requests are open! avid writer, studying english language and art history, classic literature fan. writes for any characters. reader always assumed to be eighteen or over.
Hi! I just wanted to say your "The Thought of Her" lupin fic is, without exaggeration, one of my all time fav fics! Thank you for blessing us with it fr😭
As you entered, an old brown filing cabinet stood to your left — one which Mr Weasley had repaired and remastered ten or so years ago, when he was going through one of his restoration phases. Then, there was a fairly ghastly armchair with a once-pink-now-green hand-tampered cover, stacked upon which were what looked to be hundreds of unopened letters. The wooden beams on the ceiling had bowed over time, under the weight of stomping children and the ever-expanding house. Moving into the living room, a grand brick fireplace stood sooty and dusty, regularly used and rarely cleaned. The floo-powder pot sat patiently beneath it, green finger shadows around the edge where it had been moved and repotted.
In the kitchen, the floor tiles were even colder, and passing the Weasley family clock, was a rather incredible stove, capable of twelve pots at once — one of Mrs Weasley’s modifications, you thought to yourself. To the left of the hob, drawings upon drawings were tacked onto the wall panels; bright-green crayoned dragons, a clumsily drawn Pigwidgeon, nine fiery-haired stick people standing outside a blocky rendering of the house. Pots and pans of copper and silver were strewn around and strung up amongst assortments of herbs and crates of muddy potatoes, carrots, leeks — anything that could grow, did, in the garden you could see through the pantry door.
Mr Weasley’s shed, rounded and militant — an old Anderson shelter, repurposed to house muggle appliances and trinkets — sat close to the stone driveway that stretched for the two miles it took to get to the village. The wildflower lawn was dry and yellowing in late July, brown shield bugs, soldier beetles and common crickets thrived in the hazy, afternoon sun.
Guys it’s up to you how this story goes … it starts in the Burrow, then what? Who’s there with you? How are you spending the summer? :)
Pumpkin carving. Goes through three or four until he gets it quite right. An hour or two of drawing out designs on parchment paper until finally deciding on a very intricate haunted house.
Has put aside a set of books, specifically marked ‘NOT TO BE READ UNTIL OCTOBER’ — includes two Shirley Jacksons, Bradbury’s Something Wicked This Way Comes (from his boyhood), a collection of gothic stories by Elizabeth Gaskell, and, of course, Edgar Allen Poe’s The Tell-Tale Heart.
Goes just a bit funny when first- and second-years dress up as Werewolves.
Decorates the classroom with tacky enchanted fake spiders that dangle from and scramble across the desks of unsuspecting rowdy students.
Tiny pumpkins arranged nicely on his desk, all secretly given their own names and personalities.
Joins Hagrid on a jaunt down to the Hog’s Head, where all drinks are half price on the 30th. Several Pumpkin ciders in, Hagrid had cried talking about a baby Bowtruckle he’d sworn he accidentally flushed down a toilet once in Thailand.
Receives a trickle of Happy Halloween cards from the more studious of his class bunch, and tucks them in his drawer for safe keeping — along with the birthday cards, Easter cards, and last year’s Christmas cards. And a drawing Neville had done of a Mimbletonia.
On Halloween, Lupin manages a trip to Zonko’s to purchase some fake fangs. And, with a wave of his wand, is able to turn the inside of his cloak red, and with a dab of black powder, Nosferatu was born.
Proudly strides into the Great Hall, only to find it was only the students who had bothered dressing up — and only the younger ones at that. Flitwick had given him a pat on the back and a slightly condescending smile as he sat down, took his fangs out and tucked into the roasted pumpkin.
Made sure to thank the elves for the meal afterwards — as always — and though they eyed him surreptitiously for his costume, were grateful nonetheless for the gesture.
Spends the remainder of the night in full pyjamas, by candlelight, hunched over The Tell-Tale Heart, bare feet sticking out of the end of the covers, slamming the book shut every time he hears so much as a floorboard creak.
Keeps the Halloween decorations up for far too long.
okay okay would you consider doing a short fic where professor lupin is head over heels for the reader and so is harry, causing lupin to get angry and make a move on the reader?
also i love u & ur work i hope your thriving at uni
the quidditch match
professor lupin / reader
summary: the request, with some slight changes.
———
How I despised being an observer. My prophetic soul.
Saturday lunchtime marked the first game between Gryffindor and Slytherin that term, and the corridors were buzzing with talk of little else. First-years — some of which had never seen a Qudditch match in their lives — raced down the hallway, chanting and laughing, whilst grumbling fourth- and fifth-years pushed past.
Naturally, tensions were higher in the classroom. A third-year Slytherin had accidentally jinxed one of the Gryffindor boys, who subsequently grew yards and yards of putrid-green hair, and had to be taken to Madam Pomfrey. On Thursday, someone had drawn a rather cruel illustration of Professor Snape being beaten over the head by the Gryffindor Quidditch team, which I pocketed with a smirk.
It was Saturday morning now, and, dismal as I felt, the sky was clear and the air warm. I had only my usual robes to wear, not even a house scarf or pin could I find to display my support. I turned to the door of my chamber, staring blankly for a moment.
She was going to be there.
She didn’t miss the Quidditch matches. I saw her every time, always at the front of the stands, ducking beneath Hagrid’s swooping arms, waving her flag madly and grinning. I often had to sit in the teacher’s box, behind the always-reliable announcer, wincing at the volume of the microphone.
I opened the door, closed and locked it, stuffing my hands into my pockets miserably and making for the Hall. I assumed breakfast was still ongoing, from my window I had seen the grounds were fairly empty. And I was right; I could hear from the stairs the chatter in the Hall, the crockery and cutlery being stacked and scraped. I saw her almost immediately, sitting amongst the Gryffindor team. She was beaming.
What was so tremendously funny?
I felt bold.
‘Morning boys,’ I said loudly, and they looked up.
‘Morning, sir,’ they chimed, but she stayed quiet, still sitting happily, between Harry and one of the twins.
‘Nervous?’ I asked.
‘Never,’ a tall, spotted fourth year chirped.
‘I trust you’ll win us this first game, yes?’
They cheered, and I forced a smile, Minerva catching my eye from the staff table. I patted Harry on the shoulder chummily, then wandered over to the head table.
‘Professor Lupin,’ Minerva chirped excitedly, ‘Good morning to you.’
‘Good morning, Minerva. Wonderful pin, I must say.’
On her robe, a tiny, bottle cap-sized pin, which flashed between a roaring lion and the letter ‘G’ in gold and red type.
‘E — oh, thank you, thank you,’ she said, flustered, too excited to remain composed. ‘Now, would you do me a favour this morning; I’m escorting all fourth-years and below down to the pitch, would you mind terribly doing the same with five- and above?’
Five and above, I thought, glancing back to the table, where she was still smiling between the Weasley boys and Harry.
‘I shouldn’t see why not.’
‘You’re a star,’ she breathed, letting out a sharp laugh and fastening her hat. ‘A star.’
If I was a star, I thought, I wouldn’t be thinking about shagging a student.
On the Quidditch pitch, twenty minutes later, the crowd was a-buzz. I tried to headcount several times, but ended up losing my numbers as the seemingly endless ocean of heads craned and swayed.
‘Where are they? Can you see them yet? I heard Potter’s got a girlfriend.’
Two of the second years, both clad in lion tees and huge paw gloves.
‘Potter’s got a girlfriend? Who?’
I furrowed my brow.
‘Apparently that one from his year — you know, hangs around him a lot? Always chatting in the lunch hall?’
The other was silent.
‘You know! She’s got — hair.’
‘Oh, thanks, that really narrows it down,’
‘Pretty? Bit clumsy. Received that howler last year, something about an upset owl flying loose in the Ministry.’
Oh god, I thought, that is her.
‘Doesn’t do well to gossip, boys,’ I said, leaning in between their heads, and they jumped.
‘Sorry, Professor, just chatting.’
Incredibly, I found myself wanting to ask whether it was true, whether they had any proof.
But just as I was stopping myself, an enormous cheer erupted from the crowd, fingers pointing toward the pitch, and, as I squinted, I saw seven red figures breeze out onto the grass, far too coolly for my liking. They mounted their brooms, and looked up when the cheers turned to boos, the Slytherins had walked out too. They were speaking, far too distant to hear anything, but from the glares and sneering looks, I gathered it wouldn’t be anything too friendly.
‘Professor?’
The Slytherins were on their brooms now too, Madam Hooch had stridden to the centre of the pitch with her whistle. She put her wand to her neck.
‘Good morning, everyone!’
‘Professor?’
‘Welcome back, welcome back. I hope you have all had a productive and exciting start to your summer term. Playing for Gryffindor today — ’
There was another enormous applause and cheer.
‘Potter, Weasley, Weasley, Bell, Spinnet … ’
‘Professor Lupin?’
‘Yes?’ I snapped impatiently, whipping around.
It was her.
‘Playing for Slytherin today,’ boos, ‘Malfoy, Flint … ’
‘Goodness, I’m sorry — I had in mind you might’ve been a first year, or something — ’
On her cheeks, two red streaks of face paint. She frowned.
‘Have you heard — ’
More applause.
‘Sorry, I can’t hear you,’ I shouted.
‘I said, have you — ’
Whoops and jeers.
‘No, it’s no good!’
‘Have you — ’
‘Come with me,’ I said, not sure if she’d even heard, so gently took her arm. I manoeuvred through the crowd, careful not to step on any toes, moving quickly but cautiously. I checked back, she was still following me.
‘Bit busy,’ she laughed breathlessly, as we reached the corner tent. I was acutely aware of the teacher’s box directly above us, the wooden floorboards showing glimpses of shoes. She followed my gaze. ‘It’s fine, I don’t mind if they hear.’
I felt my face heat up, before realising I’d taken it the wrong way.
‘What’s bothering you? And subsequently me?’ I chuckled gently. She pursed her lips guiltily.
‘I’ve heard people talking.’
‘Ah.’
‘Have you?’
‘Well — now — ’
‘It’s just so embarrassing, I can’t believe it.’
The chanting of Harry’s name outside seemed almost surreal, like some sort of nightmare theatre production. I almost wanted to cover her ears.
‘It’s a delicate subject, I don’t want to involve myself too much, but — ’
‘Well, you are involved, can’t help that, I just don’t know where people are getting it from. Maybe I’m too giggly. Maybe I really am just — I don’t know, sometimes I can’t tell if I’m flirting or just having a normal conversation.’
I’m involved? What did that mean?
‘Er — yes, well — ’
‘I have no idea how it looks from the outside, I don’t know why I assume people don’t even theorise or conspire.’
Involved how? How was this anything to do with me?
‘Er — calm down,’ I tried as she began to pace frantically.
‘I’m going to get expelled.’ She said.
I furrowed my brow.
‘I can assure you, it isn’t that serious. In fact, it’s not serious at all. It’s only a rumour. There’s nothing illegal about it.’
‘Of course it’s illegal!’
She looked at me, puzzled, as I tried to think of something, anything to say.
‘It’s only Harry, yes, maybe he has some — things attached to his name, but for goodness sakes, you don’t need to get so upset,’ I said, trying to sound comforting, but very bewildered by her reaction.
There was a pause.
‘What are you talking about?’ She asked.
I narrowed my eyes.
‘What are you talking about?’ I said back.
‘The rumour?’
‘Yes?’
‘That I fancy you?’
I stopped.
‘Me?’
‘Yes!’ She said, then looked embarrassed, her outburst likely replaying through her head.
‘I don’t — ’
‘It’s been going around the school. I can’t believe you haven’t heard,’ she was bright pink, almost teary now. ‘Anyway, good you know.’
She swallowed, and darted back out of the tent, in amongst the crowd again, and I stood, mouth slightly open.
Sometimes I think I could tell her. Maybe when we’re watching TV, and she’s sprawled out on the opposite couch, hardly listening to the crappy Channel 5 movie she flicked on. Maybe when we’re out driving, tearing down to my Auntie’s house or going to pick my brother up in the rumbly black VW Golf, both of us quiet while we bob our heads to whatever’s on the radio. Or maybe when she’s cooking, and I’m sat in the armchair with my back to her, bent over the crossword, brow furrowed.
Then I wonder what that would achieve.
I pick at my lip with my teeth. She tells me to stop, it’s a bad habit. Sometimes I strive to retort, but I don’t today.
Instead, I wait until she turns back to the telly, and continue biting. I think it’s a nervous thing. Sometimes I’ll swipe my tongue along my lip to hide the cracks, a futile effort in the long run, but alright for a quick fix. It’s a horrible metallic taste, and it makes me feel unclean.
I used to have a friend at school called Ricardo Joyce who would bite his nails, and I remember one day he came in with a varnish over them that tasted like plasters so that he’d stop chewing at them. I wondered what he was doing now.
I open Facebook.
Ricardo Joyce has 51 friends, 3 mutual. His photos are ordinary; several of the same black Labrador with it’s tongue lulled out, a sunset or two, and a birthday balloon in the shape of the number 20.
I wonder if he ever thought about me, or if he remembered me at all.
I close Facebook.
And I think about telling her.
———
(idea i’m thinking of taking forward … would be pleased to hear thoughts. not Harry Potter related, but will be returning to Remus soon)
Hii! I just know if I request this you'll make it so good, so I've been thinking. Reader watching Remus shave. Idk I just think like bc um shaving is kinda hot and like reader being kinda memorized watching him. JUST THE FOCUS MEN PUT WHEN THEY SHAVE UGHHSHH. Doesn't need to be long tbh just make it fluffy and shit. I need it rn.
shaving
remus lupin (older) / reader
summary: you and Lupin are getting ready for a trip into London, and Lupin fancies a change. all fluff, not super long !
———
‘Toaster,’ you called, flinching as it popped. You turned your head to the door at the silence. ‘Lupes?’
Today was it — in a matter of hours you’d be catching the train to St Pancreas, then the tube to Leadenhall, before a brisk walk past any prying eyes into the Leaky Cauldron, where — hopefully on time — you’d be meeting Dedalus Diggle. A withered owl had last week delivered a letter detailing his desire to speak to Lupin, and it was only fitting you attended also. It was Order business, after all.
‘Remus your toast,’ you urged, ejecting it and putting it onto a plate yourself.
‘I can’t hear you,’ he shouted, the tap running too.
‘Come here then,’ you said quietly to yourself, rolling your eyes as you carried the plate through. ‘Toast, good sir.’
You mocked a butler pose, holding the plate up on the tips of your fingers, before setting it down and bowing. He chuckled.
‘Fine job, fine job.’
You perched on the edge of the bath. Remus’ jaw was half-lathered in shaving cream, blueish white drops settled at the base of the sink where he’d been careless. The razor, a gift from Sirius on account of his being ‘far too messy, like an old hag’, was a classic sort, a 1950’s style silver blade with an engraved handle, R.J.L. It was steady between his fingers and thumb.
‘Go on then, mouse, you’ve got something to say,’ he observed, not having to look at you.
He pushed his mouth to the side, pulling the blade carefully down his cheek, tapping it against the sink, and going again.
‘Nah,’ you smiled. ‘Doesn’t matter. What train are we getting?’
‘I thought,’ he began, lifting his head up so that he was able to get to his neck. You caught yourself mimicking him slightly, and forced your head down with a blush. ‘We should catch the half-past eleven if we want to be really on the ball. Are you nervous about the train?’
He raised an eyebrow, eyes flitting to yours in the mirror.
‘No. I like the train. Especially going into London.’
He smoothed his thumb over a spot of the shaving cream, his mouth slightly parted and his tongue quickly gliding across his bottom lip. You bit the inside of your cheek so as to keep yourself composed.
‘So what are you nervous about?’ He asked.
‘Who said I was nervous at all?’
You saw him smirk, then jut out his chin to catch a few remaining patches of stubble. His hand and wrist flexed as he worked around his mouth, cautious not to nick himself.
‘Nobody, nobody.’
It was quiet again until he ran the tap, rinsing the razor. He reached for a flannel, and pressed it to his chin. You swallowed. You almost didn’t want to say anything, it’d give him the satisfaction knowing he was right.
‘I am a bit nervous about Dedalus.’
‘Ah,’ he said knowingly. ‘Go on.’
‘He thinks I’m too young for you.’
‘He doesn’t.’
‘He thinks I don’t know enough about politics.’
‘You do.’
‘He thinks I don’t deserve to be in the Order.’
‘Come on now.’
‘He does,’ you frowned. Remus looked at you sternly. He dried his face, then crouched in front of you. He steadied both his hands on your knees, and sighed, eyes searching your face.
‘Come on, Mouse,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll be there. Dedalus Diggle could think you’re a little disguised Goblin, but that doesn’t make it true, does it?’
You giggled.
‘What if I was?’
‘Sweetheart. You deserve to be in the Order. You’re as intelligent, if not more, than everyone there.’
He reached his hand up to brush the hair from your face, and began to straighten out the collar of your shirt.
‘No, I mean what if I was a little disguised Goblin?’
He paused.
‘Oh,’
‘Would you love me?’
‘Well — ’
‘Why are you hesitating?’ You pressed.
‘Darling, you’re — ’
‘Just say yes.’
He sighed defeatedly.
‘Yes. I would love you even if you were a little disguised Goblin. I’d build you a little Goblin palace and bring you all sorts of treasures. We’d have a Goblin party and invite all your Goblin friends. Happy?’
‘So happy. I’ve been waiting to tell you that for a while.’
‘Are you glad it’s off your chest?’
‘Yes,’ you breathed in fake relief. You both smiled at each other, then he stood. He was silly in his pyjamas, you always thought so.
‘You still haven’t mentioned — ’
He struck a pose, turning his head to the side, tilting it upwards, gesturing to his newly shaven face. He raised his eyebrows expectantly.
‘Oh, Remus! Very handsome, yes. I love it.’
‘Does it make me look younger?’ He smiled.
‘Unfortunately no.’
‘You can go and reheat my toast for that. Do it with your wand. You can show me just how much homework you’ve been doing this break. If it’s any less than perfect I shall not be hosting any Goblin parties.’
A/N: little bit of fluff :) hope it wasn’t massively underwhelming … thank you for the sweet request.
