Remus Lupin x fem!reader, Marauder's Era, Post Hogwarts (1978-1979)
PROLOGUE P 1 P 2 P 3 P 4 P 5 P6 P 7 P 8 EPILOGUE
SUMMARY: October – following the footsteps of wonderful-turned-dreadful September – will be remembered as the ‘Trouble in Paradise’ month. Sometimes things just have to break completely apart before we can mend them, right?
Brace yourself for more dumb decisions. More life-lessons that will be forcibly learned, through major f–ups and self-inflicted pain, literally. I'm looking at you, Remus. My lovely idiot.
Oh, and look for ‘Flirty-Robbie’ to strike in surprising new ways! I can't help but love him, rivalry and all.
TAGS: Marauders Era AU. Slow burn. Best friends to lovers. DUMB!flatmates with feelings. Canon divergence (no war, no deaths). Soulmate vibes.
WARNINGS: SMUT (18+). THIS WILL PROBABLY BE THE MOST HATED CHAPTER IN THIS FIC. OR MAYBE NOT??? Angst. A sprinkle of fluff so we breathe a bit before the painful parts. Tipsy snogging (light dubious-consent vibes). My own version of ‘Soul-Magic Theory’ for this particular story. DISCLAIMER: I’m not claiming I invented this particular interpretation of Soul-Magic; I’m just saying I thought about it without researching or (consciously) copying from anyone else. Still, I’m sure others have interpreted it similarly. Hopefully it makes sense for you guys as it does in my head.
♥️🐺♥️🐺♥️🐺♥️🐺♥️🐺♥️🐺♥️🐺♥️🐺♥️🐺♥️
Being born with magic inside is a wonderful, peculiar thing.
There’s an element — a biological, mythological, metaphysical, alchemical, inexorable element that’s engraved into a magical person’s very DNA; it runs in their veins like blood. It fires like synapses in the brain. It hums and vibrates and manifests itself in every cell, under (and even over) the skin.
It connects the mind, the heart, the soul, and the body, infusing every function with its wondrous and inexplicable endowments.
It has a will of its own, in the sense that it’s unavoidable, impossible to turn off.
It is nearly impossible to accurately explain magic to someone who doesn’t have it. It is immensely hard to understand, even if you do have it.
Even Albus Dumbledore — one of the wisest and most well-spoken wizards in history, sometimes can only shrug and say: “It’s… magic.”
Magic is a great gift. Undoubtedly so.
There’s not a single witch or wizard that ever wished they hadn’t been born with it.
In counterpoint, hundreds of thousands of muggle and squib relatives — through history and the world’s vast wizarding geography — have wished they were born different. That they were gifted with magic too.
There are very few things in life more painful than seeing a brother, a sister, or a parent wave their wands around miraculously, tell stories of the great castle in Scotland they once attended or still do, flying around brooms and maybe even hippogriffs… while having to turn around and go live a very ordinary muggle life instead.
It’s… magic. Nothing else like it.
It’s a great, astonishing, incomparable gift.
Even with the varying levels of skill and giftedness — some are just better at it than others, just like any other human faculty — it is still something to be grateful for, never taken for granted, and aspired to be developed to the best of one’s potential.
Some people can be especially skilled in mastering charms, for instance. Others can break down the elements of spell creation and devise new ones. Some excel at combat and defensive magic, like magical ninjas. Transfiguration has challenges and mysteries of its own, and some witches and wizards take to it like the giant squid to water.
Extreme giftedness is also a thing among witches and wizards — some people just seem to be ridiculously impressive at all of it. True savants. Superior magical minds.
And then… There’s soul-magic.
Magic that is especially strong between soul connections.
It doesn’t occur to everybody.
It doesn’t even occur with the same intensity for those who do have it.
But some people… some people are lucky enough to be bound together by it. And once they find each other, their magic works in tandem — a force of love, of joy, of friendship, of partnership… and of world-altering chemistry.
As it turns out, Remus Lupin doesn’t really understand soul-bond magic — despite being one of the chosen few, blessed (or cursed) with the strongest strain of it in existence.
He's got brother-soul magic with James and Sirius.
Big-sister-soul undeniable chemistry with Lily.
And then… the purest, fiercest, most universe-shattering, star-crossed, true-mate soulmate-bond — with you.
He just doesn't see it, past his murky filters. Not yet. Not clearly.
There’s still too much self-rejection in him, which interferes with the notion that he could possibly be destined for something so ridiculously wonderful like… being loved by the one he loves.
If he did understand it, he’d realise this isn’t just some pathetic case of unrequited love. It’s not just a body brimming with magic and aching with want.
He’d consider that maybe — just maybe — the same thing could be happening to you.
That there’s a reason you’ve always fit, from that very first glance at King’s Cross in 1971.
And if he could put two and two together in his stubborn, usually brilliant mind…
Maybe he’d let himself believe.
Maybe he’d pay attention.
Maybe he’d take the bloody chance.
Instead of putting himself through the pain he is right now.
The moment he entered Emily’s flat, the air felt like ice in his lungs. But he still went in.
The moment his tongue entered her mouth, everything tasted bitter. But he kept kissing.
And the moment he entered her, it felt like a curse entered his body.
Like his own magic working against him. Hurting him. Rebelling. Lashing out.
Like the moon. Like Moony.
Except, it felt worse than that, even. Somehow.
Because this pain is… not physical, and therefore, not quantifiable.
It's a different kind of pain, soul-pain. There’s no spell, no potion, no bandage for it.
Somehow, Remus found something even worse than turning into a werewolf every month.
Still, he kept his eyes closed, gritting teeth, hips moving, pumping into her.
He just needed to forget. Needed to feel something other than that pain. That soul-crushing pain he’s been feeling every time he thinks of you. With Emery. Under Emery. Like Emily is under him now.
So he kept fucking her through the nausea, trying to cling to the faint, mechanical pleasure in his cock.
Except — it doesn’t work. Not really.
It feels too wrong to feel good.
Remus never once before wished he wasn’t born with magic.
Not when he was brutally attacked by Greyback.
Not on that first excruciating moon in 1965, when he cried his little eyes out, all alone in a dark cellar, screaming in terror and pain until his cries turned into a wolf cub’s howls.
Not during any of the one hundred and sixty-eight moons since then.
Not when Snape almost died at his hands in the Shack tunnel, and he thought he was going to lose everything.
But right now, he wished it for the first time.
He wished he didn’t have magic in him.
Or at least, wished he could turn it off, so he could feel like a normal, muggle bloke.
A normal, muggle bloke who could go on and kiss and fuck anyone he wants, and feel good about it. During it.
Instead of whatever this dark magic fuckery is: forcing him to close his eyes and think and visualise and focus on you, you, youyouyouyouyou…
…if he hopes to finish what he’s started, without being finished off.
His cock still works as it should. He has a pretty good idea how to use it well. He’s not an experienced lover at all, but his instincts carry him as they do for everything else, and he performs well, like everything he puts his mind to.
The blonde writhing mess currently under him in prone position is certainly not complaining, by the looks and sounds of it.
But everything feels wrong. Soured. Punishing. Wrong. Wrong. WRONG.
The sounds she makes should spur him on. They don’t.
Maybe not physically speaking — sex is sex and it feels good enough as he works through to the end.
But in his soul? His magic? Something’s gone awry.
He can’t describe it, or compare it properly to anything.
Maybe it's like being in the presence of Dementors? Or being forced to do something unspeakable under an Imperius Curse, except he is aware of it but can’t escape its consequences?
He feels shame. Loneliness. Abandonment. Gloom. Guilt. Loathing — both for himself and for the poor, innocent girl he’s fucking. Using. Taking.
Shame. Shame. Shame. Shame. Shame.
Shameshameshameshameshame...
Youyouyouyouyouyouyouyouyouyou…
y/n y/n y/n y/n y/n y/n y/n y/n y/n y/n y/n y/n…
“Oh! Remsy! Remsy! Rems—“
Emily's voice starts morphing, transforming like on polyjuice. Turning into your voice.
“Yes! Don't stop! Please don't stop!”
He has to bite his tongue so the name he's screaming stays inside his head only.
Y/NY/NY/NY/NY/NY/NY/NY/NY/N!!!!!!
The mattress shifts and bounces beneath his knees like he imagines it did that bloody Thursday night with you and Emery… the sound of your breathless laugh spilling over the same rhythm.
He blinks and it’s your hair splayed over the pillow, your heat squished under him. Your hips he's groping with bruising force.
“Fuck! You’re amazing! Don’t stop—“
SUNSHINESUNSHINESUNSHINESUN—
Except, the whole thing morphs again. And suddenly, your voice is not moaning for him.
OH ROBBIE! OH ROBBIE! OHROBBIE! OHROBBIE!OHROBBIE!OHROBBIE!OHROBBIE!
“FFFFFFFFUUUUUUUCCCCCCKKKKK!!!!!!”
He comes with the sharp, copper bite of blood flooding his mouth; Moony-ferocity behind the way his teeth clamp down on his own tongue to stop your name from tearing out of him. The muscle throbs hot and metallic against his jaw, the taste coating his teeth and sinking into the back of his throat. Still, your name ricochets through his skull like a curse he’ll never be rid of.
Remus remembers very little hours later, when it’s finally over.
He lays there on the cold, foreign-feeling bed. Looking up at the ceiling, unable to sleep.
Emily snores softly on the other side. Sated. Facing away from him (thank Merlin).
And he’s trying not to run. Sneaking out and running would not be nice. He needs to be nice. Try to compensate for the unspeakable thing he’s done.
Get through the night. Get through the morning. Get through the day.
Shower. In scalding hot water — to wash away his sins.
“So, you and Emily, then. You're… an item now.”
“Something like that, I guess.”
He can’t look you in the eyes. Or he will cry. Scream. Do something stupid like confess everything.
So he needs that long, scalding shower. To scrub off the last twenty-four hours.
But Remus can’t escape it. The feeling that clings to his skin — the sticky wetness from Emily's body, the emptiness of her kisses, the wrongness that still digs under his ribs.
He twists the shower knobs harder, cranking the water to unbearably scalding. But it doesn’t matter. No matter how hot the water is, it can’t burn away the guilt. The shame. The curse of his own magic that accuses. Judges. Condemns. Punishes.
He charms away the neck bites in front of the foggy mirror. No more evidence. He wants to forget the feel of her lips on him.
How can he feel violated when he was the one who sought it out?
He finally throws his sorry excuse of a body onto his bed, praying he’ll actually be able to sleep tonight. To forget. To turn this whole thing off for a few hours.
The sheets and duvet feel soft and familiar (heavenly compared to Emily’s), but his own skin feels wrong, and he can’t escape that.
Not even scalding water or perfect bedding picked by you can erase the wrongness in his body.
He should be relieved to be back here, in his own bed; but instead, his body feels like a stranger's. He can’t shake the gnawing feelings plaguing him.
He closes his eyes, wishing for sleep to erase the bitter taste of regret lodged in the back of his throat. And after an hour, he finally falls asleep — exhausted. Defeated. Wrong.
3 October – 8 October, 1978
Unfortunately, Remus opened a whole new can of worms when he chose to go to Emily that night.
And he is simply not strong enough or mature enough to get out of it fast enough.
Not when he has to see her at least three of four times a week, at the library.
Not when he gave her his number, and the rotary phone rings every night he's not over at her place now. And she talks, and talks, and talks… and probes him every way she can, and keeps worming herself into his life every chance she gets.
And somehow, some (ir)rationalising part of his brain still thinks that he can make it work.
Emily Barrett knows that Remus Lupin is not hers. Not yet. They are not a couple. As far as he’s concerned, they’re just “having fun” and “getting to know each other” right now. They haven’t had a conversation about feelings, the state of their relationship, or a future. And he’s been really good at skirting anything close to that.
She knows she needs to be patient and extra tactful, for now. Not that she’s not always, she knows she’s an angel and a fucking catch. But Remus is shy and reserved, calculated and indecisive, obviously he’s the one with an issue here.
So she needs to just continue charming him with her delightful company. She’s confident she has what it takes to make him fall irrevocably in love with her, eventually. Who wouldn't want her?
Esther Meddley is delighted to see her great-niece clinging to him so freely now, touching and kissing him at every opportunity. The head-librarian sheds a tear when she catches them leaving hand-in-hand at the end of the day.
Her matchmaking seems to have been a success.
And if anyone can fix the beautiful but too-troublesome-for-her-own-good-just-like-her-mother, is a sweet and caring young man like Hope’s boy.
Except that Esther doesn’t see the dead look in Remus’s eyes, disguised as little smirks, insincere pleasantries, and unfeeling touches.
On Wednesday, Remus comes home around eight in the evening. This was a St. Ailbe’s teaching day, so he joined a few teachers for their “after-school special” at a nearby pub. They’d been asking him for ages, and since he needed a reason to stay away from it all, he finally accepted.
It was a pleasant night, and he found himself unexpectedly relaxed around them. It even rekindled the little flame in his mind about maybe pursuing higher education to become a full-time teacher.
As Remus walks into the flat, he’s in a better mood than he's been the last couple weeks.
You’re sitting on the kitchen island with one foot up the next high stool, eating a pathetic dinner of a cheese–cherry tomato–oregano grilled sandwich, with a sour pickle on the side, and a glass of cold milk. You don't mind; it tastes good enough and will get you through to tomorrow.
Remus takes a moment to gaze at your Oxford-blue oversized jumper and light-grey sleep shorts, with those ridiculously cute navy-blue fuzzy socks that sparkle with charmed stars, the ones he gave you last Christmas. He can’t help but admire your elevated bare leg as he approaches the kitchen.
Your eyes are glued to your pharmacology textbook. You don’t even notice when your flatmate comes in.
When you finally see him, you don’t fully smile, but your lips upturn a bit, and your eyes soften.
“Hey.” Your voice is soft and relaxed as well.
“Hey. How are you today?”
“I'm alright. Tired. I only got in half an hour ago. You?”
“Yeah, tired too. School day. It was good. The teachers invited me to their pub night.”
“That's so great. Are they all nice and fun?”
“Yes, I had a great time. They fully accept me as one of their own I think.”
There’s a short moment that feels longer of you two looking at each other, before you say:
“You look happy. You should do it again.”
You give him a small smile.
“Oh, um… Emily called, looking for you.”
“She sounded… not happy. You should probably ring her back.”
“Right. I guess I will. Thanks.”
He makes no move towards the phone. Or away from you.
“Yeah. Made it myself. Kitchen survived and everything.”
Remus lets out a breathy chuckle. It's been so long since you two joked together. Or talked without bickering. Or talked at all.
“Here, have a bite. Be brutally honest.”
He brings your hand close to his mouth and takes a nibble.
“It’s… not bad. For a toasted sandwich. I mean, it’s not gourmet cooking.”
You laugh and scoff. “Shut up. Not everyone can be a wiz in the kitchen like you, nerdy boy.”
Remus lets out the first carefree laugh in what feels like forever.
“You did say brutally honest.”
“You’re right, I did say that.” You laugh with him and it feels like a kiss.
“I'm sorry I haven't… been cooking these last few days. What else would you like? I’ll make it for you.”
Your smile is coloured with a subtle hue of sadness. “I’m fine, Remus. I don’t need anything else.”
“You sure?” He feels terrible, like he's letting you down.
“Yeah. I'm good. Go make your call.”
Remus trudges slowly toward the phone that sits on a little desk between the sitting and the dining rooms.
You sigh and think to yourself: Well done for the first attempt at reconnecting. Well done for not telling him how bitchy his girlfriend was to you on the phone.
You don't want to get in their way. You don't want to fight anymore. And you definitely don’t want silent treatments.
You just want your best friend back. Whatever you can get from him, you desperately want it.
You take your plate and glass to the sink, quietly washing and drying it by hand. Putting everything back in the cupboards and drawers. Cleaning the counter and island with a wave of your wand, and finishing the surfaces with a lemony-scented spray. As quietly as possible, not to disturb Remus's phone call. Not that he's talking much.
(...) “Yeah, like I said, I had a long and busy day, so—”
(...) “Well, some of the teachers have been asking me to go to their pub night for ages, so I went, and—“
(...) “What’s wrong with that? They’re my colleagues. I don’t want to come across as standoffish, so I decided to finally go.”
(...) “Yes. Male and female teachers, why?”
(...) (...) “But I didn't—”
(...) (...) “I didn’t mean to make you feel neglected. I'm sorry.”
(...) (...) (rubs his face) “I'm sorry. I understand.”
(...) “Yeah. I'll be there tomorrow.”
(...) “Don't know? The usual? Around half-nine?”
(...) “Well, Esther said I don't have to open it in the morning, so…”
(...) “Alright, I'll try and be there by quarter-to. Listen, I need to—”
(...) “Yeah. Sure. Tell me.”
(...) (...) (...) “Oh, really?”
(...) (...) (...) (...) (...) (...) “Yeah, no, that's funny.”
(...) (...) (...) (...) (...) (...) (...) (...) (...) (...) (...) (...) (yawns away from receiver)
(...) (...) (...) (...) (...) (...) “That's… Nice. Hey, I'm sorry, I really need to—”
(...) (...) (...) “Hm. Interesting.”
(...) (...) “You can bring them tomorrow. I'm sure I'll like it. Hey, I really need to go, talk to you in the morning?”
(...) “No, you're not boring me. I just really need to do some stuff around the flat tonight and I'm getting sleepy and a bit achey.”
(...) “‘'S not like that, Em. I like to take care of it. It's my contribution, the least—“
(...) “Dunno? Studying, I guess? Why?”
(...) “Don't say that. Please. She’s a nice— She helps loads.”
(...) “I'm not. It's not that. I'm just—”
(...) “I promise it's not that. Look, we can talk more tomorrow, alright? I'm looking forward to those chocolate biscuits. Have a good night.”
(...) “Sweet dreams to you too.”
Remus closes his eyes. Cracks his neck. And gives the longest sigh of the day.
“Everything alright, Rem?”
You approach him tentatively. Don’t get involved. Don’t get involved. Don’t get involved.
"Huh? Oh, yeah. I'm alright.”
“I'm turning in, I still have about one-hundred pages of reading to do before tomorrow. I'm doing it in bed just in case I conk out.”
“Sounds like a good plan. Good night, dovey.”
You stop at the return of the pet name. The sorely-missed softness in his eyes and voice.
And you can't help yourself when you hug him, burrowing your nose into his neck, while he's still seated at the stool by the phone.
He feels so warm. So soft. He smells like him. He feels so good against you.
Remus lets out an even longer sigh. And squeezes your waist as close as possible to him.
You two hold each other like this for about a minute.
Then you let go. Ruffle his soft fringe playfully, and give him a sweet, genuine smile.
“Good night, Rem. Don't work too hard, you need rest too.”
The way you responded to him upon learning about ‘teacher pub night’ was so diametrically opposed to Emily. No jealousy. No insecurities. No accusations. Only encouragement and genuine interest. Remus can’t help but compare.
And holding you like that… He wishes he never had to let go. There’s a fluttering feeling all over him from your touch, and he relishes in it. He missed it. Missed you.
As for you… The way he spoke to you was completely different from the way he just spoke on the phone. Relaxed. Present. You can’t help but compare.
You are immensely relieved. Glad he's still your Remus.
You go to your room with a fluttering feeling all over, and hope renewed.
You two will be alright, no matter what happens.
Thursday is a Library shift day. Emily day.
She is waiting for him by the front desk promptly at eight-fifty. With a plate of chocolate biscuits. And a frown.
“You're late. You promised me you would get here earlier so we can have more time together.” She whines with a pout.
“I'm only five minutes late. Hey, are those—” He points at the plate in her hands, hoping the redirecting is enough to appease her. It works. She smiles widely.
“Yeah. Made them last night like I said I would. Since you're a chocoholic, looks like.”
“Guilty as charged. Can I…?”
“Yeah. Tuck in, they're for you after all.”
“No. Not a fan of chocolate. Gotta watch the waistline, you know. I’m sure my aunty will finish whatever you leave if you do leave any. No wonder she's such a fatty.”
She giggles like what she said was hilarious and not grossly offensive at all.
Remus stuffs a whole biscuit in his mouth so he doesn't have to respond.
The biscuit is… Not terrible. Just not very appetising. Something's missing. Almost as if she didn't taste the batter while making it. He will definitely not finish this plate.
He knows he’ll be persuaded to go to hers for dinner. And she’ll probably not leave him alone until he agrees to spend the night, again. So he spends the day mentally preparing to say yes to the first one, but not the second.
“Thanks for dinner, Em.” He finishes washing the last plate, and placing it on the drying rack.
“You helped make it. Well, I helped you, actually. You’re such a good cook, Remsy.”
“Thank you. It’s getting late. I should go. I’m knackered.”
“What? Why? I thought you were staying over. I want you to stay over.”
She touches his bottom, as seductively as she can.
“I’ll come over tomorrow, yeah? That way we have more time, and we don’t have to get up early on Saturday. Deal?”
“Why can’t you just stay over tonight and tomorrow?”
“I really can’t. I’ve got some stuff to do at home so I’m free over the weekend. All right?”
“No. Not all right. But I’ll allow it. After you snog me and at least feel me up for fifteen minutes.”
“All right. Come here,” he says with a sigh and a forced smile.
After the fifteen minutes are up, Remus attempts to leave again. Emily turns sour in a blink, her voice cutting sharper than the kitchen knives they cleaned earlier.
“Ah, I see. Off home to ring Miss Keller, are we?” She folds her arms, a mocking smile plastered on. “Your little teacher friend. She’s single, isn’t she? You light up every time you mention her.”
Remus stiffens. “That’s not—”
“Don’t bother denying it. Bet you can’t wait for your next pub night with her. Is that why you never come here after school days? Because she’s more fun?” The mockery curdles into paranoia, her voice pitching higher.
“I’m exhausted, Emily. I just want to—”
“Exhausted of me, you mean!” she snaps, then in the very next breath, her face crumples. Tears spring up as if on cue. “You’re using me, Remus. Stringing me along, making me feel like I’m not enough for you. Like I’m just some… convenience.”
“No, what’s not fair is how much I care about you, and you treat me like an afterthought. Like I’m invisible unless you’re… bored or lonely.”
He doesn't have a response. Because it's exactly what he's doing to her, isn't it?
By the time she collapses against his chest in sobs, he’s too wrung out to resist. He murmurs apologies he doesn’t quite believe, strokes her hair with remorseful tenderness, and finally, finally takes her to bed and does whatever she wants him to, just to make it stop.
He's finally able to leave after a lot of coaxing and more tears.
St. Ailbe's School calls Remus in for the day on Friday morning. Two teachers have rung in sick and they need him. Thank Merlin! He’s relieved, it's the excuse he needed.
He rings Esther to explain he can’t come in today. She understands, as always.
He asks her to relay the message to Emily. He doesn't want to tell her directly.
Truth is, it's been only a few days since they first hooked up, but it's already getting hard for Remus to draw boundaries. And yet, he's still trying to rationalise it sometimes. ‘Maybe she's having an off-week. Hormones, something like that.’
And so, for some stupid reason he keeps trying to convince himself he still can continue whatever this is between them: just a bit of fun and comfort.
Except... it hasn't been fun. Or comforting.
He still feels like a bad guy. Using her with no intention of having a serious relationship. Not right now, at least.
And on the other hand, Emily is becoming more and more clingy. Increasingly more demanding of his exclusive attention and devotion.
She has taken to having little ‘crying fits’ every time he leaves her. And it works. It breaks him. He doesn't want to hurt her. His mam raised him to treat girls right, be a gentleman, and put them first.
Unfortunately, Emily Barrett is the sort of girl that weaponises that sort of thing to get what she wants.
After school, Remus decides to head straight home, craving some peace and quiet. The kids were extra rowdy today (“a proper case of the Fridays"), but truth be told, he’ll take a full day of that over whatever the hell went on at Emily’s last night. Guilty as he feels for his part in it, what he’s seeing now is a whole new side to her that’s frankly a bit frightening… and exhausting.
He takes a long, hot shower and pulls on the oldest, softest grey T-shirt and tartan pyjama bottoms he owns. Then he starts making the chicken pasta dish you like, knowing you’ll savour every bite. That thought alone is enough to put a smile on his face.
When you arrive around half-six, you’re not alone.
Bloody fucking marvellous.
“Oh, look at that! Lupin! Good to see you, handsome! I was going to make my mamie’s famous French onion soup for us, but your pasta smells right fantastic!” Robbie stops behind him, looking over his shoulder at the pasta pot and chicken pan, practically placing his chin on Remus's shoulder, his hip lightly against his.
Bit too close, Emery, don't you think? Remus thinks, puzzled — but doesn't react to it.
You come in behind his other side, sniffing and smooshing your cheek against his left bicep. Your hand goes around his hip and stays there.
“Oh, Rem! You're making that chicken pasta I like, with loads of cream and cheese and all? Yessss!” You squeeze his waist with both arms.
Bloody hell, right in front of the boyfriend?
Remus freezes for about five seconds, his brain short-circuiting. He’s utterly confused now, by both touchy displays of… whatever this is. And, to his horror, his body is obviously reacting like it shouldn’t.
The evening continues to spiral into bizarre world territory.
The three of you end up at the smaller breakfast table overlooking the skylight and the Thames, instead of the big dining table.
You insist that Remus take the head of it. “I want to sit close to you, Rem.”
“Me too! Le très magnifique chef Lupín!” Robbie chimes in, rolling his surname around with an exaggerated French purr, drawing out the final syllable like loo-pahn, and batting his lashes at him.
You laugh heartily. Seeing your friends possibly become friends would be such a dream. Remus and Robbie would get on like pie and mash, you think affectionately.
Why is northern-froggy-posh here flirting with me? Remus wonders, baffled. Is this part of his game to win Sunny? Hasn't he won her heart already?
Remus doesn't want to like Robbie Emery. He wants him to be horrible. He wants a reason to hate him, to justify why he ran to Emily like a kicked puppy a week ago.
Except this Robbie that showed up today is… nice? Friendly without an agenda?
Robbie shares funny, cheeky anecdotes of growing up between York and Rouen households, full of northern-posh schoolyard mischief and grand family dinners at his mamie's house. He tells them about his impressive, overachiever parents who currently administer a huge hospital in Paris. How he never had a choice but seek the medical profession, because it's what they groomed him for. That, and hopefully a nice doctor-wife to complete the set.
Remus catches a touch of melancholy and rebellion as he shares. Almost as if he doesn't want all that for himself deep down.
And then, Robbie turns to Remus and you, and starts asking genuine questions about how you two met, how you became best friends, and what it was like to go to a mysterious, traditional boarding school somewhere in Scotland together.
You and Remus find yourselves completing each other's sentences, tag-teaming on the best parts of each tale, saying things in perfect unison, reminiscing, laughing freely at the daft stuff, and including all the James-Sirius-Peter shenanigans you can disclose without having to mention magic.
Robbie laughs right along — easy, light, and intrigued by your chemistry. He catalogs every gesture, the way you two mirror each other’s body language and non-verbals without even noticing. Two peas in a pod through and through. Right witchy, he thinks.
Several times you two get lost in each other's eyes, remembering the best bits. Several times you touch your best friend's arm affectionately, and look at him like he's still your whole world.
One moment you grab and squeeze his hand so enthusiastically, he accidentally spills some of the Chardonnay down his chin and neck.
And Robbie still doesn't look jealous. Not really. He just observes, deep in thought. Making heart-eyes of his own at times, but never intruding in what you two have. Asking more questions. Laughing at all the good parts. Looking daydreamy, almost as if he wishes he could've been there, a part of the marauders.
Remus hates to admit but, Robbie would have made an excellent marauder from the looks of things. They could even have been mates.
If Robbie wasn't his greatest rival to date, taking you away from him bit by bit.
Suddenly the phone rings, bringing everyone back from nostalgia land.
Remus instantly stiffens. It's become sickeningly pavlovian at this point.
“I'll get it. It's probably for me,” he murmurs, resigned and hollow.
(...) “Oh! Hello, Mrs. L/N!”
(...) “Right. Sorry, Nora.”
(...) “Yes, she's here. I'll go get her.”
The relief in Remus's voice and demeanour is evident.
You go answer the phone. Remus and Robbie take everything through to the kitchen and start on the washing-up. Robbie insists on helping, already rolling up the sleeves of his tight, white shirt.
The two of them move around the sink without a word at first — Remus washing, Robbie drying — which should be simple enough, except that with both of them standing over six-foot in height, the space feels absurdly small. Their elbows keep nearly colliding, hips brushing the edge of the counter and, occasionally, each other. It’s not a small kitchen, but somehow they fill every bit of space between them.
Robbie leans in a fraction too close to take the first plate. Their fingers skim, wet-warm, before Robbie steps back just enough to towel it dry, smirking faintly at nothing. The second plate passes with another deliberate graze of long fingers, his shoulder nudging Remus’s like they’re sharing some private joke. By the third plate, it’s hips that bump.
Robbie is loving every second of it.
Remus is gobsmacked, turning red as a tomato. Is this bloke into me, or messing with me?
“You know, there’s a whole rest of the kitchen over there,” he says, nodding vaguely to the empty counter space, voice tighter than he means it to be.
“Am I making you nervous? Sorry.” Robbie is definitely not sorry.
“Thanks for dinner, by the way. It was proper delicious. Even my mamie would've approved.”
“Mm? Cheers, I guess.” Coming from Le chef Emery, the compliment lands sweeter than it should, Remus thinks begrudgingly.
Robbie’s elbow nudges him again as he takes the serving platter, bare forearm sliding against Remus’s damp one. The contact lingers half a second too long.
“You all right? You seemed quite tense back there when the phone went.”
“I'm fine. I thought it was… someone else.”
Robbie turns his body square on to Remus, tilting his head as he looks him over curiously. Remus keeps his gaze locked on the wine glass in his hand, scrubbing at it long after it’s clean.
“Girl trouble, then? Is it that Emily bird by any chance? I’ve heard plenty about her already.”
Remus’s head jerks up. “Y/N told you about her?”
“Oh, quite. She sounds like a piece of work. No offence.”
Remus doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he doesn’t. The sound of water sloshing and crockery clinking fills the space, until Robbie speaks again.
“So… you and Bright Lovely Thing over there…” He jerks his chin toward where you’re still on the phone, laughter soft in the other room. “You’re really, really close then.”
“Yeah. We've known each other a long time.”
“Mmm, yeah, no, it’s deeper than that. You two are disgustingly in sync. It's quite obvious. It's… beautiful, and poetic, and I'm mad-jealous of your cosmic connection, to be honest.”
There’s no edge in his voice. No competition, no malice. More like… wistfulness — as if he’s glimpsing something he’s been chasing all his life but never quite caught.
“Not many people find that, you know,” Robbie bumps Remus’s bony shoulder with his solid one, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Sacré veinard, Lupín.”
“What did you just call me?”
“Lucky bastard, basically.”
“Is that a problem for you? Me and her?” Remus asks timidly, not denying any of it, but bracing for a ‘jealous boyfriend demanding space’ speech to come next.
Robbie just snorts. “Well, no. Not necessarily. Makes me work harder for her attention, but that’s part of the fun, innit?”
Remus frowns. “What do you mean? You already have her attention.” You already have everything I don't.
Robbie grins. “Not really. Not the way I want it. Not yet, anyway.”
Robbie puts the wine glass down, glances down at his feet for a moment, and then faces Remus again. He also seems a bit shy now.
“I’m going to ask her out properly. Just so you know.
Remus stops scrubbing at once. Frozen.
“I'm not playing games, Remus. I know what I told you before, but that was just me, trying to get a rise out of her ridiculously fit and obviously territorial flatmate.”
His mouth quirks in the faintest smirk, but there’s an earnestness under it now.
“Truth is, you intimidate me a bit with this whole… sexy-librarian-meets-broody-Byronic-philosopher thing you’ve got going on.”
Remus can only blink at him, caught in a mix of shock and confusion. Never mind the obvious flirting that's still happening. What the hell is going on? What did I miss?
“Ask her out properly? Wh—? Didn't you just go on a date last Saturday? Didn't you call her here Sunday morning? Exchange ‘I love yous’ and all that?”
Robbie looks puzzled for a few seconds, then, his eyebrows shoot up, and he lets out a laugh.
“Oh, no, that was her brother! They went out to watch Grease Saturday, she told me. I was with my parents on the weekend, that's why I didn't come to your garden party. Remus, honey… Are you not talking to your best girl like you should?”
The words barely register before the slick salad bowl tilts in Remus's soapy hands. He fumbles to catch it back, only for Robbie to reach for it too. Their hands clamp over the rim at the same time, warm skin pressing against warm skin, water dripping between their fingers.
For one charged moment, they’re both leaning over the bowl, faces far too close in the sudsy kitchen air. Robbie’s lips curve showing one dimple, like he’s enjoying this far too much. His gaze lingers a fraction too long, as if snapping a mental photograph of the way Remus’s ears have gone pink, and how pouty his lips are.
Remus registers the faint scent of the warm-spicy cologne Robbie wears, before his brain seizes up completely.
It’s like someone’s yanked the rug out from under him, rolled it up, and clonked him in the head with it for good measure.
“Everything alright, boys?” Suddenly you are right next to them.
Both boys let go of the bowl hastily. The bowl clatters to the floor, shards everywhere.
“I thought you had it!” — “I thought you had it!”
If that isn't a metaphor for their current state of affairs…
Remus excuses himself after collecting the remains of the salad bowl, and retreats to his room. His mind spinning a thousand rotations per second, it feels like.
He acted like a complete berk then? Because he couldn’t just ask you? Because he let his mind run riot and went sprinting into Emily’s bed like an idiot?
His chest feels tight. This is… too much. Too humiliating. Too… typical him.
He wants to laugh at himself, or maybe bang his head against the wall until the memory of the last week is erased. Preferably both.
Merlin’s balls, he’s made a right mess of this.
What could make this mental mindfuck of a night possibly worse and more confusing?
Remus finding himself in bed with you and Robbie, no questions asked, and no explanation. Of fucking course!
Robbie’s suddenly behind him, pressed flush to his back, cradling his half-sitting half-laying form against his broad and bare chest, his breath hot against Remus’s ear. The warm-spicy French cologne invading his nostrils like a drug.
You’re in front, straddling his lap, arms looped around his neck.
“My Wolfie.” You moan against his lips, teasing and brushing his soft pout.
“Mon loup,” Robbie murmurs against the shell of his ear, voice low and teasing, and Remus feels his lips graze the sensitive spot just below his earlobe. It sends a shiver straight through him.
Next thing, your mouth is on his — soft at first, then hungry.
Your hips start rocking down against the leaky hard length still trapped in his soft pyjama trousers.
Remus groans into your kiss, only to feel Robbie’s hand slide down his now naked chest, lower, lower, until he’s palming him through the thin cotton.
“Look at him, love,” Robbie says, voice pure smoke and velvet, his hips rolling suggestively against Remus’s arse. “So eager for us already.”
Remus wants to protest — This isn’t right! This isn’t happening! — but then your hand slips down to join Robbie’s, now inside his trousers somehow… both of you stroking him together, the pressure enough to make his eyes roll back.
He’s surrounded, trapped, subdued: your lips, Robbie’s tongue painting his neck, two different-sized hands on his cock, the slide of skin-on-skin heat from front and back… until he doesn’t know where to put his focus.
“Please,” he gasps, voice wrecked.
“Please what, Rem?” you whisper against his lips, tugging at his hair.
Robbie answers for him, a filthy laugh in his throat: “Please fuck him, obviously. I'll let you go first, chérie.”
And suddenly you are sinking down onto him, trousers and pants just… gone. Slick and hot and perfect, while Robbie keeps him pinned, teeth scraping his shoulder, his own cock hard against Remus’s spine.
And then he's thrusting, forward into you, backward into Robbie. Every thrust drags a moan out of him, every roll of Robbie’s hips makes it sharper, until he’s lost in the overwhelming press of bodies.
It’s too much, too good. Too wrong. Too right.
He comes hard, shuddering, broken open cries echoing between you both—
Soaked. Sticky. Heart racing. Disorientated. Overheating. Over-hating himself.
He scrubs his face with his hands and mutters hoarsely to the empty bedroom:
“What the fuck is wrong with me?”
Saturday, 7 October, 1978
On Saturday, at Mrs. Meddley’s request, Remus comes in to cover a shift he’d missed the day before. The library is hosting a children’s literacy fun day, with local authors and several schools bringing their pupils. While Esther and Emily are helping the organisers, Remus will be minding the regular library spaces and looking after the usual patrons.
Emily greets him in the morning quite… casually. No warmth. No touching or kissing. No Remsy.
Just a little: “Oh. There you are. I was wondering if you were coming, since we didn't talk yesterday at all…”
“Yeah, sorry. I was just… Mad tired. Kids about did me in yesterday.”
“I tried ringing you last night. But the line was busy.” Her tone has just enough accusation in it.
“Oh? Oh, right. Y/N was on with her mum.”
She eyes him, saying nothing for a few beats. Then, “I have to go to the event room. See you later, then.”
Early afternoon, as the kid's event is kicking in and Remus is stationed at the enquiry desk, a young lady walks up, needing help to find specific newspaper articles for her college research paper.
“Excuse me,” she says, her voice warm but uncertain. “I’m trying to find some specific articles from the London Gazette from 1923. I’ve got the dates and page numbers here, but I’ve never handled microfiche before, and I’m quite lost.”
Remus straightens, offering her a reassuring smile. “Let’s have a look.” He gestures for her to hand over the notebook and scans her scribbled references, nodding slowly. “Right, you’ll want the archive drawers down this way.”
He leads her to a small, dim corner of the library where tall metal cabinets stand in neat rows, their narrow drawers labelled by year and publication. The air smells faintly of dust and old paper.
“These are our microfilm archives,” Remus explains, pulling open one of the drawers with a metallic rattle. “We keep the Gazette on reels rather than fiche for these years. Here, see?”
He flips through carefully, scanning the labels. “It can be a bit of a treasure hunt, totally normal if you’ve had trouble finding them.”
He checks her notes again, methodically pulling the right reels from two separate drawers, stacking them neatly in her hands. “All right. These should cover the lot you need.”
“Wow,” she says, adjusting the stack. “I thought I’d be wandering around here all afternoon.”
Remus chuckles. “It’s a bit of a learning curve, finding your way through these. Come on, let’s get you set up on the machine.”
They move to the microfilm projector tucked against the far wall, a squat, boxy contraption with a scratched glass screen. “These old machines can be temperamental,” Remus says, slotting the first reel onto the spindle with practised ease. “You’ll want to thread it along here — yes, like that — and lock it into the take-up reel on the other side.”
She leans in, peering through the viewing lens as he adjusts the dials. “It’s mostly trial and error,” he says, twisting the focus knob until the small grey text sharpens into black print. “But once you get the hang of it, it’s straightforward enough.”
Within a few minutes, they’ve found the first article on her list. She beams. “Thank you so much. Honestly, I was completely lost before.”
“That’s what I’m here for,” Remus says with an easy smile, stepping back to let her work through the rest. “Please don't hesitate to come get me if you need anything else, alright?”
He walks back to his post. Emily is suddenly there, waiting.
“Don't act daft. The little slut you were just with on the dark little corner there.”
“What— I don't know, didn't ask her name. Just someone in need of help, why?”
“Looked pretty cosy. Did you get her number? Is she your next conquest then?”
“Emily. What the hell are you talking about? I'm doing my job. Nothing happened.”
Emily starts tearing up, lips trembling, arms hugging herself.
“I can't… I can't do this here.”
And she runs to the staff room, already sobbing. Remus follows after her.
“Emily. What's going on? Please, stop crying. Talk to me.”
“Are you a womaniser, Remus? Am I just a notch on your bedpost? Do you not care about my feelings? Are you going to use me and chuck me aside like the others? Because I'm sick to death of being used for my looks, and tossed away like rubbish!”
She cries in earnest now. Remus feels wretched, because she’s not entirely wrong. He is using her. He doesn’t want to be her boyfriend. He only ran after her because he can’t have who he really wants. He really is a bastard. His mum would be ashamed. He has to get this right. Emily doesn’t deserve this.
(Never mind that she's throwing a tantrum because he was doing his job.)
"Hey. Em, please… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel like that. Listen, let me finish my shift, and I’ll take you home. We can talk, alright? I’ll cook something nice, and we’ll just sort it."
A few hours later at her flat, Remus is once again trying to think of a way to go home without causing another scene. He just can’t sleep well in Emily’s bed. For multitudes of reasons.
He makes her that same nice chicken pasta dinner — of which Emily only eats the chicken and the salad, remarking with a wrinkled nose, “That’s just empty calories, I don’t want that.”
After a couple of hours of perfunctory cuddling on the sofa, Remus braces himself for hopefully just a goodnight kiss and going home.
“So what, you’ve just been biding your time until you can slink back home? Can’t wait to get away from me, is that it?”
“Oh, don’t even bother. I’m not thick, Remus. You think I don’t notice the way you bolt out of here the second you’ve had your shag and your supper? You’re halfway out the door before the sheets are even cold.”
“Oh, I know what it is. You just want to run straight to your phone to ring your little teacher and make plans for the weekend, is that it? Keep the line nice and busy all night? Or worse, just run home to that slutty flatmate of yours, right? Do you think she’d fuck you as good as me? I bet she’d like to, that whore!”
Remus finally snaps, shooting up from the sofa.
“Don’t talk about her like that!”
“There it is! Finally, the passion I never get from you unless it’s about her! God forbid anyone insult your precious little perfect flatmate!”
“Why don’t you just admit it? You don’t want me. You want her! You sit here like a bloody monk with me, but the second she comes up, suddenly you’ve got all this fight in you, like a sad pathetic homeless dog sniffing for scraps!”
“Isn’t it? You don’t love me, Remus. You don’t even like me half the time. You're just stringing me along to take the edge off. A convenient body to warm your cock while you dream about someone else. That’s all I am to you, and you bloody know it.”
“Emily, that's not— we're not— love?! It's been barely one bloody week since we got together! We never agreed to label anything, and you know I'm not ready to—”
She lets out a brittle laugh, tears glinting in her eyes. “Oh, that's convenient! Tell me, what is this then? What am I? Your little fuck toy?”
“You seemed just fine with our arrangement just last Saturday! And now what, you want a full-on relationship? When I barely know you?!”
Emily erupts like an Erumpent horn — worse than any row they’ve had yet.
“I FUCKING KNEW IT! YOU’RE JUST LIKE ALL THE OTHERS! NO, YOU'RE EVEN WORSE! BECAUSE YOU PLAY THE SWEET LITTLE LAMB SO WELL, DON’T YOU? BUT YOU’RE JUST A FUCKING WOLF IN DISGUISE!”
Remus freezes. Winces. The words hit him dead centre, like a centaur’s arrow.
The phantom ache of hundreds of full-moons tears through his chest all at once.
And he can’t argue her down.
“I… I’m sorry, Emily. I… I need to go.”
As he makes for the door, Emily grabs him in hysterics.
“Don't you dare leave me like this, Remus! Please! We can sort it in bed! I need you to comfort me, not leave me falling apart! Please, Remsy! Please!!!”
But this time, he musters the strength to peel her hands off and walk away.
On Sunday morning, Emily finds a note dropped through her letterbox when she gets up:
I need some space to think about some things. I'm not coming over today. Whatever happened yesterday and last night… was too much. I need to get my mind back in place here.
I'll see you on Monday at work.
Remus makes sure to give your very clever owl Flo extra treats for the stealth delivery of his envelope.
“I told you, you fucking plonker!” Sirius is both elated and exasperated, feet kicked up on the oversized wicker chair.
“Alright, I was wrong about the ‘I love yous.’ But they’re still… involved. And he’s asking her out. And I’m… all… tangled up with Emily now. Bloody buggering hell…”
It’s a rainy, bone-chilling Sunday. You and Lily are down in the potions cellar brewing October’s Wolfsbane batch for Remus — he has to start it Tuesday the 10th. The boys are holed up in the solarium with butterbeers, glass panes fogged from the warmth.
“Alright. Serious talk. – Shut up, Pads! – I need advice. But only if you promise not to laugh, take the piss, or denigrate me further.”
“We solemnly swear,” James declares.
“I don’t,” Sirius cheeks.
“Just spit it out already.”
“Well, it’s… delicate. And it doesn’t leave this room.” Remus looks between them, waiting for a nod.
“Alright. 'Marauder Packt' activated. Spill,” Sirius says with mock gravity.
Remus takes a breath. “So… As you know, I finally had proper sex…”
“You mean with something other than your hand?”
“Pads. We promised no piss-taking.” James tries, but he’s already stifling a laugh like a constipated man holding in a fart.
“Alright, that’s it.” Remus shakes his head, getting up.
“No no no, I’m sorry, Moony, I’ll listen now, sirius-ly.” Sirius winks, waits for the wolfy groan, then softens. “Go on.”
Remus exhales and sits back down.
“Is sex supposed to… hurt? Sometimes?”
James sits up a little. “It can, yeah. For a girl’s first time it can be painful. Or if she’s not properly made ready and also, well— in your case…” He glances at Sirius.
“What Prongsy here's trying to say, Moony, is that, given the size of your, erm… ruddy great knob, you’ve got to go slow and prep them every time before you, you know.” Sirius makes a lewd gesture with his fingers to clarify what he means.
There's just no way around it. Having shared a dorm and bathroom for seven years, they've seen plenty of each other's bits over the years.
“No, I'm not— I'm not talking about her. I'm talking about me.”
Both their eyebrows snap up.
“What do you mean?” Sirius asks, curiosity piqued.
“It just… doesn't feel good. Not really. With Emily. It feels… wrong. All over. My chest tightens, my body jerks like I’ve been hit with a Stinging Hex. My limbs feel numb and tingly, not in a good way. And my mind goes loopy, like it's trying to fight off an Imperio.”
He leaves out the part where he can only think of you, see you, be haunted by you, like a ghost inside him.
“It's hard to describe… I never heard of this. It's quite… uncomfortable.”
“Oh.” James looks at Sirius, something unspoken passes between them.
“What? Is there something I'm doing wrong? Something… else… wrong with me?”
“Well, I have a theory,” James starts. “But you need to hear it without protest.”
“I'll shut up and listen. Tell me. Anything.”
“I think you have soul-bond magic in you, Moons. Like me and Lily. Probably even stronger, since everything is stronger in you. Your magic, the wolf, you know.”
“I've read a bit about it, but… how do you know? What does that mean?”
“You know Lily and I share a Patronus, right? And you know It took her ages to give me a chance, while I was a goner for her from the off. Well, I took a couple girls to Hogsmeade during fifth and sixth years, as you remember. And I snogged both of them on those occasions. And I felt… dizzy and pukey after, both times. Like something inside me was rejecting it. Nothing ever felt good, or right. And then… I finally kissed Lily, and— Merlin… it was like the magic in my bones woke up. Everything clicked. Cataclysmic stuff.”
“So, you're saying… I might be soul-bonded with someone, and until I find her… it won't feel good?”
James and Sirius exchange another look. Sirius scoffs softly, but Remus hears.
“This is the part you are not allowed to protest, alright?”
James looks his best mate right in the eye.
“It is quite obvious to us who you are bonded to.”
Sirius nods his head emphatically, as if talking to a child.
“And until the two of you figure it out and finally come together, nothing will ever feel right.” James finishes with a solemn tone.
Remus looks at both of them. Not saying anything as he promised. His mind warring with what he's hearing — the skeptic inside refusing to believe it — but he feels it in his soul: his magic flaring up, making him feel all warm and fluttery and bubbling inside, like a simmering cauldron.
Just like it feels when you look at him a certain way. Or say something affectionate. Or touch him.
“There's more, I also have a theory of my own.” Sirius picks up. “And keep your mouth shut during mine too, you hear?”
Remus mimes zipping and locking his lips while rolling his eyes.
“It's not only that your soul is crying for its true mate, but… There's something inside that girl that your soul actually repulses, and for good reason. Hear me out on this. I come from a family that exudes evil. Top-grade, Black family Dark-Magic-poison. You can feel it in the air, pulsing around them like a dark aura.
Sirius takes a beat and leans closer, somber.
“I got the same feel from Emily, mate. Not as pronounced, since she's a muggle. But… there's crazy inside her. And I would bet my entire lost inheritance that, had Emily been born a witch, she would be exactly like my cousin Bellatrix: evil, deranged, but in a coldly calculated way, like a right fucking succubus.”
Remus stares at his friends in horror. Not because he thinks Sirius has lost the plot, but actually because there’s a small chance he could be right.
“Remus, are you listening to me?” You call him out gently but firmly.
He seems very lost in thought this morning.
“Sorry, dovey. Yeah, go on.”
“As I was saying, I'll be gone all week working on my group project up at Oxford. But I need you to remember to take these, starting tomorrow. One dose, every evening before dinner, yeah?”
You point to the seven neatly labelled and organised little bottles of a murky, blue-purple, thick potion: Wolfsbane. Which tastes like goblin shite.
“Please promise me you'll drink them every day, same time.”
“I promise. Don't worry. Go work on your project.”
“This is the number of my friend Charlotte Weaver, who I'll be staying with. Please ring me if you need anything. We'll be working on the project at her place, every evening, starting ‘round seven.”
“Can I call you if I just want to hear your voice?”
“Of course you can, my love.” You melt at the question. He burns at the new pet name and your hand ruffling his fringe again.
By the time he’s kissed and hugged you goodbye and headed down the pavement on his ten-minute walk towards the library, the air has gone cool and damp with the promise of rain. His satchel feels heavier than usual. Not with books, but with the ache of knowing you’ll be away all week, around Robbie — and the quiet, unwelcome awareness that without you around, he might get weak and run to Emily to fill the space.
‘Like you have any self-control when it comes to your prick, you prick…’
After the schizo self-arguing session slow-walk towards the tense morning awaiting him, he’s unlocking the library’s side entrance, shaking off the drizzle from his coat. The familiar scent of paper and polish greets him, a small comfort… right until the chime over the front door rings, and he looks up from behind the reference desk.
The bell above the library door gives a cheerful little jingle, far too cheery for a grey October morning.
Emily steps in wearing a beige wool coat, her hair done in soft waves that look like she’s just stepped out of a shampoo advert. When she opens the coat, she’s also wearing… a Beatles Revolver white tee. And blue jeans. And white-canvas plimsolls. Quite different than her usual preppy style.
Before Remus registers where he's seen this outfit before, She’s reached him, carrying a paper bag from the bakery down the street that makes the croissants so good he has to go home the other way sometimes to avoid temptation.
Remus had been bracing for sharp words and maybe a scene; not the warm, almost shy smile she gives him now.
“I, um…” She approaches the desk slowly, bag in hand like a peace offering. “I thought I’d drop these off for you before you start your day. Almond, your favourite. Well— they were your favourite in August.”
She sets the bag down, the smell of pastry and sugar wafting up between them.
“That’s… thoughtful of you.” His voice comes out cautious, like he’s trying to test the ground before stepping on it.
Her eyes drop for a moment, lashes lowering.
“I’ve been thinking about last week. I was awful. Truly awful. You must think I’m a complete nutter.” She laughs lightly, the sound almost self-mocking. “Honestly, if I were you, I’d have run for the hills by now.”
He studies her. She doesn’t look defensive. She looks… vulnerable.
“I just— I’ve had a bad run with boyfriends. People who’ve cheated, lied, made me feel like I wasn’t enough. I guess sometimes I get so scared of losing someone that I push too hard and… well.” She spreads her hands in a helpless gesture, smiling wryly. “You saw the result.”
Remus feels the faint, irritating tug of guilt. She’s looking at him like she’s bracing for him to walk away, and there’s something about that expression that softens the edge of his irritation.
“I don’t want to lose you, Remus. Whatever this is. You’re… different. Truly special.”
The words hang in the air, warm and sticky like honey.
Before he can decide how to respond, she straightens, her smile brightening just enough to look convincing. “Anyway, I’ll let you get to work. Don’t want to distract you. Enjoy the croissants.”
“You're not… working today?”
“No. Thought I'd do something… different. Explore a few possibilities for my future. And also, give you the space you asked for.”
She smiles sweetly and turns to leave.
She turns back around. “Yes?”
“Thank you. For these. And… Thank you.”
She smiles sweetly at him, and leaves as quietly as she came, the chime over the door marking her exit.
Remus exhales slowly, staring at the paper bag on the desk like it's the most complicated Arithmancy problem he's ever seen in his life.
On Tuesday, another library day for Remus, Emily is there.
But she acts just like the Emily he met back in August: helpful when he needs her to be. Easygoing. Soft-spoken. Witty. Remus finds himself having light banter and even sharing some librarian-inside-jokes with her throughout the day.
The weather continues to be dreadful, so almost no one comes in, giving them ample time to reorganise the Children's Corner and add the new books and kid-friendly touches left from Saturday's event.
They work well together, and Mrs. Meddley is more than pleased with the result. “You two are a dream team! Well done!”
At the end of the day, Remus gets ready to leave.
“Hey, Rems? No pressure, no expectations. But if you'd like, I can cook dinner for you tonight. So you don't have to eat alone, you know. Since Y/N is gone and all. No worries if you'd rather not.”
She's been a great help today, and quite pleasant company. And Remus doesn't want to go to the empty flat to obsess about what you and Robbie might be doing. So he relents.
“What are you making then?”
Dinner is quiet, relaxed, and comfortable. Emily has a delicious vegetable lasagna oven-ready, so all they need to do is wait for it to bake, making a salad and opening a bottle of sparkling white in the meantime.
“My aunty helped me put this together, hopefully you’ll like it.” She neglects to mention that, in fact, her aunt made the whole thing — she didn’t lift a finger beyond carrying it to the oven just now.
The evening doesn't feel forced, or long. They talk more about their lives before meeting each other. Emily sneaks in a couple horror stories of past boyfriend-abuse. Her voice is low, her gaze soft, and there’s something in it that pulls at his protective side before he can stop himself.
Other than that, she's a perfect host. Charming, funny, with just the right amount of flirtation thrown his way.
It’s disarming, how easy she’s being tonight.
“Well, I should be going. Early start at school tomorrow.” Remus says, a bit apprehensively.
For a split second, Emily's smile falters, and a hint of a grimace starts to form. But she catches herself quickly, blinking a few times and giving him a softer look.
“Of course, Remsy. I hope you have a great day tomorrow. Can I call you in the evening? Just to say goodnight and check on you?”
“I'll probably be in later than usual. Pub night with the teachers, you know.”
She swallows the bile rising in her throat. “Of course. Call me when you get in? I promise I won't talk your ear off.” She giggles insipidly.
“Alright. I'll call you tomorrow night then. Thank you for dinner, it was delicious. Well done.”
“You're welcome. Good night.”
Remus kisses her goodnight. Quickly but softly. She doesn't push for more, and lets him go with a dreamy smile on her face.
He goes home unsettled but relieved — and feeling a bit less alone than he thought he would.
Maybe Sirius is wrong after all, he does tend to be a bit dramatic sometimes.
Remus calls Emily on Wednesday evening, like he promised.
“Hey, Em. Just got in. How was your day?”
“Oh, hi, you.” Her voice is warm, with a soft lilt she uses when she’s in charm mode. “It was good, actually. Quiet day at the library, and then I went to Aunty Esther so she could help me make another batch of biscuits for you, because apparently I needed to improve my bland recipe.” She laughs lightly. “What about you? How was the pub?”
“Alright. Just the usual post-work chatter, nothing exciting. We played darts.”
“Exhilarating. Did you win?”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “I might have? We didn’t keep score.”
“Well, I’ll just assume you did. You always seem good at everything.” She says it like an offhand compliment, but it lands neatly in that part of him that responds to being seen.
After a bit of silence, she speaks again.
“I’m really glad we had dinner last night. It feels like… we’re in a better place maybe. I don’t want to mess that up.”
“You’ve been… easy to be around this week,” he admits. “ It’s been… nice.”
“That’s good to hear. I’m trying. You’re worth trying for, Remus.”
It’s just enough to make him smile, though he doesn’t say it out loud.
“Well, I’ll let you get some rest,” she says after a comfortable-enough pause. “Sleep well, alright? And I’ll see you tomorrow.”
When he hangs up, there’s no knot in his chest like there was last week — but there’s still the quiet, nagging question of whether he should be pursuing anything further with her.
He can't deny that he longs to hold someone and be held. He can't ignore the desires of his heart and his body. He's an eighteen-year old man. Deeply in an unrequited love situation, entangled with someone who actually seems to like him enough, and wants to fulfill his desires. Is it so wrong then? To find comfort in someone's arms? To explore physical aspects of a situationship, even if he doesn't want to label it or go too deep?
Emily is beautiful, he can't ignore that. She's quite pleasant when she behaves like she did these last two days.
And Remus feels lonely. Full of longing. Horny at the more inopportune times, craving a loving and passionate touch.
Maybe he can still get that, while he tries to sort this whole soul-bond business.
He believes James might be into something, but maybe he's just got the girl wrong.
Because soul-bonds are supposed to be mutual, aren't they?
But, as affectionate and loving and caring as you've ever been with him, you have never approached him with anything other than deep friendship and camaraderie.
He wouldn't say you treat each other like siblings, he can't do that when he's… imagined…and vividly dreamed… about everything he's wanted to do with you.
But still… soulmates? That's stretching it.
If James is right, it may be someone else he hasn't even met yet.
And until that happens, he will continue to pine for you, and try to find some solace with Emily.
And he thought figuring out Moony was messy.
Thursday, 12 October, 1978
Emily’s flat is warm when he steps in, the smell of garlic and herbs drifting out from the tiny kitchen. She’s in a loose baby-blue cardigan over a silky white camisole, hair caught up in a knot that somehow makes her look softer.
She gently invited him over again, and he accepted. Dinner and a film. A bit of warmth. And hopefully a bit less of you rotting the brain.
Dinner is… fine. He’s sure it’s her aunt’s cooking again — grilled salmon with a white wine sauce, creamy risotto, sautéed veg — but she’s attentive without hovering, funny without being biting.
They open a bottle of rosé and watch some daft romcom on her sofa. He tells himself he’ll leave after the film.
Then, she shifts closer. Her thigh presses to his. Her fingers drift lightly down his arm. “You’ve got the nicest hands,” she murmurs, as sultry as possible. “Strong. Talented.” She puts his hand on top of her breast over her camisole. He lets her. Moves his fingers the way she wants.
By the time the credits roll, her lips are on his jaw, her scent curling into his senses — it's fruity and a little too cloying. But he doesn’t pull back.
It’s... different this time, maybe? Emily takes her time, kissing him slowly while opening his shirt buttons, drawing him down into the cushions. When her mouth slides lower below his navel, he tenses out of habit, but she hushes him with a warm, confident smile and keeps going. She knows exactly what she's doing to him. He’s never been touched like this before.
She finally gets to where she wants and uses her mouth expertly on him until his head tips back against the sofa and he hears himself curse under his breath. His body is not fighting back as hard this time, and he actually feels… good. He can breathe. Pant. Feel.
“Look at me, Remsy,” she says against his skin while taking a breath. “You're so… beautiful. Sexy. I love you like this.”
Later, after he recovers a bit, she climbs astride him, her hands braced on his chest, eyes locked on his. But the moment she starts to lower herself onto him, he realises — no condom.
“Em— wait.” His hands grip her hips, holding her still.
She blinks down at him, feigning innocence. “What?”
“You know what,” he says, trying to keep his voice calm. “Not without.”
Her lips press into the faintest pout. “We don’t really need to—”
“We do.” His tone leaves no room for argument.
For a second she looks ready to push it, but then she exhales sharply, mutters, “Fine,” and lets him reach for the packet in the back pocket of his jeans.
When it’s over, they’re tangled on her sofa catching their breath; her head rests on his shoulder, her voice is soft and airy.
“See? I knew it, we’re perfect together when we get it right.”
He apparates home later feeling lighter than he has in weeks — but somewhere in the back of his mind, Sirius’s warning still flickers like a low flame, turning the memories bitter and foreboding.
Charlotte is busy this evening with family, so you decide you’ll finish the group project during the day tomorrow instead. It messes with your plans a bit, but you should still get home in time to have dinner with Remus and tend to his aching body.
Which leaves you and Robbie free for a ‘Friday the 13th scary movie night’ tonight.
You settle on Stephen King’s Carrie which is showing on BBC2, playing a drinking game for every time she uses her telekinesis, every religious reference, and every mention of prom.
By the time Carrie is drenched in pig’s blood and laying waste to half the cast, you’re both giggling like idiots.
“Looks like you when that fake blood bag gushed from the trauma dummy all over you.“ Robbie teases.
“Does not! I wasn’t that soaked!”
“I specifically remember thinking about this scene and fighting the urge to leg it.”
You giggle harder, hiding your face in his neck from the more gruesome bits while he makes increasingly daft jokes.
By the time the credits roll, the laughter’s softened into smiles… and lingering looks.
“Your eyes are so…” You start, then stop with a breathy little laugh for no real reason.
“You really look like him, you know.”
“Clark? Clark Caldwell? Mushroom-head Caldwell in Biochem? Thanks a lot!”
You laugh harder. “No, dummy. Clark Kent!”
“As in superman? Christopher Reeve, that dish?”
“Yeah. Your hair’s a bit wavier, curlier maybe. But…” You brush your fingers over the little curl falling onto his forehead. “You’ve got the ‘super curl’ and everything…”
“Maybe I’ll take you flying sometime.”
“If I could? Definitely.”
“What if I’ve told you I can fly?”
“How tipsy are you?” Robbie giggles.
“I’m serious. What if I told you I can fly?” You whisper the last part mysteriously, getting very close to him on the sofa.
“I’d believe you. You can do anything. Where’s your cape then?”
“Not like that, silly. On a broom!” Your eyes grow big and mischievous.
“You’re too cute to be a witch.” Robbie traces your cheekbone.
“You're too cute to be… no, not to be… Clark Kent.”
Your faces are so close. The credits fade into adverts and late-night news.
“I really, really want to kiss you now.” Robbie says quietly.
“Why the tone of surprise?”
“Well, to be honest — and I don't mean to offend… I thought you like blokes.”
“Well? Let's just say I… don't like to limit myself. The way I see it, beauty is beauty, and I'm drawn to it, wherever it pops up.”
You blink, with a new understanding of your charming friend.
“And… since I've met you? Your beauty has captivated me. Inside and out.”
He doesn't appear to be cheeking you now.
“And so… I've been imagining what kissing you would feel like, my pretty Oxford-Carrie.”
You giggle. Then you pause. Blinking at him. Thinking.
“What? No. We’re too tipsy tonight.”
“I’ll allow it. If you’ll allow it.”
If Robbie had a tail, it would be wagging like mad.
“Alright, witchy girl. You’ve bewitched me body and soul.”
“Clark and Mr. Darcy? Sold.” Your drawl, closing the gap.
The kiss is soft, tentative at first — little pecks with a bit of giggling from you both; switching between upper and lower lips, until you find a rhythm. Slowly exploring, tongues brushing in time.
This isn’t your first kiss — you snogged a Ravenclaw boy in fifth year.
And then there's Sirius, last week. How could you forget that fiery volcano of a snog?
But this is your first… good kiss. Relaxed, tender, nice.
Robbie is patient. Surprisingly soft. Very respectful.
It's just… not what you dream of.
But you can't have what you dream of.
And Robbie has been a perfect friend. All charming and flirty and… warm.
And you just need to feel warm. You need to feel touched. Wanted. Just a bit.
You're eighteen, for Merlin's sake.
So, you choose to trust him for your first nice kiss.
Even if he's not your first choice.
You draw apart slowly. A few more pecks. More giggling. Sighing.
“Can I ask you something?” Robbie murmurs softly, voice all velvet and honey, thumb light as a feather on your cheek.
“Will you go on a date with me? Tomorrow? I've wanted to ask you for ages.”
“Oh. I can't. Not tomorrow.”
Tomorrow is ‘moon weekend’ — Remus will be in rough shape by evening, and you’ll be looking after him as always.
Robbie looks crestfallen. Adorably so.
“How about next Saturday? I’ll be free. And we won’t have a soul-sucking project to finish, so we can just… enjoy it, properly.”
“Next Saturday. Sounds good.”
Robbie tucks a strand of hair behind your ear.
“Can I keep kissing you then? Just a bit more?”
Saturday, 14 October, 1978
You come back to the flat around half-six in the evening. Project finally done, you are looking forward to tending to Remus, planning a quiet dinner for the two of you, and turning in early once he's comfortable.
You apparate back on your roof, still remembering last night's kisses. And today's quiet stolen touches from Robbie. It felt… Comforting. Promising. Fun. He has something magnetic about him, yes, and he makes you feel safe. But… It's strange. You still only see him as a friend. As dear a friend as James and Sirius. More like Sirius, since you snogged him too, and yet nothing changed between you.
You'll have to sort out what this means next week, during your date. Right now, your thoughts are on your flatmate, who needs you.
He doesn't appear to be home.
When you go to the kitchen, you stop — eyeing the kitchen island:
There are three bottles full of Wolfsbane still left. Today's dose, tomorrow's, and the last one for Monday, moon day.
You check your watch. There's still a few hours before you should worry. Remus is probably busy with Emily, or doing something with James and Sirius.
You take a long bath, change into comfy flannel pyjamas, and decide to relax watching something on telly.
You like to keep consistent with the times he takes the potion. No chances taken.
By eight-forty-five, your stomach is in knots.
You send Florence to wherever he is with a quick note tied to her leg:
You need to come home to take your medicine! — ☹︎ ☼
She’s back about one hour later, note unopened and still tied to her leg, feathers ruffled in offence. She looks at you as if saying, Don’t blame me, I tried.
It's way past ten now. And you are really panicking.
You Floo-call James and Lily.
“Is Remus there with you? Or with Pads?”
James frowns. “No. We're all here. You can't find him?”
“No. And he's not taken his Saturday dose yet.”
“He's probably with Emily, then.” Lily responds with distaste.
“You happen to have her number by any chance?”
“No, love, I'm sorry. Try Hope. I know she knows the aunt.”
“Right. I'll do that. Sorry. Thank you.”
“Let us know if you need any help finding him. In the meantime, we'll work on a contingency plan, just in case.” James reassures you, and you pull your face from the green flames.
You call Hope, trying not to sound like you’re already in full panic.
“Hey, beautiful girl, how are—”
“Hope, hi. Do you have the phone number for the head librarian? I'm trying to speak to Remus, I think he's with her niece tonight.”
“Her niece? Why would he be—”
“He didn't tell you they're seeing each other? Oh, never mind that. I need to find him, quickly. Do you have his boss's number?”
“Is everything all right, cariad?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. I just need to speak to him.”
Each minute she's away looking for it subtracts five years from your life. Finally, she comes back to the phone and recites the number to you.
“Please let me know what's going on when you can.”
“I will. Don't worry, I'm sorting it. I'm all right, and he's all right.”
At least you hope he's all right.
You quickly dial Mrs. Meddley. Apologise for the late hour inconvenience, and as politely as you can you ask for her great-niece's number, explaining that it's a bit of an emergency and you just need to talk to your flatmate a bit.
She hesitates. You can almost hear her pursing her lips. “They’re probably having a lovely evening, dear. Best not to—”
“I wouldn’t be bothering you — or them — if it wasn’t important,” you cut in. “Please, Mrs. M.”
A long, judgy pause. Then:
“Oh, all right, all right. Hold your horses, girl.”
She’s gone for ages. Faint muttering drifts down the line, something about needy girls with no sense of propriety, running after boys who don’t want them.
Finally, she gives you Emily's number. You pray to Godric she's not giving you a wrong number on purpose.
“Thank you,” you manage, civil as you can.
And finally, you grip the receiver tighter. Getting ready to make the third call of the night and your last chance of finding him. Your pulse is hammering and dread is crawling up your throat.
When Emily opens the door, she's wearing an elegant knit cardi-coat — dark brown like chocolate, flaring out into a skirt shape and covering all the way down past her knees like a beautiful winter dress, perfectly tailored for her slender figure, adorned with golden-brown buttons that look like gemstones. She looks beautiful and properly bundled up for the cold Autumn night.
“Ready for our night out, Remsy?” she chirps, slipping her arm through his before he can answer.
He’s tired. Pre-moon tired. But it’s Saturday, he promised he would take her out to dinner and spend a few hours with her tonight; and she’s looking at him like he’s the only thing worth looking at. So he musters a smile and lets himself be steered towards the street.
The restaurant is warm and candlelit, the sort of place that makes you lower your voice without realising. They are seated at their reserved table located at a cozy corner.
She's charming and politely flirty to the waiter, who offers them a few choice of house wines. She picks a red and a white. “Why not? Let's have fun!”
“Cheers,” she says, re-filling his glass before she’s even finished her own.
It’s easy to drink when she’s topping up his glass before he’s even finished the last one. The red with the starters, the white with the main course, then back to the red because “it goes better with the chocolate gâteau, don’t you think?”
The wine is smooth and heady, his shoulders loosening with every glass. He tells himself he’s fine — she’s matching him drink for drink, after all — but by the end of pudding, the warm candlelight seems to sway slightly, and his thoughts keep skipping like his old Queen record that James scratched.
He's relaxed. Too relaxed. He tries to concentrate on… something. He's forgetting something… important.
“Shoo! Shoo!” He hears what sounds like a little commotion towards the front entrance to the restaurant.
When the waiter comes back with a “post-dessert liqueur,” he humorously tells them that a ruddy owl was trying to fly into the restaurant. But it's been sorted and the poor bird finally gave up and flew away after a few good swaps of a kitchen towel.
‘An owl?’ Remus puzzles briefly in his alcohol-addled mind, then immediately becomes distracted by Emily's loud cackle.
“What a ridiculous thing! Fun story for the future, eh, Remsy?”
Next thing he knows, they're leaving. She links her arm through his again, and the cool night air barely cuts through the heat in his head.
A quick taxi ride later, he finds himself back at her flat.
Wait… was this the plan? What am I missing…?
“Just one more glass at mine?” she says, already unlocking her front door and pulling him in before he can answer.
Inside, her flat is warm and dimly lit, shadows curling into the corners. She disappears into the bedroom for “just a sec,” telling him to make himself comfortable on the sofa. He shrugs off his coat, flops down, and rubs at his eyes — trying to steady the slow spin in his head.
The clink of a bottle and the soft pop of a cork drift from the kitchen. Then she returns, balancing two glasses of wine in one hand.
And she’s shed the knit brown coat.
It takes him a moment — two, three — for the image to register.
A yellow dress. Where has he seen it before? His mind is sluggish and fuzzy. He lets out a confused huff.
Her hair is pinned up in the same style you wore a couple of Saturdays ago. And on her neck, a sun-shaped pendant that glints when she moves.
But Remus is too far-gone to register her deliberate, batshit psychotic, single-white-female outfit choice.
Something about it snags at the edges of his fogged brain. Something's… strange. Wrong. Like a note played off-key he can't place.
“You like?” she says, doing a slow little twirl before handing him his glass.
“Yeah…?” he says automatically, but the word feels thick in his mouth.
She perches beside him, close, oppressively warm and smelling of her cloying perfume, her knee brushing his. “I saw this and thought of you.”
He sips his drink, trying to put his finger on why this is bothering him. But the wine is heavier now, pressing against the back of his eyes, and the thought slips away.
You finally got Emily's number from Mrs. Meddley, after what feels like a lifetime of deliberate faffing — and dial the rotary phone with nervous, trembling fingers.
One ring. Two. Three. Four.
A breathy, syrup-sweet voice, pitched low enough that you have to strain to hear it.
“Emily? Is Remus there? It’s—”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake… it’s you?” she murmurs, voice dropping to a sharp, poisonous whisper. “Ringing my house at this hour? You got some nerve! Don't you know we're busy?”
Your jaw tightens. “This is important, listen—”
“I don’t give a fuck if it’s an emergency,” she hisses, still just above a breath. “Don’t care if you’re dying, bleeding to death, whatever sob story you’ve cooked up. He’s mine. Go find some other loser to babysit you.”
You glance at the clock. Eleven-forty. There's still time.
“Listen, Emily, Remus forgot to take his medicine, and it's very important—”
“What medicine?” she cuts in, venom curling in every syllable. “Stop making up lies just to get him to run to you! Why are you so obsessed with my boyfriend? You’re pathetic. You ugly, desperate bitch.”
“Look, can you just please give him a mess—”
“No, I’m not giving him any bloody messages from you. Now fuck off! And don't ever ring here again!”
The line goes dead, leaving only the ticking of the clock and the rapid pulse hammering in your ears.
Remus blinks at the sound of a voice — slightly raised, vicious, but muffled. He can’t quite catch all the words, but her tone is sharp enough to cut glass.
Then — a slam, followed by the faint ding of a bell.
“What’s going on?” His voice is groggy, rough.
She glances over her shoulder like she didn’t expect him to hear any of that. Her smile is immediate, too bright.
In a breath, she’s straddling his lap, fingers curling into his hair. “Now, where were we?”
He blinks at her, the alcohol still humming through his veins, but now there’s enough clarity left to push her back.
“No, Em. I… I should go.”
“Oh, come on, Remsy—” she starts unbuttoning his trousers.
“No. Not tonight. Not… like this.” His voice is firmer this time, though his limbs feel heavy as lead and the room’s spinning just a bit.
He stands, swaying, and fumbles for his coat.
“Can I see you tomorrow, then?” Emily whines.
Tomorrow? Tomorrow? What's tomorrow? Something important…
“I’ll ring you when I can, alright? Night.” He tries to make it sound clearer than it feels in his mouth.
As he closes her door he hears… something. A thud, maybe. Something hitting a wall and shattering wetly. Followed by a snarling scream…? He's not sure.
Walking’s the only safe option; Apparating like this would be begging for a splinching. There are no more buses at this hour either. And he doesn't have enough muggle money left for a taxi.
So he walks. Slowly, with tripping and faltering steps.
The city blurs past in pools of streetlamp light, and the October air bites at his face, sobering him inch by inch.
By the time he reaches the flat, it’s close to two-thirty in the morning.
He opens the door to darkness. Whispers Lumos, just enough light to find his way to the kitchen.
He turns the kitchen light on.
You’re slumped over the kitchen island, cheek pressed to folded arms. Your face is blotchy from crying, nose red and eyes swollen even in sleep.
And then, he notices it: the full Wolfsbane bottle sitting in your hand like you’ve been clutching it for hours.
His stomach drops straight through the floor.
He crosses the room quickly, shaking your shoulder gently.
“Hey. Hey dovey, I’m here. I'm here.”
You stir, blinking blearily, before you realise who it is. And then you smell the alcohol in him. Next thing you’re fully upright, hiccuping through angry tears.
“Do you have any idea—” Your voice cracks. “Any idea how selfish, how irresponsible, how—” Another sob rips through you. “—how bloody stupid you’ve been tonight?”
“It wasn't intentional, I just—” He's still slurring his words a bit.
You shake the bottle at him. “This is your fucking life, Remus! Your safety! The safety of others! How could you put anything else before this one thing?”
You shove the bottle into his chest, and hold it there until he takes it.
“Everyone is worried sick! Your mum, James, Lily, Sirius— me! And you didn’t even— How could you do this to yourself, Remus? How could you forget?”
“I’m sorry,” he says, already reaching for you, but you shove him back.
“No! Don’t you dare touch me! You promised me! You promised me you would take it while I was gone! Every day, same time! You broke your promise, for what? For a drink and a shag?!”
Tears and snot are coming down your face. You don't care.
“I didn't—” His own voice is shaking now, the truth of it hitting like cold water.
“I fucked up. I’m sorry.”
You wipe at your cheeks, breath hitching, and look away.
“I can't… I can't even look at you right now. I want to… hit you! Just… Go to bed. Drink water and go to bed. We'll have to sort this out tomorrow. I can't—”
With another violent sob, you march down to your own bedroom, and slam the door.
He stands there in the kitchen, still half-drunk, feeling every bit the idiot he is.
This one’s going straight into the Remus Lupin Hall of Fame of Monumental Cock-Ups.
♥️🐺♥️🐺♥️🐺♥️🐺♥️🐺♥️🐺♥️🐺♥️🐺♥️🐺♥️
Mamie: French for ‘grandma.’
Sacré veinard: “you bloody lucky sod.”
It's very naïve of me how I keep starting new chapters believing that, this time I will fit a whole month in one! Haha. Hahahahaha.
Please let me know your thoughts and feelings before you read the next one! Likes and comments fuel my fire, and motivate me to write like the wind! Just be kind, please. Thank you so much for reading! ♡♡♡♡♡
©daydreamandforget; do not copy, translate, or repost my work anywhere under any circumstances.
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