The hill I will die on.
He looks so much better and i think he's much more handsome
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#extradirty
Claire Keane
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Love Begins
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@krazyk99
The hill I will die on.
He looks so much better and i think he's much more handsome
I've rarely seen a more validating sentence in my entire life.
reblog to disturb jk rowling
REBLOG IF YOU USED TUMBLR IN 2011 - 2013
If so, you knew how turnt Tumblr use to be
Okay, I've seen some people suggesr Celine killed Rumi's mother (or sometimes just her father) becuase of the demon fucking, but like.
Nah.
Look at how convinced she is that the girls wouldn't accept Rumi.
Look at how scared she is of the patterns- of what they represent, yeah, but of anyone seeing them.
Her first thought when she sees Rumi in the tree scene is that they can come up with something to hide it from the other hunters.
And the conspicuous lack of information about the third Sunshine Sister...
I think Rumi's mother was killed by another member of her band.
I don't think it was Celine.
And I think there is a reason Rumi knows Celine has it in her, to kill someone she cares about.
OH my god i never considered that the third Sunshine Sister killed Rumi's mother!
Getting ready with rosekiller
ghost - jegulus - @into-the-jeggyverse - word count: 286
James was laying in bed, flat on his back with his arm flung across his face. Eyes closed, gently lulled into that gap between being awake and asleep where his limbs felt heavy and his head felt light.
Quietly, voice thick with sleep, he murmured into the room. “Would you still love me if I was a worm?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, James.” Regulus replied softly. “I’d put you in the garden, feed you to the birds.”
“That’s mean.” James smiled softly. “I’d still love you. I’d buy a tank for you and keep you forever.”
“Yes, well. You’re an idiot.”
“Your idiot.” A smile tugged at the corner of James’ lips. “How about if I was a dog? Would you keep me then?”
“Nah.” Regulus snorted softly. “I’d give you to Sirius. He’s always wanted one.”
“That’s fair. I’d be such a good dog for him.” James shifted slightly, as if to roll over onto his side, but decided against it. “You’d make a good cat. I think that’s what you’d be if you were an animal. All regal and grumpy.”
Regulus made a non-commital sound and the room filled with silence once more, the only sounds to be heard were gentle breaths and the breeze outside brushing through the trees.
James broke the silence once more with a whisper, cracked around the edges. “Would you still love me if I was a ghost?”
“Of course I would, Jamie.” Another beat of silence passed. “You still love me, don’t you? And I’m a ghost.”
James finally rolled onto his side and opened his eyes a crack to see only the empty space where Regulus should be, sheets undisturbed as if he’d never been there at all.
You cannot possibly guess where this is going
I ain't even ashamed how many times I watched this.
Lmao this is the content I am here for.
Heirloom - Jegulus- @into-the-jeggyverse - Word count: 913
“James, have you seen my Chemistry textbook?” Regulus was running late and already regretting having stayed over at James’ the night before.
He didn't regret the sex, that was always fun, or even the cuddling after, but staying the night meant he was now rushing to get ready and be at his morning lectures on time.
The new chemistry teacher was a real pain in the arse and Regulus really didn’t want to have to come up with yet another lame excuse as to why he was late…again.
“Did you have it with you last night?” James’ voice answered back from the doorway, as he stepped back into his bedroom.
Regulus looked up to snap a reply, but his retort was caught in his throat.
James Potter, the despicable tease that he was, was standing in front of Regulus, dripping wet and wearing a towel tied low around his hips.
“Careful, love,” James smirked. “You're drooling.”
Regulus smacked James’ arm. “Oh, fuck you!”
“Later maybe, if you're good.” James laughed as he jumped out of the reach of Regulus’ second smack.
“Damnit, Potter. I don't have time for your shenanigans this morning!” Regulus was getting antsy as he clocked the time. Shit. He was definitely going to be late.
“You're right, I'm sorry.” All teasing gone from James’ voice. “Give me two mins and I can drop you at your class so you're not late, okay?”
“Are you sure? It's not exactly on your way.” Regulus hated putting people out, especially people he actually cared about.
“Of course,” James replied. Like going out of his way to drop Regulus at his lecture was nothing. Although, to James, it probably wasn't.
Regulus smiled to himself as he heard his brother’s voice in his head, “you deserve good things and good people, Reggie.”
“Thank you,” Regulus said with relief. “I'll meet you downstairs. I want to see if my book is in the kitchen.”
*on a hike*
Regulus: It’s so quiet out here.
James: Too quiet…
Regulus: Did we lose someone??
*cut to Barty with a bear in a headlock*
poly!marauders oneshot: the sex potion
in which regulus sends in a batch of potions to help remus during the full moon, and one of them is a little bit...off.
cw: bisexual mfm, remus walks in, oral (m and f receiving), p in v, needy james!
you’re trying to make dinner. emphasis on trying, because every time you turn back to the stove, one of your husbands pulls you back into whatever game they’re playing instead. by game, you mean: teeth sinking into skin, fingers tracing every bare inch, mouths devouring you with reckless need. chopping vegetables? forget it.
james is the absolute worst.
he’s leaned against the counter like it’s a goddamn runway, shirt hanging open enough to show the swell of his bare chest, the hot muscles flexing as he grins that maddening grin. his hazel eyes are glued to you, drinking in every movement as you stir the sauce with far too much distraction.
“you look so fucking good like that,” he says, voice low and rough, like he’s already tasting you. “real domestic. fuckin' sexy.”
you roll your eyes but the heat pooling low in your belly betrays you. “you’re doing nothing to help. if i burn this, you’re eating every crispy, bitter bite.”
“deal,” james shrugs, his voice thick with want. “as long as you feed me all sweet with a spoon.”
“you’re insufferable,” you mutter, but his hands don’t wait for permission. they slide up your waist, pressing your body back into his like you’re made to fit exactly here. "james--"
“love you soft like this,” he murmurs, his lips trailing hot kisses along your jaw, biting gently. “warm and yours. all mine.”
you almost melt when sirius strolls in, barefoot, cock straining against his pants, wild grin plastered across his face. “should i come back later? or is this a dinner-slash-orgy situation?”
“sirius.” you warn, breath hitching as james' fingers find your nipples. he rolls them between his rough fingers.
“darling,” he purrs, picking up a carrot and nibbling it like a devil caught red-handed, “you say that like i haven’t walked in on worse.”
james’s grip moves down and tightens at your waist, his breath hot against your ear. “stay with me. sauce can wait.”
you scowl, but don’t move because merlin, when james is this greedy, resistance is pointless.
sirius leans in, his hand sliding low along your back, fingers ghosting beneath your shirt to tease the soft skin above your jeans. “what’s got you all riled up, huh? james going all needy on you?”
you glance at him, smirking. “must be the potion.”
both freeze.
“potion?” sirius asks slowly, eyes narrowing.
“the one reg sent. said it was for moony, but i think the labels got mixed up—he left a note about it maybe being...experimental.”
sirius groans. “you let prongs near the potions, dove? again?”
“he drank it like it was pumpkin juice,” you say, deadpan. “no stopping him.”
james lifts his head from your shoulder, eyes glassy. “it tasted nice.”
“brilliant,” sirius mutters. “what’s it supposed to do?”
you shrug. “reg said enhanced magical sensitivity. but who knows what that really means.”
james gasps.
“enhanced magical sensitivity,” he repeats, voice thick. “is that why everything feels...fucking electric?”
sirius eyes him, suspicious. “what do you mean, electric?”
james swallows hard. “you’re just...hotter, pads. like every touch’s fire.”
you and sirius blink.
“he’s serious.” you say.
“no, i’m sirius!” sirius teases.
james groans, hips pressing harder into you. “not now, babe.”
you can feel the hard swell of his cock grinding against your ass, and fuck, that twist low in your belly tightens.
“well, shit,” sirius says, staring at the outline in james’s trousers. “horny potion it is, then.”
“might be worse.” you murmur, fingers twitching as james’s hands explore under your shirt, fingers tracing every curve like they’re memorizing you.
“you’re so soft, so warm,” james breathes, reverent. “feels like you’re glowing. i just want to bury myself inside you.”
his voice is rough, hungry, desperate.
sirius whistles low. “never letting him near potions again.”
“speak for yourself,” you gasp, breath hitching as james’s palm cups your breast, thumb brushing your swollen nipple until it pebbles under his touch. “best mistake he’s ever made.”
you turn your head just enough to catch james’s mouth on yours. his kiss is brutal; tongue thrusting deep, teeth grazing, like he’s starving. his hands grip your hips tight, pulling you flush against him, fingers digging into your skin.
sirius groans, sliding in close behind you both, his cock hard and hot pressing into james' back. his hands slip under your shirt, too, his fingertips teasing your ribs, nails grazing the soft swell of your waist. he cups your jaw, tilting your face toward him for a searing kiss that leaves you breathless.
james whimpers as he touches your body, feeling sirius' thick cock against him. you look up into his wide eyes.
“kitchen’s not safe.” you breathe out, voice thick with want.
“neither are we.” sirius murmurs, teeth sinking into your neck, leaving a trail of heat and fire.
you tug him closer, craving the sharp pleasure.
“enough teasing,” james pants, voice husky. “bend over the counter. now.”
“you're never this bossy, jamie,” sirius smirks, but he obeys, sliding your shirt up, exposing your bare back, slipping your jeans down just enough to reveal your lacy panties, soaked already. "i love it."
james drops to his knees behind you, hands gripping your thighs, spreading you wide open.
“fuck, look at you dripping,” he groans, mouth hungrily descending between your legs. his tongue flicks over your slick folds, licking slow and deep, worshipping every inch like it’s a precious secret.
sirius cups your jaw, pulling your face to him, kissing you as james devours your pretty pussy. “so fucking pretty,” he breathes. “gonna let us ruin you here?”
you nod, voice trembling, “please. need it. need you both.”
james growls, rutting against your thigh. “gonna fuck you full.”
sirius strokes your hair, whispering, “how do you want it, love?”
“you first, siri,” you say, heat burning through you. “want to ride you.”
he curses low, pulls his wand, vanishing your clothes, and with a flick, summons the lube. no time for the bedroom. he pulls you onto the kitchen chair, cock already hard and slick.
he slides inside you slow, hands gripping your hips tight, both of you moaning at the perfect fit. “fuck, so tight,” sirius pants, hips rocking.
you grind down on him, savoring the delicious stretch.
james stands, cock leaking pre, flushed and eager. “wanna feel your mouth,” he whispers. "please, love."
you open up for him, and he slides in easy, hand cupping the back of your head, guiding you deep. you’re full—mouth, cunt, and now throat—with two hard cocks, and it’s everything.
james’s strokes are steady, lips devouring you while sirius fucks your cunt with relentless need.
remus finds you ten minutes later. he pauses at the door, watching the mess of bodies, breathless and slick with sweat.
“did the potion do this?” he asks, calm but amused.
james groans, “moony, please—come join us—”
you pull off james’s cock for a breath, gasping, “help—he’s insatiable.”
remus laughs, locking the door behind him.
“well,” he says, eyes dark, “dinner’s officially canceled.” part 2
poly!marauders oneshots: the sex potion pt. 2
part 1
cw: bi!mmmf, kissing, dp, oral (female and male receiving), anal, masturbation (james gets himself off for a sec)
remus steps in slow, lazy and in control like always, but there’s a sharp gleam in his amber eyes as he takes the scene in; james flushed and panting, cock slick from your mouth, sirius buried deep in your cunt, holding you so tight he might bruise, and you trembling between them, wrecked and needy and glowing with sweat.
“look at you,” remus murmurs, voice gone gravel-deep as he steps behind you. “fuck, you’re beautiful like this, dovey. ruined already?”
you shake your head, gasping, “not enough, rem.”
“she’s greedy,” sirius pants, thrusting up into you hard enough to make the chair scrape across the tile. “fucking perfect, yeah? always wants more.”
“she deserves more,” remus says simply, dropping to his knees behind you. "always does."
his hands, which are much cooler than james’s feverish ones, but rougher than sirius’s long fingers, settle on your hips, and then his tongue slides lower, past where you’re stretched wide on sirius’s cock, licking at the messy place where you’re joined.
you mewl at the feeling. remus licks you open like he’s starving, tongue lapping up every bit of slick, spit, and cum dripping from your cunt, flicking over your rim with filthy precision. his thumbs pull you open wider so he can lick deeper, tongue pushing against your tight hole, wet and hot and unrelenting.
“fuck—fuck, remus,” you sob, body shaking between all three of them. "yes, yes, yes!"
sirius groans, head falling back, eyes fluttering shut as he feels remus’s tongue press against his cock through your walls. “he’s licking my cock through her, jamie, merlin—”
“yeah?” remus rasps, voice muffled in your cunt. he brings himself up to kiss siri on the lips. hard. “taste yourself, pads. taste her. bet you like that, huh? tell me."
“yes,” sirius moans, rocking up harder, fucking you deep while remus keeps you spread open and gasping. "please!"
remus goes back down to attach his mouth onto your aching clit. your eyes roll to the back of your head at the feeling.
james strokes himself as he watches, his hand slick and slow, eyes glassy. “you look so fucking good like this, dove. used like you need to be. our sweet thing. love you so much, dove.”
“want you, jamie” you whimper, looking up at him through tear-slick lashes. “want to taste you again.”
“c'mere.” he groans, and you lean up just enough to take him back into your mouth, sucking him deep until your lips brush the base, throat working around him. he curses, low and vicious, hand fisting your hair to guide the rhythm. “fuck, just like that, y/n. your mouth’s fucking heaven.”
remus pulls back for breath, dragging a finger through your slick hole and circling your rim slowly. “gonna stretch you out here, sweetheart. fill every part of you. you want that?”
you sob around james’s cock, nodding wildly.
sirius huffs out a laugh, voice tight with effort. “she’s cockdrunk already, moony."
remus slicks his fingers with his spit and your mess, then presses one inside your ass slow, inch by inch. you moan around james, back arching, the stretch intense but perfect.
“so tight back here,” remus murmurs, voice all praise. “gonna take me so well, won’t you? gonna be my best girl?”
you nod again, babbling nonsense, too full and too desperate to form words. james slips from your mouth, hand pumping himself as he watches remus work another finger into you, scissoring them slowly.
“fuck, moony, she’s shaking,” sirius breathes, his thrusts slowing so you don’t tip too far. “she’s gonna come.”
“not yet,” remus says sharply. “not until she’s full of all three of us.”
“yes,” james moans. “yes, fuck, that’s it. want her stuffed full, moony. fuck her while pads fills her cunt—want to watch your cock fuck up into her while she sucks me off again.”
your pussy tightens at his words, back bowing as remus presses a third finger in, stretching you wide. the burn makes you tremble, but you don’t want him to stop. you want all of them.
“you ready for me, love?” remus whispers, kissing the base of your spine. “gonna take me now?”
you pull off of james' cock. “yes! yes, please, remmy, want it so bad.”
sirius lifts you up, keeping his cock buried inside you, and remus helps guide you onto all fours across the kitchen table. you’re a beautiful wreck: sweaty, dripping, flushed all over, body slick with spit and precum.
remus positions himself behind you, cock thick and flushed, pushing slowly into your ass until he’s buried to the hilt.
you moan.
james grabs your face, kisses you hard. “breathe, dove. you’ve got us. you’re perfect.”
sandwiched between sirius and remus, both of them buried deep in your cunt and ass, you can barely think. you’re full—so fucking full—and they don’t even move yet, just let you shake and flutter around them, letting you adjust.
“so good for us, dove.” remus murmurs, kissing your spine.
“so fucking perfect.” sirius echoes, brushing your hair back as he rolls his hips shallowly.
then they start to move—slow at first, careful and coordinated. sirius fucks into you deep while remus pulls out halfway and thrusts back in. every movement drags against sensitive walls, lighting your whole body on fire.
james kisses down your throat, your chest, biting your nipples as he watches them ruin you.
“god, look at you,” he pants into your chest. “never seen anything so fucking hot.”
you’re babbling, begging for more, for anything—legs trembling, mind blank.
sirius speeds up first, rough now, fucking you so hard the table shakes beneath you. remus matches him, fucking your ass just as deep, balls slapping against your thighs.
“gonna fill her,” remus growls. “gonna stuff her full—gonna come inside her—”
“me too,” sirius gasps. “fuck, dove, gonna come—gonna fill your sweet little cunt up—”
you come first, loud and broken and blinding, clenching around them both so hard they shout your name.
sirius follows, groaning as he spills inside you, hips grinding deep, trying to stay buried while he pulses hot. remus isn’t far behind, snarling as he fills your ass with thick warmth, fingers digging bruises into your hips.
they keep you held close as you collapse between them, gasping and soaked and full of them.
james strokes your hair, eyes soft even as his cock twitches against your cheek.
“open up for me, love,” he whispers. “let me finish on your face.”
you blink up at him, lips parting, tongue out—and he comes with a shout, thick ropes spilling across your tongue and cheeks as he strokes himself through it.
“fuck,” he breathes, watching you swallow. “fuck, you’re unreal.”
you sag into sirius’s chest, utterly ruined, cockdrunk and fucked full of them. he pulls you in for a delectable kiss, tasting james' cum on your tongue.
“so,” sirius pants, stroking your side, “anyone still want dinner?”
remus laughs softly behind you, still buried deep. “think we’ve eaten enough for now.”
tags for this oneshot: @daydreamandforget, @elle-jay-2
poly!marauders (minus peter, im sorry pete) first time with you, I BEG
having sex with poly!marauders for the first time *. ⋆4k words
cw: (it's ovulation week, iykyk) smut. fem!afab!reader. piv. unprotected sex. creampie. praise. dirty talk. they all take turns. light choking. light overstimulation. fingering. oral sex (male!receiving, like, A LOT) small aftercare at the end. lmk if i missed something!
a/n: yeah... i got a bit carried away. i just couldn't help myself:)) anyway, thanks for requesting and hope you enjoy it, lovie. remember english isn't my first language!
it starts with warmth.
you’re tucked between them, half under james’ arm, your back pressed to remus’ chest, sirius is sprawled at the foot of the bed like he owns it—which, technically, he might, judging by the way his smirk lingers even when he’s pretending to be tired. the night is quiet except for the faint rustle of sheets and their breathing surrounding you from every direction.
THE FLAT – PART 6 ♥️🐺♥️
Remus Lupin x fem!reader, Marauder's Era, Post Hogwarts (1978-1979)
Word Count: 15K
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.
♥️🐺♥️🐺♥️🐺♥️🐺♥️🐺♥️🐺♥️🐺♥️🐺♥️🐺♥️
Sunday, 1 October, 1978
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.
Like soulmate magic.
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.
Be brave.
Do the right thing.
Instead of putting himself through the pain he is right now.
Because, as it stands:
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.
It's… magic.
——
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.
Get home.
Shower. In scalding hot water — to wash away his sins.
——
Monday, 2 October 1978
“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.”
“As they should.”
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.
He relaxes.
“Oh, um… Emily called, looking for you.”
He tenses.
“Oh.”
“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.
“Is this your dinner?”
“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.”
“Alright. I will.”
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?”
(...) (…) “That’s not—“
(...) (...) “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—“
(...) (...) "Don't—”
(...) “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.”
(...) “Alright. Bye.”
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.”
“I won't. Promise.”
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.”
“You're not having any?”
“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.”
“Em, that’s not fair—”
“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.
Inside, he’s dying.
He's finally able to leave after a lot of coaxing and more tears.
♥️🐺♥️ ♥️🐺♥️ ♥️🐺♥️
Friday, 6 October, 1978
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.
Robbie.
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.
"Hello?
(...) “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.
“Dovey, it's your mum.”
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.
Bloody. Hell.
Your… brother?
“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.
Bollocks!
“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?
Your… brother.
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—
And then he wakes up.
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.
“Who is that?”
“Who?”
“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.
It doesn’t work.
“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?”
“Emily, I—”
“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.”
“That’s not—”
“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!”
Wrong move.
“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!”
“Emily, please, don't—”
“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!”
“That’s not true—”
“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:
Emily,
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.
Please don't ring me.
— Remus
Remus makes sure to give your very clever owl Flo extra treats for the stealth delivery of his envelope.
♥️🐺♥️ ♥️🐺♥️ ♥️🐺♥️
Sunday, 8 October, 1978
“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.
“Thanks a lot.”
“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?”
“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.
♥️🐺♥️ ♥️🐺♥️ ♥️🐺♥️
Monday, 9 October, 1978
“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.
‘No, absolutely not.’
‘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.
Emily.
He tenses.
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.
“Morning, stranger.”
Remus had been bracing for sharp words and maybe a scene; not the warm, almost shy smile she gives him now.
He blinks. “Emily.”
“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.
“Em?”
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.
He relaxes a bit more.
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.”
“See you tomorrow, Em.”
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.
For now.
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.
♥️🐺♥️ ♥️🐺♥️ ♥️🐺♥️
Friday, 13 October, 1978
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.
“What?”
“Blue.”
“Ha. So they say.”
“You really look like him, you know.”
“Who?”
“Clark.”
“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.”
“Promise?”
“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.
“Haha! Like a witch?”
“Yeah.”
“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.
You look at him funny.
“You do?”
“Why the tone of surprise?”
“Well, to be honest — and I don't mean to offend… I thought you like blokes.”
Robbie laughs.
“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.
“All right.”
“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.
“Just kissing.”
“Just kissing.”
“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.
This is… easy.
It’s… nice. Good.
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.
“Sure.”
“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?”
“Yeah. I’d like that.”
♥️🐺♥️ ♥️🐺♥️ ♥️🐺♥️
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.
“Remus? Where are 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.
One hour goes by.
You start to worry.
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.”
“Hold on, Let me see…”
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.
“Thank you Hope.”
“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.
Click.
A breathy, syrup-sweet voice, pitched low enough that you have to strain to hear it.
“Hello?”
“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.
“Nothing. Wrong number.”
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.
Water. He needs water.
He turns the kitchen light on.
And sees you.
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.
“Oh, fuck…”
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.
♥️🐺♥️🐺♥️🐺♥️🐺♥️🐺♥️🐺♥️🐺♥️🐺♥️🐺♥️
PART 7 (Coming soon)
Mamie: French for ‘grandma.’
Sacré veinard: “you bloody lucky sod.”
Mon loup: my wolf.
A/N:
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.
Taglist: @rulesareshadesofgrey @whimsymoonpages @jaylupinblack @notsolong-pause @screechingoversomethingprbly @ctanganq
THE FLAT – PART 5 ♥️🐺♥️
Remus Lupin x fem!reader, Marauder's Era, Post Hogwarts (1978-1979)
Word Count: 9K
PROLOGUE P 1 P 2 P 3 P 4 P5 P 6 P 7 P 8 EPILOGUE
SUMMARY: And here I thought we were through September… Turns out a lot can happen in one week. We pick up on the evening after the infamous med school exam, and like helpless flies on the wall, we witness even more miscommunication — or rather, zero communication — leading to sheer stupidity and heartbreak all around.
Remus is an emotionally constipated, touch-starved drama llama in this one. Our girl? Also not communicating great — but hers is the clueless, hopeful kind of ignorance (which is still Not Good, but heartbreakingly earnest). Sirius Black shows up spitting fire out his nose like a Hungarian Horntail, shocking everybody. And our favourite sassy brother returns with perfect timing.
So yes, there’s honey and spice and cream… amidst all the vinegar I’m force-feeding you.
TAGS: Marauders Era AU. Slow burn. Best friends to lovers. DUMB!flatmates with feelings. Canon divergence (no war, no deaths). Soulmate vibes.
WARNINGS: THIS ONE WILL HURT. But don't worry. It will get even worse later. 😈😭 My own mild interpretation of soulmate-magic trying to interfere with logical idiocy. I've done zero research on soulmate-magic lore and regret nothing. Foul language, Brit-style. Violence — blood will be spilled, as well as top-grade venom.
Please don't hate Remus. Please don't hate Sirius. Please don't even hate Robbie (too much). Everything has a purpose and a pay-off in the end.
BUT PLEASE FEEL FREE TO ABSOLUTELY HATE EMILY. SHE'S A VILLAIN AND A COW.
♥️🐺♥️🐺♥️🐺♥️🐺♥️🐺♥️🐺♥️🐺♥️🐺♥️🐺♥️
Monday, 1 January, 1979
As you awaken slowly and feel a warm and soft naked body spooning you while snoring softly on your neck, you can’t help but think about your regrets.
So, so many regrets…
And then you allow your imagination to take over for a minute.
Because, If you could get your hands on a Time-Turner — Oh, Merlin, how you wish you could get your hands on a fucking Time-Turner — you know exactly where you would go back to.
It would take a ridiculous amount of concentration — and small-muscle dexterity — to get all 2,232 turns perfectly done without messing it up, to go back to the morning of the thirtieth of September.
To warn yourself. To make different choices. To speak up. To avoid all this. To prevent every bit of the shitstorm that has plagued your life, from that day up to last night. To undo the mess and skip to the good part already.
Because — buggering hell… You could have done without the fuckery.
♥️🐺♥️ ♥️🐺♥️ ♥️🐺♥️
FRIDAY, 22 SEPTEMBER, 1978
You come home around five in the evening — exhausted, relieved, longing for your flatmate's arms, his sweet voice, daft jokes, and wonderful company.
He’s not home. Odd.
He finally comes through the door quarter to seven.
“Hey, Rem!”
“Hey.”
“I was looking for you!”
“What for?”
“To celebrate with you? You know, doing well on my first major exam at Oxford. At least I think I did well.”
“I’m sure you did...” He feels the usual heart-pull to cheek/praise his brilliant friend, but chooses instead to say,
“...with all that studying...”
You pause, puzzled. But then—
“Yeah, exactly. Listen, I know I’ve been neglecting you a bit this past week. I’m sorry. Let me make it up to you, let's do something fun and daft, yeah?”
“What about Robbie?”
“What about him?”
“Thought you’d want to… celebrate with him.”
“No, Robbie stayed in his dorm. He’s going out with the rest of the gang tonight, I think.”
“Why aren’t you with him then? With them?”
“Because I wanted to come home and see you, I miss you. I just said that.”
Remus almost relents, seeing the vulnerability in your eyes.
And then he remembers:
The closed bedroom door.
The giggling.
The squeaking.
“Oh! Robbie!”
“Hope we didn’t wake you last night. Or this morning.”
So he lets out a Lupin-esque grunt and moves toward his bedroom. You follow him, not even thinking.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. Tired. Long week.”
He goes into his wardrobe. You sit on his bed.
“Where were you so late? What were you doing?”
"What's with the twenty questions?”
“What d'you mean? I just want to know how you've been.”
“Busy, just like you. Working.”
You hear the rustling of clothes coming off hangers, then the rustling of clothes coming off and on his skin. Drawers opening and closing. The spritzing of perfume. Other than those sounds… silence from him.
You feel a chill in the air. Did I do something wrong?
He comes out, wearing a pretty chocolate-brown suede jacket over a white V-neck tee and dark green jeans. Wearing cologne. He looks and smells divine.
You can't help but smile.
“That's nice. We’re going out then?”
He puts on his watch. He almost feels bad. Almost.
“I’m going out. Not with you.”
Your smile drops into a pout instantly.
Remus feels a tiny bit bad. But his words are still short and gruff.
“I have plans. Sorry, I didn’t know you wanted to do something.”
“It’s Friday, we always do something.”
“Rain check then. Go to James, I know they’re having a get-together tonight. I'm sure they would love to see you.” He's halfway out of the room as he speaks.
“Alright. I guess… Where are you—“
“I have to go. See you later, Y/N.”
You hear the icy way he says your name. And after a foggy minute, you hear the front door being shut in a hurry.
And just like that, he’s gone.
Something is definitely wrong.
♥️🐺♥️ ♥️🐺♥️ ♥️🐺♥️
You decide to follow Remus’s suggestion and go to Potter Manor tonight. James and Lily have been living together temporarily in a semi-separate wing of the mansion for two weeks already, and you haven't visited them yet.
“Where’s Moony?” Sirius asks immediately after hugging you. You shrug, shaking your head and pursing your lips.
“He said he had plans, and… went out.”
“Went out? Just like that?”
“Couldn’t get out of the flat fast enough, it looked like.”
“Plans, he said? …Plans that don’t involve you?”
“We’re not that codependent, are we?”
“Don’t try and pretend you’re not baffled too.”
“Yeah. He seemed… weird about it.”
“Weird, how?”
“Dunno, bit grumpy about something? Different from his usual ‘grumpy-Remus’ days.”
“I’ll try and talk to him tomorrow. Get the stick out of his anus, you know.”
“Gross, Sirius.” A beat. “Thank you.”
Everyone is congratulating you on the big test, asking questions about classes and ‘what weird muggle healing nonsense’ you’re learning there, while enjoying Euphemia’s and Lily’s excellent cooking. You and Lily do your best to explain to the purebloods things like echocardiograms, X-rays, tetanus shots, and getting stitches for more serious cuts — while the boys (and sometimes even Fleamont) groan and make disgusted faces. Euphemia, an excellent magical healer herself, listens to everything with open-minded interest and excellent follow-up questions.
After dinner, Monty and Effie bid you goodnight and return to their own quarters, leaving ‘the youngsters’ to continue hanging out until the wee hours, as you do.
“Alright everyone. Lily and I have some good news too.”
You and Sirius stop your conversation and turn your attention to the engaged couple, as James continues.
“Lily and I found a place. A beautiful cottage with plenty of rooms and a massive garden, surrounded by rolling hills. Needs some work done, but we're hoping to move in by mid-December.”
“Wow. That’s major. Have you told your parents?” Sirius asks, motioning to where the Potters just left.
“Not yet. James is a bit worried about how they’ll take it.” Lily answers, patting her fiancé’s hand.
“I’m sure they’ll get it. You’re starting your lives together. It’s only natural to ‘leave the nest’ and all that,” you say.
“Well, I guess it’s time for me to find my own place too, then.” Sirius has been living at the manor since he ran away two years ago.
“Where is it, the future Evans-Potter estate?” You ask James.
“Godric’s Hollow.”
You huffed a laugh. “You’re such a Gryffindor.”
“Hey, it’s beautiful there. Yes, there’s loads of ‘house of lion’s’ history around the village, but we picked it because it’s charming and peaceful, and the property we found is a dream, perfect for Lily’s potioneer business and to raise our five or six little Potters.”
“Oi! I agreed to one or two. After that, renegotiations will be required.”
“Of course, Lilyflower, my queen.” James coos against her lips.
“I have an announcement too.” Sirius interjects brightly. “I’ve decided to contribute my outstanding gifts and talents to society and join my best mate James Potter in the Auror program come January. Got the approval letter from Mad-Eye Moody today.”
James squawks like a deranged diricawl.
“WHAT?!? You didn’t tell me this, you wanker! How can you withhold from me the best news of my life?!?”
“Hello? Accepting your marriage proposal and moving in together?” Lily protests, flipping her ring finger like it’s her middle. You giggle softly with all of them.
“I wanted to make sure it was going to happen before I told you, since I sent in my application so late. Turns out Minnie and Dumbledore vouched for me. Who would’ve thunk, huh?”
“Of course they did! You’re brilliant! We’re gonna be brilliant! I’m the happiest bloke alive!” Lily just rolls her eyes and you laugh again.
“We’re gonna clean up this town!” Sirius tried his piss-poor gruff American-copper movie impersonation.
“All right, Serpico,” you add and Lily laughs harder.
James immediately starts play-dueling with Sirius, making weird sound-effects as if his wand shot lasers like that muggle film you made everyone watch about wars in space last Christmas break; by the time it turns physical (it always does with the two of them), the two future Aurors are grabbing each other while rolling on the floor, giggling like idiots.
“Maybe Sirius can carry your five children too!” Lily sasses while filling all your flute-shaped glasses with the bubbly elderflower drink, for a toast.
“You know my heart and my dick only beat for you, my love.”
“GROSS!” You and Lily shout in perfect unison.
“I’ll show you gross!” James gets up and attacks his fiancée with sloppy kisses, and she laughs, hard, almost spilling the crystal pitcher. “I’ll show you gross!!!” Sirius, never to be outdone, joins the love pile next while pulling you right in, and you all scream and laugh harder as he bites and licks your faces like a deranged puppy.
The happiness of your friends is contagious, you can’t help but join in. If only Remus was here tonight… it’s just not quite the same without him. Nothing is.
It was a nice night, overall. It always is with them.
Before you leave, the four of you make plans. According to the weather forecast, the following weekend is supposedly the last warm and rain-free one in London for quite some time, so everyone decides to finally have a proper barbecue at your nice terrace on Saturday. You leave the manor feeling better than you arrived, reassured by Lily and James that it will be a fab, fun day.
“There's no way Moony would want to miss that,” James encourages you while squeezing your middle for his goodbye hug.
♥️🐺♥️ ♥️🐺♥️ ♥️🐺♥️
Saturday, 30 September, 1978
Lily and James arrive around ten in the morning to help you with preparations on the roof terrace.
You have no idea where Remus is — no idea where he’s been for most of the week, since he's barely been around in the evenings, and when he has, he spoke very little beyond housekeeping logistics and hollow pleasantries. You don't even know if he'll come today. You don't know why he's so distant.
So you’re grateful for your friends’ help and presence.
“Don’t you look smashing, sis! Is this a new dress?” Lily greets you warmly.
As a matter of fact, it is. One of the pieces from the new batch your mum insisted on — a celebratory wardrobe for your new life, your new flat, your new future.
It’s a light, floaty sundress in a butter-yellow cotton voile, speckled with tiny embroidered daisies. The neckline dips just enough to hint at your delicate clavicle, and the hem flutters high above your knees when the breeze picks up — bare legs catching the mild September sun. Thin straps tie at your shoulders, delicate little bows brushing your skin whenever you move.
You’ve paired it with white canvas plimsolls, just scuffed enough to prove you actually live in them. No makeup, just a swipe of something natural-coloured on your lips and a bit of blush from the sun. Hair up, loosely clipped, little wisps curling at your temples.
Casual. Comfortable. A look that’s always made Remus stop whatever he was doing, just to admire you. Just to make you blush. Just to make you imagine him kissing you for no reason at all.
Your terrace is already a beautiful space, a rare luxury in London: laid with wide, warm-toned timber decking that matches the downstairs balconies. The outer edges are bordered by a handsome parapet of steel and dark-tinted reinforced glass, which offers a sense of openness without compromising safety or privacy. There’s a smart built-in barbecue unit tucked neatly to one side — powered either by propane or magical flame, depending on who’s manning it — with polished granite prep counters and sleek storage beneath.
There's very little you need to do to accommodate all the friends that are coming. Since you've moved in, both Hope and your mum have contributed neat little touches to your 'roof garden’: there are beautiful outdoor garden chairs and umbrellas hand-picked by your décor-savvy mum, and even a double swing seat in one of the shaded corners.
Huge outdoor vases made of elegant, lightweight white fiberglass house flowers and plants transplanted from Lupin cottage and ideal for every season: currently there are sedum, Japanese anemone, and deep purple asters in bloom, a few hanging planters with calibrachoa, trailing down like miniature petunia waterfalls. Beautiful all-weather trellises drip with climbing Clematis 'Polish Spirit', still stubbornly in flower despite the season’s shifting. A few long, horizontal pots hold rosemary, basil, mint and bay, both ornamental, fragrant, and handy for Remus's cooking.
Thanks to a subtle bit of household magic, all of it is self-watering and climate-charmed, maintenance-free, despite appearances. Beautiful butterflies and humming birds flutter about as if summoned by the surprising oasis in the middle of the urban jungle. It all looks impossibly curated and wildly alive. A living magazine spread with moving pictures and soothing smells.
All you need is some extra furniture added for eating and drinking, and you're set for today. Tables and folding chairs are being Accio’d into position now. Lily is charming the crisp linen tablecloths so they won’t flutter in the wind. James is in charge of prepping all the grilling meats and drinks. Sirius is late, and will probably contribute next to nothing, as usual.
Lily’s brought most of the side dishes: her summery pasta salad with olives and sundried tomatoes, homemade coleslaw, and a big dish of new potatoes with herby vinaigrette. Effie Potter sent along a stack of crusty homemade floury baps and soft finger rolls for the hot dogs, wrapped lovingly in tea towels to keep warm. There's a tray of pork sausages, burgers made with beef and chopped onion, chicken drumsticks marinated in lemon and garlic, and a Tupperware of skewers waiting to be grilled: peppers, mushrooms, red onion, and halloumi.
The drinks table is set: ginger beer, elderflower cordial, Pimm’s, and a couple of big pitchers of homemade lemonade. There’s sparkling wine too, and a few chilled bottles of lager tucked into a cauldron filled with ice — courtesy of Sirius, obviously, who insisted it wasn’t a proper gathering without “a bit of piss-up potential.”
The sky is blue and clear. There's the faint smell of charcoal in the air. You feel… hopeful. Even excited. It feels like this could be one of those golden days you’ll all remember.
Yeah… Everyone will remember. For better or worse.
♥️🐺♥️ ♥️🐺♥️ ♥️🐺♥️
As friends and family start to arrive, Lily organizes the last touches with you in tow.
“Everyone! Welcome! Remember: no magic in front of the muggle!” Lily shouts in a commanding tone.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you. My friend Robbie is no longer coming. Turns out he has to be with family this weekend. So, no muggles after all.”
“Oh… Um, actually Remus said he—”
VROOOOOOOM! WHOOOOOOOOSH! CRAAAASH!!! SKIIIIID!!!
Lily's response is interrupted by the chaotic arrival and quite dangerous landing of Nike The Bikey. Three folding chairs fly in the air, landing on top of and shattering two little vases of wildflowers. And the decking has a huge skid mark. Again.
“SIRIUS! FOR MERLIN'S SAKE!” She runs towards him with her wand up followed by James, who also yells, “SIRIUS! NICE LANDING, MATE!” at the same time.
While Lily rips Sirius a new one (which you’re grateful for, saves you the effort), you head off to greet the guests arriving by much safer means: apparating discreetly to the alley downstairs and taking the lift up, landing softly on broomsticks, or flooing into the fireplace upstairs.
Frank and Alice Longbottom, who recently got married and have been promoted to top-tier Aurors. Marlene and Dorcas turn up next, bronzed and smug after vanishing to some South Pacific paradise for two weeks. Peter Pettigrew — who’s barely surfaced since graduation and seems to have forgotten how friends work — arrives with Mary Macdonald on his arm, looking a little too pleased with himself, an official Ministry broach on his lapel.
You’d tried every trick in the book to convince Regulus to sneak out of Hogwarts for the weekend — he’s in his final year — and when you spot him skulking through the crowd like he’s halfway to Azkaban, your heart flips. You hug him the hardest.
“REGGIE! Merlin, you came! Welcome!”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m here,” he grumbles. “Please don’t make a big deal about it.”
He’d never admit out loud how much he misses you. Or Sirius. But you know.
Pandora and her fiancé Xenophilius Lovegood are somehow already dancing — if you can call it that — spinning and gliding to the ABBA Greatest Hits record playing on the charmed deck speakers. You catch them in passing for a pair of floaty, twirling hugs. They don’t miss a beat of their bizarre choreography.
Ted and Andromeda Tonks are the last to arrive, apologising for the delay; their five-year-old Nymphadora took ages deciding what outfit (and hair colour) to wear for a big day with “Cousins Siri and Reggie.” She settles on bubblegum-pink pigtails and a yellow sundress covered in tiny embroidered frogs who jump around the enchanted fabric.
“Don't worry,” Andromeda reassures Lily, “the fabric's charmed so muggles don't see the frogs move.”
“SIRIIIII!” Little Dora tears across the terrace towards her favourite cousin, who’s already crouched to catch and twirl her in the air.
“Dora! I love your dress! Can I borrow it sometime?”
“Boys don't wear dresses! You’re so silly, Siri!”
“Hey, that rhymes, you clever little menace!”
Sirius puts Dora down — who immediately goes hunting for cousin Reggie who is, no doubt, hiding somewhere. The oldest Black proceeds to grill (read: burn) the burgers and sausages, still insisting that he's an expert. James remedies everything when he's not looking, with a few de-scorching charms, well-taught by his dad, Fleamont.
Everyone's quite at home by now, looking about and admiring the place, catching up on their current lives, dancing, drinking, eating, laughing, and having a good time, just like you envisioned.
And then…
…Remus arrives, coming up the stairs.
And he's not alone.
Trailing slightly behind him, holding his hand, looking equal parts apprehensive, curious, and entitled… is Emily Barrett.
“Sorry, everyone,” Remus greets whoever is within earshot. “We uh, lost track of time.”
Emily smirks. She sidles closer to him. And looks straight at you. Scrutinising you from head to toe, a look of barely concealed disdain.
You just stand there. Frozen. Expressionless. Your insides boiling like a cauldron left bubbling in the center of hell. Your personal hell.
You want to run downstairs. Lock yourself in your room, and not come out until it's all over. Until everyone is gone. Until she is gone.
You can’t believe it.
He brought her??? Because she's the one he’s been spending time with?? She’s the one he’s been wearing his nicest clothes and your favourite cologne for??
A few of your friends go towards them, greeting Remus, and meeting the mysterious muggle girl.
Lily sidles up to you.
“Is that the ‘muggle friend’ he told us about?”
“He told you about her?” You ask a bit too sharp, in shock.
“Well no, he told us he was bringing a muggle friend. I had no idea if it was a he or she, honestly. I thought, maybe some bloke he works with at the library, or the school… Not this.”
Lily squeezes your arm.
“You okay?”
“No. Not really.” You shake your head.
Meanwhile, Remus tries very hard to pretend he hasn't spotted you.
But for a few unguarded seconds, he can't help it.
His chest tightens. It burns.
His fingers twitch where they hold Emily’s hand.
He stares at you. Unblinking.
At the beautiful new dress he hadn't seen before but instantly is in love with. At the sun-deprived-turning-sun-kissed arms and legs he hasn't seen in a week. At your hair done up, which always does things to him. The tiny sun-shaped pendant catching the light at your clavicle, which he gave you for your fifteenth birthday, because of your favourite nickname he came up with: Sunshine.
And for one awful, perfect stretch of seconds, he forgets how to breathe. Forgets where he is. Forgets the cold hand squeezing his.
Lily and you are speaking quietly to each other. You look like you're doing your best to not look upset. You are pouting. Adorably so. Heartbreakingly so.
He doesn't notice that he's pouting too. Muscle memory.
Then you look up. Right at him, right in his eyes. For one second.
His breath catches. He aches.
You quickly avert your gaze.
Emily squeezes his bicep with the hand he's not holding. He can't tell if it's vulnerable or possessive.
It's possessive. Disgustingly so.
‘Right. Emily. You brought her here, you berk. Now give her your proper attention like a gentleman. Shut whatever this is down.’
But it’s too late.
He already feels it: The soul-bond. The searing pain of it. The magic that’s always humming and radiating from your skin when you’re near. Which wreaks havoc on the magic inside him. It connects, it surges, it makes him feel alive like nothing else does.
This is the thing he’s been trying to smother all week — and obviously has failed. He should've known: no one can smother the sun. And the moon inside him craves your light like photosynthetic oxygen.
You feel the threat of moisture prickling your eyes. Oh, hells, no.
“Excuse me. I think… I need a few minutes.”
“Alone? Or with me?”
“Alone, for now. Thank you, Lil.”
She squeezes your wrist and you discreetly make your way downstairs. Before the first tears fall. Before you cry like a stupid loser in front of everyone. In front of Emily.
Remus is not close enough to hear your conversation with Lily over the music and the noise, but he watches Lily lean in, her hand finding your arm; watches you shake your head, gently but firmly, before slipping away down the stairs with your chin high and your back heartbreak-straight.
He doesn’t go after you. But his eyes don’t leave the spot from where you just disappeared for a few beats more.
♥️🐺♥️ ♥️🐺♥️ ♥️🐺♥️
After you calm down and charm your eyes to not look so red and puffy, you return to the roof, determined to make the best of the afternoon. You spend time with every single friend you haven't seen since that last day at King's Cross. You find Regulus and have a nice, quiet conversation about his classes, and his plans for the future. You play gobstones with little Nymphadora and she makes you laugh until tears of joy run down. You go around to make sure everyone's drinks are refilled without them having to leave their conversations or activities.
As you are on your way to refill Alice's sparkling red, someone hits the pitcher in your hand so hard it turns into your chest, spilling half of the crimson liquid all over your dress. You gasp at the icy sensation and almost stumble to the ground. A pair of strong hands stop you from falling.
“Oh, my god. Y/N! I'm so sorry!”
Emily. Who is a terrible actress.
You look up and see her barely holding in a smirk.
And Remus, holding you upright, looking mortified.
“Dove, you alright?”
He instinctually caresses your arms and shoulders before catching himself and stopping.
Emily does not like that at all.
“Um. Yeah, I'm alright. I'll just… Go downstairs and change.” Because Emily is here, you can’t just magic it clean.
"Do you need me to—”
“I'm so, so, so sorry! So clumsy of me!” Emily worms her body between Remus and you with the whiniest, babiest voice yet. Remus has to let go of you.
“I feel rotten, such a pretty dress…”
“It's fine, Emily. Accidents happen,” Your words say one thing, your eyes on her say another: ‘I know what you're doing.’
“Hopefully the fabric is not ruined forever. It's so pretty! Really, such a shame.”
“Don't worry, I can get it all out.”
You notice that Remus looks devastated for you for some reason. After not giving a monkey all week.
“Is there anything I can do? I haven't been helping much, I'm sorry.” He asks, sincerely wanting to make it up to you somehow.
“Will you, uh, refill Alice's glass with the rest of this? And check with anyone over that section if they need anything to drink? It's what I was doing.”
“Yeah, I can do that. Time to play host a bit, as I should.”
“Oh, how fun! I'll be your assistant, then!” Emily is very eager, all of a sudden.”
“All right. Thanks.”
What else can you possibly say?
As you make your way downstairs — once again — you notice Sirius. Staring. With an intense, objectionable look on his face.
You come back up ten minutes later, wearing a simple Beatles Revolver white T-shirt, and blue denim shorts. The white plimsolls seemed to escape the crimson bath somehow, so you keep them.
Emily ogles you up and down again from afar, satisfied that you are no longer the cutest-dressed one around.
You know she did that on purpose. So you decide to dress as casually as possible, lest she gets any other deranged ideas to attack you.
Remus still stares at you, discreetly, whenever he can. But he doesn't approach you the rest of the party. Emily makes sure to keep him occupied with inane conversation and questions about everything and everyone.
♥️🐺♥️ ♥️🐺♥️ ♥️🐺♥️
After the Tonkses leave for the day, Ted carrying a sleepy Dora in his arms, the party can get a bit naughty.
“All right! No more minors around — except Reggie boy here—” Marlene announces.
“This is my cue to leave then. Goodbye.” Regulus runs downstairs without another word. Sirius shakes his head and rolls his eyes.
“Well… Now there are really no more minors around! So how about a fun, spicy game of Truth Or Dare, for old time's sake, eh?”
Your first instinct is to bolt. Find some excuse and stay out.
Remus also is trying to think up ways to be excused from any potential humiliation.
“Well, I think we also need to—” He starts, looking at his date.
“Aw, Remsy, let's play! I want to play, it will be fun!”
You don't have to look at your best friends to imagine the nauseated faces they're making at the stupid pet name and forced nasal-baby-voice. You snort softly without moving your lips a millimetre.
“Well, alright then. We'll stay for a few rounds maybe.”
“Excellent. Everybody's in. No bailing.” James looks pointedly at you, and winks.
A few rounds between your friends with various choices of 'truth’ and mild, uninteresting ‘dares’ occur. The game seems to be harmless enough, you start to relax a little.
You even laugh with everyone else when stoic Frank Longbottom is dared to pretend he's a chicken Auror arresting a wanted criminal by clucking menacingly at them.
Frank in turn asks Alice (Truth) when was the exact moment she fell for him, which causes everyone to coo and tease.
Alice then dares Pandora to talk about her least favourite Hogwarts teacher using five of the foulest curse-words she knows. Everyone cries laughing at how bizarre it is to hear such filth from the whimsical girl.
Pandora dares Lily to give James a lap dance. Lots of wolf-whistles and screaming/laughing during her clownish gyrations to the tune of “Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! (A Man After Midnight)”
Lily in turn chooses James, who picks ‘Truth’ and has to tell everyone, in detail, his first bizarre wet dream with Lily.
Finally, still red in the face and teary-eyed from laughter, James turns to Remus.
"Truth or Dare, Moony?" James asks his best friend, now bubbling with premeditated mischief.
"…Dare," Remus replies, after the smallest beat. Apprehensive.
James glances at Lily, who gives the subtlest of nods.
"Alright, mate. Dare you to kiss the prettiest girl in the room. Proper snog."
Sirius grins like he knows how this ends. Lily smirks knowingly at you.
Remus turns. Looks straight at you, on instinct. Licks his pouting lips.
You feel it — the force pulling you to him, stronger than ever. Soul-bond magic, blazing beneath your skin like fiendfyre. Impossible to ignore.
And then… Remus leans in.
And snogs Emily.
Scattered applause and a few wolf-whistles erupt from the oblivious friends who don't know any better, the kind of daft cheers you’d expect at any party when something a bit raunchy happens.
But the three best friends? The ones who truly care?
Stunned. Silence.
You’re not breathing.
You feel something weird. Painful. New. It feels like… Something drops inside you — like your magic’s been punched straight out of your chest. Your lungs constrict. Your stomach turns. Your limbs go cold, then numb.
Lily’s smile evaporates. Her jaw clenches.
Sirius mutters, “You’ve got to be fucking joking,” under his breath. No one hears it over the daft teasing by the others.
James mouths to Sirius and Lily: “Wait… what?”
The kiss goes on far too long. Ten, maybe fifteen seconds.
Emily giggles when it ends. She giggles. Like she knows she’s just won something unsaid. She stares right at you, daring you to say or do anything. Desperate to gloat but holding back. Except the eyes.
You stare at the floor. At your knees. At anything but him. Or them.
And you don't see how Remus looks sick to his stomach for a split second before he schools it into an insincere half-smirk. Like something weird and wrong also hit him in the chest, and in his gut. He grabs a Pimm’s to wash off the weird taste in his tongue.
“Well, I think we've had enough fun for one day,” Lily tries to end it, for your sake. “Let's just—”
"NO. One more round. My turn now.” Sirius interrupts, voice sharp like a ferocious bark. Lily whips around at him, confused. "Pads—”
“Sunshine! Truth or Dare?”
Before you respond, you see his mouth move silently: ‘Dare.’
His eyes burn with fury and something else. ‘Say dare.’
“Um. Dare?”
“Excelent. I dare you to snog…”
Remus sits straighter, eyes huge. What will he do if he gets to snog you now? What will Emily do when he—
"...Me. Snog me like you've never snogged anyone before in your life.”
Remus feels ice flood his veins. Beer spills down his chin and collar mid-sip. He barely notices.
Sirius is on fire. Fury fire. Provocation fire. He's ready to scorch the earth for your sake. He's done playing nice today.
Sirius starts crawling slowly towards you. Your friends giggle and form a chorus of high-pitched ‘Oooohhhs!’ Because they don't know that this stopped being a fun game, and became an act of war.
Bile rises in Remus's throat. His nails dig into his palms and draw blood.
You are paralysed. But you don't take your eyes off your friend. You trust him. You know he's looking out for you. Vindicating you in this stupid cursed game.
And so you allow yourself to feel a little bit vengeful as well.
At first, you think you know Sirius's plans. A mild but real snog, tongue and all. Part consolation for you, part payback for Moony.
But you just have no idea what kind of fire Sirius is carrying inside. How personally he's taking this bullshit. How betrayed he feels for you.
Because, as far as Sirius knows, you deserve the world. You're one of the kindest people he knows. You love on Remus and James and him every full moon. You're killing yourself at a muggle university to become the best healer possible, for him. You would give your own blood and sell your own soul to take away his pain. You love Remus with your whole heart, your whole being.
And he turns around and pulls off this absolute shite as a thank you?
There are not two people in the world — save for James and Lily — who are more cosmically destined for each other.
What. The Fuck.
So, Sirius feels your pain. Feels Remus's too. But right now, he's all about you. He will make you forget, even if just for a few moments, all this heartbreak your supposed best friend is causing.
So the kiss is maybe mild and normal for three seconds. And then, Sirius turns it on. All the way up.
One hand slides behind your neck, fingers threading into your hair like they’ve been waiting their whole life to be allowed there. Pulling you impossibly closer to his lips.
His tongue is desperate, hungry. His hands tingle and grab you all over. Like he wants to own your pain, squeeze it out of you, and take it all for himself.
He tilts his head and deepens the kiss to even more impossible depths.
You gasp— and he swallows it whole.
He then groans low and hungry, right into your mouth, in a way that makes your entire ribcage rattle.
This is not just a dare. It's a full declaration of war. Possessive and unapologetic and utterly Sirius in a way you've never known before.
And yet, somehow, it’s not about him at all.
It’s all for you.
All of it. Every trembling second. Every tongue-drenched, heart-stopping inch of this kiss is for you.
You don’t even have to pretend to kiss him back. You can't not to.
And then, Sirius dips you low towards the ground, fingers digging deeper into your hair and ribs. His tongue is so deep inside your mouth it looks like he'll devour you alive. Or have you devour him.
And you would let him. Just to stop feeling the pain. The burn. The ice.
You don’t hear Remus. But you feel him. You can't explain how you know, but you know it's him. You feel his magic snarl, like Moony during the worst moons.
‘Play stupid games, get stupid prizes, you twat.’ Sirius thinks, full of sulfur and revenge. Full of righteous fury and hurricane-like love for you.
He would do anything for you right now. And he puts all that venom and flame into this kiss.
Since his stupid friend doesn't have the balls to kiss you like you deserve, he will.
He will kiss you with all the passion and hunger Remus should've done by now. You deserve nothing less.
You two finally break the kiss after about thirty seconds.
You pull back slowly, lips caught on Sirius’s teeth at the end. Obscene, intentional, and borderline real. Like a proper lover.
You are breathless for different reasons now. This is the best kiss you've ever had in your life. You don't even have to pretend.
Your bisexual wonder of a friend looks incandescent — cheeks flushed, lips red, pupils blown wide, eyes only on you in this moment.
Before he glances around and stares into Remus's soul. Daring him. Daring him to fucking do something about it.
Everyone's jaws are on the floor. Everyone felt this one.
“Damn…” James exhales.
Lily's face is somewhere between shock and vindication.
And Remus…? Remus feels dead inside. The absolute worst image that will remain seared into his mind for a long, long time. Probably forever.
“Now the fucking game’s over,” Sirius declares, getting up and moving towards the stairs.
♥️🐺♥️ ♥️🐺♥️ ♥️🐺♥️
The feral snarl hits Sirius’s ears just before his friend’s Alpha-strong hands grab his collar and shove him into his bedroom.
“What— the fuck— was that?!”
Remus slams Sirius against the wall with every word-punch — the final hit leaves a hairline crack in the plaster.
“Oh, look who finally gives a shit.” Sirius drawls in his poshest, twattiest tone.
“I swear to fucking Merlin, Sirius—”
“What? What the fuck will you do? You stupid cunt!”
Sirius shoves Remus back hard enough that he stumbles down onto the rug.
Remus is back on his feet in a second, eyes ablaze. He pulls his wand out.
Sirius mirrors him — but only to holster his own wand back when Remus casts a Silencing Charm on the room, and throws his wand on his bed.
“Fine,” Sirius spits. “Let’s have it out, then.”
He takes off his leather jacket and starts unbuttoning his dark grey shirt.
“You wanna bleed me then, Moony? Just like your favourite full-moon pastime? Fancy getting a few in, good old one-two? Want to bite me? Rip some bits off? Crack a couple ribs for fun?”
“Put your shirt back on, you twat.”
“Need a bit of motivation to get it going? Want me to tell you what she tastes like?”
Remus is on him in a blink. Next thing Sirius knows, his jaw is throbbing and he's on the floor this time. He smiles wickedly, his teeth already bathed in his own blood.
“Look at that. Wolfie-boy still has some balls left after all.”
“Fuck you.”
“No, fuck you!” Sirius spits out blood on his precious rug, not giving a single fuck. "You fucking berk! Fuck you for half-ghosting Sunny and everybody else all week, and half treating her like shit when you're actually around, and then showing up here with some muggle girl, shoving her down everybody's throats, because… What? You fancy that insipid piece of arse? Is this some brilliant cope on your part because you don't have the balls to tell Y/N how you really feel?”
“Some friend you are. If you are so sure I'm desperately in love with her, where do you come off? Snogging her like that? Fucking hypocrite!”
“The only hypocrite here is you! Why do you fuckin’ care, when you're the one with a little piece on your arm? What's your brilliant logic behind that?!”
“Robbie was going to come, alright? I heard her invite him over the phone.”
“Robbie. Robbie, Robbie, Robbie— So what?! Make up your mind, will ya? Who is the threat, Remus? Who is pissing you off? Me? Or this mysterious muggle bloke I never even met? Who are you getting back at, kissing Poundland Barbie in front of fucking everybody? When this Robbie bloke isn't even around!”
“You were around. And you jumped on the chance to eat her face for a laugh, you fucking rat!”
“I AM. NOT. INTERESTED. IN YOUR GIRL! I've never been! Of course she's fit, I'm not blind or dead! But I would never do that to you, you tosser! If you only pulled your head out of your arse for one second, and came clean about your feelings, you would know that every-fucking-body who knows and cares about you is rooting for you two!”
“So what? She doesn't— She's got fucking Robbie Emery now! Even if I wanted to say anything, it's too fucking late!”
“You had a chance today! We orchestrated it! And then you turn around and… kiss that trollop!”
“Don't disrespect her! She didn't do anything!”
“I'm pissed off! On behalf of my friend. Who deserves way better than what you're doing to her! Who gives her blood, sweat, and tears for you every goddamn day of her life!“
“So, I should go celibate for the rest of my life because she’s a fucking saint? She’s not— I know I owe her everything, but… she just— she doesn’t see me that way, I have to try and move on!”
“With fucking Emily? Is that what you’re doing then? Oh, you sure know how to pick them, you dumb fuck! Did you not see the way that little cow treated Sunny? Because I have!”
“They barely know each other!”
“You have the emotional range of a teaspoon, you pillock! Don't tell me you didn't see her spilling that wine all over her on purpose!”
“What are you on about? Emily cried on my shoulder, mortified after that! Cried! She felt terrible, kept saying how pretty she looked and how she had ruined her day!”
Sirius doesn't know if he should just laugh or scream at the wall at this point.
“I can't… I can't even address all that right now. She's evil, you idiot! You're just too horny or stupid or both to open your fucking eyes! And if you won't look out for the one who really matters, then I will!”
“Oh, is that what that was then? You think you're a saint for swooping in with your bloody tongue? You and Robbie are all the same... Entitled takers who do whatever the fuck you want just because you can get away with it. Get anyone you want right under you!”
“How's this for taking? If I fancied Y/N, I would have done something about it a long time ago! Ring on her finger. My last name… would even have fucked a kid into her by now if she wanted!”
Remus shoves him against the wall again. Another crack. His head starts to bleed through his messy curls.
Remus gets nose-to-nose, it looks like he'll bite his face off. Or kiss it.
“Fucking hell! Mate, learn to deal with your feelings like a person, not a troll. All this petty, daft jealousy is giving me whiplash!”
Sirius spits bloody saliva in his friend's face with this explosive tone. Neither boy cares at this point.
He then shoves Remus away from him again, less aggressively. Remus still stumbles.
“You know why I did it! I kissed her because you looked straight at her and still picked someone else. You humiliated her. Broke her heart. And Emily fucking giggled at the wreckage!”
“I didn't break her heart! She doesn’t love me like that!”
“How the fuck would you know? You’ve never asked! Never told her how you feel!”
“No, you don't know anything! You run your mouth and shove your tongue and your prick into people for sport, but you don't even know what's going on!”
“Fine! I'll bite! Fucking tell me then! What could possibly be going on to make you go full-on stupid like this?”
“THEY SHAGGED! ALRIGHT?! RIGHT NEXT DOOR! RIGHT UNDER MY NOSE!”
Remus screams, half fury, half unfathomable grief. Like Sirius has never heard before.
Sirius pauses. A touch of heartbreak passes through him.
His voice is low, back to calm.
“No… No. Are you sure about that? Did she actually tell you that?”
“I heard them.” Remus's voice breaks and falters.
“Mate.”
Sirius rewinds his memories since last week. When you came over for dinner. How you had no idea what could possibly be making Remus act cunty; how carefree and innocent and happy you were, except when you remembered that Remus wasn't there and your eyes looked empty and lost.
“I think you got it wrong, mate. She would've… She would've told me, or Lily, if anything had happened. She would've told you if they were together.”
“I heard her bed. Squeaking. Headboard hitting the wall. I heard her moan his name. Breathless. I'll never forget those infernal sounds. I heard them.” Remus looks haunted as he recounts the worst night of his life. Not even Greyback inflicted this level of pain.
Sirius runs his fingers over the back of his head. They come out bloody.
”What a fucking mess,” he murmurs.
Remus sits on the bed, not able to stop the tears any longer.
“Mate. Moony. Listen. I’m sure we can sort this out. You and her just need to communicate with each other. In the open. I still can’t believe she would possibly—“
”NO. You cannot tell her I heard. She can’t know anything, alright? Because I still have to live here with her, and things are already nearly unbearable as they stand.”
“Oh, I think they just got ten times worse.”
”And I’ll have to deal with that. At least until I figure out what to do, if I should move, get out of the way...”
“Moony, no. You can’t move out. You’ll kill her.”
”So I should just grab the popcorn and enjoy Emery’s little show, then? Well, I can’t do that.”
“Don’t get even stupider ideas now. Don’t you dare even think about moving in with discount-box-blondie. For fuck’s sake, man.”
“We’re not— serious. It’s not like that. I’m not… really interested in her.”
“Of course you’re not. Glad to know Moony hasn’t given you total brain damage yet.”
Sirius and Remus manage to huff a little dispirited chuckle at that.
”Pads, please. Honour the marauder pact and don’t butt in. Please don’t say anything to her.”
“Fine. I know. I won’t betray the bloody pact. None of us will. We’ll just keep our mouths shut and watch you self-destruct, because we’re loyal like that. Muppet.”
Remus takes a breath.
”Sorry for the head wound.”
”And the right hook?”
”That one I’m not sorry for, you deserved it. Twat.”
”Fair enough. Go on, patch me up then.”
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Lily, James, Marlene, Dorcas, Frank, and Alice helped a lot with the teardown and clean-up. All that's left after they've gone home is a few glasses and plates on the sink, which Remus has charmed to wash and dry themselves while he sorts them into the cupboards.
After swapping your denim shorts for rolled-up jeans that hit just above your ankles, you collect the extra coasters from the coffee table, plump the sofa cushions, and keep an eye on the self-hoovering nearby.
The party's over, but the silence left behind definitely feels louder.
“Where's Emily?”
“I sent her home, why?”
“You sent her. How obedient of her.”
“What is the problem?”
“A little heads-up would've been nice, yeah? You disappear to Merlin-knows-where all week, and then suddenly you got a girl on your arm.”
“Could say the same to you.” He murmurs under his breath. You hear it anyway.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean? I haven't gone anywhere, and I didn't see anybody clinging to my arm today.”
"Never mind...”
Remus doesn’t want a row. He doesn’t want to push you further away. He doesn’t want you to think that whatever relationship you are having with Emery, he will be problematic about it. Even if it is a problem for him. An excruciating one.
The air feels thick. Crackling. You are suffocating.
"Dove… Look, I'm sorry. I've been absent, I barely helped today, and… I don't want to fight. Do you want to… talk?”
You should say yes. You miss him. But the events of today were just too much. It's wrung you out. Your chest feels impossibly tight. You need to escape before you get a full-blown anxiety attack.
“I'm sorry… Not now. I gotta get out of here. Just... leave my bit and I'll do it later.”
"Where are you going? It's getting dark.”
Oh. Now he cares.
“Not that it's any of your business, but I'm going out.”
“With whom?”
“Why do you care? And why should I care to tell you?”
You grab your aubergine trench coat and bag. Slam the door shut on your way out, in a whirlwind of fury, never before directed at your best friend.
He's still trembling from the aftershocks twenty minutes later.
♥️🐺♥️ ♥️🐺♥️ ♥️🐺♥️
The red 'grease lightning’ 1948 Ford De Luxe Convertible with Danny and Sandy starts to soar into the sky (????) as the final choruses of “We Go Together” continue playing into the credits.
“What?! That's the daftest ending I've ever seen in my life! What the fuck is this? A metaphor for a fatal car crash? Seeing them die in a flaming collision would make more sense. And be more satisfying.”
You are crying. From laughter.
You two got shushed at least four times tonight. Naughty-naughty.
Leave it to your sardonic brother to lift your spirits with his dark humour and top-tier sass.
You love watching films with him, it's sort of your thing. And by Merlin you needed a pick-me-up tonight.
“Come on, let's go get those chips, I need to feed my neurons back to life.”
“Wait! I want to watch the credits! I love this song!”
Even Andrew has to admit that 'Grease Is The Word’ it's quite catchy.
Musicals are not his preferred genre, but he knows you love them, and he'll never pass up on the opportunity to sit with you in front of a big screen. Even if it's stupid-looking John Travolta. At least Olivia Newton-John is hot. And talented.
Andrew could tell you were upset the moment you knocked on his flat. You looked flushed and your eyes were red-rimmed, and he just knew it wasn't from the apparition.
“Come on, I still owe you that film-and-food date for helping me move.”
"Well then, shouldn't it be something I want to see?”
“Ah, this one is good, you'll like it. I read great reviews about it.”
"Fine. Only because it's you, can't seem to say no to you. You a witch or something?”
Three minutes in, and your brother was already making you laugh. You love the twat.
“All right. Spill.” Andrew says, mouth full of greasy chips. You two like to eat thematic food that goes with whatever you just watched. You really are dorks.
“What?”
“Come on. Something clearly happened. Is it Lupin again? Or some Oxford wanker got on your nerves?”
“You would know, being a Cambridge wanker yourself.”
Andrew is in his third year through a Civil Engineering / Architecture collab-programme at Cambridge. This is how you always know he'll be at home on weekends: he has no life.
“You’re gonna tell me then? Why you’ve been crying?”
“Please, can we not? Can we just stay silly today? I came here to see you, have fun, and… forget. Can we just do that?”
Your brother looks intently at you for a few beats, then—
‘Course we can, Loony. Whatever makes you feel better.”
“Just take the piss out of Danny some more. That should hit the spot.”
“Answer me this then: Why does he walk like he keeps a spanner all the way up his arsehole?”
You snort so violently with laughter that ginger ale fizzes out your nose. It burns like hell. You don't care.
♥️🐺♥️ ♥️🐺♥️ ♥️🐺♥️
SUNDAY, 1 OCTOBER, 1978
Remus is surprised to find you up before him, pottering about in the kitchen, with how late you came back last night.
He stops in the semi-darkened hallway, unsure. Hears the sound of the kettle gurgling, a cupboard opening, then ceramic hitting the counter with a hard crack and clink. "Fuck!” Your raspy morning voice reacting to whatever you just dropped.
"Reparo. Reparo! For fuck's sake…”
A deep breath.
“REPARO.”
The soft clinking sound of ceramic pieces coming back together finally happens.
He approaches tentatively. He feels rotten, wants to make things right with you. He just misses you. But you don't seem in the mood for conversation at all.
Magic misfiring like this is usually a sign of how pissed off or running on fumes you are. He's seen both before.
“You can come near me, Lupin, I don’t bite.”
“Usually.”
The joke doesn't land.
“Sorry. Good morning, dovey. You alright?”
“Peachy.”
“Do you want something? Eggy toast? Waffles? Something else?
“No.”
“Why didn't you wait for me to—?”
“I can make my own tea, Remus.”
“Right. But… You should eat something.”
“Thanks for your concern but I'm not hungry.”
“All right, I'll leave you alone then.”
“You do that.”
Remus goes back to his bedroom for a bit. It’s clear you still need space from him. He had been a bit of an arse this past week, he knows. He hurt you with his pettiness and your sensitive soul finally had enough of his antics.
He can’t help but remember what he told his mam: that the ugliest parts of him would end up hurting you. Might even make you hate him.
He’s just got a little taste of it last night, and a bit more now — you being fed up and very hurt.
These last bloody two weeks… What a shitshow.
When Remus returns to the kitchen a few minutes later to make himself some breakfast, he hears you on the phone. He can’t tell who you’re speaking to. Not yet.
(…) “Yeah. I got home safe.
(…) “No, I'm alright. Just want to do nothing all day, really.”
(…) “I told you. Don't worry about me.”
(…) “I know.”
(…) “I know.”
(…) “Yeah, I'm glad I came last night too.”
(…) (laughing) “You're such a muppet!”
(…) “Thank you. I did have a lot of fun.”
(…) “I told you, I do feel better.
(...) “Yes. Thanks to you. Happy?”
(…) (chuckles)
(…) “You go do that, you dork.”
(…) (laughs) “All right.”
(…) “Thank you for calling me. I love you.”
(…) (smiles) “Fine. Bye.”
You hang up. Let out a soft sigh. Lift your head… and meet Remus’s eyes across the kitchen.
Five seconds pass.
Then you look down, stand, and walk back to your bedroom.
She loves him???
They're saying ‘I love you’ already?
Just when Remus thought the worst might be over… it’s like the Sword of fucking Gryffindor’s been shoved straight through his gut — and twisted for good measure.
‘She sounded so… relaxed. Intimate. Familiar.
Are they already acting like a long-term couple then?
Are they official already?
Clearly, running into his arms last night and crying about what a twat I've been to her, solidified whatever they are now.’
Remus feels his stomach fall to the floor. He wants to run away. He wants to disappear.
Both flatmates do an excellent job of avoiding each other all day:
Listening for bedroom doors opening and closing again before venturing out.
Footsteps to and from the kitchen.
The microwave working, then stopping.
Sighs and dragging steps.
More murmured phone calls, plans made.
This pathetic dirge goes on until around dinnertime, when Remus comes out of his room — dressed up and smelling great again — walking out the front door while you're eating Lyons Maid strawberry ice cream straight from the carton.
You don't address each other at all. And he leaves.
He doesn't come back to the flat until the next day — Monday evening, after his library shift.
Dressed in the same clothes as the day before.
With two visible hickeys on his neck.
You're reading and annotating a thick Biology textbook when he arrives in his ‘walk of shame’ demeanor.
You just stare at his neck, in shock.
“So, you and Emily, then. You're… an item now.”
You ask, eyes back on your book, seeing nothing.
“Something like that, I guess.”
He's not looking you in the eyes either.
Remus takes a long, scalding-hot shower and falls asleep right after. Numb. Disgusted with himself.
And you... you cry most of the night, face shoved against your pillow.
♥️🐺♥️🐺♥️🐺♥️🐺♥️🐺♥️🐺♥️🐺♥️🐺♥️🐺♥️
PART 6
Fun Facts: The original Star Wars (later re-labeled as Episode IV: A New Hope) premiered in the UK on December 27, 1977. So, in my story, they all went to see it during last Christmas break. And then Sunny probably went back with just Andrew, as their sweet sibling tradition. He would really be into that one and she just needed to see that.
ABBA's first "Greatest Hits" compilation was released in the UK on April 10, 1976. It became a massive success there as it did everywhere else, and some headcanons suggest that James loves them, while Remus and Sirius despise them. I accept this headcanon, it's very funny to me.
Grease was released in UK cinemas on September 14, 1978. It was also a hit with its great acting and killer soundtrack. But of course our dear Andrew would be above such rubbish. That's also very funny to me. Isn't he the sweetest though? Going to see it because his sister likes it? This scene with them is my absolute favourite in this chapter, and the only time I found myself kicking my feet and giggling, and not bracing for impact. Speaking of which…
A/N:
I'M SORRY! 😭😭😭
I MEANT TO END IT ON A GOOD NOTE! BUT THE STORY HAS TAKEN ME BY THE COLLAR AND IT'S TELLING ME WHERE TO GO!
I PROMISE! IT WILL HURT JUST A BIT MORE, AND THEN WE START TO HEAL!
PLEASE DON'T GIVE UP ON THEM, OR ON ME!
Funny story: this whole fic was originally supposed to be a one-shot, LOL! And then I just kept getting ideas for it, and the ideas kept expanding like a bloody Gemino curse was put on it… Originally this was going to be a lot of fly-on-the-wall scenes of just Reader walking around in skimpy shorts, horny thoughts from both sides, and unwanted semis, until they would pounce on each other. But now… all this drama has emerged. And the story has taken a completely different direction.
I know it must be incredibly frustrating for readers right now. Another painful cliffie, more hurt/no comfort. Pretty much next-to-zero fluff to give us any reprieve. I just implore you to keep in mind that we — the readers — are the only ones who know that they love each other. They don't know. The marauders and Lily are maybe 90% sure they are, but until they come out and confess, it's all conjecture.
So, our view from the top (and from within) can be extremely frustrating. But they're eighteen. Never been in a proper romantic relationship. Just came out of the Hogwarts bubble, armed with all sorts of spells but with zero preparation for the real world.
And it's only been like a month living together. It's been painful as hell. But it's not that long of a visceral pain. It's only been a month of this hormonal shitfest. Two if you count the pre-move angst. Still. Not that long.
When they're old and grey and surrounded by grandkids, they will look back on this short period in their lives and joke about it, or scoff at most.
THEY ARE ENDGAME. FULL STOP.
So, join me and Sunny girl as we cry/scream into our pillows for just a little longer. <<<<3333
P.S.: To clarify, YES. Remus spent the night at Emily's. YES. He slept with her. 🤢
I refuse to write a sex scene for them. I HAVE LIMITS. 🤬
©daydreamandforget; do not copy, translate, or repost my work anywhere under any circumstances.
Taglist: @rulesareshadesofgrey @whimsymoonpages @jaylupinblack @notsolong-pause @screechingoversomethingprbly @ctanganq
THE FLAT – PART 4 ♥️🐺♥️
Remus Lupin x fem!reader, Marauder's Era, Post Hogwarts (1978-1979)
Word Count: 15.6K
PROLOGUE P 1 P 2 P 3 P4 P 5 P 6 P 7 P 8 EPILOGUE
SUMMARY: As September rolls along, the two best friends continue learning to live together, managing hidden feelings and temptations. A family visit reveals promising possibilities and unresolved inner-pain. A new arrival (read: a–rival) brings tension and potential screaming into pillows. The roller-coaster of horny / fluffy / touching / stupid situations continues, in no particular order, rhyme, or reason. And finally our lovely idiots end up making stupid mistakes as any 18-year-old would — even though they should know better by now.
TAGS: Marauders Era AU. Slow burn. Best friends to lovers. Flatmates with feelings. Canon divergence (no war, no deaths). Soulmate vibes. Lupin family interactions. Slight complications that turn infuriating. Callbacks and parallelisms all over the place, because I like it!
CW: Angst and frustration alert! Dirty language (I mean, Sirius is around in this one); explicit sexual frustration expressed through inner thoughts; lighthearted portrayal of a flustered, religious Polish immigrant just trying to do her job. I promise I mean absolutely no disrespect, being an immigrant myself. It's just supposed to be a humorously complicated situation to all parties involved. All my love to all Polish people! #justiceformissnowitzki
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SEPTEMBER, 1978
Remus is happy.
Remus is grateful.
Remus is fucked.
Because he's so in love with you it hurts.
And he doesn't know what to do with these ‘forbidden feelings’ of his. Feelings that could potentially ruin everything.
Or so he thinks.
The truth is, he’s deeply grateful. Of course he is. The pro/con list he started scribbling in his journal while waiting for the bread to rise is a clear indication. The pros really outweigh the cons, even if some of the cons are almost too painful to think about.
PRO/CON LUPIN LIST - THE FLAT:
PROS: ✅
✅ No stairs.
✅ Nice bedroom, comfy bed.
✅ Large tub. I actually fit this one.
✅ Quiet.
✅ Great views and places for reading / solitude.
✅ Bills covered - no financial stress.
✅ Full wardrobe. Mental.
✅ NUMBER ONE: MY LOVE, Y/N. EVERY DAY WITH HER. (the only reason that matters, really <3)
This flat is a life-saver for him in so many ways, he has to admit. No stairs to aggravate his questionable hips and knees. Nice comfy bed, with an equally nice and large bathtub to soak his monthly, right-on-schedule, aches and pains. No outside noise to exacerbate his pre-moon migraines since it’s way up in the clouds, pretty much. Plenty of nice spots to read and watch sunrises and sunsets, or just to relax and get lost in his head. No worrying how he’ll pay the rent and manage living expenses with his low-paying muggle jobs, month after month… not to mention the full-scale ‘sartorial blitz’ courtesy of your mum, ensuring that, save for newer dress robes at Madam Malkin’s or Gladrags once his friends start getting married, he won’t need to shop for anything to wear ever again. Not in this lifetime.
And best of all: you. Every day with you.
Because, let’s be honest: he’d choose to live with you anywhere. In a shack (not unlike the infamous Shrieking one, even), or any rundown place; even if it was full of roof leakage, roaches or doxies or both, shoddy hot water and faulty radiators in winter. He’d make it work. And he’d be as happy as he is now.
These thoughts are dancing around Remus’s conflicted mind while he bakes in this nice, fully-equipped kitchen. He’ll cook and bake for you here every day. Forever. Anything you want. He’ll gladly do his and your laundry without you needing to ask, on the very nice washer and dryer combo. He’ll clean and tidy around you, and pamper you, every way he can.
What a life he’s about to have with you.
It will be so domestic and intimate and…
…He’ll implode.
His dick will probably fall off.
Because he wants you. Greedy bastard that he is.
He wants your bedroom and your bed and your body next to his and your kisses for him and him alone.
CONS: ❌
❌ I don't deserve any of this.
❌ Still feel like a freeloader / intruder most days.
❌ And still I want more. I want her.
❌ Seeing Y/N in her tiny pyjamas, short shorts, tight vests, sleep shirts, my jumpers… And not being able to do a damn thing about it.
❌ Her scent is everywhere. My wolfish senses are on overload most of the time.
❌ Being in love with my best friend and flatmate - constant danger of ruining everything.
❌ My dick will probably fall off from wanking, or getting blue-balled… I WANT HER.
❌ I LOVE HER. I LOVE HER. I LOVE HER. I CAN'T HAVE HER. I CAN'T HAVE HER. I CAN'T HAVE HER.
He charms the journal shut with a resigned sigh.
The pros still outweigh the cons.
Even if the cons might kill him.
♥️🐺♥️ ♥️🐺♥️ ♥️🐺♥️
Little does he know, you’re also dying to jump him, kiss him, touch him, and love him.
Of course it’s more than just lust. It’s true love, it’s always been! But… yeah, unbelievable and undeniable amounts of lust rearing its ugly head. Daring you to act on it, every day.
If only you weren’t terrified of his rejection and the potential end of your friendship over your feelings. Merlin knows it doesn’t take much for your werewolf best friend to want to run away.
But you’re even more terrified of the day he brings someone in here and introduces her to you. You can’t imagine anyone else in his arms but you.
Still, your fit and adorable flatmate is not making it any easier, if the first days living together are any indication.
Let’s face it, you will never forget the vision of your distraught, tall dream-boy wrapped in a low-hung towel, glistening and steaming, owlish hazel-green eyes looking around his wardrobe. And pouting. A naked Remus that pouts is your kryptonite, there’s just no escape from the feelings those stupid-perfect lips elicit.
And then, he goes on and gives you a feast. And dresses (or better, undresses) as a cute 6’4” house-elf; and then turns around and speaks in your ear like the sexiest sorting hat ever… Who knew that was even possible?
And he says shit like “She’ll do anything for her chronically ill flatmate, who happens to be absolutely mad for her…”
Mad for her…
Mad for you…
Did he mean it platonically?
He must have.
And then… the stethoscope incident, as you’ll lovingly call it from now on?
Come the fuck on…
Leave it to Remus Lupin to make a regular medical tool become one of the most erotic memories of your life…
You are happy.
You are grateful.
You are fucked.
Because you're so in love with him it hurts.
And you don't know what to do with these ‘forbidden feelings’ of yours. Feelings that could potentially ruin everything.
Or so you think.
One week in, and you’re both going silently mental.
But… idiots will idiot.
Some of it is understandable. You’re both only eighteen, fresh out of the heavily-warded, over-protective bubble of a stuck-in-time magical boarding school in Nowhere, Scotland…
But still…
Idiots. Idioting. To the idiot-most of their idiocy.
♥️🐺♥️ ♥️🐺♥️ ♥️🐺♥️
You make your own private journal list. Of course you do. Not a pro/con, but a problem-solving one. With exaggerated big handwriting and itemised arguments. Because you're a neurotic Ravenclaw at heart. Because you just can't help yourself when it comes to problem-solving. And Remus Lupin.
Problem #1: Remus doesn't know how to be a normal flatmate.
✼ He's been acting like a very polite guest in your home. And it's driving you mad. It’s endearing, yes. But it’s also… wrong. And you don't know what to do to set him straight.
✼ He's being super domestic, which is great, and cute, and handy — since you're not the best in the kitchen, or cleaning, or organising on a daily basis, it turns out. Remus takes to it naturally, like a labour of love. He's a natural caretaker. You've known that already from the way he takes care of his mum. And the way he took care of you at Hogwarts, always making sure you were eating and sleeping proper amounts, and not just killing yourself over books all the time.
What's the problem then?
✼ The problem is his motivation. You sense it. His sense of being undeserving. Unworthy of the good fortune that has befallen him. Because his best friend just happens to be rich, and wants him around.
So, he acts out of love, yes. But also—
✼ He does things to prove himself: useful, earning his place, getting even. Every day. Every gesture. You see the loving care, but you also see the underlying guilt. He still feels rotten for his lack of “financial contribution” to this situation.
✼ He still acts like he's an intruder here. He doesn't know how to relax yet; doesn't know how to be at home.
*** EXPAND THIS LAST ITEM! –– By Merlin, It’s important enough to be categorised as a major point ***
Problem #2: Remus keeps acting like he's in the way, an intruder.
✼ He keeps apologising. For everything he does. A mug of tea left on the coffee table. A glass on the counter. His jumper on his reading chair.
✼ Quickly rushing to clean up every little crumble that falls on the floor, every little drop on the table.
✼ Asking permission for everything. To use the coffee maker, to turn on the telly, to put on some music, to sit with you in the living room, to eat a fruit from the basket, to drink the milk in the fridge… He even asked permission to use the common loo once!
✼ Some nights, he won't leave his bedroom except to get a glass of water or a mug of tea, tiptoeing in and out of your view while you study on the sofa, your books and notebooks spread everywhere.
"Sorry, I'll be quick. Carry on.”
“I'm not here, sorry.”
“Sorry. Just ignore me.”
You want to scream at him. You want to throw him on the sofa and sit on him and not let him leave your sight.
Problem #3: The domesticity is cute, but it's getting a bit extreme.
✼ He insists on cooking for me every day — breakfast before you leave for school, dinner when you come back, however late it is.
✼ He won't let me help. “You're doing enough, dove. You must be exhausted. Let me.”
As if he's not working all the time either.
TEMPORARY SOLUTION: Get a housekeeper. Muggle.
So, you have the brilliant idea to hire help. Muggle help. That way he can't butt in with his magical housekeeping ways.
Your mum finds you a nice Polish lady in her late thirties, who recently arrived in London in search of work. You like her straight away. You want to help her, and she can help you. Perfect scenario.
You think.
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You hear the unmistakable rumble, crash-landing, and skidding screech of a certain flying vehicle upstairs. You and Remus wince and sigh from your place on the sofa and his favourite reading chair.
So much for a quiet afternoon.
“Bloody hell, here we go.” He mumbles, and you chuckle.
“Aw, Rem. You whinge, but it’s clear you adore the chaotic bit of your ‘platonic-soulmate’ trio. You and Jamie wouldn't know how to live without him.”
“I certainly don't adore the tyre marks he's leaving on the roof though.”
“Ugh, right. We need to address it, don't we?” Remus just shrugs and nods.
A minute later, You hear the dramatic clip-clop of his heeled leather boots — a fabulous little touch of androgyny.
"Fret not, my lovely witches and bitches! Your favourite person is here!”
After hugs and kisses are generously bestowed upon you two (causing Remus to giggle and yell “Shove off, Pads!”), Sirius drapes himself over the remaining room you've left on the sofa.
"Feet off the upholstery, Sirius!” Remus scolds. “And, while on the topic, we need to talk about that monstrosity you choose to fly around on.”
“What's wrong with ‘Nike the Bikey?’ She's perfect in every way!”
“Of course he bloody named it.” Remus should've known.
“It's her, alright? Not it, have some respect.”
“Sorry. Her tyre tracks you keep leaving on the decking up there, are an absolute nightmare to deal with.”
“Nonsense. Nothing a quick Scourgify wouldn't fix. What are you, squibs?
Remus huffs exasperatedly and you take over the discussion. “Look Siri, we love your visits. As frequent as they've been. You're always welcome to turn up here, as you do. I just don’t have a bloody house elf, you know. It is very hard to explain to our poor muggle housekeeper how these motorbike tracks end up there.”
"Just obliviate her or use the Confundus Charm or something. I thought you were really good at those, Moons.”
“We can't keep messing with her mind every time, Pads! We'll scramble her brains irreversibly!” Remus is really stressed about the situation.
“Remus is right, it's dangerous to keep doing it to one person. We’ve already had to do it twice this week, Sirius. And she became slower-moving after for the rest of the day. Like... properly wonky.” You add.
“By the way, dovey, she's definitely scared of us and working here now. I feel bad for her, Miss Nowitzki is very sweet.”
Remus is absolutely right to be worried. Miss Nowitzki has been with you less than two weeks, and you have had several magical mishaps already.
The first morning she arrived at the flat, the shy Polish lady saw Remus sitting at the breakfast table, reading the paper and stirring his tea, lost in thought. Except the paper was the Daily Prophet — full of moving pictures — and he was stirring the tea without touching the spoon. Wandlessly.
„Jezus, Maryja i Józef!”
By the time Remus noticed her, she was crossing herself in terror.
‘Bollocks.’ "Hello, you must be Miss Nowitzki. Err… Nice to meet you…”
One afternoon, as she picked up a book on top of the coffee table to dust it, the book wiggled, sneezed, and flew off from her hands, putting itself back on the bookshelf, affronted by the unwanted tickling of the feather duster.
„O mój Boże! This place is haunted! Devils!”
On another day, after using a dishrag to sop up the water from a vase that had overturned on the counter, the dishrag started wringing itself over the sink. Remus once again had to run from the study to console the distraught lady.
„Zmiłuj się, Panie! I vant to leave this job!”
And just yesterday Remus came home from the library to find her white in the face, pressed against the corner and crying her eyes out, while a hoover danced around the large fireplace cream-coloured rug. He had charmed it earlier in the week to respond to any stray bit of ash that flew out of the hearth, or anything that needed immediate attention, and just forgot to undo the spell.
The poor lady's sobs had him running to her aid. Trying in vain to explain away the ‘illusion', or even trying to gaslight her a bit (he knows it's despicable, but desperate times…) and in the end having to obliviate her anyway.
„Młody pan Lupin! Your house is not right! I can't endure!”
I promise, Miss, N. I can explain, it's just that—”
„MATKO BOSKA!” The hoover charged towards her and she sobbed harder, trying to climb the wall.
"Oh, buggering hell… So sorry for this. Finite. Obliviate.”
Both the appliance and the woman went limp.
Remus rubs his face at the memories. He knows she must have seen other stuff he wasn't present to remedy. The haunted look never left her eyes whenever she was around.
Yes. This is a problem.
“Dovey, I told you, we don't need a housekeeper. Let me take care of the flat from now on. I have time.”
“You absolutely don't have that much time!”
“I have more time than you. I can do it. I want to do it. It's the least I can do.”
"Remus. We talked about this. You don't have to “earn your keep.”
“It's not that, I promise.”
It absolutely is that. But Remus continues trying to persuade you.
“I just mean, it's the least I can do since I live here too, and half of the mess is mine anyway. Please? Let's try without Miss Nowitzki. That way I can still stir my tea and move books and hoovers with magic, without worrying.”
You have to admit, it's getting trickier and trickier to run a hybrid muggle/magical household.
“You're right. We shouldn't have muggle help around, if we can manage. It puts everyone in a complicated position. I want you and I to be free to use magic to run this place.”
“Exactly! Everyone will be happier for it! Especially me!”
“Shut up, Sirius. We're not doing this so you can keep mucking up our terrace.” You interject.
“And you'll have to clean up the tracks yourself from now on.” Remus adds, using his 'teacher voice.’ It does things to you. And to Sirius.
“Fine. As long as I can keep turning up. I just love you two soooo much.”
You roll your eyes and he bats his lashes ridiculously.
“All right then. I'll go call Miss N. Sort out a severance package for her, so she can take her time finding a new job. I'll call dad — maybe he can sort her out with another job somewhere decent.”
Remus pulls you into the side of his chair, kisses your cheek and squeezes you against him. “Thanks, dovey. I von't let you down, Panna Miss L/N.” He tries his best Miss N. impersonation. It works and you laugh while walking away, blushing.
Sirius sees right through his humour. How he melts a little at how deeply you care for everyone, making sure they’re taken care of, so they leave better than before they met you. You've only known Miss Nowitzki for less than two weeks, and you already care about her deeply.
Miss Nowitzki is grateful for all you’ve done for her, though you can hear the relief in her voice at not having to clean your “haunted flat” anymore.
„Dziękuję, Miss L/N. You and your young husband are very, very sveet.”
You blush and choose not to correct her. ‘Young husband’ sounds so perfect it hurts.
“I’m sorry we won’t be keeping you on. You're really great.”
„W porządku. It’s alright, Miss. I understand.”
“Expect a call from my dad soon. We’ll make sure you’re taken care of, yeah?”
„Dziękuję… i niech cię Bóg błogosławi. God bless you,” she says, voice thick with gratitude — kissing her crucifix in one hand and clutching the phone with the other.
When you ring your dad next, he assures you he’ll handle Miss Nowitzki’s generous severance pay today, and offer her a new job looking after his commercial properties. She’ll be all set — and hopefully, not so spooked, poor thing.
You know Remus is right. It’s better this way. Still, you hate the thought that this might be feeding his maddening belief that he is obligated to earn his place here — every minute of the day.
“She’s all set,” you announce, taking your place back on the sofa.
“Brilliant. Thanks, dovey.”
Sirius can’t believe the absurdity of the loving gazes you two trade like it’s just another Tuesday. Absolute delusional plonkers.
“So… how’s your brother?” Sirius asks with a wicked glint.
“Twatty as ever, as far as I know.”
“Just between us, I’d love to tame him.”
Remus snorts into his tea and immediately sprays some across his T-shirt. “Ah, bollocks— excuse me.” He disappears into the kitchen to fetch his wand which he left on the counter earlier.
“Alright then, Miss Lupinski,” Sirius calls after him. “Clean yourself up and bring us some fresh tea and biscuits, will you?”
“Aye, coming right up!”
Remus practically skips about the kitchen, waving his wand around to get tea sorted with a new feeling of freedom.
You bite your lower lip, smirking at your clever-clumsy flatmate with unguarded adoration for a moment. Sirius clocks it straight away.
“Hm. Cute.”
“I know. How can he be so graceful in duels, and so disastrous around liquids, right?”
"Mm, yeah, no.”
"What?”
“I meant you. And him. And this daft slow-dance you’re both doing.”
“Shut up. Dunno what you’re on about.”
“Sure you don’t. Muppets, the lot of you. Fucking perfect for each other…”
Remus returns with a full tea tray just in time for you to nervously redirect the conversation.
“Can we go back to you now?” you bark between your teeth.
“Fine.” Sirius rolls his eyes. “Where was I? Ah, Andrew L/N, the bratty wonder. Tell me something filthy-embarrassing about him. Make me blush for a change. I'm talking some top-shelf wanking material, please.”
“EURGH!” You punch his shoulder. He giggles and moans in pain.
“Come on, dolly, I’m shrivelling out here in the arid, horny wasteland of my current love life!”
“Sorry, Paddy. He’s straight as a centaur's arrow. Boring just like dad, too.”
“Damn shame... Such a fine specimen. Like you, Princess.” He boops your nose; Remus bristles while filling out mugs. Sirius holds up his hands. “Respectfully, of course... But seriously, he checks all my boxes, you know, all feisty and clever like that, always makes me laugh. Those dimples… and biceps, Merlin’s balls...”
“And none of that Statute of Secrecy nonsense to deal with,” you add, "while proper pissing off your blood-nazi family, with a strapping muggle boy. I see it.”
“Exactly! Perfect match, if only he didn’t fancy birds exclusively. All folds and no rolls, such a shame.”
"Gross.” You shake your head while running a hand through Sirius’s silky curls. He leans into the touch, purring dramatically. Remus looks away, focusing on his mug and wishing it was him under your touches.
“Don't worry, Siri. We’ll find your Prince Charming. Or Princess.”
“Excuse me, I’m Prince Charming here. Someone needs to find me, I’m a bloody bisexual dream!” Sirius whines.
“Of course you are. My sincerest apologies,” you coo.
Sirius moans softly, lays his head on your shoulder like a cat begging for strokes.
“Can I have you instead then? Next best thing.”
“How about you go vanish those bloody tyre marks now?” Remus snaps.
“Alright, alright,” Sirius sighs, standing up with a wink. “Don’t get that huge wand of yours in a knot now.” He saunters off toward the roof terrace, laughing at his wolfish friend.
You both are left with red faces again.
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On Wednesday, as you are having a late dinner together, Remus tells you of his weekend plans.
“Just so you know, I won't be here on Sunday. Going to visit my parents. Check on my mum.”
“Oh! Can I come with? I'd love to see them too! Check on Hope myself, make sure she's all right.”
“You want to? Yeah, of course you can come. They'll love to see you.” Remus responds as normal-sounding as possible, while his insides bubble like a cauldron full of Amortentia. This feels almost like… going with your girlfriend to see the in-laws. The domesticity of this moment will probably render him useless there.
“I'll owl my parents and let them know you're coming.”
“Brilliant.”
You also send an owl of your own to Fleamont Potter, James's dad. With an idea you've had in the back of your head since August.
The Lupin cottage smells like woodsmoke and rosemary when you arrive on Sunday morning. It feels like a second home, as it always has. You feel instantly hugged even before you’ve stepped inside.
Hope’s the first one you see as you enter, her soft grey cardigan barely clinging to her still skinny shoulders, eyes crinkling in that way that always makes Remus breathe easier. Her hair — what’s grown back of it — is a soft, silvery-sandy fuzz now, just brushing the edge of pixie territory. No more headscarves. She's looking more like herself than she has in months.
“Oh, my loves,” she beams, pulling you both into her arms like it’s been years, not weeks. She cups Remus’s face with both hands, brushing a thumb over his cheekbone. “Look at you. Bit thin, yeah? You eating enough?”
“I’m fine, Mam,” Remus chuckles, leaning into her touch anyway.
“And you—” she turns to you with a fond little gasp, wrapping you in a proper mum-hug, all warm arms that smell like lavender oil. “My darling girl. I’ve missed you. I hope he's been good. Or at least not brooding too much.”
You laugh as Remus rolls his eyes behind her back. “He’s been very good. Mostly.”
She squeezes you tighter. “You look beautiful. Come in, come in, I’m making your favourites for lunch.”
Lyall appears in the hallway behind her, one eyebrow raised as if baffled but clearly pleased. “Let the kids through the door, Hopey, don’t cling like a needy bowtruckle so early, love.”
You step forward to greet him, and before he can offer his usual gruff little handshake, you wrap your arms around him and kiss his cheek firmly. “Hello, Lyall.”
He goes pink as a summer apple.
“Oh,” he says, blinking. “Right. Hello, dear girl.”
Remus bites back a smirk as Lyall adjusts his jumper and mutters something about the weather in London today.
Hope watches the exchange with barely concealed glee, biting down a knowing smile. She turns to Remus and nudges him lightly. “Just like you. Same bloody blush and everything.”
“Thanks, Mam,” he mumbles, ears pink now too. “Appreciate it.”
The room fills with soft feminine laughter, as Hope wraps an arm around you again and leads you further inside, her head resting briefly against yours.
“Come on, love. Let’s sit for a bit. I want to hear everything.”
“Yes. But first — the doctor’s in. Let’s see how your body’s doing, Mam.”
Remus nearly keels over on the spot when you say it. Mam. His two favourite ladies loving each other? Almost too much to handle.
Lyall observes his son closely for a moment.
Hope’s bedroom is filled with pale morning light, softened by sheer yellow curtains fluttering at the open window. The faint scent of rosemary and chamomile tea lingers. Everything is tidy but lived-in, from the hand-embroidered quilt folded at the end of the bed to the watercolour paintings of Welsh sea landscapes framed on the walls. Her tender, artsy touch is everywhere.
She settles against the headboard with a sigh, cardigan sleeves pushed up, as you perch beside her on the edge of the mattress.
“Alright, Mrs. Lupin,” you tease gently, lifting your wand, “time for your check-up. Nothing too exciting, I’m afraid — just a few diagnostic charms and some questions.”
“Oh, I do love a bit of excitement,” she quips, “but boring’s good when it comes to the body, isn’t it?”
You smile and begin your work, wand gently humming in your hand as you run it in steady passes over her body — head, chest, abdomen, arms and legs — while faint glyphs appear and shimmer in the air before dissolving into dust.
“Minor fatigue, a bit of post-chemo chronic depletion… but nothing we didn’t expect,” you murmur, half to yourself.
“Still a bit fuzzy some mornings,” she admits. “And by mid-afternoon I feel like my limbs belong to someone else, like I'm suddenly made of rubber.”
You reach into your satchel. “Which is exactly why I brought these.” You open a beautiful wooden chest containing several neatly labelled little single-dose glass vials which clink softly in their individual little spots as you bring them towards her. “Energy tonics and restorative elixirs — Muggle-safe, non-addictive, very gentle. One tiny vial of the purple one before breakfast, mint-green vial again mid-afternoon. It'll keep your spark lit longer. There's enough here for thirty days. I'll keep replenishing them for you until you don't need them anymore.”
She takes the box with reverence, as if you’d just handed her diamonds.
“And now,” you say with a grin, “my favourite one.”
You pull out a large amber bottle from the bottom of your bag. The label glints gold in the light:
Sleekeasy Scalp & Growth Tonic — Custom Formulation by F. Potter & Co., for H. Lupin.
Hope’s hand flies to her chest. “You made me a hair potion?”
“Well, I asked a very clever man for help,” you smile. “Fleamont Potter helped me fine-tune it. I adjusted the absorption charms to work with your treatment history, and insisted it smell good, too. Lavender, clary sage, and just a touch of neroli. You’ll love it. But if you don't, Monty can change the formula for whatever smell you prefer.”
You uncork the bottle, letting the gentle herbal scent fill the room. Hope breathes in deeply, eyes a little glassy.
"Oh. It smells perfect. I have no words. What does it do?”
“Would you like to try it now?”
She nods, and you warm a sickle-size dollop between your hands before gently massaging it into her fuzzy scalp. The moment your fingertips glide across her head, the magic begins to work.
Tiny glimmers of light spark at her hairline. And then a fresh crop of soft strands begins to emerge, visibly curling and lengthening under your touch. Within seconds, a half-inch of hair is standing proudly across her scalp.
Hope lets out a laugh that cracks, overwhelmed and giddy. “Oh, it tingles! Look at that!”
“You’ll want to use it once a day,” you say gently, still working the potion in. “Pixie cut by Friday. A proper fringe by month's end.”
She reaches up to touch the new growth, eyes full of wonder. Then she leans forward without hesitation and wraps you in a hug. “You extraordinary girl. Thank you.”
From the corner of your eye, you catch movement.
Remus stands in the doorway, bracing one hand against the frame. Head tilted. A look of pure wonder. He sees his mother’s joyful tears, your gentle hands in her hair, the bottle still glowing faintly with golden magic. His own eyes become prickly-wet.
Hope doesn’t even look his way. She waves a hand dismissing him. “Off with you, Remus. Your tad’s in the garden. Go get me some herbs, please, we’re having girl time here.”
His eyes flick to yours. You give him a soft smile, and his ears immediately pink.
“Right,” he mumbles. “I’ll— right.”
He vanishes.
Hope watches him go with affection, then turns back to you, eyes still damp. “Now then,” she says, patting the bed beside her. “Come sit properly. I want to talk to you about him.”
You join her fully on the mattress, completely at home in her presence.
“So, how's my boy doing? Really?”
"He's amazing. He really is. Loves taking care of the place, and of me.”
"But…? I sense something is bothering you.”
“Well, I'm not complaining per se, but… He's not acting like… it's his home yet, you know? I feel like he does certain things because he thinks he owes me something. And I wish he would just… relax. If that makes sense. Act like it's his home as much as mine.”
"Makes a great deal of sense, sweet girl. All his life, he's been always trying to be good enough for a world that didn’t know what to do with him. But he’s more than enough isn't he, and I know that you know. You see him, just like I do. That’s why I love you.”
“I love you. And I love him. So much.”
“I know, sweet child. I see it.”
The mid-morning sun casts lazy golden light over the Lupins’ modest garden, where neat rows of herbs jostle for space beside trailing vines and a few stubbornly thriving tomatoes. Hope's handiwork, no doubt. A small enchanted axe hovers over a pile of logs near the shed, splitting them with a slow, steady rhythm. But neither man is paying it any mind.
Remus crouches low among the mint and dill, hands brushing across the leaves to select the best sprigs. Lyall stands a few feet away, hands in pockets, squinting up at the sky and at his son.
“She’s doing better,” Remus says quietly, fingers lingering on a stalk of rosemary. “Looks brighter. Has a bit more energy.”
“She never complains,” Lyall replies. “Not to me, at least.”
“She wouldn’t.”
A pause. The axe thunks rhythmically in the background.
“I reckon you being gone’s been harder on her than she lets on.”
Remus looks up. “So, you think I should’ve stayed living here then?”
Lyall shrugs, as if trying to dismiss the weight of what he’s just said — or what he’s about to.
“You’ve done good, Remus. Making a life in London. Working there. Choosing her flat. It’s more than I thought you’d manage, to be honest.”
There’s no malice in it, just a matter-of-fact kind of honesty, the way Lyall’s always been. But it still lands heavy in Remus’s chest.
“You thought I’d what? Hide away forever?”
“I thought,” Lyall replies carefully, “that the world’s never been kind to cr— people like you. And it takes a toll. Your mam believes you’re meant for more and maybe she’s right, she usually is. But I’ve seen how cruel people can be. The system. The Ministry. Even Hogwarts, sometimes. You probably have a better idea by now, how many doors are already shut to you by default. How many were never open in the first place.”
Remus doesn’t answer. He watches a beetle crawl over the rim of a flowerpot.
“It’s not that I don’t think you deserve more,” Lyall adds, softer now. “It’s that I don’t know how to believe you’ll ever get it. And for that I’m really sorry, son.”
Another pause. The axe keeps working.
“Well, it’s not your fault, so…”
Remus knows by his father’s silence that he doesn’t believe himself to be completely faultless, since it was his mouthing off that essentially led Greyback to his bedroom that cursed night.
Pregnant pauses punctuated by soft grunts seem to just be a part of the Lupin men dynamics, really. Too many heavy, unspoken things. Their love for each other is a complex kind, albeit just as real and solid.
“And the girl?” Lyall ventures.
“What about her?”
“She’s… fond of you.”
“She’s my best friend, of course she's fond.”
Lyall looks at him, long and slow. “Yes. That’s the part that worries me.”
Remus’s jaw tightens. “She’s safe. I’d never—”
“I know. I know,” Lyall interrupts. “That’s not what I meant. I know you’d never hurt her. But I worry about… expectations. Yours, I mean. Your… heart.”
Remus rises to his feet, brushing off his hands. “Don’t.”
Lyall doesn’t push it.
Instead, he reaches for a sprig of basil, plucks it neatly, and hands it to Remus like it’s some kind of peace offering. Or apology.
“You’re a good man, son. The best of us, even if the world’s too stupid and cruel to see it.”
Remus swallows.
“Come on,” Lyall mutters. “Let’s go in. She’ll want this for the sauce straight away.”
The kitchen smells like comfort, as always — garlicky and herb-y, with something chocolatey-sweet baking in the oven. Hope’s gone all out, despite your protests: roast chicken with lemon and thyme, buttery leeks in white sauce, roasted carrots with honey and rosemary, and her famous mustard mash that Remus once threatened to hex James over one summer. There's fresh-baked soda bread still warm from the oven, wrapped in a linen cloth, and a plum crumble cooling on the windowsill for afters.
The table is set with mismatched plates and a little vase of garden flowers in the middle. Hope pours the tea herself, of course, even though you offered. Lyall carves the chicken with Ravenclaw precision — you suspect he rather enjoys being needed in moments like this.
Remus sits beside you, a bit flushed from the garden, his sandy fringe tousled by the wind, his fingers idly tracing the rim of his teacup. The sun catches a tiny scar on his collarbone — the one you know he forgets is visible.
“So, how’s work, cariad?” Hope asks as she passes him the bread basket. “Esther still got you organising her entire library by hand?”
Remus smirks faintly. “She’s pleased with my work, I guess.”
“She ought to be, after all the pillocks who made that place unnavigable before you,” Lyall mutters, deadpan.
Hope laughs brightly. “Careful. She might just want to marry you herself.”
You snort into your tea.
Remus rolls his eyes, ears pink-hot. “Alright, alright.”
Hope grins, undeterred. “And the school? You’ve started supply teaching, yeah?”
“Yeah. Week and a half ago. Taught a few times since.”
“Are the little ones behaving for you? How do you like it?”
He smiles softly, bashfully — he always hesitates to sing his own praises.
“It’s been brilliant, really. They’ve already offered me more hours at St. Ailbe’s Primary,” Remus says, trying to sound casual, but you can see the flicker of pride in his eyes. “The headteacher reckons I’ve got a knack for it. Says the kids won’t shut up about me.”
He shrugs like it’s nothing. You want to hug his neck. Of course he's already the most popular teacher. Of course!
“Well, that’s fantastic,” Hope says warmly, refilling his tea. “Are they looking to make you permanent?”
“They’re keen to bring me on properly — full post, proper contract and everything. But… I’d need to get qualified. Language and Maths Education, most likely. There’s a B.Ed. programme I could apply for, they told me.”
You can't help but get impossibly excited at this — the idea of Remus, Professor Lupin in training, being adored by muggle children and getting a steady job that values him?? It's exactly the future you've dreamed of for him. You and Hope can't keep from smiling as he shares.
“Obviously, it would be near-impossible for me to go back to school.”
“Why?” you ask quickly.
“Oh, take your pick — time, finances, the whole werewolf thing…” He tries for a light tone but can’t quite pull it off. “And it’s not like I’ve got the right qualifications. I didn’t do Muggle A-Levels. Didn’t even sit O-Levels.”
He shrugs again, and this one looks heavier.
“Remus, this is your future. And we both know you’d have passed O-Levels and A-Levels in your sleep if you’d been given the chance.” Hope points out and you agree immediately.
“That’s not the point,” he mutters. “I didn’t sit them. I didn’t even go to proper muggle school past eleven. And I’m not going to forge a bunch of documents and lie my way into a job that involves moulding young minds.”
You watch the way he says it — the invisible weight that brings his head down, making him act so dismissive, so quiet, like it’s just another inconvenience.
Godric, he doesn’t know, does he? He doesn’t see what you see.
Remus Lupin, adored by children, changing lives with his gentleness and sharp mind. Teaching, guiding, belonging. Not just surviving day-to-day, but waking up with purpose. With pride. With a classroom of tiny humans who think the sun rises and sets with him.
Yes, it's not Hogwarts. Not yet. Not magical education — which you are sure he'd be the absolute best at — but a great muggle option, for now, which would be just as rewarding. Until things change in their wonderful but backwards world.
You want to scream it into his beautiful, stubborn face: ‘This is what you deserve, Remus!’
And yet, he’s already bracing for rejection. Even now, at his happiest and most hopeful, he’s waiting for someone to tell him it’s too good to be true. That he’s not allowed to have this either.
And the worst part? He'd believe them. In a heartbeat.
You glance across the table at Hope. She knows it too. You can see it in her eyes — the aching, helpless love for her boy. Both of you want to wrap him up and tell him to stop carrying the weight of the world on shoulders that should’ve been given rest by now.
But you know Remus Lupin. He’ll never stop carrying it. Not until someone shows him how.
“You wouldn't be lying about your mind, though, would you?” Lyall contributes.
He shakes his head, still stubborn. “Feels like cheating.”
A pause. Then Hope chimes in gently from across the table:
“Like when you Confunded that policeman in Swansea because you hadn’t done your MOT?”
Remus groans. “Mam.”
“Don’t ‘Mam’ me, you did it. You’ve cheated before for far less important things.”
You grin. “Exactly. And this isn't even cheating. One week in and you’re the best teacher they’ve got. You’ve read every bloody book in existence, and you’re already doing the job. Brilliantly.”
“Doesn’t make it right.”
“It makes it true,” you say softly.
A pause.
“I’ll stand by you either way. But I know you’d be smashing.”
Remus doesn’t argue again. He just nods, half-listening now, half-retreating behind his teacup.
You clock it instantly. That quiet shutdown he does, like pulling the blinds inside his own head. You’re practically vibrating with the urge to shake him, to tell him this matters, because he matters, and what he wants matters; that he deserves his dreams and he deserves to freely pursue his dreams, that it isn’t cheating to finally be seen for everything he is. But you know better than to press, not in front of Lyall. Not while Remus is already feeling flayed open, tired of the spotlight, flooded with imposter syndrome.
Hope agrees, like the ever-emotional temperature whisperer that she is. So she shifts the attention to you.
“All right then, lovely girl. Tell me everything,” she says warmly, chin in her hand. “How are your classes? Made any friends yet? What’s Oxford like? I want to picture every detail.”
You beam. “It’s… intense. But brilliant. The professors are terrifying in that way that makes you want to impress them. The reading load’s outrageous, and I already feel years behind some of the posh legacy types in my cohort. But I love it. I really do.”
Hope’s eyes shine with pride, and Lyall even manages a gruff little nod. But it’s Remus you glance at next — and sure enough, he’s looking at you like you hung the bloody moon.
“Knew you’d fit right in,” he murmurs.
“There’s a lot of paired lab work, too,” you go on, trying not to blush under his gaze. “We were assigned partners for biochem this term. Mine’s this brilliant bloke called Robbie Emery.”
And just like that, the energy shifts again.
Hope perks up with interest. Lyall stirs his tea absently.
And Remus freezes for half a second too long.
“He’s lovely, thank Merlin,” you say brightly, oblivious. “One of those charming brainiac types. Smart, handsome, very funny… properly annoying in the way all pretty and popular people are when they know it, you know?”
Hope chuckles conspiratorially. Remus forces a little smile.
“He’s a bit like Sirius, actually,” you add, nudging Remus under the table. “If Sirius were a bit less… Sirius. And more serious.”
Hope laughs. “So he’s handsome and clever. What else? Is he single?”
“Oh, don’t you start too,” you groan.
You glance at Remus without meaning to. His face is blank. Totally unreadable.
“I think so,” you say, slower now. “He flirts like he’s got no one to go home to.”
Hope arches a brow.
“Not with me!” you add quickly. “Alright, maybe a little. But it’s harmless. All talk. And honey.”
There’s a clink of porcelain as Remus sets his cup down a little too hard.
“Well,” Lyall cuts in, missing none of it, “at least you’ve got someone equally bright to split the work with. Nothing worse than carrying a lazy sod through labs.”
“Exactly,” you say with a nervous laugh. “Anyway. Enough about him, I think.”
But it’s too late. Remus has gone utterly still.
“All right,” Hope says brightly, standing. “Who’s ready for pudding?”
Pudding is usually Remus’s favourite course.
Hope made his favourite again: dark chocolate soufflé with just a whisper of orange zest, warm from the oven, rising like soft clouds in their little ramekins. He always savours every bite, practically humming through the experience like a kid entering Honeydukes for the first time.
But today? Today he barely touches it.
He just sits there, spoon in hand, head slightly bowed, eyes trained somewhere just past the centre of the table. Brooding. His soufflé goes cold. The crust sinks.
You notice, of course you do: the way he stops joining conversations, the sudden quiet. But you chalk it up to the earlier discussion about teacher training complications. He’s probably still stewing about all the bureaucratic shite and whether he deserves a future. It makes sense. He gets like this, sometimes. You’ll talk him round later.
Hope knows better.
She watches her son with quiet, surgical eyes, picking up every subtle shift in the air between his halfhearted spoonfuls of soufflé. The way his shoulders have dropped. The barely-hidden Remus-pout when you joked that “There’s posh, and there’s Oxford-posh,” or mentioned how you and Robbie nearly set a beaker on fire during a lab demo mishap. Your voice is warm with laughter, completely unaware.
Hope’s no Legilimens, but she doesn’t need to be. She’s been reading Remus like a favourite book since the day he was born.
And she knows — as surely as she knows how to add just the right amount of cardamom to a cup of tea — that this is going to break him if he doesn’t do something. She still remembers how hard he cried and crumbled in her arms about you.
She lets it be. Lets him sit with the jealousy. Because sometimes, pain’s the only thing stubborn boys like him will listen to, and act upon. And this one he’ll have to sort it for himself.
♥️🐺♥️ ♥️🐺♥️ ♥️🐺♥️
You both decide to take the train back to London — for fun, you say. Haven’t done it in ages. Might stop by the market near the station for some pastries and Sunday flowers.
Hope hugs you like a daughter she’s already claimed a long time ago.
Lyall pats your arm and mutters, “If that flat of yours ever starts going funny with the magic and the electrics… I can stabilise the field. Got some good wards for it.”
You hug him and thank him warmly.
Remus barely says a word.
He doesn’t speak much at the platform.
He doesn’t speak at all on the train.
He is spiralling.
You fall asleep with your head on his shoulder at one point, gently lulled by the train’s rhythmic clatter and the golden hour light spilling across the carriage. He doesn’t dare move a muscle, terrified to disturb you. Terrified to lose the feeling of your warmth, even if it’s unearned. Temporary.
But he can’t silence his mind.
Robbie. Robbie Emery.
Of course there’s someone. Of course you’d meet someone there — someone clever and confident and charming. Someone who fits. Someone with real credentials, real plans, real prospects. Someone who could walk you home in broad daylight and be officially introduced to your mum and dad without fearing rejection.
Someone who matches you — in looks, intelligence, opportunity, and wealth.
Someone who can actually offer you something of value.
Not a half-starved werewolf with no records, no income, and no idea what the fuck he’s doing.
He doesn’t despise Robbie. Not really. He’s never even met the bloke. But the image of him, and the way you said his name, with your smile, your light… It's unbearable.
He can see it so clearly it hurts: you and Robbie in a fluorescent lab, hands brushing while reaching for the same flask. You laughing at something he says, similar to the way you laugh with Remus now, but lighter, freer. And at the end of the day, you apparating home to your flat, while Remus washes your mugs and pretends not to wonder who you were smiling about when you walked through the door. Or if he'd touch you yet. Kissed you. If you liked it. Said yes. Did more.
He swallows hard and stares out the window at the darkening fields, blurred in motion. He wonders how long he’ll be able to keep doing this: loving you in silence, pretending it’s enough just to be near you. To be your friend. Your flatmate. The boy who folds your laundry while you study and makes you tea just the way you like it.
He knows deep down that his father is right. He shouldn’t get attached to anything. Let you have your sunshine life, your normal love story. Let Robbie — or someone else — love you out in the open, without shame or secrets. Because you were never meant to be his to begin with.
But he’s selfish. And so, so in love with you it’s turned him inside out and stupid.
The whistle blows. Your head stirs against his shoulder.
He rubs his eyes before you can see the stupid tears leaking out.
The flat is dark and quiet when you return.
You flick the lights on with a wandless wave and a sleepy sigh, kicking off your shoes by the door. The warmth of the train still clings to your skin, as does the scent of Hope’s cooking, the feel of Lyall’s steady hand on your shoulder.
Remus follows behind you in silence, still carrying whatever storm’s been brewing in his chest since pudding.
You pad into the kitchen intending to put the kettle on, but when you turn around, he’s just… standing there. In the doorway. Looking like he doesn’t know what to do with himself.
So you take his hand and lead him to the sofa instead.
He hesitates for a breath, then drops down beside you.
“Your parents were great today,” you say, resting your head on the back of the sofa to look at him properly. “Your mum is doing brilliant, don't you think?”
He gives a small nod.
You smile. “I feel more at home there than I ever did at my own aunt’s house, you know. They feel like my family.”
His breath catches.
You shift on the sofa and tug at his arm — a gentle, wordless request. He doesn’t resist. He never does when you’re like this. He lets you pull him down, stretch him out so his head rests in your lap, and his legs curl up at your side. You brush the fringe from his forehead, slow and soft.
He closes his eyes.
“I meant what I said earlier,” you whisper. “Whatever you decide… whether it’s pursuing full-time teaching at St. Ailbe’s, or joining some underground werewolf rights revolution, or leading a quiet, boring life… you’ll be brilliant. You always are. And I’ll be right here. Always.”
You think he might say something but he doesn’t. He just lies there, eyes closed, throat bobbing up and down a few times.
And so Remus lets you touch him like that. For minutes, maybe hours, while the telly plays something neither of you are really watching. You stroke his hair, the way you’ve always done. Like he’s yours, and you're his.
And maybe you are his, for now. For just a little longer.
Because as much as it hurts, he’ll take it.
He’ll let himself have this: your fingers in his hair, your warmth against his chest, your perfect voice in his ear telling him he’s more than enough.
He’ll keep loving you quietly, fiercely, stupidly… until the day someone else finally earns this place in your lap.
But until that dreadful day comes?
He'll keep taking what he can.
Greedy little bastard that he is.
♥️🐺♥️ ♥️🐺♥️ ♥️🐺♥️
Remus walks softly into your bedroom two mornings later. You two have a standing agreement: he is allowed to come wake you up if past a certain hour — which happens more often than not, seeing your sleep-deprived, night-owl brain resists even the most obnoxious alarm clocks sometimes.
Not that he minds. At all. In fact, he can’t help but imagine what it would be like to wake you up every morning. With sloppy kisses. Right from under the duvet. Right next to you. Pyjamas optional.
He waves his wand wordlessly and charms the enormous curtains open, allowing the pale, cloudy daylight to fill your room through the glass walls. You are kipping on your side, nestled under your Ravenclaw-blue and lavender bedding. Looking as adorable and disheveled as always, hair every which way, pouty lips slightly open, snoring softly like a cute little puppy.
His heart twinges. His fingers twitch. His lips pout, longing to meet your own.
He sits at the edge of your warm bed. Leans over you. Softly tucks your hair behind your ear, and keeps caressing it softly.
“Wake up, sleepyhead. Rub your eyes, get out of bed. Wake up, the wicked witch is deeeaaaddd…” He whisper-croons the Wizard of Oz verse in a low, velvety voice — part of this little sickly-sweet ritual of yours.
”Mmm...” Your little growl announces you slowly coming to, squinting your sticky lashes, immediately frowning and pouting further. Remus chuckles, his belly heating up.
“Good morning, Doctor L/N.”
”Mmmmm…” You moan. His dick twitches in his trousers. Shit.
”Paging Doctor L/N! Wake up, Doctor, you are needed! Stat!”
“Ugh, weird. My mum is Doctor L/N…” you croak lazily.
“Well, you'll have to get used to it, don't you?”
Unless I become ‘Doctor Lupin’ instead… You think to yourself, smiling lazily, your brain still mushy with sleep and loose with your usual fantasies. Which is exactly what you’d like to be called one day.
"Where did you go, daydreamy girl?”
"Hm? Nowhere. Sorry. Carry on.”
“What do you want for breakfast today?”
“Fried egg on toast, please.”
”How many?”
”One. Thank you.”
”And to drink?”
”Just breakfast tea, please.”
”Milk and two, yeah?”
”Yeah. Thank you.”
“On it, love. Take your time. Well, twenty minutes or so. Don’t go back to sleep.”
Remus goes back to the kitchen. He carefully slices into the granary loaf he baked just yesterday and drops two pieces into the toaster. One eggy-toast for you, one for him.
He’s gotten really into baking bread these last few weeks — something about working with his hands (which he gets from his mother), and knowing exactly what’s going into your body. It calms him. Grounds him. Plus, this kitchen is bloody gorgeous. He’s never had such nice gear before. Or such top-quality ingredients. So now he bakes. All the time. Proud. Smitten. Motivated like never before. He even takes loaves to his parents when he visits.
He cracks two eggs on the frying pan and charms it to keep moving so they don't stick to the bottom. He's methodical and precise for each one of the well-practised actions, making the perfect eggs that will go on top of the toasts, with a touch of mayonnaise and paprika on them. Just like Hope Lupin makes them.
The two toast slices pop off, golden-brown and perfect. Remus puts on the mayo and sprinkles the paprika. Another minute and the eggs are fried to your preferred texture: yolks medium-hard. He neatly halves them with a spatula and lays them on the toasts, sprinkling a bit more paprika to finish. The tea is just done brewing, and so he adds the splash of milk and two sugars to the mug, just as you like it.
You interrupt just as he's taking the kettle and filling the two mugs. Leaning on the counter next to him, still in your cute pyjama vest and short shorts. Fucking hell…
“Rem… You tyrant. I was having the best sleep.”
“Sorry. But you have class in an hour, don't you?”
"Still. Hey, it smells great. What can I do?”
"Nothing. Thank you. Just go sit pretty and I'll be right there.”
“I can slice some fruit for your porridge.”
"No, dove. Don't worry about it. Just go change or something.”
“Come on, why can’t I help?” you whine and lean half on him, dropping the eggy spatula noisily in the process and splattering oil on the floor.
“Because you’re messy. Case in point. Get out of my kitchen.”
You stick your tongue out at him—
—and then it hits you.
My kitchen.
Remus carries on, oblivious, tapping the kettle gently against the rim of the mug like he always does.
“Yes, chef!” You mock-salute him as you run back to your room, suppressing the urge to jump on his neck.
My kitchen. He said my kitchen.
You close the door, wiping away the tears that are already falling. And you scream-laugh into your pillow.
He’s finally home.
♥️🐺♥️ ♥️🐺♥️ ♥️🐺♥️
Today school let you out a bit earlier than usual, so you pop into Remus's library, with the pretence of a scholarly research mission — but let’s face it, your brain’s a bit too full of Remus Lupin to focus on anything remotely academic. You’re probably ovulating or something.
Not that he needs to know that.
He's sitting behind the front desk, scribbling something neat and tiny on a card before slotting it inside a returned book. He looks up, surprised but immediately pleased.
“Hey! What are you doing here?”
“I came to see where the literary magic happens. And research some medical things.” You say it like it’s the most reasonable thing in the world.
Remus gives you a flat look, arching one perfect brow. “This is a tiny branch. The best we’ve got is a dusty copy of Gray's, probably. I doubt you’ll find anything remotely useful.”
You scoff. “Shut up! Can’t you just accept my very plausible alibi to come see you?”
His eyes crinkle. He’s about to reply when you catch a flicker of motion in your periphery — someone watching.
You glance sideways, you see her: perfect golden blonde ponytail. low-cut blouse like she walked out of a catalogue called "Snatch a Werewolf Weekly.” She’s leaning near the shelves, pretending to be very interested in the local history section, but her eyes are locked on you, squinty and clearly unfriendly.
“Who is that?”
"Who?”
"Blondie, four o ‘clock.”
“Oh. That's Emily. Emily Barrett. Esther's great-niece. I've told you about her before, remember?”
“Yeah. Right.”
You look over your shoulder at her again. She hasn't stopped staring. You give her a false little smile and wave.
She does not wave back. Instead, she gives you a full-body once-over, grimacing like you're covered in graphorn shit or something.
You withdraw your smile, still looking at her.
Then you put your hand on Remus’s shoulder and caress it slowly. Just a light little touch. Just a slow caress of your thumb. Just enough to say: mine, bitch.
Remus glances at your hand. Then at you. Amused.
“Hm,” you hum. “I don’t like her.”
He laughs under his breath. “You don’t even know her.”
“I have a feeling I won’t.”
He watches you, intrigued. Something new glittering behind his gaze.
Interesting…
Remus takes you over the Medical Science stacks. You two are enjoying each other's company, whispering swotty jokes about the graphic anatomical pictures, when you are interrupted.
“Hey…” Emily appears by Remus's side suddenly. Slithering in, like a proper slimy reptile.
“Hey, Emily. Found that third volume that's missing from the Encyclopædia Perthensis yet?”
“Not yet, but I'm feeling hot about it.”
‘For fuck's sake,’ you think to yourself, fighting the eye-roll twitching your corneas.
“Ha. Good luck I guess.” Remus responds, not catching — or not paying mind to — the daft-bimbo innuendo.
“Who's your little friend here, Remus?”
“Oh. Right. Sorry.” He clears his throat and gestures. “Emily, this is my best friend and flatmate, Y/N. Dovey, this is Emily. She works here sometimes.
You stick out your hand, smile tight and forced. “Lovely to meet you, Emily.”
She takes your hand limply, like it’s mildly toxic. “Likewise. What brings you here to our little corner?” You hate the implication with that ‘our.’ “I would imagine you would be stuck in a stuffy Oxford classroom, a much more majestic library than this, or a morgue right now.”
“As a matter of fact, I just came from the anatomy lab, yeah.”
“Oh, I thought I smelled formaldehyde.”
You wish it was her corpse on the morgue slab in front of your scalpel for a moment.
“Huh. I didn’t think you’d know what formaldehyde smells like, you don't strike me as a Science person… Rem told me you're forgoing a university education? By choice?” No one ever said you were above petty low-blows.
“For now. Not all of us were made to be stuffy little college rats, you know. I have some real-life plans before anything else.”
“Mm. That's nice, I guess... Best of luck to you. I imagine you're busy finding that volume, so don't feel like you have to… linger.” You say the last word implying she's lingering like an unpleasant stench.
“How thoughtful. Yeah, got to keep this place humming with knowledge, right, Remsy?” She drawls with a baby-like, stupid syrupy voice.
You just threw up in your mouth a little. Remsy?
Then she touches his shoulder — just like you did.
‘Sweet Rowena help me now,’ you pray silently, jaw locking and wand-hand twitching.
“Come help me after you're done with her, love?”
Remus looks curiously at Emily. Like it's her first time trying out pet names.
It sounds horrendous from her stupid pink lips, you surmise. And he'll never be done with you, if you have something to do with it.
“Sorry, but he's mine for the rest of the day. We gotta go home soon and sort out dinner together, you know.”
“Of course. See you tomorrow then, Remsy? Nice to meet you again, Y/N.”
“Same here… Emma.” You almost say Emsy, but decide to retract the claws. Just a little. Not all the way.
“It's Emily, actually.”
“Of course. Apologies. Must be all that formaldehyde.”
She turns around and swings her bony hips all the way back to the front desk. Remus is as confused as a mooncalf on an escalator.
“What the… What was all that?” Remus giggles nervously.
“Nothing. Come on, show me the rest of this dump so we can get out of here.”
You love libraries. Just not this one.
♥️🐺♥️ ♥️🐺♥️ ♥️🐺♥️
FRIDAY, 15 SEPTEMBER, 1978
Remus comes home from St. Ailbe’s on Friday afternoon, the day before the full. He’s lightly limping and favouring one side. You can see him wincing as he bends down to take his shoes off, and also the relief when he drops his satchel on the floor. His gait is stiff, his eyes are half-lidded. All the usual signs of pain and pre-moon fatigue. Right on schedule.
“Hey, Sunshine. You beat me home today.”
“Yeah. How was school?”
”Interesting. Broke up a scrap between two Year Fours. Gave a pop quiz on grammar. Got a lovely note from that little girl — Eliza Kapoor. The one who never speaks above a whisper.”
“Oh, Eliza. I like her already. That has to feel good, eh, Prof?”
He’s smiling. Looks genuine, like he knows he’s making a difference. But it also looks forced. Trying to hide the body aches from you.
“What do you want for dinner?” Remus asks, dragging his tired socked feet towards the kitchen as usual, already rolling up his sleeves like it’s his duty..
You close your book and stand. “I want you to come over here and do nothing.”
He blinks. “Well, we’ve got to eat, love.”
“We’ll just get a takeaway tonight. I’m craving chicken chow mein. You need to rest your bones.”
You grab the takeaway menus, then herd Remus to the sofa like a particularly reluctant sheep.
”I’m alright, don’t worry about me.”
"Remus. You don't have to do all this cooking and cleaning for us all the time, I already told you.”
"Please allow me to. I love to do it. I want to do it.”
“As long as you're doing it because you want to, not because you think you have to.”
“I promise. I'm learning to relax on that.”
“All right. But you're in pain today. So it's my turn.”
“Y/N, no. You must be exhausted.”
"I'm not. And I want to. Please. Rest. Let me take care of you today.”
“I’m fine, love— really—”
You silence him with a pointed look. “Lupin, if you don’t sit down this second, I swear I'll put a Petrificus Totalus on you that only Dumbledore can undo!”
He chuckles, wincing as he eases himself down on the sofa. “So violent.”
“So stubborn,” you shoot back, retrieving his Wolfsbane dose and the little lavender-glow potion you’d prepped earlier.
“You sure?”
You adjust the cushions under his neck and shoulders tenderly. “Absolutely. Take your Wolfsbane, relax, pick something from the menu, read the lovely note from Eliza out loud to me, and let me pamper you for a change, Professor Lupin.”
Oh… That is dangerous territory. The way you just said that, the way you just called him Professor while touching him… He grabs a cushion and places it on his lap, discreetly. Red in the face.
Fucking hell…
You hand him the Wolfsbane, and while he forces it down with a grimace, you fetch the second bottle: a massaging potion made from starflower oil, willowbark, and a touch of comfrey, among other things. One tap of your wand and it’s warmed to the perfect temperature. You uncap it. The scent drifts instantly through the room.
Remus closes his eyes and exhales. “Bloody— That smells… unreal.”
“Get used to it, roomie. You’re in my care now.”
You kneel beside him on the sofa, motioning for him to stretch his legs. “Alright then. Strip.”
He blinks. “What?”
“Just your trousers. I need access to your thighs and calves.”
“Blimey.” He huffs a laugh, flushing faintly, then obliges. His hands are shaky as he unbuttons his trousers and pushes them down enough to let you work. You don’t stare, but oh, it takes effort.
You give him a side-eye look and pull them the rest of the way off. His body temperature goes up at least ten degrees. He places the cushion back on his… critical region.
You take his socks off and begin with the soles of his feet, seeking pressure points, kneading the arches with slow, firm circles. You rotate his ankles and coax the tension out of the delicate tendons beneath. Then you work up to his shins and calves, thumbs gliding in lazy spirals, until you reach the tense knots around his knees.
“Godric, that’s—” he swallows— “that’s— Unghn…”
"Feels good, yeah?”
You have no idea how good. What he would like to do to you right now to show you how good it feels.
He snorts, then moans again when you press into a particularly tight band along his inner thigh.
“I feel like I haven’t seen you in two days.” You remark while working his hamstrings.
It's true, you'd barely seen him. Remus took a longer shift at the library yesterday, knowing he’d be at the school today.
”Well, I’m here now. Hi.”
”You’re working too much. Pushing yourself around the moon, you know how daft that is.”
“People are counting on me at my jobs. If I’m physically able, I’ll go.”
You can only imagine who’s counting on him at that blasted library.
“Right. So… How's Emsy, Remsy?”
You deliver it with all the acid of a thousand burst bubotubers, barely masking the venom in your voice. You feel the tension jolt through him before Remus erupts in laughter.
“Down, kitty.”
“What? I was perfectly polite.”
“You're adorable when you get territorial, you know.”
”Shut up.” Now you're the one feeling feverish.
”Don't worry doll, you're still my number-one girl.” He drops into a ridiculous 1920’s New York gangster impersonation, curled R's and all.
“You’re such a cornball...”
“You love it.”
“I hate it.”
”Sure you do, sweetheart.”
You press into a tight thigh muscle particularly hard.
“OW! Watch it.”
“Sorry…” Not.
On Saturday — full moon day — the pain is all over his bones and joints from the moment he wakes. You know it before he even speaks.
He’s on the sofa again, a mug of forgotten tea on the table, laundry basket by his feet. His hair's a mess and his jaw is tight, brow creased in half-asleep discomfort. You've seen this look before, the sort that says: don't ask, but don’t leave me either.
“You know I can hear you not resting, yeah?” you say gently, padding barefoot into the room with a fresh cup of tea.
Remus cracks one eye open. “Bit accusatory for half-eight on a Saturday, don’t you think?”
“The bloody wash is by your feet, genius. Try again.”
You set the tea down and perch beside him, smoothing a hand over his hair. He melts into it before he can stop himself, eyes fluttering shut again.
“Stay down today, Moony. That's an order. Read your stupid book of the week. No baking. No laundry. No eggy toast, nothing.”
“But we'll starve, you're useless in there.”
“Eat my smelly socks. They're right there. Prat.”
Remus laughs breathily, but doesn’t argue further.
The flat glows golden as the sun sinks low behind the tall London towers. You’ve lit the lamps, stoked the fire. Everything feels quieter, weightier, as if the very walls of the flat are bracing for the moonrise along with its occupants.
James and Sirius arrive around half-five. Dinner is simple: tea with the bread Remus baked two days ago, plus scones, jam, cream, and the tea cakes Euphemia sent with the boys. Sirius has brought firewhisky again (“purely medicinal”), and James hauls in the "moon kit” as they christened it: a large canvas tote full of chocolate, fuzzy socks, and a battered chessboard for later. You set the table for four and do your best to pretend it’s a normal dinner party and not the quiet prelude to your favourite person’s agony.
Halfway through the meal, Sirius glances out the window. “So… you reckon the lunar eclipse will change anything?”
James is drizzling honey onto his bread and watching the sky as well. “They say eclipses mess with magic. Could amplify it. Or muddle it.”
“Reckon it could dull the moon’s pull?” Sirius asks, nudging Remus. “Give you a bit of a break?”
Remus doesn’t answer right away. He’s been unusually quiet and pensive, speaking only when spoken to, his usual dry humour dulled by exhaustion. He finally shrugs.
“Never had a lunar eclipse land exactly on the full before,” he murmurs. “Might change the timing. Or the strength of the pull. Or nothing. There’s no bloody research on it. No werewolf volunteers lining up for studies.”
You reach over and touch his hand under the table. His fingers squeeze yours.
“Either way,” James says, looking between all of you, “you won’t be alone.”
“And after tonight, we’ll know. And you’ll write a killer piece about it. And one day, our stupid world will finally listen to what you have to say.” You affirm him with equal amounts of fury and passion.
Remus squeezes your hand tighter, and gives you his first smile in hours.
The boys and you guide Remus upstairs as the last of the golden light drains from the sky; each step is a slow, deliberate effort. He’s leaning more on James than usual, and Sirius keeps a hand hovering just behind his back, ready to catch him if he falters.
The spare room — Moony’s Room as you call it — is already prepared. The fire’s been lit, crackling softly. The big, plush rug on the floor is laid out with a few blankets beside it, including the familiar dark grey knit one that Hope made for him during his fifth year. It matches Moony's fur beautifully. The bed goes unused on full moon nights. Remus prefers the floor, closer to the warmth of the fire, less risk of wrecking the mattress if something ever goes wrong.
You hover at the threshold. Dread curling like Devil Snare in your stomach.
“Alright, love,” Remus says gently, motioning toward the door, “this is the part where you bugger off.”
You don’t move. You know this sparring by heart. You’ve done it before. Many times.
“I’ll stay on the other side of the door,” you try. “I won’t come in.”
“No.”
“I’ve seen you post-moon, Remus. I’ve patched you up. Washed you. I’ve—”
“It's not safe! I've told you a million times.”
“It is safe! Potion's never failed us before! We've been brewing it for months now!”
“Please go, dove. Don't argue. We can talk about it later. I need you to go now. Please.” The body shakes have intensified. He's on the edge of losing control, both physically and emotionally.
You swallow your protest. You kiss Sirius on the cheek, then James. Finally, you press your lips to Remus’s temple, lingering longer than you mean to. He feels clammy and feverish, inhumanly-hot.
“I’ll be right downstairs,” you whisper. “I love you. Even when you’re a stubborn git. Good luck tonight.”
He closes his eyes. Grinds his teeth. Doesn’t answer.
You step away. The door shuts softly behind you.
Sirius shifts awkwardly toward him. James clears his throat. “You know, mate… Sunny's right. The Wolfsbane she brews with Lily is bloody top-notch. Damocles Belby himself said it.”
“I know,” Remus snaps, sharper than intended. Then, quieter, “It’s not about that.”
He meets their eyes, and for a split second, the truth peeks through: it's not fear for your safety, but shame. Deep, marrow-rooted shame.
“I’m not letting her see me like that. All twisted up, grotesque, snarling and wrong. If she sees that, she’ll never look at me the same.”
“Oh, please,” Sirius mutters, trying to lighten the mood. “She’d probably just coo and say you’re still fit.”
Remus doesn’t laugh. He just looks down, eyes tired and shining faintly in the firelight.
James and Sirius help him undress, folding his clothes neatly, passing him the blanket Hope made. They don’t comment on the shaking, the profuse sweating, or the temperature. They're used to it.
He lies down near the fire. Tries to breathe deeply. Tries not to whimper. The moon is minutes away.
And then it all starts. The same, but also new and different.
The eclipse has begun. A soft darkening has spread over the flat, strange and quiet.
The change usually takes three to five minutes. This time, it stretches to ten. Ten. Ten torturous and excruciating minutes of agony.
It starts in his spine, every vertebra cracking and lengthening way too slow. Remus bites down on the blanket to muffle his scream. His ribs snap and reshape violently. His hands curl and split, bones rearranging as claws burst through the skin. His voice breaks through just once — a single, brutal sob. The last human sound before it warps into a painful howl.
His jaw dislocates with a sharp, wet crack. His knees and ankles twist and snap to accommodate the new shape. Every nerve is on fire. Every hair follicle burns as fur pierces through skin like needles where it shouldn’t. His teeth lengthen into fangs, shredding his own tongue, lips, and gums as they erupt.
Human tears turn into a wolf’s painful cry.
James swears under his breath, tears in his eyes. Sirius throws a silencing charm on the walls just in time.
Downstairs, you hear the start of that scream. Then instant, magically-forced silence. Shutting you out.
You drop your teacup.
You sit there, frozen, fists clenched, tears carving hot lines down your cheeks. You can’t do anything. Can’t go up. Can’t help. All you can do is listen to the sound of nothing, a silence that says too much.
It's taking longer. He's in pain longer. It's worse. Fucking eclipse.
You want to take his place. You can't even be there to hold him.
Upstairs, when it’s over, Moony is still. Asleep. Curled tightly by the fire. The boys move gently around him, checking his breathing, laying another blanket around his soft fur.
Sirius sits down cross-legged beside him and strokes the wolf’s head behind his ears.
“Fucking eclipse,” he murmurs.
James unpacks some chocolate. “Yeah. But he made it. We're through.”
They’ll transform soon, dog and stag will curl around him for the night. It’s not over yet, but the worst has passed.
And downstairs, you cry alone into your hands.
Grey daylight is barely up on Sunday morning when you’re quietly pacing outside the door, waiting for James’s signal. When it opens at last, you almost fall through.
James catches you gently. His voice is hoarse with sleep.
“Morning, love. He’s okay. A bit… worse for wear. But asleep.”
Sirius appears beside him, his hair wild, his face drawn. He looks utterly done in. His eyes are red. So are yours.
“Transformation was hell. Longer. Stupid eclipse. But the rest of the night was peaceful. He didn’t even growl at me.”
You crack a smile, but it fades the second you see Remus.
He’s curled on the rug, swaddled in the grey blanket Hope made him, damp hair plastered to his forehead. Naked beneath, as always, but tucked in carefully by his brothers. His skin is pale and flushed from the extreme fever. His breathing’s shallow. His body doesn’t look bloodied except where his teeth cut through around his mouth. No open wounds, thanks to Wolfsbane; but he moves like every joint has been taken apart and stitched back together with shoddy thread.
You kneel beside him and whisper, “Hi, sweetheart. Welcome back.”
His lashes flutter weakly, but he doesn’t open his eyes. James bends down to help, looping his arms under Remus’s shoulders. Sirius takes his legs. You follow close as they carry him downstairs like he’s made of glass. Remus whimpers weakly, in and out of consciousness.
They bring him to his en-suite, where you’ve prepared his post-moon bath.
The steam curls around like a veil. The large tub is full and ready: a warm, milky soak infused with magical herbs you crushed and steeped at dawn: comfrey, yarrow, arnica, and a dash of St. John’s Wort and mooncalf milk concentrate. A temperature-holding stasis spell hums softly under the water’s surface. Lavender and clove linger in the air.
James and Sirius remove the blanket and lower him in slowly. He groans softly as his limbs submerge, tension dissolving in degrees. You turn around once he's in and roll up your sleeves, ready to work on him.
“Thank you, boys,” you murmur, eyes still on Remus. “Come get him out in thirty minutes. There's tea and scones in the kitchen for you. Feel free to make coffee if you want.”
Sirius kisses your temple. James squeezes your arm. Then they leave silently, respectfully, giving you time.
You take a soft cloth and begin washing his face. Careful around his tender cheekbones, and his jaw. His eyelids flutter again, then open, just slightly.
“…Dovey…”
“Shhh,” you whisper, smiling. “I’m here.”
You pour water over his hair, massage in your homemade chamomile and lavender shampoo, which soothes his tender scalp. His hair is sticky with sweat, but you work gently, fingers circling, coaxing each lock clean. He lets out the softest noise, something that sounds like relief and maybe longing.
“Hurts,” he mumbles.
“I know. I'm sorry.”
You rinse and repeat. Then begin on his arms. His biceps twitch under your touch, but he doesn’t pull away. In fact, he leans into it. Your thumbs trace over bruises already blooming beneath the skin. You whisper healing spells like a lullaby. You delicately wash away the blood under his beautiful human nails.
James and Sirius return after thirty minutes, finding you softly caressing his damp fringe as he dozes off. They help lift him from the bath, dry him, dress him in clean boxers only. You wait by his bed and press kisses to James's and Sirius's cheeks in gratitude before they go home, promising to keep them updated.
You help settle Remus into bed with a whispered apology, knowing that every bit of jostling hurts all over. He groans faintly as he lands on the soft mattress, but he doesn’t open his eyes again.
You lift his head and gently feed him a small vial of a calming pain relief potion. He drinks slowly from your hand.
“Sorry, you'll feel cold for a bit, until I finish rubbing this on.”
You move the duvet and sheets, then crawl in beside him — sitting up, legs crossed. Then you begin your careful work: rubbing special balms into his joints and tender bones under soft skin, murmuring incantations for relief.
Shoulders. Hips. Ribs. Neck. Over and over.
He drifts between sleep and pain, but every now and then, he sighs.
You give him sips of more pain potion when he can manage them. The creamy chicken soup will come later for lunch (thanks to Lily), once he slept a few hours. For now, you stroke his hair and sing him something low and silly under your breath. Something you know he loves — maybe Bowie. Maybe the Beatles. Doesn’t matter.
You’re here. He’s safe. You’ll take care of him all day. All night, if he needs it.
Because he’s everything. And after last night? He deserves everything.
“I just love you, you don't even know how much. More than my own life.” You whisper softly into his unconscious ears. “I'll do anything for you, my love. Always. My beautiful boy. My heart.”
Remus snores softly. Rain falls gently outside.
♥️🐺♥️ ♥️🐺♥️ ♥️🐺♥️
It’s early Monday evening, and Remus is wandering the flat like a depressed Hogwarts ghost in pyjama bottoms and an old jumper that still smells faintly of Wolfsbane and firewood. His joints ache and his mood is foul. He’s been alone all day by necessity (and choice), yes, but now he’s bored and itching in his own skin, pacing to the kitchen for the fourth time under the pretence of needing tea.
That’s when the front door opens.
Laughter. He hears your laughter first, bright and a little too much for his throbbing head. It’s followed by a voice he doesn’t recognise: posh, baritone-smooth, dripping with charm.
Oh, hells no. Not today, please dear Godric.
He peers around the kitchen island just in time to see you burst into the flat, cheeks flushed, trailing your school bag and already pulling books and memory cards out.
And behind you, there he is: tall, broad-shouldered, with artfully windswept brown hair and cornflower blue eyes that could give bloody Christopher Reeve's Superman a run for his Galleons. A smile too white to be real. For Merlin’s sake.
“—I told you, Emery, if you answer like that on the test, she’ll kill you. You'll be the newest cadaver down in the basement for us to poke around.”
Robbie shrugs, unbothered. “Might be worth it, just to watch her lose it. Professor Hodgkin is kind of hot when she's fuming.”
You laugh again, nudging him with your shoulder as you toe off your shoes. “You’re a little devil.”
“And yet, you invited me over. I’m flattered.”
“Only because I need your cards and your brains to revise. So you're only here for me to use you.”
“Use me. Abuse me. I'm already perked up for it, my dear.”
Remus tries to shrink deeper into the kitchen, unseen, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth. He watches the two of you from the shadows, tension blooming sharp in his shoulders.
So this is Robbie Emery.
He’s as tall as Remus. Dammit.
And he’s fit. Like Quidditch-captain-who-eats-granola-and-armwrestles-trolls-for-fun fit.
And he’s already made you laugh more in the past thirty seconds than Remus has managed since last Thursday.
Fucking hell. Fucking Emery.
“Hey, Rem! Didn't see you there! Come meet Robbie, love.”
Damn. It.
Remus steps out into the room, painfully aware of the way he’s wobbling like an old man. Damn hips… He’s wearing old, holey pyjama bottoms and an old jumper with a slightly scorched cuff. Hair a mess from lying in bed all day. Face like death. Fuzzy yellow socks with little cauldrons and brooms on them. Brilliant.
Robbie turns toward him with a grin and a zing of a line already. “The infamous flatmate,” he says, holding out a hand. “Robbie Emery. Pleasure.”
Remus shakes it, reluctantly. Firm grip. Of course. No clammy palms, no sweaty nerves. Just a confident, charming bastard who smells like french aftershave and success, with the kind of dimpled smile that probably gets him whatever the fuck he wants.
“Remus Lupin,” he replies, having to clear the frog in his throat.
“Oh, I know,” Robbie says, not letting go too quickly. “She’s mentioned you loads.”
Remus feels something twist in his gut.
“She's a dream, isn’t she?” Robbie continues, nodding toward you as you plop onto the floor in a flurry of thick textbooks and colour-coded flashcards. “Sharp as hell. Also completely terrifying when she’s in swot-mode.”
“She bites clean through quills— er, pens when stressed. Watch for that,” Remus mutters.
Robbie grins. “Just got to find her something else to suck on, then.” The bastard laughs at his own filthy joke. And so do you. “Robbie! You dirty bastard!”
Kill. Me. Now.
Remus doesn’t say a word. Just turns back toward the kitchen, lips pressed tight enough to whiten. He doesn’t need this.
From the other room: “You are free every night this week, yeah? We’ll have to cram properly if we want to pass on Friday.”
Remus’s spine stiffens. Every night?
You hum your agreement. “I’ve got that med ethics group thing on Thursday, but you can still come over. I’ll be back by nine-ish.”
“We'll make an all-nighter then. We'll need it, at this rate.”
“It's a date.”
Remus’s hands curl against the countertop. His forehead hits the cupboard.
“I’ll bring booze, we can make espresso martinis,” Robbie adds cheerfully. “And my amazing flashcards, of course. Oh — remind me to show you my mnemonic for the cranial nerves. You’ll never forget it.”
“Oh god, not that filthy little rhyme—”
“You loved it.”
Another chorus of giggles.
Remus crawls back to his bedroom, hoping to be swallowed by the earth.
Robbie stays until around half-ten. At least he's not staying over every night. Just bloody Thursday.
Remus hears the front door opening and closing, deeming it safe to come out and get the sodding tea he's been craving for hours.
Just as he's on his way past the open living area, the front door opens again. You are brushing your teeth in your bedroom already. Remus freezes, lips pursed, shoulders up.
“Oh — didn’t mean to scare you, Lupin.” Robbie says, utterly unbothered. “Just forgot my gloves.”
Remus doesn’t answer. Just nods once curtly, and turns back toward the kitchen.
But Robbie isn’t done.
“You fancy her, don't you?”
Remus whips back. “Excuse me?” he mutters. “We’ve barely met.”
“Sorry to inform you, but it’s a bit obvious.” Robbie’s still grinning, clearly enjoying himself. “You want her. It’s written all over your face, mate.”
Robbie is living for this. Cheeky bastard. Remus feels petrified with shock and affront.
“So…” Robbie slings his gloves over his shoulder. “Looks like you and I got something in common then. Apologies in advance, but it’s really not my fault you’ve done bugger-all about it.”
He starts walking backwards toward the door.
“Join the queue, handsome. Let the games begin.”
The door shuts behind him with a soft click.
Remus stands there for a long time, staring at nothing.
♥️🐺♥️ ♥️🐺♥️ ♥️🐺♥️
Sure enough, just as he said he would, Robbie showed up every night of the week prior to your test on Friday.
On Tuesday, he arrived at half-six. Then Robbie the Wonder Boy cooked a delicious french mini-feast for you: perfectly pan-seared steak frites (the frites rustic-cut and crisped to perfection), a buttery Quiche Lorraine on the side, and — because of course he fucking did — flambéed crêpes suzette for pudding. Yep… the bastard can even cook better than Remus.
“Come on, Lupin, there's enough for you too, of course.”
Remus took his plate to his room, and licked his lips, equal parts elation and pure, burning spite.
You revised. You giggled. You sat all over each other on the bloody sofa until nearly midnight.
On Wednesday, the two of you studied sprawled on the rug, surrounded by anatomical diagrams. Kicking your feet. Like children. Or lovers. Flashcards scattered on top of you like confetti. Giving each other stupid high-fives for every right answer. He gave you bloody hugs and forehead kisses for getting the hardest ones right.
Later, a record was spinning during a study break — Cheap Trick: Heaven Tonight — with you two belting “Surrender” at the top of your lungs and sharing a bottle of wine pretending to be a microphone like sexy karaoke, passing the wine between you, drinking straight from its neck. Are they even fucking learning anything? Fuck…
Robbie started wearing your scarf at some point. Apparently, he was cold. Apparently, it was “soft and comforting, and smelled divine,” and he’d whinged until you draped it around his neck with a theatrical little curtsy.
Remus watched from the darkened hallway, wondering what the hell was happening.
You both quizzed each other with ridiculous voices and dirty mnemonics, and there was a point — Remus swore it — where you collapsed sideways laughing and your face landed in his lap.
And you stayed there for too long. While he caressed your hair.
Remus dropped his spoon in the sink and retreated back to his room, forgoing the chocolate mousse he made.
And then…
On Thursday — Bloody Thursday — you two arrive after nine, just like you said, because of your med-ethics meeting.
Remus hears the front door open, your usual animated, perfectly in-sync chatter spilling in — the thing he used to think was just between the two of you. And instead of the sound of books and papers being thrown on the living room floor… Another door closing.
The door to your bedroom.
This is it. This is what finally kills Remus. Not Moony. This.
He wants to tune the two of you out. He wants to read a good book and forget what's going on across the hallway.
But his damn werewolf-enhanced hearing…
He doesn't make out everything you're saying. Or Robbie's velvety voice that causes you to laugh with abandon. But he hears enough.
The joy.
Robbie's indistinct baritone saying something filthy and suggestive, no doubt.
Answered by your squealy laughter and cries of “Robbie!” And the way you say it, that goes straight to his chest like a silver dagger.
But his cursed wolf-hearing isn't done torturing him yet.
He hears your bed. Squeaking. Repetitively. More giggling. More breathless cries of “Robbie!”
THEY'RE HAVING SEX.
It's been barely twenty minutes. And the bed is squeaking.
Remus buries his face on the mattress, and shoves a pillow over the back of his head.
And weeps.
He doesn't remember much after that. His brain goes into an alternate dimension. Dissociated. He doesn't even know if he slept at all, or if he just laid there, catatonic, in total shock, triggered by the exact moment he lost you.
You nudge Robbie softly with your foot. Who is sleeping on the floor by your bed.
"Hey, wake up, loser. We're going to be late.”
“Damn, this sleeping bag is deceptively soft. I slept like a rock. It's like magic.”
“You don't say. Get up. Go shower. I'll sort breakfast.”
You have to leave way earlier than normal, since Robbie is with you. He'll drive you in his Porsche, like he did last night.
“I don't understand why you choose to live in London, and make this stupid long commute every day. You could live with me, you know. We could find a nice flat by The Radcliffe, it will come in handy when we start rotations there.”
“I know. You keep saying it. But this is my home and I like it here.”
Obviously he doesn't know that your ‘commute’ takes all of five seconds, due to apparition. Or that you wouldn't leave Remus for anything in the world.
“Anyway, stop yapping, and get in the shower before I do. I'll sort this mess out. I think you broke my bed last night.”
“Sorry. I was just so excited to feel a real bed under me again. Those dorm aberrations they make us sleep on… I need to get my own place soon.”
“You could've asked to sleep on it, I would have traded with you. Instead of almost breaking it by jumping on it like you're five. I still haven't found card four-oh-eight.”
Remus is probably still sleeping, you reckon — while you two shove some half-browned toasts with marmalade down your throats, and leave for the car garage.
Except, he's wide awake. Listening in. Every giggle, every interaction, every unintelligible murmured exchange between the two of you.
He's beyond devastated.
Robbie stayed over. He slept with you.
He won.
Remus wants to throw up.
Just as you two close the front door, he starts to come out of his room. Morose, lethargic, and lost.
The door slams open again. Robbie.
“Think I left it by the kitchen counter. Just a second!”
And the two lock eyes.
Robbie looks smug.
“Morning, Lupin. Hope we didn't wake you last night. Or this morning.”
Fucking bastard.
He winks at Remus, grabbing the car keys he forgot, and shutting the door for good.
The flat is silent again. Too quiet. Like it’s mocking him.
Remus stands in the middle of the kitchen, numb, the kettle still whistling. He doesn’t even turn it off. He just… breathes. Once. Twice. And then—
CRASH.
The chipped teacup shatters against the floor.
He stares at it.
Then turns on his heel, marches into the bedroom, and pulls out the goddamn maroon shirt Emily complimented him on last week.
♥️🐺♥️ ♥️🐺♥️ ♥️🐺♥️
“You're alright, Rems?” Emily asks while sorting out the book returns with him ahead of the weekend.
“Yeah… Why?”
“You look… I don't know, a bit gloomy. Did something happen?”
“Just one of those days, you know. Nothing serious, though.”
“Alright. Because, you know, if you need to talk, I'm here.”
She touches her pink-manicured hand to his.
Remus looks at Emily. Thinking. Deciding something.
“You're very pretty.”
“Well, thank you. You're not so bad yourself.” She smiles sweetly, cheeks turning rosy.
“Why are you single? If you don't mind me asking.”
“I don't mind you asking.” Emily shrugs. “Maybe the right guy hasn't asked me out yet.”
“How about that coffee then? The one I owe you? Fancy grabbing one with me?”
“I'd fancy that very much, yeah.”
“Great. Let's go, then.”
“Now? Someone is thirsty.”
“I guess you can say that.”
Thirsty for revenge, maybe. But she doesn't need to know that.
Remus is hurt.
Remus is bitter.
Remus is fucked.
♥️🐺♥️🐺♥️🐺♥️🐺♥️🐺♥️🐺♥️🐺♥️🐺♥️
PART 5
A/N (lots of nerdy Ravenclaw-type things):
Polish exclamations from our sweet, poor Miss Nowitzki:
„Jezus, Maryja i Józef!” = Jesus, Mary and Joseph!
O mój Boże!” = Oh my God!
„Zmiłuj się, Panie!” = Have mercy, Lord!
„Matko Boska!” = Holy mother! Mother of God!
„Młody pan Lupin!” = young Mister Lupin!
„Dziękuję.” = Thank you.
„W porządku.” = it's all right.
„i niech cię Bóg błogosławi,” = and may God bless you.
Panna L/N.” = Miss L/N.
More Name Meanings!
Robert / Robbie / Rob: means “bright.”
Emery (French Aimery): means “rival.”
St. Ailbe’s Primary: named after St Ailbe — Ailbe (pronounced Al-va) is an Irish saint often associated with wolves. Legend says he was raised by a wolf, and later tamed a wolf that guarded his monastery. How perfect is that? It’s literally the patron saint of wolves.
Professor Hodgkin (mentioned by Robbie) is named as an homage to renowned chemist Dorothy Hodgkin, who taught at Oxford during the time this fic is set in. If you are a geeky Ravenclaw type like me, I recommend you read her Wikipedia page. She's like a muggle McGonagall in her brilliance and contributions to the medical field.
Another anticipated release! Superman (1978) starring Christopher Reeve premiered in the UK 14th of December, 1978. But let's just pretend it's already out in September, like it was a Summer release, shall we? Because I've got Corenswet brainrot like all of you, and Robbie IS HIM in my mind, okay? So Remus will compare Robbie to Reeve (who everyone agrees Corenswet is the reincarnation of), from having seen the film.
I HAVE GONE OFF THE RAILS. I KNOW! What a sweet mess… a long-winded mess! But this is the story I want to tell with these two. Hopefully you're still with me and feeling all the up-and-down whiplash accordingly! I hope you laughed. Cried. Screamed into your pillow a little. September '78 just became the longest month in existence. Sorry. Or, you're welcome.
©daydreamandforget; do not copy, translate, or repost my work anywhere under any circumstances.
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