messr moony invites you

"What no one ever talks about is how dangerous hope can be. Call it forgiveness with teeth."

[ofpottersandprongs]

lost boys like me | james & remus

[ofpottersandprongs]

James could feel his eyes. He knew, in a way he could not describe in words but knew in the pit of his stomach and tips of his extremities, that Remus was watching him. Some days, it felt like everyone was watching him. He was a flight risk, an annoyance, something to be dealt with. Useless. Trapped in an invisible cage, staying alive was their only directive now, and he couldn’t even bring himself to help.

Seeing Remus smile made the past weeks almost melt away. Being his friend didn’t seem nearly so complicated when he smiled like that. While not quite as uninhibited as the many they had shared in Gryffindor tower, his grin was as close as he’d seen since the war had begun; that was close enough for James. Close, apparently, mattered in your best mate’s smiles in addition to horseshoes and hand grenades. 

“Aw,” James drawled, a nonspecific noise of protest that even James wasn’t sure what it meant. Admittedly, failing to jump off the dock with Remus and Sirius in their last bracing dawn swim had earned him whatever punishment they chose to dole out. It seemed Remus was collecting now. In a fake-begrudging manner that felt somewhat like who he used to be, James quickly shed his clothes and journeyed to the edge of the water alone. His toes curled involuntarily as the frigid water lapped against them.

“Here goes,” James said over his shoulder, a smirk hiding teeth gritted against the cold. He rushed headlong into the surf, a feral yell drawn forth from his lungs. The sound felt foreign; had he not noticed a twinge in his throat and a vibration deep in his chest, he would have thought someone else had made it. It died in his throat as James turned to check for Moony. 

As soon as he was sure Remus was on his way out, James dove below the surface. How easy this felt compared to his labored existence in the village. He couldn’t see beyond the tips of his fingers in the murky North Sea, and somehow the closeness soothed him. He felt his heart beating slow and strong against his ribs; so different from the adrenaline-accelerated pace he had grown used to in Port Montrose. He surface, his mind and body somehow less frantic than he’d been before.

[martyrmoony-blog]

Watching James strip near-nude and half-disappear into the surf took Remus’ breath away, as if it had been his own too-thin and war-battered body crushed beneath the freezing waves. James shed more than his clothes, left forlorn and forgotten on the sandy beach; he seemed to shed his misgivings, as if the jumper that had stretched over his chest sported a world’s worth of weight digging heavy into his shoulders. Abruptly and without warning, James Potter dissolved away and left only Prongs in his stead. 

All at once, Remus felt a burning urge to follow suit. Though he’d never been one to fawn and fancy over the more infamous half of the four Marauders, there was no denying-- especially not then-- that James had a strange sort of appeal. The lad dripped charisma: that innately naughty grin he flashed when the fancy struck had convinced men better than Remus to heel. Clumsy in his eagerness to catch up, Remus peeled off his cardigan and fumbled with the buckle of his belt. 

That they were close to the border of the wards was-- for once-- at the farthest corner of his mind. That his wiry body was paler, thinner, more worn than ever before went similarly ignored; he was usually so careful to conceal the aftermath of his forays into his other body, but it was nothing James hadn’t seen before, and several times to boot. They were blissfully alone in that moment, save for each other. Even the war and the city they’d fled faded away.

Remus, puppy-like in his enthusiasm, nearly tripped over his own feet hopping out of his trousers. Boots and socks were shed in turn, a haphazard trail of breadcrumbs between where he was and who he’d like to be: to wear the skin of a man younger and assuredly less burdened, if only for a moment. It was more than they’d managed in months.

It was impossible not to shout as a wave pummelled his hips and knocked him under. Salt flooded his open, laughing mouth as his head surfaced next to James, shaking shaggy hair like a dog. “Prongs-- swim to the mist dock?” It was less a suggestion and more a challenge. “’Less you don’t think you can handle it.” 

[ofpottersandprongs]

lost boys like me | james & remus

There was no other way to describe it except an itching. It started in his toes, tingled up his shins and thighs, making its way to his fingertips and nose. He was restless and overthinking and it had built up inside him like water before a dam. He needed to let some out, otherwise he would overflow his own banks. 

On a day like this–a day where James’ thoughts threatened to beat their way out his skull, without even giving themselves a voice–he didn’t need Sirius or Marlene, or even Lily back when they told each other things. No, he’d always gone to Remus for the thoughts and thinking and such.

Clearly not his forte.

It took him longer than expected to find Remus, and by the time he did, James had rendered himself near-speechless. He watched Moony from behind, jaw clenched and fists balled at his sides. He finally managed to choke out something–what it was, he wasn’t sure–that caught the other man’s attention. Thankfully Remus could read him well enough at this point for James not to need much beyond that to convey that he needed a word alone. Well, something alone at least. Clearly words weren’t doing him much good at this point.

They walked in silence for a while, James feeling himself calm just by being in Moony’s presence. The few moments of comfort he’d had in their time in the Port were when he had been with his brothers. They were the missing pieces to him, smoothing all his broken and jagged edges. “Thanks for this,” James began. “I just couldn’t take it anymore. I fucking hate this,” he said, straining to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

He realized, almost belatedly, that their aimless footsteps had taken them to the water. Looking over at Remus with something resembling a smile (and for once, not a grimace), James almost felt like himself. “Fancy a bit of a swim, mate?”

[martyrmoony-blog]

There was no other way to describe it except an itching. Month after month it felt as if the full moon barely began to wane before it hung fat and round in the sky once more, brewing a tempest in his very bloodstream. He couldn’t stand being in any room with a clock; couldn’t bear watching it tick tick tick the seconds of daylight away until the worst phase of the moon sprung free in the sky and slammed down into him like the force of nature it was, like the force of nature it evoked in him. The urge to snarl and snap doubled by the day. Remus wasn’t sure if it was the growing moon or the fear of what would happen when it came that kept his temper short and his moods sour. 

It was safer-- for his sanity, for their well-being-- to spend as much time alone as could be wrestled. The truth of the matter sat hot and sharp in the pit of his belly: he would, before the week was through, have to admit to Prongs that things were no longer safely under control. For years now he’d kept the wolf trapped in the glass confines of a Wolfsbane potion. Long gone were the days when the stag and the mutt kept him company, kept him occupied, kept him from sinking slavering teeth into his own skin. Despite it being a source of immense worry and immeasurable shame, the lack of it-- the lack of needing babysitters, escorts, guard-dog and -deer-- had carved somewhat of a rift between them all. Remus hated to wonder if his lycanthropy had been what truly made brothers of them all. It was easy enough to blame Peter for the lump in their throats (for surely James, like Remus, couldn’t quite meet the other’s eyes without thinking of the rat that had betrayed them all) but wasn’t it Remus who had left first? Wasn’t it Remus who had forged alone for the first time in seven years? He’d found a solitary solution to a problem that had once needed all four pounding hearts and clammy palms to solve. He sometimes-- secretly, guiltily-- wondered if they’d outgrown each other after all. 

At least until James came at him looking like that. 

Where Remus clawed back his emotions by tooth and by nail, James wore them like a cloak; James oozed them from his skin; James, sometimes, let them leak all over whoever might best cup their hands to catch the pieces of the young man that might very well slough off with them. It happened less and less of late, as war was wont to make soldiers of them all, but the messy-haired hooligan hid a tender heart behind it all. There was no hiding it, not when even the clearing of his throat sounded feral, and certainly not when hazel eyes met green, almost spitting sparks. The glass of Prongs’ spectacles and Remus’ shaggy fringe did little to buffer the electric buzz of it. There was little denying the sheer magnetism James exuded; it was no surprise that the bloke could nearabouts talk blood from a stone. 

Truth be told, Remus needed to blow off steam for a similar reason. This place was too small; the people in it felt cramped like sardines, confined until every bloody breath felt shared, as if you had to fight for the air itself. He felt as if he might pound holes in the earth with every step he took at James’ side, walking a little too fast for comfort, until his legs and lungs burned with the exertion. I fucking hate this. And didn’t Remus know it. The cold truth of the matter was that Remus could never be so candid, because Remus was the one who had dragged them all there. 

James’ question-- proposal, maybe; demand, perhaps-- caught him off-guard in the best sort of way. His instinctive no stumbled in the cavern of his throat and deflated on his tongue, lips still rounded in preparation for the sound that would not come. The truth might very well have been that he did, in fact, fancy a swim. The grin that broke over his face nearly cracked his cheeks and the thin skin around his eyes from its unfamiliarity. He couldn’t quite remember the last time he’d smiled without the weight of the war behind it. Rather than answer, he dropped his hands and unbuckled his belt. “Not goin’ in with my trousers on, for certain. Not goin’ in first, either. Learned my lesson last time. You want to swim, you jump first.” 

[amariusqueadastra-blog]

fall toward me // ted & remus

[ @martyrmoony ]

There were not many people in the small port village that Ted felt truly kindred with. He’d known or at least been familiar with most of the residents before the disaster had struck, but there were very few people he was close to here, besides Frank and Arthur, and now perhaps Lucinda. It was almost funny, though, how this type of strange, and bitter circumstance lent itself to gravitating towards someone in an almost celestial pull that defied sense and logic. But Ted had never really been one to rely largely on logic. He paid more mind to feeling. And lately his feelings had been strong and wild. Days where he felt like he couldn’t move from his bed, followed by nights where he was so restless he had to spend hours wandering the shore and the countryside trying to keep his thoughts occupied. He felt strongly. 

In these strong feelings, in this strange place, he found solace in the realization that even now there were people who he could feel close to, people he could love even after everything that had happened. And Ted had found something different in the impossibly tall, slouching, woolen jumper-wearing Remus Lupin. There was something comfortable about the man. Something warm and welcoming and familiar that felt different than what he’d found in anyone else in Port Montrose. Something so very, very nice. He couldn’t help but be drawn to warmth like his.

It only helped that Remus shared his love of a certain herb that he’d brought into the village. [He said he smoked it for the migraines he got, an excuse Ted had heard a thousand times over the years, but if he felt he needed an excuse, Ted wasn’t going to question it.] It was beautiful to have someone else to smoke with, and Remus felt a bit like coming home and sitting in front of a warm fire after being caught in a rainstorm, the smell of the rain still lingering in the air. He felt like being wrapped in a thick, wool blanket looking up at the stars and the moon on a clear spring night, feeling like the universe loves you.

And so Ted found himself gravitating towards Remus maybe a bit more than would seem normal. He liked to nurture, and there was a tension in the man that made Ted want to help, made him care even more. On this particular day, he’d just harvested some lovely leaves from his magically-enhanced plant, and was more than eager to share with someone who would appreciate it as much as him. [He tried not to think about how Andromeda would have appreciated it just as much as he knew Remus would.]

Ted slipped into the third cottage in search of the man, slightly surprised he wasn’t greeted by a scantily-clad Aisling or Alice. He immediately saw the back of the messy hair in the little kitchen and announced his presence with a slight clearing of his throat, voice coming out soft but bright.

“Wotcher, Remus! Got a little gift for you if you have a mo’…”

[martyrmoony-blog]

Most of Remus’ days were filled nigh to the brim with hungry eyes and moving lips, of tongues and teeth conspiring together to fill the air with the empty words they formed. With so few hearts still beating in their small commune, the company grew stale and the conversation as repetitive and lazy as an old record player, with a needle old and dull that skipped and stuttered and slowed. The words were choppy and sodden and grated as much these days in one party’s throat as they did in the other’s ears. No one, not even Moody, was immune. There was only so much talking that could be endured before the temptation to rip out a throat for a touch of quiet became too much to bear. (It was quite a common misconception that the moon pulled the wolf free the night she was full and had no tangible influence on your garden variety lycanthrope for the rest of her cycle. In reality, as her silver light bathed the mother earth from the first quarter onwards and especially as she waxed, an awful inclination towards violence bubbled ever-more in Remus’ arguably still-human veins. His trigger finger itched something fierce these days of late; he feared in earnest the day he snarled and snapped the white teeth of this body instead of the slavering jaws of the other’s. For all his ample research, never had he turned up so much as a whisper of such mania in any of dozens of unnamed test subjects. This was not particularly surprising, all things considered. Given the prevailing tone of general disgust that skewed every study, paper, and book he’d thumbed through, Remus doubted any of his lot would be quick to admit the bloodthirstiness automatically attributed to werewolves world-wide might be rooted in a trickle of truth.) 

Most of Remus’ nights, conversely, were filled with the closest thing to blissful silence he could find in the Port. More than once had he willingly taken a Lighthouse shift from one of the other from the Order, preferring the solitude of the watch to the ever-stifling company of those whom he rubbed elbows with no less than thrice a day. Sometimes the crickets chirped, and perhaps the wind or the rain or the odd crack of thunder might interrupt his train of thought, but more often than not the only sound was that of his own quiet breath. Despite the lengths he went to to preserve the lives of his friends and family, he (somewhat guiltily) preferred to be perfectly, wholly alone. 

Perhaps it was night, and perhaps the cottage was several times quieter than might be expected, and perhaps he’d been completely engrossed in his writings, but where any other voice would have sent his shoulders snapping up towards his ears in retreat, Ted Tonks’ did not. His shaggy head turned just so, instinctively orienting his ear towards the interloper, but it was a small smile that twitched at full lips rather than a quiet frown. He might’ve flipped his journal closed tight had this new company brought any other eyes, smudging the carefully-quilled words recorded on salt-stained parchment, but he trusted Ted to mind his own. Those same idly-smiling lips pursed for a moment, blowing air over the pages to dry the black ink still half-wet and glistening. 

Migraines. He’d spotted Ted’s good-natured disbelief more than once at his explanations. It was the truth, as he’d learned the hard way that all lies should have a grain of the opposite at their heart. It wasn’t the whole truth, of course, but Ted’s friendly incredulity was hardly worth drawing lines between weed and wolf. 

Some natural inclination towards lawful behaviour had him glancing around the kitchen for any other intruders before replying. “Join me?” His voice rasped a quiet note borne of both exhaustion and lack of use. The invitation might have been a hollow one had green eyes not gleamed in the dull light of the bare bulb overhead, hungry not for the gift Ted proffered but for the company of the man himself. Remus reached deep into the pocket of his well-worn jeans, scarred hands drawing out the battered and half-empty pack of rolling papers he usually had in arm’s reach; these he waved towards the other man-- his friend, he supposed, as reluctant and nervous he was to ever call someone other than his Marauders just that-- by means of bribe. “It’s a lovely night for a walk.” 

[repentantrat]

Cottage One; 11.30AM @martyrmoony

His fingers trembled against the soft binding of the book, electric sparks between skin and leather. It was the closest Peter had been to Remus in far, far too long, and his heart was hammering with anticipation. He had taken it on a whim, Remus’ window in the middle cottage had been left open, there was not a soul in sight. And there it was. Just sitting on the makeshift desk, begging to be taken. 

He had been poring over it for days, reading every word, deciphering every scribble hungrily. The handwriting was a comfort, exactly like the notes they used to share at Hogwarts. If it weren’t for the words themselves, Peter could almost transport himself back to that time, everything was so much simpler back then. A tug at his heart every time he read James or Sirius’ names, a hollow sinking in his chest at the realisation Remus had stopped writing Peter’s name. Referring to him (and only ever so briefly) as the rat. 

The rat. That’s all Peter was to his brother now. All because of a few stupid mistakes on his behalf. Mistakes he had apologised for, over and over…

Peter was hunched over the rough wooden bench the first cottages kitchen table, sipping at tasteless coffee from a chipped mug. His eyes darted from page to door every few seconds. He knew better than to read this book in such a public place, he knew it would be buried under his mattress, only read in the safety of night. But he was addicted, he needed to devour Remus’ words, feel that connection to his best friend. 

“Wolfsbane. Running low….” Peter sucked in a sharp breath, his lips twitching together. Without his wolfsbane potion there was no telling what Remus may do. He scanned the page, searching for a date when the door creaked open, the sound of footsteps in the entrance, heading towards the kitchen. Peter hastily stuffed the diary down the back of his trousers, he tugged his jumper down low over his hips. He turned in his chair - keeping his back firmly pressed against the side of the bench, narrowed eyes trained on the door.

[martyrmoony-blog]

The village was never much of a reprieve from the humdrum of the Port. Sometimes, Remus feared he’d go stark raving mad if he had to spend one more blasted minute confined to their new Home Base. He knew in his very marrow that he, above all others, was meant to be the shining beacon of an example set for all his brothers- and sisters-in-arms. He, who had sounded the siren’s call to the Port in the first place, was meant to show the others that there was nothing but comfort and safety here; that they, as a whole, should relax and try not to panic away every moment spent in as-good-as-hiding. They were recuperating, or so Alice had said once. The worst thing Remus could do was go off the deep end as thoroughly as Moody had, without so much as a warning nor a backwards glance, into a twitchy, jittery mess of frayed nerves and explosive tempers. They were recuperating, and acting like the Port was anything but a haven would only hinder the healing. 

In truth, the Port was stifling. The same faces, day in and day out, hovered ever well-within his line of sight. Remus, a fundamentally lonesome soul, found it especially grating to be constantly within shouting range of any of the dozen or so denizens that often had need of him, in one facet or another. There was little peace in the place that was meant to be just that, at least for him; he sagged and wilted beneath the weight of their expectations, their affections, their eager eyes and their hopeful invitations. He loved them, of course, and would never go so far as to say he didn’t. He knew he would rather be needed too much than not at all. It gave him purpose, or so he supposed. He’d be twice as mad without as he ever would with. 

But the village, where a quiet walk and some semblance of privacy could sometimes be found, wasn’t anywhere near as safe as their heavily warded homestead. Wherever he walked he felt the weight of invisible eyes boring holes in the base of his neck. That morning had been no different; had been more jarring than most, if anything. Something about the old radio sitting pretty in the greengrocer’s window had set his blood racing like razors through his veins. It would have to do for then, though; the journal into which he pored most of his self, with which he soothed his tattered soul, had been missing for days. 

Thinking the danger had been left behind in the village was a mistake, of course. If the Port was meant for recuperating, it was only because people like Peter made it necessary. Not people, no-- Peter’d lost the right to such a word. Cowards. Rodents. Monsters. 

Remus couldn’t help the flicker of disease, distrust, disgust from marring his pale face, lending his fine features a decidedly feral cast until the expression smoothed away into impassive nothingness. It was most assuredly the pettiest of responses. Nothing made Peter more anxious than exactly nothing. Apathy seemed to wound his old and former friend more deeply than anger, and Remus got the added benefit of climbing further up still on the moral high ground. That Remus still loved him-- that Remus was so unfamiliar with such a bone-deep betrayal that he hadn’t yet and maybe never would stop loving him-- was something he remained vehemently unwilling to admit. 

A tense silence stretched between them, taut and pregnant with words left unsaid: words of anger, of betrayal, of aching hurt, of the inability to forgive, and perhaps of apology danced along the tip of Remus’ tongue, stifled by the sharp front teeth that sank down into it and held it captive. He’s not worth it. Whether or not the lie was believed was irrelevant. It was what it had to be. He was sitting at the kitchen table as if he belonged there, looking far more guilty about whatever he’d been up to than he had about joining You-Know-Who in the first place. The thought sickened Remus in the worst sort of way. “Cut it out,” he found himself half-growling. “I’m not going to kick you. Stop looking at me like I’ve spit on your biscuits.” 

[markedmanmoody]

two sinking ships [] alastor & remus

@martyrmoony

Alastor adored routine; Alastor abhorred routine.

His parents had required a son more than they wanted a child, and approaching his thirtieth birthday Moody couldn’t find him in himself to begrudge them this wanting. He remembered vividly the mornings he’d spent at home before school, where everything he did was timed down to the minute, and the only thing worse than the ticking of the clock was the punishment his father would think up if he failed to keep to schedule. It taught him discipline almost as much as it taught him how to count the seconds accurately, and so many years on he sometimes caught himself wondering which of the two was the more useful skill. As a man, his sheer reliance on routine, on minutes and hours waxed and then waned as experience replaced youthful trust. The course of your life didn’t rest upon on your ability to shower in five minutes; indeed, the more you fall into routine, into schedules, into the comfortable, the more your defenses dropped, the more you grew complacent, the more you grew predictable.

With the war, with his injury, he could not afford to be predictable. Thus, he varied his schedules. Thus, he took pains to change his routine. His enemies would never see him coming.

Yet there remained something comfortable in the scheduled, whether or not it was written in ink or blood, and he felt the tug of habit as acutely as he imagined even the most free spirited of their kids must. Moody tried little routines to satisfy this desire: he would roll his sleeping bag up as tight as it would go and tuck it besides his desk, for example, or else he would arrange his maps and papers in a certain order at a specific time in the evening so he awoke to a fresh slate. None of this satisfied him for long– soon enough his sleeping bag was left on the floor, and his maps covered his desk and walls like cheap paint, and he was left with a quiet ache of something to rely upon, to frame the ticking seconds of the day against and feel like something was accomplished when it so often felt like he did nothing but wear a deeper track into the old wooden floor of his room.

When what he needed came to him, it wasn’t of his own devising or even of his conscious effort. It was a habit born of pure coincidence and two pairs of hands that sought the same relief at the same time. Coincidence. Moody hated that word. He’d been taught there was no such thing, and so in the dark of night he reasoned it wasn’t truly coincidence so much as it was a reasonable occurrence. They were both stressed; they both needed relief; they shared a small territory; it stood to reason, then, that they would run into each other with their half smoked cigarettes and share a small flame together, as it would be a wasted effort for them both to summon a fire.

Alastor couldn’t pinpoint when it became a daily event, but every day at two o'clock more-or-less on the dot, the pair of them found one another sitting on the back porch of their sixth cottage with their unlit cigarette in hand, waiting for the other to join them before lighting up. Remus, with his numerous scars and bruises, his wandering eyes and slender fingers wrapped around his cigarette, had become something akin to a friend, for whatever that word meant nowadays. Lupin, for however little Moody really knew the quiet boy who had designed their sanctuary, became a comforting presence for roughly fifteen minutes every day. Some small part of him looked forward to their daily meetings, where they might sit in silence or shoot the shit or discuss their latest meeting in hushed, rasping voices, as a sort of relief from the rest of his days and nights.

Two o'clock came, and much as he struggled with routine, the small part of him that found solace in the recognizable bid him to his feet, bid him to leave his room for the first time in too many hours, crumbling cigarette rolling back and forth in his hand. It didn’t take him too long to plod his way across the rocky sand between the cottages, and soon enough he spied a familiar figure hunched in on himself seated on the stairs they so often took as their bench. Alastor did not say anything as nothing needed to be said; he gripped the rickety railing tight to lower himself down to sitting besides the younger man, and without another word rubbed his fingers together, wordlessly producing a small fire for them both to share if Remus was so inclined. The sun and the sand and the surf hung especially heavily over him that afternoon, and Moody had no intentions of breaking the silence if he didn’t.

[martyrmoony-blog]

Remus chafed beneath routine; Remus cherished routine. 

Routine had been a dirty word in the Order repertoire, once upon a midnight dreary. Certain aspects of Moody’s own training had surely been ingrained on the very genetic makeup of those who had endured it. Certain phrases or gestures had been used so many times that the greens had been soaked, simmered, stewed in them. They listened intently, they watched closely, they mocked mercilessly, albeit only well out of ear-shot of the growling beast whose terrifying bark was assuredly less dangerous than his bite. Moody’s influence was so absolute that Remus was half certain if any of them should manage to whelp a child, the poor thing’s first words would be “constant vigilance,” snarled when barely free of the womb. 

No tick or quirk of Moody’s had more of a grip over Remus (aside from his aforementioned purported catchphrase) than the jack-hammer drilling-in that routine lead to laziness and predictability; that laziness was nothing but an advantage to the enemy; and that predictability was nothing but an invitation to have your head delivered home to your kinfolk on a silver platter. For the rest of his likely short and miserable life, Remus would find himself smirking at the first hint of a thick Scottish drawl, and automatically pulling his shoulders up towards his ears in anticipation of a rap of sharp knuckles across the back of his head. 

Routine bred predictability, and predictability was (at best) a nuisance, and (at worst) a weakness of unfathomable proportions. Yet Alastor Moody, commander and captain and chieftain as he may be, fell into routine as comfortably as an old and well-worn jumper. Remus Lupin, forever striving as he were to set a shining beacon of an example to the denizens of the Port and beyond, tumbled sidelong with him, without so much as a hesitation. 

There was much comfort to be found in Alastor’s company, not that Remus would have believed it even six months before. Firstly, the young man was solitary half to a fault. Secondly, the older man seemed more apt to bite four fingers off at the knuckle in one chomp of sharp teeth and strong jaw than deign to shake a hand offered. Company was something that Remus-- foolishly, or so he realized only now-- assumed a man of Moody’s calibre would never need. Company and routine; that was two weaknesses, not that Remus was stupid enough to point them out without fear of leaving the conversation without his nose intact. No, Alastor Moody may have been quiet about his needs, but that hardly meant they didn’t exist. And Remus, worn and threadbare as he may have been, wanted nothing if not to stop Moody’s wild temper from skidding into another downswing. (To aim for happiness, or even some semblance of contentment, was far too much for even Remus’ delicate and tenuous optimism.) A cigarette and a spot of quiet conversation once a day, every day, like veritable clockwork, was hardly a creature comfort he could deny his commandant. 

That Moody’s presence was an unspeakable comfort to Remus in turn was beyond his realization, let alone recognition. 

But routine in earnest was too much to ask from the Port. It was the correct time of day, and the correct location in the small stretch of land they made their camp, and the worn steps beneath his arse as well as the unlit cigarette clutched between his fingers may have been so familiar they lulled him into a false sense of security; but when Moody offered him the small flame, he found himself quite unable to lift his hand and take the light. His mouth tasted of ash already-- for the single comfort they both indulged in, the pair of them; the single comfort they dug their greedy fingers into and squeezed until it choked-- hung stale and spoiled by as little as a nervous flick of green eyes up into Moody’s scarred face. 

“Greta found a piece of notepaper,” he declared, without warning nor preamble. Their conversations were forever in staccato: short, intense bursts of words, rarely minced and often able to stand on their own. “She told me a moment ago. Someone’s been watching the Port. Making notes. About you, about Greta, about the Longbottoms. No names, but they’ve been close enough to know about the garden and the shack and who’s in it. Careless enough to lose it, less they left it behind intending it to be found.” He exhaled a quiet breath that-- despite every effort to remain as unflappable and calm as he’d let Greta assume he was-- immediately betrayed a marrow-deep sense of panic. Who? Who is coming? How much fresh danger are we in now? “She found it in town. I checked the wards this morn-- I check the wards four times a day, Moody, and they’ve never--” He gave his head a small shake, reigning himself in hand over iron fist, and forced the feeble thrumming of his racing heart to slow. “They’ve never so much as wavered. I’d’ve noticed. You’d’ve noticed. I don’t know what the fuck is going on.” 

[senliin]

// dead seas

a mix you would listen to if you stood on a cliff and watched the ocean around half past midnight.

listen

[martyrmoony-blog]

tarot card asks

fool: what's the biggest risk you've ever taken?

magician: list 3 of your talents

high priestess: do you pay more attention to your heart or your mind?

empress: how dependent are you on others?

emperor: describe your relationship with your father

hierophant: do you value tradition?

lovers: does someone need to share your values for you to pursue a relationship?

chariot: in what situations are you most assertive?

strength: how impulsive are you?

hermit: what are you like when you're alone?

wheel of fortune: how's your luck?

justice: do you value fairness over mercy?

hanged man: how do you feel about martyrs?

death: do you like change?

temperance: do you tend to focus on the past, present, or future?

devil: is there anything you're addicted to?

tower: what do you most want to change about yourself?

star: what religious beliefs do you have?

moon: do you have any recurrent dreams?

sun: do you believe optimism is always good?

judgement: how confident are you in yourself?

world: what do you hope to accomplish before you die?

[martyrmoony-blog]

Rome is built on ruins                and is quite breathtaking;                what makes you think                you can’t be too?

I. FAST FACTS

“congratulations. you have survived the war. now live with the trauma.” 

NAME: Remus John Lupin

ALIAS: Moony

DATE OF BIRTH: March 10th, 1960

ZODIAC: Pisces

MBTI: INTP, “the Logician” 

HOGWARTS HOUSE: Gryffindor

PATRONUS: wolf

MORAL ALIGNMENT: neutral good 

BOGGART: full moon

AMORTENTIA: the cracked-open spine of an old book, musk, drying ink, the burnt-wood scent of freshly-cast defensive wards

TV TROPES: After the End, Ragtag Bunch of Misfits, Bolivian Army Ending

AESTHETIC: petrichor, a comfortably worn wool jumper, buttery leather, a favourite blanket, the slight sting of bonfire smoke against tired eyes, barely stifled laughter, a hand clapped to your shoulder, chocolate melting slowly on the middle of your tongue

BODY LANGUAGE: slightly slumped shoulders, squinting, pursed lips, fidgeting fingers, twirling quills, tapping toes, tugging sleeves firmly past wrists, inside of cheek trapped between teeth, nails bitten to the quick, a quiet inhalation before speaking to a crowd

BAD HABITS: smoking, pranking, nail biting, sarcastic quips

II. WANTED TROPES

“the problem is, you’re so scared of being hurt, you’re the one who runs.”

Shoot the Dog [ALASTOR MOODY/OPEN] ➤ The close quarters the Port imposes make secrets difficult to keep-- and Remus’ dwindling reserve of Wolfsbane is one of them. The thought of slipping into the skin of a monster and maiming one of the people who barely managed to escape the war intact curdles his very blood. As the moon waxes, a promise must be made: the now-necessary rationing of his monthly potion risks the wolf taking control, and someone must be ready to shoot the dog before it can bite. 

Drugs are Good [TED TONKS/OPEN] ➤ The only thing that helps the crippling migraines his Wolfsbane brings upon him is weed, and lots of it. Most are surprised that mild-mannered Remus almost always brings a joint along with him for his walks around the perimeter. Humans are creatures of habit, and indulging in a little greenery together becomes one of them. If it’s a means to escape, all the better. 

Blood Brothers [OPEN] ➤ Even the Port is not impenetrable. For the survivors, there is no illusion of safety. Even the deep belly laughs that Sirius’ hooch brings on in those who drink it cannot still the steady press of danger in from all sides. Somewhere, somehow, they find or once found themselves back to back; in a do-or-die sort of situation, they emerged largely unscathed. A blood bond is most difficult to break. 

Honorary True Companion [OPEN] ➤ Though the Marauders count one fewer in their ranks of late, they are still and forever brothers. Even in Hogwarts, there were the Marauders, and then there were those who weren’t. Their brotherhood is exclusive at best, but Merlin help any poor soul unfortunate enough to win the hard-earned favour of all four three. Informal induction is apt to be messy. Pettigrew is notably not invited. 

We ARE Struggling Together [MARY MACDONALD/OPEN] ➤ “Infighting. Always a hindrance, never pretty.” Their goal may be the same, but the means to achieve it vary so wildly they often wonder if they’re on the same side at all. Vehemently opposed to violence and any sort of unsavoury behaviour, Remus-- usually easy-going-- digs his heels clean in when his morality is threatened. 

III. WANTED PLOTS

“i drank coffee and read old books and waited for the year to end.” 

“Fixer Upper” [FRANK LONGBOTTOM/OPEN] ➤ Outwardly put-together Remus is a quietly cracking mess. Someone spots the bruises peeking out behind their bandaids and seeks to make repairs, for better or for worse. Remus has never been comfortable being coddled. Perhaps their tonic of choice is more akin to a poison. Perhaps they’re interfering to overcompensate for their own short-comings. Perhaps some good could come of it after all-- the lad needs nothing if not a tender hand, but the gentler the touch the more apt it is to break him. 

All We Have are Little Things [TAMSIN WHITLOCK/OPEN] ➤ Someone needs to help Remus patch up the Port. Anyone who finds pleasure or satisfaction in the happiness of others-- and is willing to work to achieve it-- will be more than welcome to help Remus soothe whatever aches and pains he can. 

Read You Like a Book [PETER PETTIGREW/OPEN] ➤ Remus’ leather-bound journal is one of the precious few comforts he consistently indulges in. It weathers every thought, every fear, every agonizing idea he has ever fathomed. It has become a sort of symbol for them all: he is rarely seen without it, and is rarely not scribbling something into its pages. Threats to steal the thing and read it cover to cover are frequent but usually in jest. Remus smiles along with them and hides his blood running cold. Any who read it would have an unfathomable look into the quiet man’s head. Any who read it would be infringing upon his privacy in a potentially unforgivable manner. 

Lycanthrophobia [GRETA CATCHLOVE/OPEN] ➤ The wizarding world is rife with prejudice, and though little of it crept to the Port along with them, fear and loathing of werewolves is (unfortunately) a common occurrence. Remus is a monster, and they see it clearly. Whether they act upon it remains to be seen, but if the Order wouldn’t allow a rabid dog to wander through camp, why would they let a werewolf? 

[portmontrose-rpg]

Congratulations, Stella! Reading through all the Remus apps, honestly I could have accepted any of them, All of them were well written, all of them had an interesting interpretation of Remus that suited his character. It was definitely not an easy choice. I’ve said it before, but Remus is honestly the hardest character to apply for at this roleplay because he’s so important to the plot, and I think what pushed your application over the edge was that you didn’t just apply for Remus, but you applied for Remus as a part of the plot and looked at not only who he is, but how he fits into everything in Port Montrose. Thanks again for applying! Please create your account and send in the link,track the right tags, and follow everyone on the masterlist as soon as you can. Welcome to Port Montrose!

Keep reading

[portmontrose-rpg]

REMUS LUPIN / TWENTY / ORDER MEMBER / FC: FEDERICO COLA

“You’re gonna lose your soul, tonight, tonight. Oh, you’re gonna lose control, tonight.”

↳ BEFORE THE WAR

There were few things Lyall and Hope Lupin could agree upon about their little boy, other than the fact that he was extraordinarily clever. From the moment he could speak, and even more so from the moment he could read, Remus had always had a curiosity about him. He was an incredibly optimistic boy with a worldview that was entirely his own. He was always making curious comments about the strangest of things, which his parents always held a fondness for. However, his optimism did not last long. At the age of five Remus was turned werewolf by Fenrir Greyback, and shortly after the bite his optimism began to fade. At first, after he’d been bitten, Remus spent a whole week jumping around the house excitedly calling himself “wolf boy”. It was only after his first transformation that he realized the seriousness of the situation. Still a child of only five years old, Remus began to feel the weight of realism crushing down on him, and since then he’s never been the same.

For a long while Remus had come to terms with the fact that he’d never go to Hogwarts. He constantly requested various books on every subject from Herbology to History of Magic, just so he wouldn’t be left out. However, on his eleventh birthday, his parents surprised him with his Hogwarts letter. He should have been excited, Remus knew that, but he was afraid. He knew there was a possibility that he might get out of control, that he might hurt someone. His parents assured him that nothing would go wrong, but Remus wasn’t convinced. That was when he started taking wolfsbane potion. The Lupins were not a rich family, but with Lyall’s Ministry connections he could send Remus one bottle a month. Unfortunately, the potion did not come without side effects, and often left Remus feeling fatigued. Because of this he often isolated himself to his studies, but that didn’t last long. By his second year a dorm mate by the name of Sirius Black started pestering Remus about how he always holed himself up in Gryffindor Tower, and before long he was pulling Remus along with him and two other Gryffindor boys named James and Peter.  

↳ CHAPTER ONE

Remus was always a realist, but since he and the other Marauders began hearing whispers of war, he’s seen things more clearly than ever before. After Hogwarts Remus spent a year in isolation, wandering from muggle town to muggle town across Scotland. He had no job, no company, just himself and his affliction. It wasn’t until the Ministry had fallen that Remus involved himself in the Order and helped relocate his friends to safety. It’s different in Port Montrose. Everyone around him is fighting harder than ever before, doing their best to hold on to what’s left of their world. Remus fights alongside them, but part of him knows that their efforts are lost. He’s come to realize that the Order’s time in Port Montrose is fleeting, and that each and every day could be their last. Recently, he’s taken to writing letters in a small leather bound journal for the next generation. The letters started as a record of the Order’s efforts, but recently they’ve become more of a memoir and a plea that whoever finds the journal continue the fight, just in case he’s right. 

↳ CHAPTER TWO

Two words and a crazed death eater. They brought what little hope Remus had, what little belief he had that they were getting stronger, that they would get out of here alive crumbling down. He helped create this place and now someone was coming to tear it all away from them. They’re coming. And Remus had no idea what to do about it. Everyone seemed to have some sort of idea about what to do about Vivienne, but no one had put forth a plan. Remus didn’t want any more bloodshed – that’s why they were here. Still, he sees Marlene and James breaking down at the thought of a death eater in their midst. They don’t really want to kill her – at least that’s what Remus thinks – they just want to be safe again. They all want the same thing, and with everyone so tense and shaken up, and with Remus’ level-headedness, he can’t help but think he’s one of the few people in Port Montrose who can see past the emotion of it all and come up with a real solution. 

[izyanrosli-blog]

[wnq-writers]

Rome is built on ruins And is quite breathtaking; What makes you think You can’t be too?

thegroundzerogirl (via starkbran)