more and more difficult; he's already feeling spent, even though he's barely started. But he feels a strange pull from under this strange earth, and he answers to it.
The dandelions seem to have a different idea and decide to move their roots around his hands, somehow, impeding his movements and undoing what little progress he makes.
“Hey!”
The soil continues to present hard as rock in some places, and sucking his trowel in others, like quicksand. He's never encountered anything this stubborn before, not even in seventh-year NEWT-Herbology projects.
“You think you can… outsmart me, eh? You ruddy… piece… of… dirt…” says Remus Lupin, master of poetic eloquence.
He starts playing a bizarre game of whack-a-mole where he tries to stab the clay-hard clumps of dirt whilst the weeds move around like crazy worms, blocking him. When it looks like he's found an opening, he exclaims, “Aha!” and sticks the trowel in with gusto, getting as much of a scoop as he can. But then—
“Ahh!” The weedy roots wrap themselves around his wrist aggressively, like Devil's Snare wannabes. He grabs his wand and yells “Relashio!” Thankfully, they loosen, but remain unrelenting and increasingly disruptive.
Between the rainy season schizo earth-trap and the cursed roots, he feels like a novice gardener who'd never planted anything in his life.
“What the fuck—?” Sweat drips from his forehead, disappearing into the ground. He keeps digging, but the hole doesn't seem to grow. Harder, faster, he thinks, still undeterred. I'm smarter and stronger than you, you little shite. And he whacks on.
He should know better than to push himself so punishingly for a gormless task, three days before a full moon. But he simply cannot stop now. So he keeps digging, fighting the pesky weeds, the claggy mud, the increasing breathlessness, and the beginning sharp aches in his body.
He should also have thought of bringing a jug of water before he got all mucked up; now, his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth and his dry lips snag against each other like glue. He tastes the hot salt of his own sweat as his frustration mounts, but he funnels it all into the trowel, fueled by a grim determination he hasn't felt since the camps. It feels good to have that fire under him again — even if it’s burning him out.
“Come on…” What he's asking for, he hasn't got the foggiest idea.
Fully into the struggle now — both hands, elbows and shoulders join the effort of excavating this mountain with everything he's got; he ignores a twinge underneath his shoulder blades and the fatigue weighing down his spine. Oh, he will feel this later and it won't be pretty. But he's come this far and he won't give up now, until he discovers whatever mystery these roots are trying to hide.
He grips the short handle of the trowel with both hands, like driving a stake through a heart, and uses his whole body to stab at the hole, grunting loudly at every thrust that loosens the stubborn dirt. It seems to be working, until a slip of a sweaty hand causes the trowel to slice deep across his right palm, with a searing-sharp pain immediately following.
“AH! Shit!”
Blood immediately smears the edge of the blade, before spilling all over his palm, and into the dirt.
“Fucking… bollocks…”
Fat crimson drops fall into the hole and quickly vanish under the dirt. It drips, drips, drips… all over the earth and the dandelion roots within.
He's about to curse the heavens and give up on this long, exhausting, pointless slog. And then… something curious starts to happen: the Devil Snare-like dandelion roots… cease tangling each other, and start opening up. Retreating. Revealing… something buried under them.
A small glimmer of silver, shiny despite being deep in the dirt. Like a metallic corner of… something. There's a strange symbol carved on it — maybe a rune?
Forgoing the trowel, he digs for it with both hands, his determination renewed. His blood keeps dripping down, and the earth keeps drinking every drop like a thirsty vampire.
He feels a strong thirst himself, to unearth this mysterious thing, to hold it in his hands. To find out what it is, and why it wants him.
It wants him? What a strange thought to have...
You can’t stop thinking about it, since you woke up.
It keeps invading your thoughts, interrupting your mental checklisting. You want to throw something in frustration. But mostly, you want to cry.
Because there’s an image from last night that is still haunting you, and probably will, for a long time:
Remus’s bare back.
He used to have a few back scars, but not many. Moony was the only one hurting him before the Wolfsbane, and a wolf’s paw and teeth can only reach so far. Therefore, those bites and claw scratches stopped on the edge of his shoulder blades and on both sides of his rib cage, with most of the scarring being located around his chest, abdomen, and limbs.
Now… After months of living the life of a rogue werewolf, among other rogue werewolves… He looks like he’s been flogged.
Suddenly, your imagination slips into all sorts of horrors he must’ve been going through for the last fourteen months, and it makes you green with nausea.
To say that you regret your self-preservation choices is an understatement. You should have been there for him. Heartbreak or not.
How could you have been so selfish? Worried about your sadness over what he went through, all alone?
Sure, you didn’t know he was all alone. You didn’t know his best friends had pretty much shunned him (save for Peter, apparently). Which is not an excuse; it’s worse, actually. Why didn’t you check on him at least? Asked someone who knew?
The answer brings an uncomfortable lump to your throat. You were too busy losing yourself into your training and your goals and your life to stop and think about him. You only wanted to deal with “safe” things. Whatever you could control, whatever couldn't hurt your feelings.
They say hindsight… what is it? Hindsight… stings like a bitch? Sounds about right.
You were so focused on not getting the sniffles over your ex, that you didn’t stop to think of how harrowing it had to be for him to be forced into the full fury of the beast again. That should've been enough for your heart to break, even not knowing that he actually had to live among hostile strangers with lethal powers and volatile tempers. Having to earn trust from other lycanthropes who know nothing but hatred and violence, who spent their whole lives having to fight tooth and nail — in the most literal sense of the idiom — to survive. Survive society. Survive each other. Survive themselves.
Now, you've seen the evidence on his skin. In the hardness in his eyes. In whatever he’s trying to hide behind a tired gait and a barely neutral face. Fourteen months of carnage and forced resilience.
His beautiful body used to be so familiar to you, in every detail. Now, every new scar jumps at your pupils. Makes you flinch, suck in breaths.
You did your best to keep it together while massaging him yesterday. But as soon as he fell asleep, you lost all composure. Your eyes are still swollen from all the silent weeping you buried into the pillow.
You suppose it's a good thing he’s keeping busy outside, since you don’t really want to answer questions. You only want to ask them. You want to know. To understand.
You need to know what those wolves did to his body. What sort of long-term consequences he could be dealing with. What you can do to mitigate any further suffering. What he needs and is not asking for, because Remus Lupin never asks for anything if he can help it.
The myriad of his new scars tell a story. And you need to hear it — as bad as it may be.
Fuck your emotional whatever. This boy needed you and you weren't there for him. He needs you now, and you will show up for him. Complicated feelings or not.
You made a vow to always take care of your best friend. It’s time to reinstate it. Do the right thing.
The ten-minute hourglass starts shimmering and tinkling its magical bell-like alarm. Time to add powdered Moonstone and stir it twenty-one times, anti-clockwise.
Blood and black soil cake under his nails, and lodge deeply inside his cut. Unsanitary and bloody reckless, he can almost hear your nagging. Still, he keeps digging. Unearthing a shape. It's a… Heptagon? Yes, looks like. Maybe a box or a chest then.
When he finally pulls it out, it's not a box. It's an ancient-looking tome of some sort. Seven silver gilt-edged corners. Symbols he's never seen before. Not even in his NEWT-level Ancient Runes classes.
He sets the book aside and proceeds to push the dirt back into the hole. It goes faster now that there's no resistance from it. Finally, he places the tuft of dandelion-filled topsoil back on. And the spot… seals itself back, looking like he didn't do anything to it. Undisturbed.
Hmm… Strange...
He grabs the ancient volume again, already eager to read it, if he can. What language is it in? Is it dangerous? He should exercise caution, even though he doesn't sense any dark magic coming from it — and he's quite good at sniffing that sort of thing. He's hardly-ever been wrong when it comes to detecting the presence of Dark Arts anywhere.
Must be a werewolf thing.
Maybe he should clean it up a bit before opening and risking ruining its pages. Or maybe, if he just—
“Remus?”
Shit.
You're calling him from inside and he's not ready to face you, for a myriad of reasons. Shame returns to the forefront of his mind like it never left.
He needs to hide this thing for now. Sort it later. If you see it, Ravenclaw menace that you are, you’ll want to drop everything to look into it with him. Close together, arms and fingers brushing... Just like you two used to do at the Hogwarts Library: hours of swotting since firsties. Followed by hours of snogging, starting sixth year.
His fingertips, his lips… tingle with the memory.
NO.
Will these damn memories keep tormenting him all day?
Priorities: deal with his bloody palm which looks like a dark-crimson muddy mess, just asking for some nasty infection. Straight to shower then. Try to sort this out without involving you.
“Remus!”
“Coming!”
He takes the hepta-tome and the trowel. Groaning through the effort to stand back up after... hours, kneeling and crouching down (oh, this will definitely hurt like fuck soon), he stumbles-runs to the back of the shack. Placing both items on the indented corner, he turns the old bucket upside-down on top of them. As a last-second thought, he casts an Impervius charm. Hopefully that's enough to protect from any rain that may fall.
Did the trowel look… even shinier? Sparkling despite all the dirt? What looked dull and rusty, now looked like proper polished silver.
Hmm… Strange…
“Remus?!” You call out from the front door a third time, louder.
“Yeah?!”
“Wolfsbane is done!”
“Yeah, I'll… I'll be right in, thanks!”
“Where are you?!”
He masks his mini-panic with sarcasm. “Uh, not inside? Like I said, I'll be right in!”
He doesn't want to come in. Wishes he didn't have to.
“Well, hurry up, it's already in the goblet!”
Remus sighs, braces. Why is he being a coward, and an arse? You're being nothing but kind by doing this for him.
(Well, no one ever said coping mechanisms are logical… or fair).
Being back on Wolfsbane... Changes things a bit. The potion makes him feel different. He can feel the effects of the foul-tasting potion's daily dosage. Trying to rein Moony in, a little bit.
Mornings are hard; right when the effects of the day before are fading, before he takes the next goblet, to sedate the beast a little, again.
Could he blame his despicable actions on that? The wolf waking up? Even though he knows it's just a pathetic excuse? How is he meant to look you in the eyes ever again otherwise?
He almost didn't remember what this wrestling felt like: wolf versus potion. Wolfsbane is still a relatively new development. And he had been without it for more than a year at this point.
His tired mind forces him on yet another tangent into the past.
The boys and you started purchasing the potion for him (try as he did to protest) as soon as you graduated Hogwarts in 1978. Damocles Belby runs a small but respected apothecary in Diagon Alley. You all got flats nearby, so you could be there promptly when the shop opened, every morning before sunrise, during pre-moon weeks.
Either you, James, Sirius, Peter, or Lily would accompany (drag) Remus through the discreet back alley door. Very secretive stuff. A logistical nightmare. Not that many werewolves could ever afford the doses. In fact, you never encountered anyone else queuing there.
Once the boys reported to you the miraculous results of the Wolfsbane in action — “Oh, you should've seen him, Y/N, out like a little snorey puppy...’’ — you were fully convinced you had to learn to brew it, most urgently. And so you made it your goal, to have it mastered by the next moon.
After training on your feet at St. Mungo's all day, you would head straight for Mr. Belby's cellar instead of going home. Remus met you there — for support, for shame calibration, whatever — with a book in hand and chocolate in his pocket, to be there in the shadows but not distract you. And every evening you would attempt to brew a perfect dose.
You two apparated home around midnight — you looking exhausted and angry-crying at every small mistake you made that ultimately ruined the batch, while he held you. You've always been so impatient with yourself. Overwrought with feelings of inadequacy and desperation to get it right already.
For him. All for him.
This nightly routine went on most of July into August of 1978. It took nearly a full cycle, but you were determined to get it by the next moon.
And… by Merlin, you did.
Remus cringes when he thinks of how much this cost you. Three weeks. Twenty-one brews. You took zero days off. Brewing with Belby Monday through Friday, practicing at home on your own Saturday and Sunday. For three weeks. Twenty-one days, with no rest.
Twenty-one batches of the exorbitant ingredient list. The top-tier hardware required, all pure silver, none of it reasonably priced, not even close. The apprenticeship fees to Mr. Belby. The Potters — Monty and Effie — helped fund the fees, and Euphenia herself gifted you with an authentic, goblin-made, silver cauldron. You purchased the rest of the equipment: ten customised hourglasses, precisely calibrated according to the required timers; pure silver and crystal stirrers, magical fire-starting flints that maintain precise temperatures; silver knives, moonstone-and-silver lined mortars with silver pestles; silver spoons and forks; silver-lined prep bowls and measuring scoops; precision scale, and two silver-lined goblets for drinking.
By the time the August '78 moon came about, you were ready to take care of your boyfriend in the comfort and privacy of your home. Seven perfect goblets. And you never failed a single brew over the next two years.
Until he got assigned to this top-secret mission, which required full transformations.
The angry and desperate things you screamed in Dumbledore's face during that private meeting with you and Remus — where the Headmaster informed you that he would not be taking the potion protocol for the next cycle — is forever etched in his memory.
You had vowed to do everything you could to make sure the wolf would never tear your best friend apart again. Those harrowing memories of Madam Pomfrey rushing into the hospital wing with Remus in her arms... had broken you, reshaped you. His fragile body, completely torn, sometimes near-death. His eleven-year-old voice, not yet changed, whimpering, pleading for help, wracked with sobs…
You had spent your entire Hogwarts education from that point on striving to become the best healer possible. For him. All for him.
And then, Remus couldn't even tell you what the mission was. How it would probably take his life in the end. He could not calm you down or reassure you that he would be fine, because he didn't believe he would be.
That night, he once again held you as you sobbed for him, blind to what he had to do for the bloody Order, but aware enough of what it would cost him to not drink the Wolfsbane for however long this would take. One, two moon cycles? Three? Unimaginable cruelty!
You couldn't know the truth. He could see the toll it took on you just to think about it over the next several days preceding his departure. And a big part of him was convinced he wasn't going to make it. Having to go and be one of them. Disconnect from his life as it was to fully belong and be accepted. That surely would be his final act for the Order of the Phoenix.
And so, he broke up with you, the night before leaving. In that most cliché way where the overdramatic protagonist pretends to despise the puppy, or the horse, and yells at them to go away. Ridiculous, yes. But the only way you would believe he didn't love you anymore. The only way you’d let him go. Live your life, safely, without a target on your back. Without being made a widow at twenty.
It made perfect sense in his mind. It tore his heart apart worse than the wolf ever did. But he did it: he shouted at you, kicked you out like a rabid dog, and pushed you away.
He regretted it all, about ten minutes after you left. Dissolved into desperate tears. Spent the night panicking instead of resting before the mission. Hoped to Merlin that you would come back, maybe to convince him to reconsider. Maybe to grab a favourite scarf left behind. A chance from the heavens, a sign he was supposed to take it all back.
You never came.
He left for the Scottish Highlands in the morning.
— ☽ ☀︎ —
When Remus finally comes in, you try to mask your shock at seeing him in such a state: barefoot, bedraggled, covered in black dirt, hair and t-shirt plastered with sweat, face and neck beet-red, breathless, knees wobbling like a drunk flamingo (probably from kneeling too long, judging by the state of his jeans). And he's avoiding eye contact with you.
“What were you doing out there, trying to dig your way back to Britain?”
That gets you a quick side-eye before he mumbles, “Gardening.”
“Gardening? Planting… what? More dandelions?” You can’t help but snigger at your cheeky joke. He doesn’t.
And when he refuses to respond, you decide not to push further (for now). You just hand him the smoky goblet and he chugs it down — like he’s mad-thirsty for anything.
“Let me get you some water.”
“I can get it.” He rushes past you to place the empty goblet on the sink, still not looking at you once.
His cut is still bleeding, he feels it inside his pocket. First, he needs to shower, clean the wound under the warm water and away from your eyes. Then, try to bandage it without calling your attention. He’s not in the mood for any pampering.
While he’s drinking his second glass of water, you try again.
“I made you a roastie sandwich. It's cold, but I can—”
“I'm not hungry.” He walks even faster the other way.
“You need to eat something, Remus. Wolfsbane is quite harsh on an empty stomach.”
His back turns rigid. “And you need to stop babying me, please. I know what I need.”
You do a double-take. Babying? What is he on about?
He pinches his towel with fingertips only, but still gets black dirt and blood on it. Fucking great. He just soils everything he touches. “Right now I need a shower.”
“Fine. I'll just, uh—” Flustered, you drop what you're doing to go outside, but Remus interrupts you.
“Just stay. It's fine, you're busy.”
“We have a deal for showers, I don't want to invade your privacy—”
“I don't care. You're the only one who does.”
You are left in stunned silence, nonplussed.
If Remus meant to put you at ease with that, it didn't come across that way, at all. And he doesn't notice how his words stung, grabbing the bits for his shower. Ripping his dirty t-shirt off.
You turn around quickly, back to cleanup and other busy work, swallowing the comeback jab you wish you had ready. Or the moisture that threatens to murky up your eyeline.
You are not really shocked by his abrasiveness; it's right on schedule, the “day-four grumpies,” as you affectionately named it years ago. You're just missing the “forgive me, dove, I didn't mean to be rude, I love you,” that usually came right after he got snippy, and right before a slow, apologetic kiss.
Everything is different — now that he has no love left to give you.
Isn’t it what you wanted yesterday, though? For him to bite back and stop being so sweet and charming and… Bloody irresistible? Well, wish granted.
Why does it feel worse then?
No matter. It's better this way. You don't have to wonder. Or be confused by all that sexy sweetness from yesterday. There's also no need to feel guilty when you have to touch him. You're not affecting him at all, that's quite obvious now.
He doesn't care. You're the only one who does.
You swat at a stupid loose hair strand off your face, and get on scrubbing your cauldron.
— ☽ ☀︎ —
His mind fast-forwards out of past regrets back to now: standing naked and motionless under the spray of the spluttery, lukewarm shower; watching the mud and blood running down the copper tub drain near his feet.
If only his soul could be cleaned up this easily. If only he could wash away his sins, his punishing thoughts.
Fourteen months of no Wolfsbane. Fourteen months of brutal, full transformations that left him torn, fractured, nearly-dead, once again…
Fourteen cycles Moony got to run free — no muzzle. No collar. No lead. No sedative. And suddenly, he's getting potioned-up again.
No wonder the wolf is wrestling with the man. Moony is not happy.
And this morning… it won. Momentarily, it won. Over common sense. Over what's right.
It — he — latched onto your vulnerable body. Salivating for a piece of you he has no right to crave.
And now, Moony is even angrier — because it got a quick taste and then was denied.
He hasn't been denied flesh or sex in a while. Wild nights in Inverness, Edinburgh, Derry, Dublin. Horny muggle punk boys and goth girls searching for mysterious “baddies” and toe-curling quick shags in filthy pub bathrooms, or dark alleys by the bins. Enough drugs and alcohol to make it bearable. Rite of passage, the twenty-something lycanthropes kept telling him. Hazing the unknown wizard-wolfboy who went rogue. Necessary to prove himself worthy of their pack. Moony didn't disappoint, with mind-blowing libido and stamina. Also, new. Remus had only been with you, before all that madness.
The wolf is foaming at the muzzle now. Everything feels so much worse.
Because it's you.
Not a substitute body. Not a counterfeit climax.
You. The one. The only one.
Worst of all — Remus knows deep down that what Moony wants is exactly what he wants.
He wants you back. He wants you his. He wants you.
Suddenly, his body jolts under the spray with a frightening realisation:
What if... there were never two wolves wrestling inside him after all?
What if... this is the reason why he can't tell the difference of who is 'Moony' supposed to be: the monster, or himself?
He—it... It—him...
Quiet-shadow boy and loud-fiery wolf... what if they're nothing but two sides of the same galleon? He certainly was loud and fiery enough while fighting for his people back at the camps. Not just around the moon.
Maybe he's not a different man. Maybe he's just... fully awake now.
Remus could've dug down into the muck outside with his bare hands until he reached sea level. And still, his obsessive desires wouldn't become any less pervasive.
Because this is what he wants.
He wants you. Only you.
Godric… how he wants you.
He hastily turns off the shower and grabs the towel. He needs to lie down and turn his brain off, and hopefully forget this whole cursed morning ever happened.
♥️ 🐺 ♥️ 🐺 ♥️ 🐺 ♥️ 🐺 ♥️ 🐺 ♥️ 🐺 ♥️
|| NEXT CHAPTER ||
A/N: Sorry for the downer, friends. Necessary evil. Don't worry, it gets worse! “Afternoon delight” coming next, hahaha! 😭
I write Remus Lupin and poly!wolfstar x fem!reader content. At the moment I have no plans to expand to other ships. Let me know in the comments if you’d like to be added to this fic's taglist or my permanent Remus and poly!wolfstar Masterlist taglists. 🌙 🔆 ⭐️
