Keep Growing (bf Remus comforts you through a friend break-up) â ïž
CBBH universe Remus x GN!Muggle Barista
A Man With a Plan Series (indefinite hiatus)
Dating Remus Lupin Headcanons
Dance with me? (gn!reader encourages Rem to dance with them) âïž
Cuddle Invites (Rem doesn't want to share male!reader) đ
Surprise! We're Making Love (fem!reader, 7k words) đȘ, â ïž, đ¶ïž đ«§
-> not so surprising after all (S!WML epilogue)âïžđ«§
you kissed me (fem!reader's first [& 2nd] kiss) âïž
A Horseshoe for Luck (farrier!Remus x veterinarian!reader) âïž
Sister's boys (Remus Lupin x Black!sister reader) âïž
super blue moon blues (Black!sister + big brother Siri) â ïž
the ruined apothecary (Remus runs into feisty!reader post Hogwarts) âïž đ«§
by smell alone (potter!metamorphmagus!reader) đ
wants vs. needs (fem!reader is too sore for Remus tonight) âïž, đ¶ïž, â ïž
moony isn't housebroken (silly blurb re: incorrect werewolf ideologies) đ
problems in containing Potters (Remus feels possessive near a full moon) đ
the worst part (x Black!sister reader post The Prankâą) đȘ đ«§
Remus' big break (photographer!remus x model!reader meet cute) âïžđ«§
the beauty and her beast (couples costume blurb) đ
3:47 am (remus finds pregnant!reader in the kitchen) âïž
all in (Black!sister tell's rem she's pregnant, he thinks it's impossible) â ïž
remus is rotten company (but fem!reader loves him anyway)â ïž
you love storms (and roommate!remus loves you) âïžđ«§
you love yapping to Remus (and he loves listening, roommate!reader)âïžđ«§
Remus isn't sure how you do it (whimsical!reader astounds him)âïž
it was self-defence (roommate!reader pilfers Remus' sweats)âïž
-> cuddling for warmth, that's all... (one-bed trope)âïž
go back to sleep (reader thought Remus was sleeping)âïž
personal space heater (Remus is just a warm jumper to fem!reader)âïž
Remus' 1st time (fem, afab!reader takes Remus' virginity)đ¶ïž
Isla Moony (single mum!reader isn't as single a mum as she thought)âïž
-> The Sleepover (feelings are addressed, you and remus are undressed)âïž
-> the attic (you ask Remus if he wants more kids [he does])âïž ~đ¶ïž
5/5 chilli peppers (professor's remus x reader were rated on rate my professor)đ
charms & pranks (professor!remus x professor!reader vie for the house cup)đđ«§
Do I Wanna Know? (Remusâ version, song fic, pining/yearning) â ïž
can we please leave? (shy!reader bribes Remus into leaving the party)âïž
his toughest critic (fem!reader reads author!remus' book)đ
Tweedledee & Tweedledum (Remus ushers you and Marlene home after drinks)đđ«§
Remus' pilfering love (niffler animagus!reader)âïž
let's stay in tonight (x narcoleptic!reader)âïž
usurping urinals (doctor!remus x nurse!reader blurb)âïž
the lucky ones (Black!sister who has recently gone no contact with her family)â ïž
stone walls do not a prison make (prince!remus au, Queen Charlotte scene)âïžđ«§
the comedy club (idiots to lovers, remus x reader get read to filth)đ
-> comedy club hangover (the morning after)
when he needs it the most (reminding rem to take his meds)â ïž
lit candles & stacked books (Remus is sorry)â ïž
[not] a total failure (Remus tries readying your kid for their 1st day of school)âïž
streamer!remus (who speaks so softly to dove off screen)đ
please assume (if you're not a gryffindor or with a gryffindor, it's time to go)âïž
a soft place to land (Remus uses your tummy as a pillow)âïž
problematic presenting (alpha!remus x omega!reader a/b/o fic) â ïž, âïž
-> new to nesting (fem!reader builds first nest, rem is besotted)âïž, â ïžđ«§
-> baby(girl)'s first heat (rem helps reader through her heat)đ¶ïž
claimed (alpha!remus & omega!reader notice some side effects of mating marks)đ
Hockey Remus
off the clock (PT!Remus x team medic!reader hockey au) âïžđ«§
team's mom & dad (PT!remus x team medic!reader hockey blurb) đ
Legs-for-days Lupin (hockey player!rem x team medic!reader, suggestive)đđ«§
-> it's worse! (the team finds about about Loops x medic!reader) â ïž
-> the medic needs a medic (team medic!reader gets injured at a game) â ïž
-> Lupin smiles? (hockey!remus gives reader baby fever with a young fan)âïž
-> my favourite player (medic!reader is concussed, forgets they're dating)â ïžđ«§
-> the luckiest bastard in the world (medic!reader has a surprise for Rem)â ïžâïž
-> aches and pains (remus x medic!reader have a spat)đȘâ ïž
mandatory ice time (aka the best time for pt!Remus to hit it)đ¶ïž
rock, paper, scissors (Remus has to face down the social media girl)đ
You had landed your first real job as a sports reporter, and right away they sent you to cover an international friendly between England and France.
So, there you were, with your laptop open and your fingers hovering over the keyboard, sitting in a media room with about twenty other people who, just like you, never took their eyes off the screens as they noted down every detail. The funny thing was that, although everyone was watching the monitors to catch the replays, if you looked up, you could see the actual stadium through the huge glass window in front of you. From there, the stands looked like a sea of flags, and the roar of the crowd was deafening. Down on the pitch, the players were already moving around and finishing their warm ups. You checked for the fifth time that your laptop still had battery life and opened a blank document. Your colleagues seemed relaxed, as if this were just another ordinary day; but for you, this was the moment to prove that you were made for this job.
Right then, the movement on the pitch stopped. The captains took their places in the center circle, and you watched the referee glance at his watch before blowing the whistle.
That was how you spent the ninety minutes, plus the added time, of the match. Of course, you had a chance to breathe during halftime. Those fifteen minutes gave you enough time to catch your breath, stretch your legs, and grab a coffee.
You typed like a maniac, deleting and rewriting every time there was a significant play. By the time the match entered the final minutes of stoppage time, your fingers were cramping, but you had a solid report.
When the final whistle echoed through the stadium, bringing the game to a close, a collective sigh of relief swept through the room. You looked at your screen and reread your final paragraph. Your first real match coverage was finished.
Immediately afterward came the press conference. The media coordinators guided everyone down a corridor into an auditorium filled with rows of tiered seating facing a stage covered in microphones and sponsor logos. This was where you would finally come face-to-face with the people who had just played the match.
The nerves, which had only just settled, twisted your stomach all over again.
You sat halfway down the room, quickly flipped to a clean page in your notebook, and started scribbling down a few questions for both the managers and whichever players came out to speak.
France went first, and honestly, everything flowed pretty smoothly. You kept to yourself, observing the dynamic and listening carefully to the questions your colleagues asked. The more experienced journalists got straight to the point, pressing the manager about the second half substitutions.
Listening to them was incredibly useful. It helped you read the room and understand the rhythm of the conference. With every answer the French representatives gave, instantly translated through the headset you were wearing, you crossed things out and refined your notes.
The French delegation left the stage amid murmurs and camera flashes. The press officer announced over the microphone that Englandâs would be entering in two minutes.
You spent that two minutes perfecting a very specific question for James Potter. You knew perfectly well that he had a reputation for being terrible in interviews. The press often described him as unbearably arrogant. But he was also the star striker and the man who had scored two goals, so avoiding him wasnât an option.
The moment James stepped into the press room; his eyes swept across the crowd and paused the instant he saw you. Before even taking his seat, a grin spread across his face, and, without the slightest bit of shame, he winked at you. If you had already been terrified because of his reputation, that little gesture made you ten times more nervous. You felt your cheeks burn as your brain tried to process the fact that the most talked-about player of the match had just acknowledged you.
Then, swallowing hard to hide the lump in your throat, you raised your hand when the press officer called for the next question. To your surprise, and horror, he pointed directly at you, and an assistant hurried over to place a microphone in your hand.
You could feel the entire room looking at you. But worse than that was feeling Jamesâs eyes fixed on you. He was still watching with that amused little smile, waiting to see what you would do.
You subtly cleared your throat and brought the microphone to your lips. You tried to sound as professional and technical as possible, using the vocabulary you had spent your entire academic career practicing.
âGood evening, James. Congratulations on the two goals,â you began. âBeyond the scoreline itself, there was a very noticeable shift in Englandâs offensive transition during the second half, particularly in the way you exploited the spaces left by the French center backs. Was that a direct tactical adjustment from the manager, or was it something you identified yourself during the match?â
When you finished speaking, you lowered the microphone and maintained your composure.
Inside, however, you were praying that what you had said actually made sense and that you hadnât sounded like a complete amateur.
James raised an eyebrow, clearly impressed by the question. His smile became a little more genuine and a little less teasing. Settling back in his chair, he leaned toward the microphone on the table without taking his eyes off you, pausing briefly before answering.
âGood question, honestly,â James began, his voice relaxed but carrying that unmistakable confidence. He leaned a little closer to the microphone, never once breaking eye contact. âThe truth is, the gaffer gave us a couple of instructions in the halftime, yeah,â he said. âHe told us to press higher up the pitch and look for quicker transitions. But honestly, it was more of an in the moment read. I noticed their center backs were getting caught out trying to close downplays because they were exhausted, and every time they pushed the line up, they left a huge gap behind them. I just had to wait for the right pass and attack the space.â
James gave you one final nod before shifting his attention to the next journalist whose hand was already raised.
You slowly sank back into your seat, finally releasing a breath you hadnât even realized youâd been holding. Your hands trembled slightly as you rested them on your notebook to jot down his answer.
You glanced around. Nobody was looking at you strangely. In fact, the colleague sitting immediately to your left lightly tapped your shoulder and murmured a quick, âGood question.â
When the conference ended, the press officer announced the final step of the post-match protocol. The media coordinators guided everyone through the stadium corridors toward the mixed zone, the barricaded area every player from both teams had to pass through on their way to the team buses.
Unlike the auditorium, reporters here subtly jostled for the best spots along the barriers, preparing handheld microphones, voice recorders, and phones. Television cameras lined the corridor with bright lights aimed at the walkway, while a constant buzz of conversation echoed off the walls.
You slipped into an open space and gripped your phone tightly. You knew that interviews in the mixed zone were usually quicker and more spontaneous than the formal press conference.
Gradually, players began emerging in groups. Some walked straight through with headphones on, waving briefly at reporters. Others stopped for a few moments to give short reactions to television networks.
While stretching your arm out to capture audio from a French midfielder speaking a few meters away, a sudden commotion among the photographers at the entrance of the corridor made you look up.
Surrounded by a couple of England security staff, James was walking calmly in your direction, already changed into official team training gear with a duffel bag slung over one shoulder.
You watched him answer a couple of microphones thrust into his path. However, when he was only a few feet from where you stood, he looked up again and immediately spotted you. To the surprise of everyone around you, he subtly sidestepped a television reporter and walked directly toward your position.
âHello again,â he said, resting one hand on the metal barrier and offering you the exact same smile heâd worn in the press room. âYou looked like you still had more questions to ask.â
You swallowed; raised your phone slightly, the recording app already running.
âThere are always details left to cover. Two goals in a match of this level donât happen every day. Do you feel like tonightâs performance guarantees you a starting spot in the upcoming tournament?â
James let out a quiet laugh, clearly amused that you hadnât backed down. He adjusts the strap of his bag before answering, studying you with a mixture of curiosity and respect.
âA starting spot is never guaranteed with this team. The competition is brutal. But matches like tonight definitely help when it comes time to pick the lineup. I work for moments like this to perform when the team needs me. Luckily, everything came together tonight.â
He gave you what felt like a silent goodbye before continuing toward the team bus, leaving behind a trail of curious glances.
You stood frozen for a moment, staring at your screen and feeling relieved when you confirmed the entire exchange had been recorded. Beside you, one of the veteran correspondents lowered his own microphone, glanced at you, and let out a low whistle.
âI donât know what you just did, kid, but you managed to win over the most difficult player on the national team,â he said, giving you a genuine pat on the back.
You submitted your main match report on time, recorded a strong question during the press conference, and, on top of that, secured an exclusive quote in the mixed zone that any sports outlet would have fought to publish the next morning.
The taxi crawled through the city streets, but your mind was still stuck in that moment. Your laptop rested open on your knees, its pale glow illuminating your face as you reread your article for what felt like the millionth time.
Then the phone lying beside you on the seat vibrated. Expecting an email from your editor, or maybe a message from your father asking how everything had gone, you reached for it absentmindedly.
The screen lit up. Instagram notification.
@.jamespotter_9 started following you.
You froze, your finger hovering in midair as you blinked several times to make sure exhaustion wasnât causing hallucinations.
Your personal Instagram account was hardly a professional media outlet. It was filled with photos from your university years, random landscapes, and the occasional post about journalism.
Which meant he had gone out of his way to look up your real name, printed on the media credential hanging around your neck, and find you.
Your heart immediately kicked into overdrive again. You swiped the notification open. There it was, the blue verification badge, millions of followers, and a recent photo of him celebrating one of the goals heâd scored that night.
Before you could even decide whether you should follow him back, the screen refreshed. A new direct message appeared in the top corner.
âThat was a really good question earlier, but I wanted to ask you something too. Whatâs it like being the only person whoâs managed to make me nervous? By the way, whenever you want, Iâm available for a longer interview ;)â
The driver glanced at you through the rearview mirror after noticing the strange smile spreading across your face. Meanwhile, you remained there with your fingers hovering over the keyboard, trying to figure out how on earth you were supposed to respond.
âIf you promise to stay alive just a little bit longer I promise that we are going to make this world a place worth living in by any means necessary. I ainât giving up. I swear.âÂ
I canât stop thinking about this message, so I spent a while trying to isolate just the writing and make it transparent. I might order a shirt with it
Whoever in Clackamas wrote this message on their bus stop, I love you
summary: you're Teddy's babysitter who Remus is absolutely not head over heels over... but what happens when his ex-wife and mother of his kid shows up one day after being gone for six years?
pairing: singledad!Remus x babysitter!reader
tags: long afk but worth it i promise, muggle!au, modern!au, single dad remus, age!gap sorta (reader is 24 and remus is 32), reader is lonely and so is remus:(, angst, happy ending & Tonks slander for the plot im so sorry i love her i swear.
The first time you babysat Teddy Lupin he bit you. He bit you hard.
You'd think a six year old would be a tiny bit more mature when trying to express big big feelings but oh well...
The first time you properly met Remus Lupin, he was leaning against the bathroom doorway while you searched his medicine cabinet for a bandage, in need of it for small little bite-sized cuts, courtesy of his son's surprisingly sharp teeth.
"I promise he doesn't have rabies." he says, looking extremely apologetic as he hands you a small box of dinosaur band-aids
You looked down at the cartoon triceratops smiling up at you.
"Sorry, we only have these and I keep them in my room because Teddy likes to put them on everything."
"Well," you said, peeling open the Band-Aid. "At least he has good taste."
"In band-aids?"
"In victims."
For the first time since you'd arrived, Remus laughed and the sound surprised both of you.
Teddy had his father's laugh, you'd come to learn. It escaped them in stages: a huff through his nose, a smile he tried and failed to suppress, and then a laugh proper, warm and low and wonderfully unguarded.
Remus thought you'd quit after Teddy bit you, instead, you taught him all afternoon how to express overwhelming joy through words and hugs. He hired you on the spot.
As it turned out, working for Remus Lupin fit surprisingly well into your schedule. He lived only fifteen minutes from campus and taught there himself, though from the other side of the lectern and thankfully not in classes corresponding your major. Getting from your classes to his house was only a fifteen-minute drive.
After the toddler had scared six nannies already, Remus the atheist thought of going to a church and say thanks to The Man Himself when his son seemed so accepting of you. None of the others had lasted more than a month after some incidents... like the one time where Teddy learned that pretending to cry guaranteed attention and subsequently produced tears on command whenever vegetables appeared on his plate, or when he convinced a nanny he had swallowed a coin.
He had not.
He simply wanted to know what happened when people thought you had.
And there came you.
A woman in her mid-twenties, almost done with college and desperately in need of cash.
Somehow, you possessed the extraordinary ability to turn Teddy Lupin into a less unhinged version of himself simply by speaking to him as though he were a thinking human being. A rather radical approach for any of the other babysitters that had had the misfortune of looking after him.
The first month, Teddy stopped biting people.
The second month, he started waiting by the living room window for your car.
By the third, he knew your class schedule better than you did.
"You're late." He accused, arms tightly around himself to show he was clearly furious.
You checked your watch. "I am four minutes early."
"You were eight minutes earlier yesterday."
"That's not how being late works, bubba."
Teddy narrowed his eyes. You narrowed yours right back. Then he broke into a fit of giggles and forced you to play hide n' seek with him for the third time that week.
One rainy afternoon, you found yourself sitting cross-legged on the living room floor helping Teddy build a cardboard castle from old delivery boxes his dad had abandoned months ago.
The structure was ugly. Dangerously unstable. And somehow required seventeen rolls of tape his dad would absolutely need at some point of the apocalypse he had bought them for.
"Who lives there?" you asked, taping one of the makeshift windows to the side of the castle. You could've pursued architecture.
"A dragon."
"Only a dragon? A single one?"
"A dragon and me." He nods, like it's obvious, like it's a universal truth.
You nodded solemnly, catching one of the falling pieces from the roof. "Fair enough."
Teddy considered this. He looked at you from head to toe, still wearing the princess hat you made for yourself with cardboard and glittery pink markers. "And you." He decides
Your hands paused. "Oh."
"And Dad, I guess."
"How generous of you." You smile
Teddy shrugged. "The dragon likes you."
Remus noticed it before you did.
The way Teddy reached for you first whenever he was upset. The way he shouted your name the moment he got a good grade. The way he insisted on saving half his desserts for you. The way the house seemed fuller whenever you were in it.
Warmer. Louder. Happier.
Ever since Tonks had left not long after Teddy was born, the house had felt different. Quieter. Not in the literal sense; if anything, Teddy seemed determined to produce enough noise for three people. But there was an emptiness to it all the same. A second mug never taken down from the cabinet. A side of the bed that remained untouched. Conversations that ended before they began because there was nobody to have them with. At first, Remus had noticed it everywhere.
In the silence that greeted him after putting Teddy to sleep.
In the groceries he no longer bought.
In the absence of someone asking how his day had been.
Then life carried on, as it tended to do. Teddy grew. The laundry piled up. Bills had to be paid. Homework from both his son and his students needed checking. Somewhere between surviving and parenting, the loneliness stopped feeling like an intruder and settled into something more permanent. A piece of furniture. An old ache. The sort of thing he only noticed when it wasn't truly there.
Which was perhaps why your arrival caught him so off guard: You filled space without trying to.
Suddenly there was laughter coming from the living room when he got home from work. Someone stealing the good pens from his desk. Someone else reminding Teddy to brush his teeth. Someone sitting at the kitchen counter while he made dinner, telling him about a professor who couldn't work the projector.
The house wasn't less messy or more manageable. If anything, it was louder than ever. But it felt alive again.
One evening, after putting Teddy to bed, you found Remus standing in the kitchen nursing a mug of tea. "He's asleep?" he asks, pulling the little tea bag in and out of the water of his cup, the scent of camomile filling the room.
"Barely." You say with a groan, sitting on the kitchen island with a small thud.
This had become a ritual, of sorts. Talking with Remus about both of your days, or your lives, before he awkwardly slipped the fifty dollar bill across the counter and you slipped out the door to go home.
"He asked for three stories?"
"Four."
Remus winced. "My condolences, love."
You laughed. He smiled.
And then neither of you looked away quite as quickly as you should have. It lasted only a second. Maybe two. He should be grabbing his wallet instead of staring at you like a creep, he thought briefly. But something shifted. Not enough to name. Not enough to acknowledge. Just enough to notice. Just enough to remember.
The first school event you attended happened entirely by accident. Or at least that's what you told yourself.
"Dad can't come to my school thing." Teddy delivered the news with all the gravity of someone announcing a death in the family and the hopefulness of asking for extra candy. You glanced up from his math worksheet spread across the kitchen table. "What do you mean he can't come?"
"He has a meeting at his school." He sighs, resting his chubby cheek in his hand as he scribbles down the page instead of writing actual numbers.
"Oh."
Teddy stared. You stared back. The silence stretched.
"Okay?"
"It's my assembly." Teddy said in the whiniest of tones, spinning around in his chair without taking his eyes off of you, turning his head every time his back faced you
"I know- Bubba, you're going to get dizzy and vomit those dino nuggets, stop."
He stops himself, his little hands clawing at the kitchen island to make himself sit straight again. "You have to come!"
You blinked. "I absolutely do not."
"You do!"
"Teddy."
"You're my emergency contact." He says in an attempt to somehow tie you into a school assembly.
"Your dad is your emergency contact." Busted. Your smirk is proud, like you defeated a debate professor rather than a six year old.
"You're my second emergency contact." He looked unbearably pleased with himself. As though he'd just discovered a legal loophole.
You sighed. "That is not how this works."
"It is if I start crying." He grins.
"You wouldn't."
His eyes immediately began watering.
"Oh, for God's sake- fine, fine, fine!"
The assembly took place on a Thursday morning. You had skipped a lecture to be there. A decision you absolutely weren't regretting as you sat in an uncomfortable folding chair surrounded by parents.
Definitely not. Not even a little.
The gymnasium was packed. Children buzzed with excitement. Teachers ran around looking exhausted. A little girl dressed as a sunflower was already crying and smudging her seed makeup.
It was chaos.
"Teddy Lupin?" a woman sitting beside you asked.
You looked up. "Yeah!"
The woman smiled. "Oh, you're his mother."
The words hit you so unexpectedly that your brain short-circuited.
"No."
"No?" The woman looked awfully confused.
"No." You laughed awkwardly. "I'm not."
"Oh."
You should have corrected her.cYou should have explained. Babysitter. Family friend. Anything.
Instead, your head drifted toward the stage. Toward Teddy. Toward the little paper crown sitting crookedly on his head. Toward the seat beside you. Empty and reserved for Remus.
A faculty emergency had kept him away.
You'd watched him apologize to Teddy all morning.
Watched Teddy pretend not to care.
Watched Remus look heartbroken anyway.
"It's complicated," you decided on.
The woman nodded with a careful smile as if that explained everything.
Maybe it did.
The moment Teddy stepped onto the stage, he found you. Not his teacher. Not his classmates. You.
His entire face lit up. He waved both arms enthusiastically and showed off the crown you had made him days before.
You waved back. A teacher immediately pushed his hands down and he looked bothered but then... The performance began.
Teddy missed half his cues. Forgot two lines. Knocked over a cardboard tree. And somehow still managed to be the most amazing thing you had ever seen. You laughed so hard your stomach hurt and he laughed with you. By the end, you had nearly two hundred photos on your phone.
Half of them blurry. All of them precious.
Remus called before you even reached your car with Teddy in hand, a huge ice cream on his as you walked in the school's parking lot.
"How was it?"
You smiled. "You owe me another fifty dollars."
"What?" You can hear the smile on his voice.
"I sat through forty-five minutes of second graders singing off-key, I'm entitled to financial compensation."
A pause. Then:
"So it was good?"
You could practically hear the hope in his voice. You thought of the photograph you took earlier, now on your main wallpaper.
Teddy, grinning proudly from the stage. Paper crown crooked. Missing front tooth. The happiest, most perfect kid in the world.
"It was perfect."
The silence on the other end lasted a moment longer than it should have. "Thank you." Something in his voice made your chest ache.
"It wasn't a big deal, Remus."
"It was."
You leaned against your car as Teddy got inside. Suddenly unsure what to do with your hands. "What are you doing now?" he asked.
"Dropping Teddy at campus and then home... why?"
Another pause. Then: "Teddy wants to celebrate."
You laughed.
"Celebrate what?"
"This morning he said something about surviving elementary theatre."
"Fair."
"Would you...?" The hesitation surprised you. "Would you like to come to dinner?"
You should have said no.
You had reading to do.
Laundry.
Assignments.
A life outside of the Lupins.
Insteadâ "Only if Teddy picks the restaurant." Remus groaned.
"Oh no."
"What's wrong?" You frown, thinking for one terrible moment that dinner plans were cancelled.
"He likes that dinosaur-themed place."
"You say that like it's bad." You smile, getting inside the car and buckling Teddy's seatbelt.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Remus said gravely, "she's encouraging him!"
You spent dinner watching the performance's videos, laughing hysterically at Teddy making excuses for stepping on another boy's feet while dancing and how the choreography was super tough.
Much later, neither of you would be able to say exactly when you stopped feeling like Teddy's babysitter.
Only that, somehow, somewhere between dinosaur bandages, cardboard castles and bedtime stories, you had become part of the family. And nobody seemed particularly interested in giving you back.
Summer turned into autumn.
Autumn turned into winter.
And somewhere in between, you stopped knocking.
It had happened after Teddy came down with a stomach bug and Remus got stuck in traffic on the way home from campus. He'd handed you a spare key the next morning with a mumbled, "Just in case." You'd accepted it without much thought.
Months later, it still hung from your keychain.
"Technically," Remus had said once, watching Teddy color at the kitchen table, "you're only supposed to use it for emergencies."
Teddy didn't even look up from his crayons. "She lives here."
You nearly choked on your coffee. "I absolutely do not."
"You have a key."
"That doesn't mean I live here, Bubba. I got my own place-."
"You have pajamas."
"They're for sleepovers when you're too much of a baby to sleep alone when your dad's late!" You laugh
"You have a toothbrush." He doesn't take the bait. He will tolerate being called a baby if it is to prove a point.
"Teddy."
"You have your own mug." You opened your mouth. Then closed it again. Because annoyingly enough, the little traitor was right.
The mug sat beside the coffee machine every morning; a chipped blue thing with tiny stars painted around the rim. Nobody remembered how it had become yours. One day it simply had.
Much like the cardigan hanging over the back of the couch, the spare phone charger Remus had bought for you that now rested permanently plugged into the kitchen outlet. The blanket Teddy insisted belonged to you during movie nights. Little pieces of yourself scattered throughout the house.
Evidence. Proof.
Signs of a life quietly intertwining with theirs. Not that anyone seemed particularly concerned about it. Especially not Remus.
One evening, after a particularly miserable exam, you let yourself into the house and immediately dropped your backpack onto the floor.
"I'm dropping out."
"Hi, sweetheart."
Remus looked up from where he stood at the stove.
"You didn't even ask what happened." You groan, taking off your shoes and padding inside.
"You say you're dropping out at least twice a month." Remus laughs, handing you tea that was already waiting for you in the blue starry mug.
"I mean it this time."
"You meant it last time."
"And the time before that." Teddy chimes in.
"Exactly."
You narrowed your eyes. He smiled into his tea.
Teddy looked up from the table. "I think she's... bluffing!" You had taught him that word a month ago when he heard you singing a song and asked what 'bluffing' meant.
"Thank you, Theodore." Remus hums
"You're welcome."
And for a brief, stupid moment, standing there in your socks with your backpack abandoned by the door and the smell of dinner filling the kitchen, you forgot this wasn't your home. The realization came later.
Alone in your apartment, laying in bed and staring at the ceiling.
Thinking about the way Teddy had absent-mindedly reached for your hand while telling a story. The way Remus always made enough tea for two. The way neither of them seemed surprised when you showed up anymore.
Looking back, perhaps that should have worried you.
The ease of it all.
The way you slipped into their lives and they slipped into yours.
The way none of it felt temporary anymore.
The doorbell rang on a Thursday afternoon, sunset already bleeding in the sky.
Teddy was halfway through explaining why dinosaurs would perform terribly in modern society when Remus got up to answer it. "Don't move," he told his son.
"I wasn't planning to."
"That's what you said before climbing onto the garage roof."
"I was trying to help the bird... it was one time."
"One time too many." You laughed into your mug.
Remus rolled his eyes affectionately before disappearing into the hallway. The conversation at the table continued for all of ten seconds.
Then it stopped.
Not because of anything you could hear. Because of what you couldn't.
No footsteps.
No greeting.
No door closing.
Just silence.
A strange, heavy sort of silence.
The kind that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up. You exchanged a glance with Teddy. He frowned.
Then, from the hallwayâ
"Dora" Remus said in a broken sigh.
"Hello, Remus."
A woman's voice. Soft and familiar. A tiny bit broken around the edges.
The mug slipped slightly in your hands. Something crashed to a halt in the other room. For a moment, nobody spoke.
Then Teddy's chair scraped loudly against the floor. His eyes had gone impossibly wide as he ran to the hall.
"Dad?" The word hung in the air. A heartbeat later, another one followed. Small. Disbelieving. Hopeful.
"Mom?".
Remus' ex wife.
Teddy's mom.
It was hard to put an older face to the name. Remus had told you the whole story in one of your late-night kitchen conversations after a particularly harsh day at faculty, all broken and tired. A storm raged outside, and he basically forced you to stay there and use the couch. You'd found him sitting alone in the kitchen after midnight, grading papers with the thousand-yard stare of a man questioning every decision that had led him to academia.
"Bad essays?" you asked as you poured yourself some water.
"Worse."
You set your glass down beside him. "How bad?"
Remus looked up, grabbed the paper he was grading and read: "'The Industrial Revolution was important because industry was invented.'"
You winced. "That's rough."
"I nearly resigned." The laugh that followed faded quickly. He put down the pen and took off his glasses, running a hand through his sandy hair as he took a deep breath. Silence settled between you. Comfortable.
The kind that only existed after months of knowing someone.
Then, without really meaning to, your eyes drifted toward the photograph on the fridge. The same photograph you'd seen dozens of times.
A younger Remus. A baby Teddy. A woman with big eyes and pink hair.
"Was she funny?" The question escaped before you could stop it.
Remus followed your gaze. For a moment, he didn't answer.
Then... "Very."
You nodded then waited.
Eventually, he sighed. "You're curious."
"A little." you admit, the greenish water in your cup suddenly the most interesting thing in the room. God why did you have to be so nosy, the topic was clearly sensitive for the man and-
"Fair." He says before looking up "Her name's Nymphadora."
You immediately grimaced. "That's fucking criminal."
"It is." He laughs
"What kind of parent names a child Nymphadora?" I sigh
"The kind who hated her almost as much as she did."
That earned a genuine laugh. Then his expression softened. Not with longing. With memory. "She was loud."
You smiled. "Teddy had to get it from someone."
"Impossible not to notice when she entered a room." His fingers tapped absent-mindedly against the mug in front of him as he stared into the garden. "She loved Teddy."
You hesitated. Past tense. Loved.
Not loves.
Loved. The distinction settled heavily in your chest. "What happened?"
For a second, you thought he'd dodge the question like the many times Sirius made a joke about it during family dinners. Instead, he leaned back in his chair. Looking older suddenly. More tired.
"We had Teddy."
You waited. "And?"
"And she left." Just like that. No dramatic explanation. No elaborate story. Three words.
You frowned. "Just... left?"
"Pretty much." He scoffed but there was no anger in his voice. Which somehow made it worse.
"One day she told me she couldn't do it anymore." His eyes remained fixed on the table. "Couldn't do what?" You ask.
"Any of it... the house payment, the marriage, the responsibility."
You swallowed a small lump in your throat, scared to ask until you did "Teddy?"
A pause. Then: "Especially Teddy."
The words hit harder than they should have because they weren't cruel. Just honest. The honesty made them hurt.
"How old was he?"
"Six months."
You stared. Remus stared back into his tea.
"Some people aren't built for parenthood." You didn't know what to say. You were a dumb twenty something year old that could barely keep herself alive with campus meals and an awful sleep schedule. You couldn't judge the woman...
"So that's it?"
He laughed. A short, bitter thing. "No." The answer came immediately, almost still resentful. "No, that's not it."
For the first time that evening, genuine anger flashed across his face. Gone almost as quickly as it appeared. But it was there for the briefest second. "I spent years furious." The admission surprised you. Remus was a gentle man, in every sense of the word. He never yelled at Teddy even when he was in one of his moods, never cursed unless it was in good spirits and never once did you see him express anything but love and maybe, sometimes sadness. "I thought I'd done something wrong."
His jaw tightened. "I thought if I'd been a better husband she would've stayed."
The kitchen felt very quiet.
Then: "Eventually I realized it wasn't about me." A pause. "Or even about Teddy." Another. "She just didn't want this life." He says looking around at the house, his eyes fixated on Teddy's drawings hanging in the frigge.
You looked down at your tea.
Thought about the sleeping child upstairs. At the house built around you both. And for the first time, you understood why Remus looked so exhausted sometimes.
Because he'd spent years being both parents. Years picking up every piece she left behind.
"Do you hate her?" You mumble softly.
Remus was silent for a long time. Then he shook his head. "No." The answer sounded tired.
Not forgiving. Not yet. Just tired.
"I hate what happened." His eyes drifted toward the stairs. Toward Teddy's room. "I hate what it did to him."
A pause. "If she walked through that door tomorrow, I'd probably slam it in her face." You laughed softly.
"I'm serious."
"I know."
Another pause. Then: "But if Teddy wanted to see her..."
Remus closed his eyes briefly and you saw the fight leaving him all at once. "I'd figure it out."
And so that's why seeing this woman in the doorway, with Teddy clinging to her legs, surprised you so.
Remus was looking at the floor intently, breathing heavily, hand still in the door as Nymphadora walked inside and sat on the couch as Teddy hugged her. The sight makes your heart squeeze.
You remained rooted to your spot by the kitchen island as she finally acknowledged your presence. "Oh?" The single syllable nearly knocked the breath from your lungs.
You weren't stupid.
You knew exactly how this looked.
You were already in your pajamas curled up on a kitchen stool. A mug of tea cooling beside your phone as it charged from the wall outlet, your college bag rested carelessly beside the couch. The blanket draped over your lap belonged to the house. The blue, chipped mug in your hand did too. Slowly, painfully, you became aware of every trace of yourself scattered throughout the room.
The cardigan hanging over the back of a chair. The charger plugged into the kitchen wall. The half-finished crossword you'd abandoned on the coffee table.
Evidence.
Evidence everywhere.
The realization hit all at once. This wasn't your home. But God, it looked and felt like it was. Nymphadora's gaze swept across the room. Taking everything in. The tea. The blanket. The bag. You.
Something flickered across her face. Surprise. Confusion. Perhaps even understanding. You couldn't tell.
Suddenly you felt eighteen again. Awkward. Out of place. Caught doing something you weren't supposed to be doing and feeling incredibly embarassed about it.
"Teddy's babysitter." The words escaped before anyone could ask. You hated how quickly you'd said them. As though trying to justify your own existence. As though trying to explain why you were here.
Nymphadora blinked. Then smiled, a small one. Polite and distant. "Oh." The same thing she'd said before. Only this time it sounded different. You couldn't explain how, just that it did.
You looked at Teddy.
Then at Remus.
Remus still hadn't moved, and had barely spoken. The silence surrounding him felt strange. Heavy. Like a storm cloud sitting in the middle of the living room.
Nymphadora noticed too. Her smile faded slightly. "Hi, Remus."
Finally, his eyes lifted meeting hers for the first time. The room seemed to hold its breath. "Tonks."
Not Dora.
Not Nymphadora.
Not love.
Not anything affectionate.
Just Tonks.
The distance in a single syllable was almost impressive. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Years stretched silently between them. Then Teddy squeezed himself tighter against his mother's side. And whatever Remus had been about to say disappeared.
Because there it was.
The reason she was standing in his living room.
The reason he hadn't slammed the door.
The reason he probably never would.
Their son.
Of course you sleep in your place that night.
You stood, reached for your keys and your overnight bag. For the cardigan you'd left hanging over the couch weeks ago. For some reason, collecting your things felt different tonight. Like you were cleaning up after yourself. Like you were erasing evidence.
"Drive safe." Remus' voice caught you by surprise. You looked up and he was already holding the front door open.
The autumn air slipped inside. Cold against your skin.
"You too." The corner of his mouth twitched.
"I'm not driving anywhere."
"You never know." For a moment neither of you moved. The silence stretched. Not awkward.
You drove home in your pijamas and in spite of Teddy's pleas for you to stay to "meet his mommy together". The sentence made your blood boil and heart break at the same time. The sweet boy hadn't grown up with her, he didn't know her. He was just meeting her and it was the most heartbreakingly sad thing you had ever seen. How could he know her? And yet he loved her already.
The realization sat heavily in your chest during the drive home, not because Teddy was wrong but because he wasn't. She was his mother. Of course he wanted her. Of course he looked at her like she'd hung the moon. Of course he forgave her before she had even apologized. He was a child.
The next morning, you still went. Of course you did. Teddy had asked if you'd come back. You'd promised.
So you found yourself standing on the Lupins' doorstep shortly after ten in the morning with a bag of groceries balanced on your hip and a spare key in your pocket. The key felt heavier than usual. You knocked anyway out of habit.
The door swung open before you could use it. Teddy practically launched himself at you. "You came!"
You laughed as he nearly knocked you over. "I said I would."
"I know but sometimes adults lie."
"That's a concerning thing to say at eight in the morning."
"It's ten."
"Still concerning."
Teddy grinned then grabbed your hand and dragged you inside. The smile slipped from your face almost immediately. The kitchen smelled like pancakes, fresh ones. The dishes had already been washed. His favorite dinosaur cup had already been filled with juice.
And standing in the middle of it all was Nymphadora Tonks. As though she'd always belonged there. As though she'd never left.
"Oh!" she said brightly.
"Hi." You smiled automatically.
"Hi."
Teddy was already halfway through explaining something about velociraptors. Neither of you listened. For a moment, you simply stood there. Watching Nymphadora tying Teddy's shoelaces. Nymphadora reminding him to finish his breakfast. Nymphadora wiping syrup off his cheek.
Things you had done a hundred times. Things she should have been doing. The realization settled slowly.
Painfully like a bruise.
Nobody had asked you to leave. Nobody had told you that you weren't needed. And yet the space you'd occupied for years suddenly had an owner again.
You stayed for an hour. Maybe two.
Long enough to help Teddy build a blanket fort.
Long enough to laugh at one of his terrible jokes.
Long enough to realize you didn't know what you were supposed to do anymore.
When you finally stood to leave, Teddy frowned. "Where are you going?"
Home.
Nowhere.
Anywhere.
"I've got things to do."
"Like what?"
You opened your mouth.
Nothing came out. Because the truth was that college was out for winter break. You didn't have classes. You didn't have assignments. You didn't have work. You had planned on spending most of your vacation here. Movie nights and board games and helping Teddy build increasingly dangerous engineering projects. You hadn't realized how much of your life had quietly rearranged itself around theirs until now.
"Oh."
Teddy seemed unsatisfied by the answer. But Nymphadora smiled. "Let her go be a grown-up."
You laughed politely. Then left.
The drive home felt longer than it should have. The apartment felt smaller. Quieter. You spent three hours wandering aimlessly between rooms.
Started a book. Put it down.
Turned on the television. Turned it off.
Made tea and accidentally made enough for two. Forgot to drink both cups.
By two in the afternoon, you were considering taking a nap simply out of boredom when your phone rang. Remus.
You answered immediately.
"Hey."
A pause.
Then: "Please tell me you're free."
You sat upright. Something in his voice made your stomach drop.
"What happened?"
Another pause, longer this time.
When he finally spoke, he sounded exhausted.
"Teddy and Tonks had a fight."
You blinked. "A fight?" He's six years old how does he manage to-
"A spectacular one."
"What happened?"
Remus sighed heavily. "I think she tried to parent him."
"Oh."
"Yeah."
You winced. That explained everything. Teddy had never loved being told what to do from anyone who wasn't Remus. Or you. That aditional thought bothered you.
"Teddy yelled that she wasn't his mother." The words landed heavily. Painfully. You closed your eyes.
"Oh fuck."
Another silence.
Then: "He locked himself in his room." You were already reaching for your shoes. "And?"
"And apparently I'm raising a tiny dictator because he says he'll only come out if you talk to him." Your heart broke instantly somewhere between the front door and your car keys. Remus let out a tired breath. "He keeps asking for you."
And suddenly, for the first time all day, you knew exactly where you were supposed to be.
The drive to the Lupins' house took twelve minutes and you spent eleven of them trying not to imagine Teddy crying. The twelfth was worse. The house was quiet when you arrived.
Wrongly quiet.
Not the peaceful kind.
The kind that follows shouting.
Remus opened the door before you could knock. He looked exhausted.
"Where is he?"
"Upstairs."
You were already moving.
"Heyâ" You paused halfway up the stairs. Remus rubbed a hand over his face.
"He won't talk to me." The admission sounded almost defeated. You softened immediately. "I'll try."
He nodded. The door to Teddy's room was closed. A small dinosaur sticker stared at you from eye level. You knocked once. Nothing. Twice. Still nothing.
"Teddy?"
Silence.
Then: "Go away."
You exhaled slowly. "No."
"Please." The word was so small and pleading it nearly broke your heart.
You rested your forehead against the door. "Teddy."
Nothing.
Then, after a moment: "...is it you?". Your throat tightened.
"Yeah, bubba s'me, open the door for me."
The lock clicked immediately. The door opened just enough for you to see one watery hazel eye. Then he launched himself at you.
Hard and nearly knocking the air from your lungs.
You caught him automatically. His face buried itself against your shoulder. And just like that, you knew.
Not because of what he said. Because of how tightly he was holding on. You had known fear like this before: the quiet kind.
The kind that settled in your chest after someone raised their voice. The kind that made you study every expression, every footstep, every slammed door. Trying to determine whether you were safe yet. You recognized it the moment Teddy looked up at you. "Hey."
His eyes were red, his chubby cheeks blotchy. A child trying very hard not to cry anymore. "Hey."
You sat down on the floor beside his bed and he immediately curled into your side. Neither of you spoke.
Sometimes there wasn't much to say.
A few minutes passed before he finally whispered "I was bad."
Your heart sank. "No bubba-" His fingers tightened in your sweatshirt.
"I was."
"Teddy."
"Mom said so."
The room seemed to tilt slightly. Not enough to knock you over. Enough. You chose your next words carefully. "What happened?" Teddy stared at the carpet. For a long time, you thought he wouldn't answer.
Then: "I spilled juice."
You blinked. "That's it?"
He shrugged. Small. Miserable. Ashamed.
"There was already juice on the floor."
"Okay."
"And then I dropped the cup."
You waited.
"And then she yelled." The words came out in a rush, as though saying them quickly would make them hurt less. You felt something twist painfully inside your chest.
Not anger.
Not yet.
Recognition. Children remembered yelling differently. Adults forgot that. Adults remembered the reason. Children remembered the sinking feeling.
"I think..." Teddy swallowed. "I think she hates me."
"Oh, sweetheart, no..." The words escaped immediately, before you could stop them. His eyes filled again. And there it was.
The thing he'd been carrying around all afternoon.
Not anger. Not even sadness. Fear. The awful certainty only children could have. The belief that one mistake could make someone stop loving them. You knew that feeling far too well. You gently brushed a hand through his hair.
"Listen to me." Teddy looked up. "If somebody gets frustrated, that doesn't mean they hate you."
He said nothing. "So what if she yelled?"
You smiled softly. "Then she shouldn't have yelled."
His eyes widened as though he hadn't considered that possibility. As though adults existed in a category where they were automatically right.
"No one gets to yell at you just because they're upset." The words surprised even you. They sounded older than you remembered being. Older than you felt. You swallowed. Then nudged his shoulder gently.
"But." Teddy sniffled. "But sometimes adults mess up just like kids do."
The room fell quiet. Downstairs, a floorboard creaked, someone moving around the kitchen. Probably Remus. Probably Tonks. Probably both.
Teddy leaned into your side. "You really came." The words were barely above a whisper. You closed your eyes briefly. Then pressed a kiss against the top of his head. "Always."
And somewhere downstairs, a chair scraped across the floor. As though someone had just sat down very suddenly.
You saw less and less of the Lupins after that.
At first, you told yourself it was temporary, an adjustment period.
Tonks and Teddy needed time.
Remus and Tonks needed time.
You were being mature about it. Reasonable.
Normal.
Then one week became two, two became three, and suddenly the absence had settled into something real. The strange thing was that nobody had asked you to leave. Not once.
Teddy still asked about you.
Tonks still invited you over.
Remus still texted occasionally: A photograph of a disastrous science project, a reminder to send him the name of a book you'd recommended, a complaint about faculty meetings. Small things. Ordinary things.
Which somehow made them worse, because every message reminded you that life was continuing without you. One evening, your phone buzzed while you were making dinner for one.
remus:): Do you remember how you got Teddy to eat broccoli?
You stared at the message.
Then laughed despite yourself, replying 'Blackmail'.
His reply arrived immediately.
remus:): I knew it.
You smiled, then stared at the screen long after the conversation ended because three months ago, you wouldn't have received that question through a phone. You would've been standing in his kitchen. Stealing vegetables from Teddy's plate. Listening to Remus complain about grading.
The distance hurt in ways you hadn't expected, not because you missed the house.
Because you missed him. Teddy or Remus you didn't know.
And apparently, he missed you too. Teddy or Remus you didn't know.
Then you realized it gradually, in the way his messages lingered or in the way he found increasingly ridiculous reasons to contact you... in the way conversations that should've lasted three minutes somehow stretched into forty.
One night he called. You answered without thinking.
"Hey."
"Hey."
Silence. Comfortable. Dangerous. You sat down on your couch.
"What happened?"
"What do you mean?"
"You only call when something happened."
A low, familiar laugh.
God. You missed that laugh.
"That's offensive."
"It's true."
Another laugh, then silence again. You waited.
Eventually: "I just wanted to hear your voice."
The room stopped. Not completely. Just enough. Long enough for your heart to stumble over itself. On the other end of the line, Remus went quiet too. As though he'd only realized what he'd said after saying it. Neither of you acknowledged it. Neither of you were brave enough. So instead he asked about your classes. And you let him. Because some things were easier to survive when they remained unnamed.
Later that night, long after the call ended, Remus sat alone in the kitchen. The house was asleep. Tonks upstairs. Teddy dreaming. A mug of tea cooling between his hands. For the first time in months, he allowed himself to admit it.
The house felt full again.
It should have been enough.
For a while, he thought it might be but every time something funny happened, he still reached for his phone. Every time Teddy did something ridiculous, he wanted to tell you. Every time he saw an article about your major's studies, he thought of you. And every time he opened the front door after work, a small part of him still expected to find you sitting on the kitchen island.
Waiting. The realization terrified him. Because Tonks had come home. And somehow, impossibly, he still missed you.
At first, Remus thought time would fix it because time fixed most things. Grief dulled. Anger softened. Old wounds scarred over. That was what people said, anyway. So he tried.
God, he tried.
He took Tonks to dinner and sat beside her during movie nights and listened when she talked about the years she'd spent away. About the jobs she'd worked, about the places she'd lived, about the mistakes she'd made.
He listened because she deserved that much. Because Teddy deserved that much. Because families weren't things you abandoned the moment they became difficult. Some evenings, he would look across the dinner table and see exactly what he had wanted for years.
Tonks laughing.
Teddy talking with his mouth full.
Three plates instead of two.
A family.
A complete one.
It should have made him happy.
Instead, there was always something missing. A fourth laugh. A familiar voice from the kitchen. Someone stealing fries from Teddy's plate. Someone sitting cross-legged on the counter while he cooked. The absence followed him everywhere.
One night, Tonks reached across the couch and took his hand. Remus nearly jumped not because he didn't expect affection but because he hadn't realized how long it had been since he'd wanted it. Tonks noticed immediately. Of course she did. She'd always been good at reading people.The smile she gave him afterward broke his heart. Not because it was sad. Because it was understanding.
Weeks passed. Then months. And somehow things became worse. Not better. He found himself dreading evenings. Dreading the moments when the house finally became quiet. Because that was when pretending became hardest.
Tonks would sit beside him... close enough for him to smell her shampoo, close enough that, years ago, he would have reached for her without thinking. Now he found himself staring at the television. Or his tea. Or literally anything else.
Anything but her.
One evening, she leaned over and kissed his cheek. A simple thing. Affectionate. Normal. Remus froze. The reaction lasted less than a second. Long enough. Tonks pulled away first.
The silence afterward felt endless.
"I'm sorry."
The words escaped before he could stop them. Tonks stared at him. Then laughed softly not because it was funny, because the alternative was crying.
"You don't have to apologize." The lie hung between them. Neither of them challenged it.
That night, long after she'd fallen asleep, Remus lay awake staring at the ceiling. The room was dark. The house silent. Beside him, Tonks shifted in her sleep. For a moment, he remembered being twenty-five.
Remembered loving her.
Remembered believing that was enough.
Then his mind drifted somewhere else. To a girl sitting on a kitchen island. To laughter. To dinosaur bandages. To someone who always stole his good pens. Remus closed his eyes. The guilt was immediate.
Crushing.
Because Tonks wasn't doing anything wrong. She was trying. Trying harder than she ever had before. And somehow he still found himself reaching for memories that weren't hers.
Two months later, he woke to an empty bed. At first, he didn't think anything of it. Tonks got up early sometimes. So did Teddy. The house remained silent. Strangely silent.
Remus frowned.
Sat up.
The other side of the mattress was cold. Not recently vacated. Cold. A knot formed immediately in his stomach. He stood. Pulled on a sweater. Walked downstairs. Nobody in the kitchen. Nobody in the living room. Then he saw it.
A folded piece of paper sitting beside the coffee machine.
His name.
Written in familiar handwriting. For one terrible moment, he already knew. His hands shook as he unfolded it.
Remus,
I'm sorry.
The words blurred almost instantly. Not because he was crying. Not yet. Because he couldn't stop staring at them.
I'm sorry.
Again.
Always sorry.
Never staying.
He read the rest anyway: About not belonging here anymore. About how hard she'd tried. About how Teddy deserved better than a mother who had to force herself to stay. About how he deserved better too.
By the time he reached the end, his hands were trembling. The kitchen felt very far away. Very quiet. Footsteps thundered down the stairs.
"Teddy?" he called automatically. No answer.
Then: "Dad?"
The note slipped from his fingers.
Teddy appeared in the doorway wearing dinosaur pajamas. Still half asleep. Still smiling.
"Mom said we'd make pancakes today."
Remus forgot how to breathe. The smile disappeared immediately. Children always knew. Some instinct science was yet to figure out. Some horrible little instinct.
"Dad?" Remus swallowed. Hard. "Teddy."
The boy's face changed. Confusion. Then fear. Then understanding.
"No." The word came instantly. Before Remus had said anything. "No."
"Teddyâ"
"No."
His voice cracked.
Small.
Desperate.
"No."
Remus crossed the room in two strides and caught him before he could run. Before he could fall apart. Before they both did. Teddy fought him for exactly three seconds with all his might. Then collapsed. The sob that left him sounded too big for a seven year old.
Remus held him tighter.
His own vision blurring. His own chest splitting open. Not because he'd lost Tonks, that grief felt known. Ancient. A wound reopened too many times to surprise him anymore. No.
The unbearable part was watching Teddy lose her again. And knowing he had no idea how to make it hurt less.
James takes Teddy for the afternoon. It isn't a difficult decision.
Harry adores Teddy.
Teddy adores Harry.
And James takes one look at Remus' face before saying, gently "I've got him."
Remus doesn't argue, doesn't have the energy. The house is silent after they leave and silence had never bothered him before but now it feels unbearable; Every room is full of ghosts. Tonks' coffee mug. Tonks' handwriting on the fridge. The blanket she'd used on the couch.
The things left after she left. Again.
By three in the afternoon, Remus is sitting on the kitchen floor not because he fell but because he couldn't make himself stand anymore. The note lies crumpled beside him. His tea has gone cold. The house won't stop being empty. And for the first time all day, he lets himself cry.
Not quietly.
Not dignified.
The ugly kind. The exhausted kind. The kind that comes after years.
Years of trying.
Of hoping.
Of being angry.
Then forgiving.
Then hoping again.
His phone buzzes in his pocket.
James. He ignores it. It buzzes again.
And again.
Finally, he answers.
"She's gone." The words come out broken. James goes quiet immediately. "Remusâ"
"She's gone."
A laugh escapes him, a horrible one.
"Again."
Silence.
"Do you want me to come over?"
"No."
"Okay."
Another pause. "Who do you want?" The question catches him off guard because the answer arrives instantly, without thinking.
Without hesitation. Without permission.
You.
The realization hits like a punch, James hears the silence and understands immediately. Of course he does. Remus presses the heel of his hand against his eyes. Humiliating. Pathetic. True.
"Oh, mate." And somehow that's worse. James sounds sad, not surprised. Like he'd been waiting for Remus to figure it out.
The call ends ten minutes later. Remus doesn't remember how. The house remains silent, he stares at his phone, at your name for a long time. Then presses call. You answer on the second ring.
"Hello?"
And that nearly does him in. Just your voice. Familiar. Warm. Normal.
"Remus?"
Nothing. His throat closes completely.
"Remus?"
More urgent now, concerned. He then tries to speak. Fails. A horrible sound leaves him instead.
Not quite a sob.
Close enough.
The silence on your end lasts half a second.
"I'm coming over."
No questions. No hesitation. No explanation. Just certainty. The line goes dead and twenty-seven minutes later, you're standing on his front porch.
Remus opens the door before you can knock, one look at him and your heart breaks.
He looks awful.
Eyes red.
Face pale.
Exhaustion carved into every line.
For a second neither of you move.
Then you step forward and Remus folds. Not dramatically. Not romantically.
Just... Falls apart.
Like something inside him finally gave way. You wrap your arms around him automatically the same way you've done with Teddy, the same way you've done with frightened children and grieving friends and exhausted classmates.
And Remus lets you, for the first time, really lets you.
His forehead presses against your shoulder, his hands clutch the back of your sweater and suddenly he's crying again.
You don't say anything. You just hold him. The way he's held everyone else for years.
Eventually the storm passes. Not completely. Enough.
You end up sitting on the kitchen floor side by side.
The evening sun creeping through the windows, neither of you looking at each other.
"I tried." His voice is rough. Raw. "I really tried."
"I know." A laugh. Broken around the edges.
"God." He scrubs a hand over his face. "I wanted it to work."
You stare at the floor.
Unable to think of anything that doesn't hurt.
Then: "I know."
Silence settles between you, the way it always has been, comfortable.
The way it probably always will be.
And suddenly Remus is so tired of pretending. So tired of carrying it. So tired of saying everything except the truth.
"I missed you."
The words slip out quietly, honestly.
Your breath catches. Neither of you move. The kitchen feels very small suddenly. Very still. Remus laughs weakly.
"I know."
Another silence.
Then: "I know I shouldn't have."
Your eyes close. Because that's the problem. Because you've missed him too. Every day. Every fucking day.
"I know." His head finally turns, meeting your gaze.
Years of affection sitting quietly between you.
Years of almosts.
Years of choosing not to look too closely.
And suddenly neither of you have the energy for denial anymore.
Not after today.
Not after everything.
"I love you."
Exhausted.
Certain.
Like admitting the sky is blue. Like admitting something everyone already knows. For a moment, you simply stare at him.
Then your eyes fill. Because of course.
Of course.
The stupid, wonderful, impossible man.
"I know."
A laugh escapes him, wet and broken. "That wasn't the response I was hoping for."
You laugh too. The first real laugh all day. Then reach for his hand. Squeeze. And finally say the thing that's been true for a very long time.
"I love you too."
Years later, Teddy would remember two things about the day his mother left.
The first was the note.
The second was that you came the way you always had.
You came with groceries because Remus had forgotten to eat, you came with ice cream because Teddy had stopped talking.
You came because nobody asked you not to.
And because, despite everything, this was still the first place you thought of when someone said home. The months that followed were difficult. Teddy was angry. Then sad. Then angry again.
Remus spent a long time pretending he wasn't heartbroken, not because he'd lost Tonks, that grief had happened years ago. No. What broke him was watching Teddy wait. Watching him glance toward the door whenever the bell rang. Watching him check his phone on birthdays. Watching hope slowly become disappointment.
There were no grand speeches, no magical solutions. Just ordinary days. Homework at the kitchen table. Movie nights. School assemblies. Burnt pancakes. Life.
Life, stubborn and relentless, carrying all three of you forward whether you were ready or not.
One day, almost a year later, Teddy stopped waiting by the window. Neither of you mentioned it. The absence hurt enough, the next year, he forgot to ask if she would call on his birthday. That hurt too.
But less.
Healing often did.
The first time Remus told you he loved you, he was crying on the kitchen floor, the second time happened six months later while you were arguing over whether dinosaurs would survive modern society, the third happened while folding laundry, the fourth happened half asleep.
By the fifth, neither of you were counting anymore.
Love, it turned out, was rarely grand.
Mostly it was repetitive.
Choosing the same person over and over again. On purpose. Years later, you found an old photograph while cleaning.
Remus and Teddy and you. A cardboard castle. The roof half collapsed. Tape everywhere.
You smiled immediately.
Teddy, now significantly taller than either of you liked to admit, glanced over your shoulder. "God."
You laughed. "What?"
"I was so weird." He sighs.
"You built a dragon fortress out of Amazon boxes."
"I know." He cringes.
"You made me wear a cardboard princess hat."
"I know." He groans.
"You bit me."
Teddy looked thoughtful. Then nodded. "Yeah." The lack of remorse after all these years was astonishing. You showed him the photograph anyway. Teddy stared at it for a long moment.
At himself.
At his father.
At you.
The smile that crossed his face was soft. Almost nostalgic.
"You know..."
"What?"
He pointed at the picture, at the three people squeezed together inside that ridiculous cardboard castle. And said, with complete certainty:
"This was always my family."
The room went quiet. Across the kitchen, Remus looked up from his book. You felt your throat tighten. Teddy didn't seem to notice. Or maybe he did. Maybe that was why he'd said it.
He grinned suddenly. Then ruined the moment completely.
"Also, I still think biting you was a good idea."
You threw a dish towel at his head.
Remus laughed. Teddy laughed harder.
And surrounded by the noise of the life you had built together, you found yourself laughing too.
The first time Teddy Lupin bit you, he left a mark on your hand.
Years later, neither of you had any idea he'd leave one on your life.
author's note: holy fucking shit this is so long im so so sorry i had a dream and had to write it out!!!! hope u enjoyed my lovelies! thanks for reading. ASKS ARE OPEN!!! I write for pretty much any fandom so feel free to ask over there <3
Evan and Barty LOVE play fighting like to the point that theyâre fighting in the hallway and everyone is so confused because theyâre punching each other and laughing and like they end up with bloody noses and bruises everywhere while calling it âa jokeâ. Everyone else is like scared for their safety but theyâre clueless.
generationally cursed with a blood malediction that leaves you frail and sickly under stress, you spend most of your time in the hospital wing. there you meet an unlikely friend with a furry little problem of his own.
remus lupin x fem!reader 10.5k masterlist.
CW | hurt/comfort ; depiction of chronic illness ; a lot of yapping ; slowburnish ; reader and remus have an argument but make up ; wholesome romance ; marauders being themselves ; based on this request !!
The hospital wing always smelled faintly of potions. Not in the way that Slughornâs classroom didâthick, acrid, and smokeyâbut in a softer, sharper way, as though the air itself had been scrubbed too clean.
Even the pillows here smelled faintly medicinal, like eucalyptus and spell-cleaned linen, and you knew it was meant to be comforting. It wasnât.
Youâd been there long enough to get used to it, anyway.
The blood curse, your familyâs charming little legacy, never made itself obvious at first glance. To most people, you looked fine. Perfectly normal, if a little pale.
But then youâd be running for a staircase, or worrying too much over an essay, or, Merlin forbid, you actually caught something as mundane as a coldâand suddenly your body decided that was far too much effort and sent you straight here.
So yes, you were used to the smell of spell-cleaned linen and Madam Pomfreyâs scolding and the clink of potion bottles on trays.
What you werenât used to, however, was the noise.
It was sometime after midnight when the doors burst open with a crash that startled you out of the thin, uneasy sleep youâd been clinging to. You jerked upright on instinct, your heart leaping painfully in your chest, only to groan at the flare of discomfort the sudden movement brought on. Stress wasnât good for you. Panic was worse.
Voices murmured at the entranceâMadam Pomfreyâs brisk tones, someone elseâs lower and strainedâand then came the footsteps. Several sets, too loud for this time of night. And then the groaning started.
Low at first, then rising as the footsteps drew nearer, a sound you felt in your teeth.
The boy they hauled in looked awful.
You blinked blearily through the torchlight, catching only a mess of brown hair, a face too pale beneath freckles and scars, lips pressed thin against obvious pain as he triedâand failedânot to make another noise when Madam Pomfrey levitated him onto the bed across from yours.
âHonestly,â she muttered, flicking her wand with practised efficiency, âI wish you wouldâve taken my original offerâ every month, the same nonsenseâ lie still, Mr Lupin, for heavenâs sakeââ
Lupin?
You recognised the name faintly through the fog of exhaustion. One of that group of Gryffindor boys who thought they owned the castle. Potter, Black, Pettigrew, and Lupin. Always laughing too loudly in corridors, always looking as though they knew something no one else did.
Brilliant. Now you had that lot invading the hospital wing as well.
You flopped back onto your pillow with a groan of your own, dragging the blanket over your head as Madam Pomfrey muttered diagnostic charms. Maybe, if you were lucky, you could still get some sleep beforeâ
Another noise, low and pained and wretched, cut through the dark.
You squeezed your eyes shut. Tried to will yourself back to sleep. Failed.
Merlinâs beard, he was loud.
It went on and on, the occasional gasp or broken sound when he shifted on the bed. You lasted perhaps ten minutes before shoving the blanket aside and swinging your legs over the side of the bed. The stone floor was cold beneath your bare feet as you crossed the room.
Up close, he looked worse.
The sheets were already creased from how often heâd moved, his face pale and tight with pain even in sleepâor what little of it he was getting between the groans. Bandages wrapped his forearms, stark white against the freckles there, and there were shadows like bruises beneath his eyes.
âErââ you began, then stopped, because what exactly were you meant to say?
He didnât stir.
You hesitated, then awkwardly reached out and set a hand on his blanket-covered shoulder. âCould you⊠keep it down? Some of us are trying to sleep,â
Brilliant. Real sympathetic.
But he blinked up at you then, bleary and half-there, and for some reason you stayed. Just until he settled again, until his breathing evened out slightly beneath Madam Pomfreyâs potions.
Only then did you retreat to your own bed, heart thudding strangely.
â
It kept happening.
Every month, like clockwork, he appeared in the hospital wing looking half-dead, and every month you found yourself awake at some point in the night, listening to him groan and shift restlessly until Madam Pomfrey swept back in with another potion.
And every month, you told yourself you didnât care.
Except you were starting to notice things.
Like how it was always him. Always around the same time. How pale he looked for days afterwards, how drawn. How sometimes, when he thought Madam Pomfrey wasnât looking, heâd stretch his arms slowly, as though everything ached.
It didnât take a genius to put it together.
So one evening, when the hospital wing was quiet save for the clink of potion bottles in the distance, you just⊠asked.
âSo,â you said conversationally, from your bed opposite his, âyouâre a werewolf, then?â
He choked on his water. Actually choked.
âWhâwhat?â
âA werewolf,â you repeated, watching him over the top of your blanket. âItâs obvious, isnât it? You show up every month looking like youâve gone three rounds with a Hippogriff. Full moon was two nights ago, and here you are. Simple maths,â
For a moment you thought he might deny it. His face went through several emotions in quick successionâshock, panic, something like angerâbefore shuttering completely.
âYou canâtâ you canât tell anyone,â he said finally, voice low and tight. âDo you have any idea what theyâdâ what theyâd do if people knewââ
âOh, for Merlinâs sake,â you interrupted, rolling your eyes. âCalm down. Who would I tell? Madam Pomfrey? She clearly already knows. The suits of armour? They donât gossip much,â
He stared. âThis isnât funny.â
âNeither is my entire family line being cursed,â you shot back. âBut here we are,â
That shut him up.
You shrugged at his look. âBlood malediction. Shows up every few generations, lucky me. Stress makes it worse. Illness too. My parents thought I was just being dramatic until I nearly collapsed at school last year,â
Something in his expression shifted at that.
For a long moment, the two of you just looked at each other across the space between beds, the silence heavy with things neither of you was quite brave enough to say aloud.
Finally, he muttered, âIâm a monster.â
âOh, shut up,â you said, without heat. âYouâre not special, Lupin. Iâve got you beat on the tragic backstory front,â
That startled a laugh out of him, quiet and disbelieving.
He made you swear not to tell anyone after that, of course, as though you had a queue of people waiting to hear his secrets. You just snorted and told him you were stuck in the hospital wing half the time anyway, so who were you going to tell, the bedpans?
He didnât have an answer for that.
â
The next time he came in after a full moon, you were awake.
Youâd been dozing lightly, the way you often did in the hospital wing, when the doors creaked open and Madam Pomfrey bustled in. It was the same as always, the muttered diagnostic charms, the potions lined up with a snap of her wand, Remus pale and unsteady on his feet as she guided him to the nearest bed.
You told yourself you didnât care.
Except, when the matron finally disappeared behind the curtain to fetch another round of bandages, you found yourself rummaging on your bedside table for the little paper bag youâd stashed there earlier.
A couple of Chocolate Frogs, half a packet of sherbet lemons from Honeydukes. Your mum had sent them in the last post, not out of any particular care but because sheâd assumed sweets were what children wanted.
Maybe she was right.
You slid out of bed, padded across the floor, and stopped by his bedside. He was half-sitting, half-slumped against the pillows, hair a wild mess, eyes shadowed with exhaustion.
âYou look like death,â you observed.
He blinked up at you, dazed. ââŠThanks?â
You held out the sweets. âWant one? Might cheer you up before you actually become a ghost,â
For a moment, he just stared at you as though youâd offered him something far stranger than chocolate. Then, hesitantly, he took one of the sherbet lemons.
âEr⊠cheers,â he said, voice rough.
You shrugged and sat gingerly on the edge of his bed while he unwrapped it. He popped it into his mouth, winced at the sourness, and you almost laughed.
âBetter?â you asked.
âNot really.â But there was the ghost of a smile there, faint and fleeting.
It became a sort of ritual, after that.
Every full moon, he showed up in the hospital wing looking like heâd been through hell, and every time, once Madam Pomfrey had bustled off to fetch something, you crossed the room with a couple of Chocolate Frogs or sherbet lemons or whatever else youâd managed to scrounge. He always accepted them, even when he looked half-dead.
One evening, when he was especially stiff and sore, you eyed the way he kept shifting against the pillows.
âYour shoulders,â you said abruptly. âThey hurt the most?â
He gave you a wary look. âWhat?â
âFrom the transformations. You hunch when you walk afterwards,â
He blinked. ââŠI suppose,â
âHere,â
You climbed out of your bed before you could second-guess yourself and crossed to his, shoving the blankets aside. He made a startled noise when you poked at his shoulder blade.
âSee? All knotted,â you said, prodding again. âYouâve got to stretch them out or theyâll seize up. My curse does the same to my back when Iâm run down,â
âI donâtâ wait, what are youââ
âStretch your arm like this,â you interrupted, grabbing his wrist and demonstrating with your own. âPull it across your chest. Yes, like that. Hold for ten seconds. Helps a bit,â
He looked deeply unconvinced, but did it anyway.
Over the next few minutes, you showed him the stretches you used when your own body ached from stress or illness. Some were awkward to demonstrate in pyjamas. One involved you kneeling behind him to press at the base of his neck until the muscles loosened slightly.
It wasnât exactly comfortableâfor either of youâbut by the time you let him collapse back against the pillows, he admitted grudgingly, âFeels a bit better, actually,â
You smirked. âTold you,â
And so the routine expanded, the sweets, stretches, the occasional muttered complaint about Madam Pomfreyâs fussing. Quiet companionship in the lamplight while the rest of the castle slept.
â
By the time second year rolled around, you and Remus Lupin had a sort of⊠understanding.
You didnât ask about the full moons. He didnât ask about the blood curse. But sometimes, between stretches and sherbet lemons, the conversations drifted close to those topics anyway.
One evening, after Madam Pomfrey had finally left you both alone, you asked the question that had been nagging at you for weeks.
âHave you told your friends yet?â
Remus, half-buried under blankets, went rigid. âWhat?â
âAbout⊠you know. The furry little problem,â
His mouth twisted. âNo.â
âWhy not?â
âBecauseââ He broke off, ran a hand through his hair. âBecause theyâd hate me. Theyâd leave.â
You snorted. âIf they would, then theyâre rubbish friends and you should drop them anyway,â
He shot you a look. âItâs not that simple.â
âSure it is,â you said, popping a Chocolate Frog into your mouth. âReal friends donât leg it because of one bad secret. If they do, youâre better off without them,â
He didnât answer. Just stared at the ceiling like it might have the answers written on it.
â
It stuck with him, apparently.
Because a few nights later, long after Madam Pomfrey had dozed off in her chair, you were jerked awake by a crash.
You blinked blearily into the dark to see Remus sitting bolt upright, chest heaving, the water glass from his bedside table shattered on the floor.
He was shaking. Actually shaking.
âRemus?â you whispered.
He didnât seem to hear. His eyes were wide, fixed on something you couldnât see.
You slid out of bed, padded across the cold floor, and sat gingerly on the edge of his mattress.
âHey,â you said softly. âItâs all right. Youâre safe. Just a dream,â
That seemed to break through whatever fog he was in. His breathing hitched sharply, and then he was crying. Silent, awful tears running down his face before he could stop them.
You didnât ask what the dream was about. Some things didnât need words.
Instead, you stayed right there, close enough that he could feel another human presence, until the shaking eased and exhaustion dragged him back under.
He fell asleep like that, curled slightly toward you, and you let him.
Lying awake afterwards, you thought about your own family.
How theyâd insisted for years that the blood curse was gone from your line, how theyâd tutted and dismissed every fainting spell, every hospital visit, as though ignoring it would make it less real.
You hadnât had anyone, not really.
But maybe you could be that person for him.
â
The morning after the nightmare, Madam Pomfrey separated the two of you.
Not out of crueltyâshe was hardly capable of thatâbut because Remus was technically fit enough to go back to classes. You werenât discharged yet, still under orders to stay put after a rough spell earlier in the week, but she handed him a stern lecture about rest, food, and pacing himself before waving him off toward the Gryffindor table for breakfast.
You smirked as he slung his bag over his shoulder.
âGo on,â you told him. âTalk to your friends,â
He rolled his eyes. âIâll think about it.â
âThink faster,â you said, because someone had to.
It took him weeks.
Weeks of you nudging, teasing, handing him Chocolate Frogs and giving him pointed looks whenever his mates swung by the hospital wing to drop off his homework. Weeks of him muttering excusesâwrong time, wrong place, they were too busy planning some harebrained prank with Filchâs cat and a dozen dungbombs.
You thought he might actually combust from nerves before he managed it.
He finally pulled them together one chilly evening in December.
James, Sirius, and Peter were sprawled across their beds, half a packet of Bertie Bottâs Every Flavour Beans between them, a couple of Exploding Snap cards smouldering in the corner.
âEr,â Remus said, hovering awkwardly by the door. âI need to tell you something,â
Three sets of eyes swung toward him.
Sirius, without missing a beat, spurted out, âYouâre a werewolf?â
The silence was deafening.
James smacked him in the shoulder so hard he nearly toppled off the bed. âMaybe,â James said through gritted teeth, âhe wanted to tell us himself, you absolute prat.â
Remus just stared. ââŠYou knew?â
âObviously,â said James, looking offended on behalf of his own intelligence. âYou vanish every full moon and come back looking like youâve gone three rounds with a Hungarian Horntail. You think weâre stupid?â
Peter nodded earnestly. âWe worked it out ages ago,â
Sirius grinned wolfishly. âPersonally, I think it makes you more interesting. Bit of danger, bit of mystery. Very dashing,â
Remus opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. âBut Iâwhat ifâarenât youââ
And then the words tumbled out, the same ones heâd told you about weeks ago about monsters, about danger, about how it would be safer if they stayed away from him.
Peter chucked a pillow at his head. It bounced off his ear.
âGet over yourself,â Peter said dryly. âYouâre not that special, mate. I mean, come on, you still sleep with the light on,â
James snorted so hard he nearly inhaled a Bertie Bottâs bean. Sirius howled with laughter.
Remus just sat there as it washed over himâtheir teasing, their complete lack of fear, the way none of them even shifted away from him on their beds.
They knew.
They didnât care.
And theyâd waited until he was ready.
Maybe youâd been right after all.
â
He went to tell you the next morning.
But Madam Pomfrey, bustling about with her usual efficiency, informed him that you werenât there.
âFinally well enough for classes,â she said briskly, tucking a stack of bandages into a cupboard. âLeft first thing this morning,â
Remus blinked. âOh,â
Somehow, that news settled in his chest like sunlight.
You deserved thatâdeserved hallways and common rooms and lessons and laughter instead of white sheets and potions on the hour.
Maybe it was selfish, but knowing you were out there somewhere, not stuck in here⊠it made him absurdly, ridiculously happy.
â
He found you after lunch, perched on a stone bench in the courtyard with a Charms textbook open on your knees.
âBack amongst the living, then,â he said, dropping down beside you.
You smirked. âFor now. Did you tell them?â
He nodded, still looking faintly dazed. âTurns out they already knew,â
That earned a blink. âThey what?â
âKnew I was a werewolf. Apparently Iâm very bad at hiding it,â
You stared at him for half a secondâthen started laughing.
Properly laughing. The kind that curled you forward over your book until you had to wipe your eyes.
âOh, shut up,â he said, but there was no heat in it.
âI told you,â you managed between snickers. âI told you they wouldnât care!â
âThey didnât,â he admitted softly. And then, quieter, âThey really didnât,â
Something eased in his face then, something tight that had lived there as long as youâd known him.
And maybe it was just the sunlight, or the relief in his voice, but for the first time since youâd met him, you felt⊠lighter. Like the two of you were crawling out of something dark together.
â
The next couple of years at Hogwarts slipped into a kind of rhythm. Not simple, exactlyâlife with a blood curse and a werewolf best friend was hardly destined for simplicityâbut steady enough that you started to anticipate the cycles of illness, full moons, recovery days, and the rare pockets of normality in between.
You had your rough patches, same as ever. Sometimes youâd end up stuck in the hospital wing for days on end, fevered and exhausted, Madam Pomfrey keeping your temperature down with potions that burned like fire on the way down. Other times youâd miss meals because you were too tired to leave your dorm, or end up behind on work because reading with a headache like a vice around your skull was impossible.
Remus understood all of it without you needing to explain. He had his own bad days, his own ways of going quiet when things were too much. Sometimes you both ended up in the hospital wing at once, two pale figures in opposite beds, exchanging the occasional smirk while Madam Pomfrey clucked around like a mother hen.
But what threw him was the fact that sometimes you turned up when you werenât sick at all.
â
It happened late one evening, two days after a full moon. He was propped up against his pillows, reading some dusty old text Madam Pomfrey had scrounged up for him when the door creaked open.
You slipped in like you belonged thereâbag slung over your shoulder, a box of Honeydukes chocolate in hand.
âBrought these,â you said, plonking the box on his blanket. âIn case Pomfreyâs potions taste like dragon dung again.â
He blinked at you. âYouâre notâ?â
âSick? No,â You pulled up the chair beside his bed and started unwrapping a chocolate frog. âDonât look so confused, Remus. Thought Iâd keep you company, thatâs all,â
That first night, you mostly talked about nothingâthe weather, your classes, the time Sirius nearly set his own eyebrows on fire in Charms. Somewhere in the middle of your rambling, you reached over and started kneading at his shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world.
He froze.
âMerlinâs sake, youâre all knots,â you muttered, digging your thumb into a muscle until he winced. âNo wonder youâre always hunched over like a grandad,â
âIâerâthanks?â He had no idea where to look.
âDonât thank me, stretch more,â
And then you launched into a lecture on muscle tension like Madam Pomfreyâs apprentice while he sat there, red-eared and bewildered.
â
It didnât take long for the others to notice.
By the third time you showed up with chocolate and started fussing over Remus like he was some ailing prince, Sirius nearly choked laughing.
âGot your own personal nurse, huh?â he said one afternoon as you walked past their table in the library.
Remus shot him a look that could have curdled milk.
James leaned back in his chair, grinning. âOoh, Remusâ got game. Knew you had it in you, mate,â
âPiss off,â Remus muttered, ears pink.
They didnât, of course.
The teasing became a regular occurrence. Every time you dropped by the hospital wing, every time you and Remus walked back from the library together, every time you sat beside him in the common room when he looked too pale to be left alone.
It drove him mad.
Mostly because he had no idea how to explain it to themâto explain you. The way you knew what it was like to live in a body that didnât always cooperate. The way you offered comfort so casually, like it wasnât some enormous thing. The way you didnât flinch from his scars, his bad days, any of it.
So he just grumbled and told them to sod off while secretly⊠not hating it. Because at least they werenât walking on eggshells around him.
â
There were dozens of moments, tiny threads weaving themselves into something neither of you tried to name.
Like the time you caught him hunched over a Defence essay in the common room, looking ready to pass out, and swapped his quill for a Chocolate Frog before he could argue.
âSugar first,â you said firmly. âEssays later,â
Or the night you found him staring at the fire in the common room after a rough full moon and wordlessly draped your blanket over his shoulders before curling up on the rug beside him.
Or the afternoon you spent in the library, both pretending to study, until you snorted at something in your book and he realised heâd been watching you for five whole minutes instead of reading his own.
That one unsettled him a bit.
Because somewhere between third year and fourth, he started noticing things.
Like the way you laughed with your whole face, or the way you always knew when to leave him alone versus when to push. Like how the hospital wing felt less like a prison cell when you were sitting beside his bed talking about nothing at all.
And he didnât quite know what to do with that.
â
Fifth year brought its own kind of tension, quiet and unseen at first, threading through the days like smoke curling along the stone corridors. The Maraudersâever inventive, ever recklessâhad decided they were going to become Animagi. No one outside their circle knew. Not even Remus.
It was meant to be a surprise for him, a way to make the full moons easier, but the secrecy came at a cost. The trio spent hours sneaking off to practice, researching, and experimenting with complex spells in the unused classrooms at the far end of the castle. That meant less time with Remus, less time to distract him from the dread that arrived with the waxing moon.
He noticed it immediately.
At first, it was just little things. James or Sirius absent from breakfast, Peter distracted when they usually would be hatching some plan to cheer him up. Slowly, over the weeks, he began to feel⊠left behind. Invisible. Every time he caught himself watching the other three laughing and planning together, a tight knot of shame and self-loathing settled in his chest.
And he panicked.
He panicked because what else could he do? The Marauders were supposed to be his anchors, the ones who understood, who teased and laughed and included him without question. And suddenly they were leaving him behind.
He told himself it was just coincidence. That they were up to some prank he didnât understand. That it didnât matter. But by the third week, when he returned from the full moon and found the common room empty of their usual chaos, his chest had tightened into something suffocating.
He felt abandoned.
And lonely.
You had your own rituals, of course. Chocolate, stretching, chatting, the occasional teasing or shared laugh. Youâd long since stopped waiting for permission to sit beside him when he was recovering, because by now he tolerated it without question.
But that day, something was different.
â
It was late afternoon, a day after a full moon. You pushed open the door to the hospital wing and paused, taking in the scene.
The room was quieter than usual. Madam Pomfrey bustled about with her potions, but none of the Marauders were present. Not James, not Sirius, not Peter. That alone made you hesitate. Usually one of them would be hovering, watching him, making some bad joke, keeping him company.
You swallowed and approached him anyway. He was propped against his pillows, pale and drawn, the shadows under his eyes deeper than normal.
You had your bag slung over your shoulder, a couple of Chocolate Frogs peeking out, a small stack of sugar sweets and peppermint humbugs youâd managed to collect from Honeydukes.
Your plan had been to cheer him up after the full moon, as you always did. To talk, to joke, maybe even to give him a quick shoulder rub to ease the stiffness that lingered long after transformation.
âHey, Remus,â you said softly, sliding into the chair beside him. âI brought chocolate. Thoughtââ
âDonât.â
The word was sharp, clipped, full of something raw that made your stomach twist.
You frowned. âDonât⊠what?â
âI donât need your pity today.â His head snapped toward you, eyes hard, voice trembling despite the anger he tried to mask. âStop babying me.â
The words cut deeper than any hex or potion ever could.
You blinked, stunned, your hands frozen mid-motion with the sweets in your lap. âIâwhat?â
âI said, stop!â he barked, louder this time. âI donât need your coddling. I donât needâanything from you right now. Just leave me alone!â
Your chest stuttered. Youâd been expecting begrudgement, teasing, even a little grumblingâbut this was something different. Something harsher, heavier. The weight of it sat on your shoulders and pressed down, and for a moment you felt the familiar, unwelcome flare of your blood curse responding to stress, your muscles tightening, head spinning, a sudden lurch in your stomach like your body was turning on itself.
You didnât argue.
You didnât have the energy to.
Instead, you slowly rose, keeping your voice quiet, almost afraid it would set him off further. âI wonât,â you said softly, voice strained, âbut please donât take your anger out on anyone else,â
That, at least, seemed to register. His hands twitched slightly on the blanket, like he wanted to reach out, to argue, to explainâbut didnât.
You stepped back, gingerly collected the sweets, and left. The door clicked softly behind you.
â
You hadnât intended to vanish entirely, of course. But by mid-afternoon, you found yourself slumped behind one of the Quidditch stands, knees tucked to your chest, shaking slightly and silent. Your hair fell across your face, and when James found you, he nearly jumped out of his robes.
âWhat in Merlinâs nameâ?â he exclaimed, frowning at the sight of you.
You couldnât answer. You opened your mouth once, then closed it again. Words failed you. Your vision was swimming, your head pounding, your chest tight with the unbearable tension that had ignited in the hospital wing hours ago and now had flared anew.
âOhâ Uhââ James floundered, hands poised in the air but unsure of what to do with them. âSomethingâs wrong right? Uhâ what do I do? I donât know how to deal with thisââ
His panic was very unsubtle. âUhâ Madame Pomfrey-! Right, Uh, Come onââ
James grabbed your arm gently but firmly, and practically half-dragged you to the hospital wing. You stumbled alongside him, trying to catch your footing, too weak to protest properly.
Madame Pomfrey nearly dropped her medical bag when you stumbled through the doors.
âMy word!â she exclaimed, snapping the wand in her hand. âYou know how stress triggers this! Why do you always do this to yourself?â
You couldnât answer, and she scowled in that sharp way she reserved for particularly reckless students. She muttered a string of incantations, the wand weaving through the air in complicated loops, and immediately you felt your body begin to calm. Muscles that had been trembling relaxed, your vision steadied, and the spinning in your head slowly retreated.
You lay back against the bed, exhausted, feeling the magical remedyâs warmth seep into you. Madame Pomfreyâs frown softened slightly, though she kept up the scolding.
âHonestly, child. One more spell like that in this state and you might not get up on your own. You understand?â
Youâre not really listening.
Remus isnât across the room anymore.
â
Once you were stabilised, the first coherent thought you could manage escaped in a whisper:
âDid⊠did you fight with him?â
James blinked, frowning. âFight? Who?â
âRemus, earlier. He was angry..â
That was enough for him. His expression snapped from concern to fury in a heartbeat. He didnât pause to consider manners. He just vaulted over the chair beside you, grabbed his broomstick, and practically stormed out of the hospital wing.
âStay here!â he barked over his shoulder. âDonât do anything stupid!â
You barely registered where he went. You were too preoccupied with your pulse still racing, the lingering ache of your blood curse reacting to stress. You let yourself collapse against the pillows, tracing the faint sweat on your temples, and tried to breathe.
â
When James barged back into the Gryffindor dormitories minutes later, he found Remus hunched on the edge of his bed, staring at the floor as if it held the answers to all his miseries.
âYou absolute git!â James barked, voice cracking with anger and frustration. âDo you have any idea what youâve just done?â
Remus blinked. âIâwhat?â
âYou sent her back to the hospital wing! You stressed her out so much she couldnât breathe!â James stomped a foot for emphasis. âDo you have any concept of how stupid that is?â
Remus swallowed hard, guilt and panic swirling in his chest. ââŠI didnâtââ
âYou did,â James interrupted, tone sharp. âAnd sheâs still worried about you, instead of herself*.*â
Remusâ eyes widened, his stomach twisting. His shoulders slumped, and suddenly all the shame, all the self-loathing heâd stuffed down in the weeks of secrecy and silence, hit him at once.
âI⊠I justââ His voice faltered. âI didnât meanââ
âOf course you didnât mean it,â James snapped, exasperated. âBut intention doesnât matter. You hurt her. And sheâs supposed to be your friend. Do you understand how dangerous this is?â
Remus swallowed, eyes fixed on the floor, trembling slightly. âI⊠well you lot were all avoiding meââ
James let out a long breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. ââŠRight. Well, let me make this clear. We didnât leave you because youâre a werewolf. Weâre working on something, a surprise actually, to help with your full moons. Thatâs why weâve been missing,â
Remusâ eyes snapped up. âA⊠surprise?â
âYes. Weâre becoming Animagi,â James said firmly. âSirius, Peter, and I. So you donât have to go through that alone. And we kept it a secret because we wanted to do it properly. But because you canât seem to have an ounce of trust in us, you went and hurt your friend.â
Remusâ chest constricted. âIâI didnât mean toâŠâ
James cut him off, pacing the floor. ââŠWell, you did. And now sheâs hurt because of your panic, your self-loathing. Do you get that?â
Remus nodded weakly, panic flaring in his eyes. âYes⊠yes, I⊠I justââ
âThen go! Now! Apologise properly!â James barked, shoving him toward the door with a surprising amount of force. âAnd donât come back until youâve meant every word!â
â
By the time Remus reached the hospital wing, your eyes were closed and your breathing had steadied thanks to Madam Pomfreyâs magical remedy, but your fingers still twitched in slight tension across the bedclothes.
He paused for a heartbeat in the doorway, swallowing, chest tight, voice almost a whisper. ââŠIâm⊠Iâm so sorry. Iâ I didnât mean to⊠I justââ
You opened your eyes slowly, blinking at him through exhaustion and residual hurt.
âI⊠just snapped,â he continued, voice breaking. âI wasnât thinking. Iâpushed you away, and you didnât deserve that. Youââ
Tears threatened to spill down his cheeks as he moved to sit beside your bed. ââŠI donât know how to make it right. I just⊠please, donât hate me. I⊠I care about you too much to ever mean that.â
You exhaled, relief flooding through your veins, the ache in your limbs softening slightly. Without a word, you reached out and took his hand in yours.
âSit,â you said softly. âStay. Donât go anywhere.â
He sat, practically collapsing into the side of your bed, holding your hand as if it anchored him. His apology was messy, rambling, borderline tearful, but you didnât care. All that mattered was that he was here, that he was human again in the sense that mattered.
And as the room grew quiet around the soft hum of Madame Pomfreyâs wards and the faint creak of the hospital wing beds settling, he slowly relaxed. His shoulders slumped against yours, eyes finally closing, and you let him rest there.
He fell asleep holding your hand, the steady warmth a reassurance neither of you had realized you needed so desperately.
You watched him for a moment, the tension still lingering faintly in the corners of your body, then allowed yourself a small, weary smile.
Because for now, at least, things were alright.
â
By the time your sixth year rolled around, Hogwarts felt smaller somehow, tighter, more intimate. Or perhaps it was just that the two of you had changed.
Things went back to ânormal,â at least on the surface. The Marauders were still loud, chaotic, and impossibly brilliant in their mischief, and you still went about your classes, trips to the library, and occasional excursions to the kitchens for sweets. Remus still returned from his transformations weary and pale, limping slightly from muscles pulled too tight.
But there was⊠something different.
It began subtly. A lingering look that lasted half a heartbeat too long when you handed him a Chocolate Frog across the hospital wing counter. A brush of fingers as you both reached for the same notebook on the table in the library. A conversation that started with a homework question and ended hours later with laughter echoing through empty corridors while the moon rose high above the castle.
You noticed it immediately, the way your chest seemed to lift when he smiled at you, as if the mere presence of him made the dull ache of your blood curse ease just a little. You noticed the way he lingered a moment longer than necessary when you passed him in the hall, as if reluctant to leave your side. Neither of you spoke of it, but the tension, gentle and charged, hummed quietly beneath the surface.
â
Your illnesses continued, as they always had, unpredictable and uncompromising. On certain days, you would find yourself trapped in bed, wrists weak, pulse fluttering like a trapped bird, too fragile to even attempt lessons or common room chatter. Those were the days Remus always appeared without fail.
He would enter the hospital wing quietly, as though testing the waters, a book tucked under one arm.
âI need to draft an essay for Transfiguration,â heâd say in a low voice, though the real excuse was obvious. He would read aloud to himself, mumbling through the paragraphs, correcting himself when he stumbled over a word, while you lay there in blankets, listening.
At first, you pretended to be asleep, eyes closed, cheeks burning faintly at the sound of him so close. But gradually, it became a kind of comfort. The way he read, occasionally pausing to explain a tricky sentence or correct a term, made the hospital wing feel warmer somehow, less sterile. It was a routine now, subtle and unspoken, that he showed up when you were at your weakest.
Sometimes you caught him smiling. Not in the mischievous way he did with the Marauders, not in the self-conscious, nervous way he sometimes smiled at his own clumsy jokesâbut a soft, genuine smile that stretched across his face when he thought you werenât looking.
Other times, heâd lean back in his chair, book in hand, and glance over at you, fingers drumming absentmindedly on the armrest. You would meet his eyes, faintly startled, and heâd look away with a small, almost guilty tilt of the head, a ghost of a grin tugging at his lips.
It was the first time you noticed that he had changed around you, just as you had around him.
â
It was in these quiet moments that the true depth of your bond began to surface. You noticed the way he remembered the small details about your routinesâhow you liked the pillow propped just so, how you preferred peppermint humbugs when your throat was sore, and how certain potions tasted worse to you than others.
In turn, he noticed your attentiveness to him. When he returned from a particularly painful full moon, youâd be waiting with a warm flannel pressed to his forehead, chocolate tucked into his hand, and words that made the ache in his shoulders feel lighter. Sometimes heâd protest, muttering about being a burden, but the faint curve of his lips betrayed him; he appreciated it more than he could ever say aloud.
Other moments were quieter still. You shared blankets in the hospital wing when the nights were cold, one hand brushing against the other accidentally, and neither of you ever moved away. You whispered jokes to each other in the flickering candlelight, talking through everything from Quidditch tactics to which professor was most likely to explode with frustration at a missing assignment.
The Marauders noticed the subtle shift but wisely refrained from teasing too harshly. Sirius would shoot a glance or smirk when passing the corridor, James would offer a small nod of approval, and Peter would hover nervously somewhere between commentary and keeping an eye out for trouble.
But the teasing had dulled, replaced by a tacit acknowledgment that whatever you and Remus were cultivating was differentâprivate.
Even when you werenât ill, you would find excuses to spend time with him. It wasnât pity. It wasnât obligation. It was the strange, beautiful recognition that he was important to you, in ways neither of you had named yet.
You brought sweets, chocolate, little treats from the kitchens that you knew he liked. You would chat about classes, about trivial schoolyard politics, about nothing and everything all at once. And always, if his shoulders tensed or his jaw clenched after a long day, your hands would find a way to rest lightly on him, offering comfort without comment.
You began to notice small changes in yourself, too. The ache in your chest when he wasnât there, the almost physical pull of his absence, the way your pulse would flutter when his hand brushed yours âby accident.â You told yourself it was nothing, just the familiar stirrings of friendship intensified by shared hardships, but it was undeniably more.
Remus noticed too, of course.
The way he would linger longer than necessary when you left, leaning against the hospital bed, fingers flexing slightly as if missing your touch before you were even gone. The quiet moments when he watched you in the Great Hall, subtle glances that said more than words ever could. The way he found himself lingering near the infirmary at odd hours, just in case you needed someone.
â
One evening, you were particularly ill, curled under the heavy blankets with your forehead pressed to the cool pillow. He entered quietly, holding a thick book and a thermos of hot, spiced tea.
âI thought you might like some tea,â he murmured, setting the thermos beside you. âItâs⊠well, the only kind I can make that doesnât taste like ash,â
You smiled faintly, voice weak. âThank you,â
He perched in the chair, opening his book. âI need to practise this essay aloud, anyway,â he said, though the truth was clear to both of you. And so he read, softly, voice measured, occasionally lifting his head to check on you, brush your hair back from your pale forehead, or adjust your pillow just so.
By the time he finished the essayâor rather, when you fell into a dozing stupor halfway throughâhe was smiling quietly at your small, peaceful movements. You were asleep, yet the corners of your mouth lifted slightly, and he had to bite back a grin.
He didnât move, just stayed, letting you rest, letting the quiet of the hospital wing wrap around both of you.
â
By the middle of sixth year, the patterns you and Remus had established over the years had become comfortably familiar. Hospital wing visits, chocolate deliveries, long conversations about classes and homework, even the occasional shared blanket on colder nightsâthese things were your rhythm, the unspoken language that made your friendship feel safe.
But patterns, as they say, are fragile, and even the most carefully constructed can be disrupted.
It started subtly, almost imperceptibly.
You were walking across the library one afternoon, basket of notes balanced precariously in your arms, when a Ravenclaw boyâtall, with neatly combed hair and a friendly smileâcalled out to you. You paused, exchanged a few words, laughing softly at a shared joke about Professor Flitwickâs latest eccentric assignment.
What you didnât notice immediately was the way Remusâ head had turned in your direction from across the library. You caught the faintest twitch of his eyebrows, a hard line forming at his mouth before he quickly turned back to whatever parchment he had been pretending to read.
It wasnât the first time youâd noticed him staring, but it was the first time you realised his gaze carried something differentâa weight of⊠unease.
At first, you dismissed it. Perhaps he was tired, or maybe it was the residual ache from the previous full moon. But over the next few days, the signs became undeniable.
The hospital wing became a theatre for his subtle frustrations. When you spoke to other classmatesâfriends, study partners, or just casual acquaintancesâhe lingered just a little too close, his eyes shadowed, voice a fraction sharper when he finally spoke.
And then, the confession, albeit indirect, came out in a form only Sirius could draw from him.
One late evening, Remus found himself slouched in the common room, book open but unread. Sirius leaned against the armrest of the sofa beside him, eyes sharp with curiosity.
âYouâre off today, Moony,â Sirius said casually, though he was anything but.
Sirius raised an eyebrow, tilting his head. âTired, or upset?â
Remusâ jaw tightened. âNeither. Iââ
âCome on, youâve been sulking all evening. Who offended you? Or are we guessing?â Sirius grinned, eyes twinkling. âBecause Merlinâs beard, I could make a list,â
Remus groaned, pressing a hand to his face. âItâs nothing. Really. Donât be ridiculous,â
Sirius leaned closer, mischief in every gesture. âMoony, stop lying to me. Youâve been watching her talk to that Ravenclaw boy all week. Admit it. Youâre jealous,â
âI am not jealous,â Remus snapped, a little too loudly. Heads turned.
âNot jealous?â Sirius repeated, tone incredulous, nearly choking on laughter. âMoony⊠you like her. Admit it!â
Remusâ ears flared red, and he whipped around to face the sofa arm as though Siriusâ grin was a physical blow. âIâdonâtâlike her that way!â
âUh-huh,â Sirius said, hands raised in mock surrender. âRight. Youâre totally fine with her laughing with someone else. Totally casual about it. Sure,â
Remusâ flustered silence spoke volumes. Sirius, of course, refused to let it go.
â
Over the next week, the tension simmered quietly, unspoken but palpable. The hospital wing visits continued as usual, but every time another student drifted past to deliver notes or check in on a sick classmate, Remusâ eyes followed.
He didnât comment, didnât make a scene, but the way he shifted closer when you approached, the faint tremor in his hands as he helped you adjust pillows, the slightly sharper edge in his voice when instructing stretchesâall spoke of a subtle, unacknowledged turmoil.
You noticed, of course. You noticed the way he lingered near the edge of your bed when you werenât ill, brushing your shoulder lightly with his hand, or how his gaze lingered a moment too long on your profile. You felt it in the quiet moments, the shared silences, the long stretches of hospital-wing air where words seemed almost unnecessary.
It was frustrating, in a way, because neither of you said anything directly. Yet, in those tiny gestures, the unspoken admission hung heavy: he cared. More than he would admit, even to himself.
â
One particularly cold night, you found yourself curled under the blankets, hair falling across your face as the hospital wingâs candles flickered. Remus had returned from his full moon, muscles tight and sore, but alert. You were doing your usual routine: chocolate, peppermint humbugs, and the slow, methodical stretches that helped his aches ease without causing further pain.
âRelax your shoulders,â you murmured softly, hands gliding over the tense muscles along his back. âTake a deep breath. Thatâs it.â
He groaned, rolling his head slightly as your fingers worked. âI swear, you have the patience of a saint,â he muttered, though his lips twitched faintly as if he was suppressing a smile.
âYouâre not half bad at this either,â you replied lightly, brushing back a stray lock of his hair. âYouâd make a terrible apprentice masseuse, but you could manage the basics,â
He let out a short laugh, the sound low, warm, and unfamiliar in its softness. And then, there it was.
The pause.
The long, lingering silence that stretched between your hands and his. His eyes flicked to yours, uncertain, hesitant, full of a question he didnât have the courage to voice.
âI⊠I need toââ he began, voice low, hesitant. His lips parted as though the words would finally escape.
Your heart thudded. You could almost anticipate it. You leaned slightly closer, a gentle, encouraging pressure.
âI need to tell youââ
And then, footsteps echoed across the hospital floor. The soft, distinct shuffle of Madam Pomfrey returning from her evening rounds made him stiffen instantly.
ââŠNever mind,â he muttered, eyes darting away from yours. He straightened in the bed, suddenly distant, tense, as if the weight of the confession had been snatched from his grasp.
You only smiled faintly, hiding the small disappointment. âIt can wait,â you said gently, though the ache in your chest mirrored his hesitation.
He looked at you, grateful yet frustrated, a half-smile tugging at his lips. âYeah. It⊠it can wait,â he echoed, more to himself than to you.
â
The rest of the evening passed in its usual rhythm, but the air between you carried a new, electric tension, one that neither of you could ignore.
He sat a little closer than usual as you helped him stretch, fingers brushing against yours in fleeting contact, each touch loaded with unspoken meaning. You caught him stealing glances when he thought you werenât looking, and you did the same, half-hoping he would finally say the words you both knew were there.
Even when you left the hospital wing that night, the residual warmth lingered. His gaze followed you to the door, and you felt the small pull in your chest that told you something had changed forever.
â
Sirius, of course, noticed immediately. The faint blush creeping up Remusâ neck when he caught sight of you, the subtle stiffening when you spoke to other classmates, the lingering looksâall were grist for his mischief.
âYou two are ridiculous,â he muttered one evening to James and Peter in the common room. âItâs obvious heâs smitten, and sheâs barely hiding it either. I mean, come on. The way they look at each otherâjust admit it.â
James snorted, throwing a pillow at Sirius. âLeave them be. Let them figure it out themselves. Moony needs to grow a spine before he confesses anything,â
Peter, who had been quietly trying to finish some homework, just shook his head. âItâs like watching a snowball roll down a hill,â he said softly. âTheyâre going to crash eventually, one way or another,â
â
The weeks stretched on, full of the usual hospital-wing visits, shared chocolate, and quiet confessions hidden in soft smiles and lingering touches. Each time Remus tried to broach the subject, fateâor rather, Madam Pomfreyâintervened. Each evening that passed, the words remained unsaid, heavy in the space between you.
Yet even in silence, the feeling grew. The tension simmered under every touch, every shared blanket, every chocolate frog offered across the bed. You both knew something was there. Something important. Something that, sooner or later, would have to be talked about.
â
Hogwarts in your seventh year was a different place entirely. The usual laughter of first-years had dulled to anxious whispers, and the corridors echoed with hurried footsteps rather than casual strolls. The war was coming, of that there was no doubt. The very walls seemed to lean inward under the weight of expectation and fear.
You tried to keep up, tried to act as if the constant exhaustion wasnât pressing on your chest like a weight. But the blood malediction didnât care for political unease or impending war. Every worry, every anxious moment, every whispered conversation about Voldemortâs rise, every glance over your shoulder made your pulse flutter and your stomach twist.
You were tired, so tired, and yet you refused to show it. Not to anyone. Not even to Remus. You had become an expert at masking your weakness, because you didnât want to give anyoneâespecially himâreason to worry. You could handle it. You always had.
But your malediction didnât care about others either, and eventually, the cracks in your facade began to show.
â
One evening, you found yourself tucked in the infirmary once again, pale and shivering under blankets that seemed too thin for the chill that wrapped around you. Madam Pomfrey fussed over you like she had countless times before, checking your pulse, muttering charms under her breath to stabilise your fever and calm the racing of your heart.
âHonestly, I donât know how you keep up,â she muttered, frowning. âOne would think your body would have given in by now,â
âIâll be fine,â you said automatically, voice hoarse, though the words sounded fragile even to your own ears. You could feel Remusâ presence beside you, quietly seated in the chair next to the bed, watching, concerned but careful not to hover too close. You caught his eye briefly, offering a faint smile, just enough to reassure him that you werenât worse than he thought.
The effort exhausted you more than you liked to admit, and your chest ached not just from the illness but from the constant need to keep up appearances. You hated the way the war made everything heavier, darker, and somehow more frightening than it had any right to be.
â
It wasnât the illness itself that pushed you to the breaking point. It was the words. Harmless on the surface, but toxic in their effect. You were passing through the library corridors, robes clutched tightly around you against the cold evening air, when a snippet of conversation reached your ears.
âHonestly, I donât know how sheâs even lasting the year,â a sixth-year whispered, clearly unaware of your presence.
âI heard the DeathEaters are after her family, maybe they cursed her,â another voice added.
You stopped dead, chest tightening, stomach turning over with a heat that had nothing to do with the fire in the hearths. Your hands clenched your robes, nails biting into the fabric, heart hammering like a drum in your ears.
Fragile. Barely lasting.
It was all you had feared but never wanted to hear. The constant pressure, the sickness, the anxietyâit was all true, and here were people pointing it out like it was some kind of spectacle, spinning it into some stupid story.
Without thinking, you turned and ran, boots clattering against the stone floors, chest burning with shame and anger. You didnât look back, didnât notice the shocked expressions of passersby. You only ran until the castle opened into the cold, star-speckled night.
â
You found yourself under the Astronomy Tower, shivering in the wind that whipped around the stone, tears stinging your eyes. You couldnât stop them. The world had become too sharp, too loud, too heavy for you to handle tonight. Your breaths came in ragged gasps as you pressed your palms to your face, wishing you could vanish into the night, disappear from all the whispered judgements and impossible expectations.
And then a familiar voice broke through your storm of panic.
âYou shouldnât be out here,â Remus said softly, his tone steady but edged with worry. He was close now, his cloak fluttering around him, hands reaching for you before you could even protest. âCome inside. Youâre freezing. Youâreââ
âIâm fine,â you whispered hoarsely, but it was weak, and he knew it.
âYouâre not fine,â he said firmly, gently taking your shoulders to turn you toward him. His eyes, full of a kind of raw, fearful affection, met yours. âPlease. Donât do this alone,â
You didnât say anything, just let the tears fall as he led you to the stone steps beneath the tower, crouching beside you.
For a long while, neither of you spoke. The wind swirled around you, tugging at your hair and robes, but somehow, the cold and the night felt less sharp with him beside you.
Then, in a voice that trembled just slightly, Remus spoke, and you froze.
âI canât lose you,â he whispered, so quietly you almost didnât hear it. âI donât think I could bear it,â
Your chest constricted. You saw the fear in his eyes, the vulnerability he rarely allowed anyone to witness, the quiet terror of losing someone he cared about more than he dared to admit.
Your own tears blurred your vision, but you smiled faintly through them, voice shaking as you whispered, âYou wonât, I promise,â
He looked at you like he had never looked at anyone before, as though your words were the only thing keeping him anchored. For a moment, there was silence, heavy with emotion, with everything left unspoken over the years, and the two of you simply existed in that shared space.
Then, almost tentatively, he lifted a hand to your face, cupping your cheek as if afraid that too much pressure might shatter you like glass. His thumb brushed softly across your temple, tracing a path that was both tender and careful.
âI wantâ to kiss you. Is that okay?â he murmured.
âUhââ you exhaled sharply, caught between surprise and the desperate ache blooming in your chest. That was⊠a little sudden.
Your breath hitched. The sharp edges of panic that had driven you to the tower seemed to dull, softened by the sheer openness in his gaze. For the first time tonight, the weight on your chest lightened just a little.
âYes,â you whispered, so quiet it almost vanished into the wind. âItâs okay.â
It was slow. Careful. Tentative. His lips met yours lightly at first, testing the waters, brushing against yours like a question rather than a statement. You responded instinctively, leaning into him, letting your hand find his wrist, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your fingers.
The kiss deepened almost imperceptibly, but it remained gentle, nervous, full of unspoken promises.
You felt his breath hitch, small, uneven, as he pressed his forehead to yours afterwards, letting his hands linger on your shoulders, holding you close. You rested your own hands against his chest, feeling the steady, reassuring beat of his heart beneath your palms.
âI⊠really like you,â he whispered, voice trembling with relief and awe.
ââŠI like you too Remus,â you said, softly, barely more than a breath.
The wind swirled around the tower, the stars flickered faintly overhead, but for a moment, the world shrank to just the two of you.
â
Neither of you spoke for a long while after that, simply sitting together under the night sky, hands entwined, foreheads touching. It was the first time in years that the weight of your shared history felt bearable. Not erased, not forgotten, but somehow lighter. Somehow manageable.
For the first time, you allowed yourself to rest fully, leaning against him, letting the warmth of his body anchor you. He rested his cheek against the top of your head, the faint scent of his hair comforting, familiar, and grounding.
â
The day after the Astronomy Tower kiss, everything felt⊠different.
The hospital wing was the same, the corridors were the same, the familiar chill of the stone floors under your feet didnât changeâbut you felt different.
You felt lighter, somehow, as though the weight you had carried alone for years had been halved. Remus, sitting quietly in his usual chair beside your bed, mirrored the shift. He was calmer, less tense, though you could still see the echo of old self-doubt in the way he occasionally glanced at his hands.
The aftermath wasnât dramatic. There were no proclamations, no hovering whispers, no public displays. It was just the two of you, quietly settled into the rhythm of shared existence.
He brought you breakfast when you werenât up to classes, and he insisted on carrying your books when you were. There was a softness now, a gentle mutual care that went beyond friendship but didnât yet need words.
âRemus,â you said one morning, tucking a blanket around his shoulders as he slumped in the infirmary chair after a late night essay session. âDonât make that face. You look ridiculous,â
He flushed, huffing a small laugh. âIÂ do not,â
âYou do,â you countered, nudging him playfully. âItâs cute,â
He froze for half a heartbeat before his face softened into that familiar, shy grin. âYouâre ridiculous,â he murmured, voice low, almost reverent, like saying it too loudly might break the spell of the quiet peace between you.
â
Of course, the Marauders were never far behind. It started with small clues, the lingering looks, the quiet touches, the faint blush that coloured Remusâ ears when you laughed. But it was all speculation.
Until it wasnât, anyway.
You and Remus were sitting on a worn sofa in the Gryffindor common room, sharing a small bar of chocolate between you. You were laughing at something heâd saidâsomething about a failed potion experiment in classâand he was smiling, the sort of soft, open expression that had always made you feel like the world had paused just for you.
Then Sirius appeared at the top of the stairs.
âYou two are impossible!â he yelled, voice echoing across the common room.
Both of you froze, eyes meeting in a panicked, almost guilty glance.
Remus groaned, face heating further than the already blushing hue that had become standard for him around you. âSirius!â he hissed, but the sharp edge of annoyance did little to mask the embarrassment curling like smoke around him.
You run a hand over Remusâ arm. âItâs okay, here,â
You shouldâve asked him to take a photo of Siriusâ reaction when you planted your lips against the bridge of his nose.
âWhat the fââ
You couldnât help it. You laughed. And it wasnât just the polite, short-lived laughter you sometimes forced yourself into. It was full, bright, rolling laughter that bubbled up from somewhere deep inside. You felt it escape in a way it hadnât for daysâweeks evenâand it was loud enough to make Remusâ chest tighten in a way that was equal parts warmth and awe.
He stared at you as though you had just hung the moon in the night sky, and weirdly, that was more proof or your relationship than any kiss could be.
summary: on your hunt for a new flatmate you come across Remus. Lovely, handsome Remus. Over the summer months you slowly grow closer to each other.
cw; vague smut (not detailed) but still 18+, strangers to friends to lovers, fluff, tiny bit of angst, miscommunication, both reader and remus are a little emotionally constipated.
The harsh glow of your laptop screen, paired with the dwindling list of options, is giving you a headache. The pain pulses behind tired eyes, youâre exhausted. Landlords are pricks. The notice came a few weeks ago: your tiny flat, with its damp-stained walls (despite your investment in a fancy dehumidifier), a temperamental oven, and heating that barely registers in winter, is about to cost far more than you can afford. Itâs barely worth what you pay now.
It turns out that most places in your price range are even worse than this, you must've seen upwards of twenty flats. So youâve resigned yourself to looking for someone, anyone in need of a flatmate. Something entirely out of your comfort zone. A quiet, lonely girl by nature the idea of living with a stranger is alien and uncomfortable. But what other choices do you have?
There's a listing that seems like a good fit. Close to your work in a nice area, walking distance from a Tesco and itâs seemingly a good size. The only thing that puts you off is the fact it's a man, similar in age to you, advertising for a flatmate.
You donât love the idea. But youâre running out of time. So you grab your phone and hover over the keypad, your mind racing while your fingers tremble as they type in the number.
Each ring after you press call makes your skin crawl with second thoughts. Still, you donât hang up. And just when youâre about to, he answers. His voice makes you jump.
âHello?â Itâs low and calm.
âHi,â you manage, your voice thinner than youâd like. At least he sounds nice, you think. âI, um⊠I saw your ad for a flatmate and I was wondering if you're still looking?â
âYesâyeah,â he replies, sounding almost relieved. âYouâre welcome to come by, have a look around? See how it feels?â
âThat would be great, actually,â you say, breathing out slowly. âWould this afternoon work? Or whenever suits you.â
âThis afternoon is perfect.â
You confirm the address and end the call, only then realising that you donât know his name and he doesnât know yours. Still, something about the tone of his voice settles the panic in your chest. Itâs probably foolish, but for now, itâs enough.
-
The tube ride over is a blur. You're tucked into a corner seat, fingers clenched tight around the handle of your bag, knees bouncing in spite of your best efforts to seem composed. The whole journey, youâre rehearsing what you might say. Hi, Iâm here about the flat. Too stiff. Nice to meet you, thanks for having me. Weirdly formal. Please let me live here, Iâm very quiet and I wonât use your milk. Pathetic.
The closer you get, the more you regret not backing out. Your stomachâs knotted, heart thudding. It doesnât help that the skyâs overcast, a flat grey pressing down like it might rain at any moment. You find the building easily â itâs a narrow brick townhouse with peeling paint around the windows but an otherwise respectable facade. Not too posh, not too grotty.
You buzz the number he gave you. A beat, and then the door unlocks with a clunk.
Youâre greeted at the top of a narrow stairwell. The man from the listing is already waiting at the threshold of the flat, leaning lightly on the doorframe.
You freeze.
Heâs beautiful.
Not in a clean, shiny way like the men in ads. No, heâs something quieter, warm brown eyes, framed by tired lashes and shadows that suggest long nights. His jumper hangs loose on a tall frame, sleeves pushed up to his forearms. Thereâs a scar that cuts across the bridge of his nose â thin, pale, old â but it fits his face. Youâre staring.
He shifts, and you realise you're just standing there like a lemon.
âHi,â you manage. âIâm Y/N, by the way.â
He smiles. âIâm Remus.â
You nod like thatâs normal, like his voice isnât curling around you in a way that makes your breath catch. Remus. You tuck the name away for safekeeping.
He steps aside to let you in. âCome on, Iâll show you around. Itâs not Buckingham Palace or anything, but itâs solid.â
The flat is surprisingly nice. Wooden floors, worn but clean, a big window in the living room that lets in more light than youâd expected. There are bookshelves and a threadbare sofa that looks deeply comfortable. The kitchen is small but tidy, and he opens a cupboard to show you what would be âyour halfâ.
âAnd the bathroomâs through hereâno mould, promise,â he says, glancing at you over his shoulder with a grin thatâs too charming to be fair. âAnd I donât take forever in the mornings.â
You follow, nodding, your voice still lodged somewhere near your collarbone. âYou, um... seem very prepared.â
He chuckles, rubbing at the back of his neck. âI try my best.â
You breathe in through your nose, trying to summon enough courage to sound like a normal person. âWell,â you say, your voice higher than usual, âas long as you donât kill me in my sleep, I think we should be fine.â
The words are barely out before you regret them. Why would you say that? You flush, gaze snapping to the floor. But thenâ
Remus laughs.
Not just a polite huff, either. A real, warm laugh that starts low in his chest and melts into something softer.
You blink, stunned.
âFair enough,â he says, still smiling. âI promise not to kill you. I make a mean cup of tea, though. That help balance it out?â
You nod, trying to hide the way your mouth twitches. âYeah. That might do it.â
-
Living with Remus is fine, better than you expected actually. Youâve found him to be a perfectly amenable flatmate and his claims were true, he doesn't take forever in the mornings and he does make lovely cups of tea.Â
Still, you find yourself hiding away in your bedroom most of the time, listening for when he vacates the living room and kitchen before making some quick food to eat and retreating back. He spends a lot of his time sitting at the dining table working on his manuscript and you'd hate to disturb him.
It's no fault of his that you hide away, you dont think youâve met a nicer, more gentle boy in your life. Itâs more like, you're so worried about imposing on his space and routine, being an annoyance that you avoid him.
So, when you hear the sound of his bedroom door shutting you make a break for the kitchen, stomach rumbling. Â
You rummage through the fridge, the cold light humming against your skin, illuminating a disappointingly bare shelf. Half a tub of hummus, a sad-looking cucumber, and a block of cheddar thatâs luckily mould free. You sigh and close the door with your hip, already drafting a mental shopping list.
Tomorrow, definitely. Youâll go tomorrow.
For now, you settle on a sandwich â cheese and cucumber. The breadâs from the freezer, so you wedge two slices apart and drop them into the toaster, rubbing sleep from your eyes with the back of your hand while you wait. The flat is quiet, save for the low tick of the kitchen clock and the mechanical whirr of the toaster heating up. Itâs peaceful like this, when itâs just you and the hum of appliances. You suppose it's always peaceful really though, Remus isnât very loud.
Youâre halfway through slicing the cucumber when you hear it: the soft creak of a door down the hall. Footsteps. Then Remus appears, yawning into the sleeve of his jumper, his hair mussed like heâd been lying down.
âOhâIâm sorry,â you blurt, stepping back from the counter instinctively, knife still in hand. âI didnât mean to take over the kitchen.â
He blinks, confused for a half-second before smiling. âYouâre fine,â he says gently. âJust need to get in thereââ he nods at the cupboard above your head.
You quickly sidestep, hugging the counter as he reaches past you. As he opens the cupboard, his fingers brush your shoulder in passing, a light, friendly touch. You flinch, just barely, but he either doesnât notice or chooses not to mention it.
From the shelf, he pulls down a small box full of blister packets of painkillers, the label worn from use. He moves to the sink, filling a glass with water as you return to your sandwich-making, quieter now. More self-conscious.
âI, umâdidnât mean to interrupt your rest,â you offer, hoping it doesnât sound too awkward.
Remus looks over his shoulder at you, then downs the tablets with a quick gulp. âYou live here too,â he says easily, setting the glass in the sink. âYou donât have to apologise for being in the kitchen.â
You look at him, a little surprised by the softness in his voice.
âStill,â you murmur, pressing the sandwich together, âyouâve got your routines. I didnât want to get in the way.â
âYouâre not,â he says, and smiles. It's a little crooked, a little tired. âSeriously. Come in here whenever you want. Cook something that stinks. Use the last teabag. The whole kitchen is yours too.â
Your eyes lift to meet his, and thereâs something about the way he says it, like he means it, that makes your throat go tight.
âOh,â you say softly. âOkay.â
Remus excuses himself with a quiet smile and a muttered, âBack in a bit,â before padding back down the hallway.
You catch it just as he turns: a slight shift in his gait. Barely noticeable, the way his weight tips unevenly between steps, like one side of his body isnât quite cooperating with the other. It slows him, just slightly. Enough that your brows draw together before you even realise you're staring.
You stand in the kitchen for a long moment, sandwich forgotten in your hand. Itâs not like you to pry. You hate when people ask about things you havenât offered up willingly â hate the sharp, intrusive edge of whatâs wrong with you?Â
You take your sandwich to the little dining table where his laptop still sits closed, charger curled beside it. The seat across from you remains warm from where heâd been earlier. You chew in silence, mind gnawing at the image of him walking away with that faint limp. He hadnât mentioned anything. No sign of injury.
Your chest prickles with quiet unease. Maybe itâs not your place. Maybe he doesnât want questions.
The sandwich is half-finished when he reappears, this time in fresh pyjama bottoms and a different jumper, a little looser in the sleeves. He walks slower than usual, and now that youâre looking for it, the limp is unmistakable. Itâs subtle but deliberate, a kind of favouring of one leg over the other. You feel that pinch again, behind your ribs.
Remus notices your eyes on him, and he offers you a faint smile, tired but open.
âSorry,â he says, lowering himself gently into the chair opposite you with the kind of care that makes your heart ache. âWas hoping the tablets would kick in faster.â
Your voice is quiet when you speak. âAre you okay?â
He glances up at you, blinking like he hadnât expected the question. For a moment you think he might brush it off, toss out some polite, yeah, all good lie. But then his expression softens. Honest.
âI will be,â he says. Then he hesitates, eyes flicking down to the grain of the wooden table, fingers brushing over a faint coffee ring like it might help ground him. âItâs just a flare-up. Happens sometimes.â
You nod slowly, waiting. Letting him lead.
âMy joints,â he says eventually, voice low but calm. âTheyâve been wrecked for years. Doesnât usually act up like this, but sometimesâweather, overdoing it, not sleeping rightâit just hits harder.â He gestures vaguely toward his leg, then his shoulder. âTodayâs one of those days.â
You donât say anything at first. Not because you donât know what to say, but because your first instinct, that sounds awful, Iâm sorry, feels both too much and not enough. You donât think heâd want the sympathy of it anyway.
Instead, you offer him your full attention. âIs there anything you need? I mean, anything I can do?â
Remus looks at you, properly this time, and something unreadable passes behind his eyes. Gratitude, maybe. Surprise.
âNo,â he says gently. âThanks, though. Just rest, really. Try not to be on my feet more than I have to.â
You nod. Then, quieter, âI didnât realise you were in pain.â
âI hide it well,â he says, the corners of his mouth lifting in something that doesnât quite reach his eyes. âComes with practice.â
âI could make tea?â
He smiles, just barely. âOnly if you make it as good as I do.â
Downpours in June always catch you off guard. In your mind, the month should be full of sun and warmth even though it never is. Shockingly, the rain does little to dampen your mood on the walk home, too excited with the knowledge that when you get into the flat, Remus will be there, probably writing, ready to talk to you and listen to your day.Â
You found quite quickly, after you got more comfortable, that you and Remus have a lot in common. You like the same shows and takeaways, both reading copious amounts of books and both of you are quiet and calm a lot of the time. You think he might be your only real friend and maybe that's a bit pathetic but you canât bring yourself to care.Â
Your trainers squelch faintly as you step into the building, hair sticking to your forehead and the back of your neck. Still, thereâs a smile tugging at your lips. Youâre soaked and half-frozen, but the thought of the flat and Remus keeps your spirits high.
You shake the worst of the water from your coat before unlocking the flat door. It swings open, the familiar creak greeting youâ
âand then a sound you werenât expecting.
Laughter. Loud, overlapping voices. And not just Remusâ.
Your eyes flick up as you step into the living room and stop short.
There are people in your flat.
Three strangers are sprawled across the sofas, legs thrown over armrests, half-drunk mugs of tea and empty crisp packets scattered across the coffee table.
The girl with striking red hair and green eyes is curled into the far corner of the loveseat, gesturing with a half-eaten biscuit and grinning. Next to her, a tall, dark-haired boy is half-lounging, half-sliding off the cushions, knees spread like he owns the place. His shirt is rumpled, his hair even more so, but it works on him. On the floor, sitting cross-legged and sipping from a mug, is another man, long dark hair, an open leather jacket.
And in the middle of it all, Remus.
Heâs leaned forward in his usual seat, elbow braced on his knee, a lazy sort of smile tugging at his mouth. He looks comfortable. At home. The sleeves of his jumper are pushed up, and thereâs a small ink smudge on his knuckle. He lifts his head at the sound of the door and lights up when he sees you.
âOhâhey!â he says, already standing. âYouâre back.â
All at once, the three others look up. At you.
You freeze in the doorway, suddenly aware of your rain-slick hair, damp jeans, the drip of water off your coat. Your bag sags heavily at your side.
âHi,â you manage, blinking.
Remus crosses to take your bag, entirely casual. âDidnât think youâd be back this early. Iâd have warned you.â
You shrug, trying for a smile. âThe rain chased me home.â
âLet me get you a towel in a secâuh, this is Lily, Sirius, and James.â He gestures over his shoulder, and they all wave.
Lily smiles kindly. James does a salute from the couch. Sirius raises his mug.
You nod, stepping a little further into the room, wringing your hands slightly.
Of course Remus would have friends like this, you think. People who look like they stepped out of a film set or an advert or maybe an indie band that never quite went mainstream. If you didnât know any better, youâd assume they were all built in the same beautiful factory.
Sirius leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, eyes glinting with mischief. âSo youâre the one living with Moony. Brave soul.â
James chimes in, grinning. âYeah, seriously. Does he still snore like a bear, or has he grown out of it?â
You blink, then giggle â actually giggle â which surprises even you.
âI havenât noticed,â you say, glancing at Remus as he hands you a towel, whose ears have gone slightly pink. âHeâs actually⊠really great to live with.â
You miss the way he straightens slightly at that, how his expression softens. Youâre too busy trying to unstick a strand of wet hair from your cheek.
âIâm just gonnaââ you gesture vaguely down the hall, ââshower. Before I mildew. Iâll be back.â
You duck into the hallway with a grateful glance toward Remus, clutching the towel he pressed into your hands like a lifeline. Youâre still soaked through, jeans sticking to your legs, and your skin feels clammy beneath your shirt. In the bathroom, you peel out of your wet clothes, your cheeks still warm from the shock of unexpected company.
The shower helps. Hot water pounding against your back, steam curling around your face, loosening the tension in your shoulders. You scrub quickly, methodically, trying not to think too hard. You donât know why their presence made your chest tighten like that â maybe it was the surprise, maybe it was how pretty they all were. Maybe it was the way they all seemed to belong here.
Itâs not jealousy, exactly. Just a small ache, like being on the outside of a joke youâd love to be part of.
-
Back in the living room, as the sound of the bathroom door clicks shut, a shift happens.
Sirius, who had been half-sprawled on the floor with his mug, shoots a look at Remus â slow and smug. âMate.â
Remus doesnât look up from where heâs fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve. âDonât.â
âOh, I will.â Sirius grins, wolfish.
Lily lets out a snort, raising her brows at James. âDid you see the way he lit up when she walked in?â
James nudges Remusâs knee with his own. âIt was sweet, actually. Like a dog seeing its favourite person.â
Remus groans, dragging a hand over his face. âYouâre all insufferable.â
âNot denying it, though,â Lily singsongs.
âThereâs nothing to deny,â Remus mutters, flushing down to his collarbones. âSheâs just my flatmate.â
James grins. âFlatmate. Right.â
Lilyâs voice softens just slightly, teasing but kind. âItâs okay, Remus. We like her. She seems sweet.. And clearly into you, even if she doesnât know it yet.â
Remus shifts in his seat, pulling his sleeve back down like it might shield him. âSheâs not. And even if she were, she deserves... more.â
Sirius tilts his head, tone quieter now. âMore than what?â
Remus doesnât answer.
The conversation lapses just in time for the soft pad of footsteps down the hallway.
-
You return with damp hair falling to your shoulders, the sleeves of your jumper pulled over your hands. The soft scent of your shampoo trails after you. You hover at the edge of the living room, unsure if youâre intruding again.
Remus looks up first, his face softening instantly. âFeel better?â
You nod, giving him a small smile. âMuch.â
Thereâs a pause â comfortable, this time â before he gestures to the seat beside him. âCome sit?â
You do.
The sofa is warm from where heâd been sitting earlier. Close, but not too close.
âAre you hungry?â he asks, turning slightly toward you. âWeâve got crisps, biscuits. Sirius tried to eat all the digestives but I fought him offââ
âI let him win,â Sirius adds from the floor.
ââor there's your leftovers in the fridge.â He continues, ignoring his friend's input.
You shake your head. âIâm okay, thank you.â
Lily leans forward, her smile easy. âSo, howâs it been living with this one?â She jerks her thumb toward Remus.
You glance at him, then back to her. âHonestly? Pretty great. Heâs... very considerate.â
âSheâs being polite,â Remus mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck.
âSheâs being nice,â Lily corrects, then turns back to you. âItâs very commendable of you, Iâm sure there's something about him that annoys you.â
âCharming, Lils.â Remus says with a fond eye roll.
Lily is wrong, you think, at this point in time you can't think of anything about remus that annoys you. Heâs not a perfect person, obviously, but any little annoyances you have with him are forgotten quickly after they happen.
The conversation rolls on from there. They ask about your job, your favourite books, where you went to school. You end up laughing more than you have in weeks, tucked into the corner of the sofa beside Remus, your shoulder just barely brushing his arm.
By the time the clock on the wall nudges past ten, the living room has slipped into a comfortable sprawl of conversation and low laughter. Mugs have been refilled more than once, empty wrappers tucked under cushions, and Sirius has taken to stacking biscuit crumbs on Jamesâs shoulder like a game of Jenga.
Eventually, one of them â Lily, predictably â checks the time and groans. âAlright, weâre off,â she says, pushing herself up with a dramatic sigh. âSome of us have to be adults in the morning.â
âTragic,â Sirius mutters, already reaching for his jacket.
Thereâs a flurry of movement â shoes tugged on, bags slung over shoulders, mugs gathered into a clumsy stack for the kitchen. You stand too, a little uncertain, hanging back near the hallway door as the group bunches near the entrance.
Then, unexpectedly, Lily turns to you
âYou coming to the pub quiz next week?â she asks, suddenly warm and familiar, like youâve known each other longer than just a few hours. Her voice is bright but her eyes are kind, like she really means it.
You blink. âOh. Umââ
âItâs good fun,â she says quickly. âLow-stakes. Mostly an excuse to drink.â
Your lips twitch despite yourself. âThat sounds nice.â
âPerfect,â Lily beams. Then, before you can overthink it, she wraps you into a hug.
You freeze for a second. Her arms are confident and soft around you, her hair brushing your cheek. But after the initial surprise fades, you lean into it.
âSee you there,â she murmurs as she pulls back, with a wink
The others say their goodbyes in overlapping waves. Sirius claps Remus on the shoulder with a dramatic flourish, James promises to text him about the weekend, and Lily gives Remus a kiss on the cheek.
Then theyâre gone â the flat door swinging closed behind them with a satisfying click, their chatter already fading down the stairs.
Youâre still standing in the living room when Remus comes back a few minutes later, having seen them out to the street. He exhales deeply as he toes off his shoes, running a hand through his hair.
Youâre already moving, collecting empty mugs from the coffee table and straightening a blanket draped halfway to the floor.
âYou donât have to do that,â he says, voice gentle as he returns to the room. âItâs not your mess, love.â
You glance up at him. The endearment settles warm and light in your chest. He says it so naturally youâre not sure he even notices.
âItâll be faster if we do it together,â you reply simply, heading into the kitchen with a stack of cups.
Remus follows, quiet but not resisting. The two of you move easily in tandem â like youâve done this before, like youâve lived together for years instead of just a month. He wipes down the coffee table while you rinse out mugs. You clear the sofa of stray crisp bags while he tucks the blanket back into shape.
Itâs domestic, almost absurdly so. The kind of soft, mundane routine you used to dream about without realising it.
When the last mug is tucked into the drying rack and the cushions on the sofa are more or less back in their proper places, you find yourself standing in the middle of the living room, blinking in the stillness. Itâs quiet again, but a good kind of quiet.
Remus glances over from where heâs just finished folding the throw blanket across the back of the sofa. âRight,â he says, scrubbing a hand through his hair. âMission accomplished.â
You nod, suddenly aware of the ache settling into your limbs â the kind of tired that follows a long day and warm company.
âCâmere,â Remus says, and without really thinking, you follow as he flops down onto the sofa, sprawling into the corner he always claims. He gestures for you to join him, and you do, curling up on the opposite end. Your knees tuck beneath you, your elbow sinking into the cushion. The warmth of the evening clings to your skin, a pleasant, weighty tiredness settling in.
You let out a breath, soft. âYour friends are really nice.â
He hums in agreement, tipping his head back against the cushion to look at the ceiling. âThey are.â
Then, quieter, you add, âSorry if I was... imposing. I didnât mean to crash your night.â
His head tilts, gaze sliding over to meet yours, brows gently pulled together. âYouâd never be imposing.â
You blink at him, something tender sparking behind your ribs.
âThey liked you,â he says, like itâs the simplest, most obvious thing in the world.
You smile, small and uncertain. âThatâs a relief. Iâd have to start hiding away again if they didnât.â
He huffs a soft laugh, turning more toward you, one leg tucked up beneath the other. âI donât see how anyone wouldnât like you.â
The room goes still for a beat.
Itâs not even the words that hit you so hard, itâs the way he says them. Quietly, plainly. Like itâs not even a question. Like he believes it.
You swallow. Your fingers twist in the hem of your jumper.
âYouâd be surprised,â you murmur.
Remus watches you carefully, eyes soft and steady. âNo, I wouldnât.â
You look away first, heart thudding too loud in your chest. Itâs not flirtation, what heâs doing â itâs too sincere for that. It feels heavier somehow, more honest.
He shifts again, this time stretching his legs out, one foot brushing yours beneath the throw blanket. He doesnât move it away.
You try for something lighter. âYou didnât tell me you had friends that were basically a rock band.â
He chuckles, running a hand over his jaw. âYeah, theyâre a bit much, arenât they?â
âTheyâre... great,â you say, and you mean it. âI donât think Iâve ever met people that easy to talk to.â
His smile is quiet. âTheyâll love that. Especially Sirius. He lives for being charming.â
âI could tell.â
Remusâs laugh is low, and it lingers. âIâm glad you stayed. You looked like you were going to bolt.â
You flush, ducking your head. âI was.â
Thereâs a pause.
âI get it,â he says eventually, voice softer now. âCrowds. Strangers. Itâs a lot sometimes.â
You nod. âItâs not that I didnât want to be there. I just⊠didnât think Iâd belong.â
Remusâs gaze sharpens slightly, something almost fierce behind his tired eyes. âYou do. You absolutely do.â
The words land between you, sure and solid. You feel them take root within you.
You glance over, meeting his eyes. âThanks.â
He doesnât look away. âAnytime.â
Your foot is still touching his under the blanket. You donât move it.
The telly is dark, the flat dim except for the soft glow of the kitchen light and the little lamp in the corner. Everything feels slow. Settled. The way conversations stretch late into the evening when neither person wants to be the one to end it.
Eventually, you yawn. An embarrassingly large one that catches you off guard.
Remus smiles. âGo to bed.â
âShouldnât I be saying that to you?â you ask, though your limbs are already heavy.
âIâm older,â he says, mock-stern. âI get to decide.â
âYouâre not that much older,â you mumble, rising reluctantly.
As you pass him, he catches your wrist gently. Not to stop you â just a brush of fingers, warm and grounding. You pause, and he looks up at you from where heâs still curled on the sofa.
âHey,â he says, low. âI meant it, you know. About people liking you.â
You nod, throat tight again. âI know.â
He lets go. You head to bed. And long after the door closes behind you, the warmth of his touch lingers.
âPlease tell me you didnât actually do that!â you exclaim, laughing at Siriusâ expense.
âI did,â he responds, having the decency to look ashamed, âI didnât expect him to cry though.â
âHe mustâve been a sensitive soul.âÂ
âYouâd know all about that, wouldnât you, doll?â Sirius shoots back, grinning as he nudges you with his foot under the table.
You move to swat him, but heâs already leaning back, laughing like this is his favourite game. And maybe it is, because youâve learned Sirius loves nothing more than winding people up, especially the ones he likes.
You canât be sure when it happened but somewhere between meeting Remusâ friends and now, they became your friends too. The pub quiz is a weekly ritual for you all now. You have silly in jokes with them and you're almost at a point now where you speak with them as freely as you do Remus.Â
Youâre just about to fire back a quip when a familiar hand places a drink in front of you.
âHere,â Remus says softly.
Your eyes lift to find him standing beside you, the warm pub lighting casting a soft glow over his features. He sets down his own glass as well, then, without really thinking, slides into the booth beside you.
As he sits, his hand drifts up and settles between your shoulder blades, thumb brushing idly in a slow arc. Itâs not the first time heâs touched you lately â little things, small and familiar. A hand on your lower back when guiding you through a crowd. Fingers brushing your knuckles when you pass him a cup of tea. But this, it still catches your breath a little.
âWhat have you done to get her attacking you already?â Remus asks, shooting Sirius a look thatâs half amused, half exhausted.
Sirius throws his hands up. âI didnât do anything. Sheâs just violentâwhereâs my drink?â
âYou didnât ask for anything,â Remus says with a small shrug, taking a sip of his own pint.
âI didnât know I had to ask,â Sirius complains, scandalised. âI thought we had a system.â
âYou thought wrong.â
You shake your head, trying to hide your smile as you pick up your glass. âThank you,â you murmur to Remus, your voice quieter than before.
He turns his head toward you just slightly, expression softening, âAnytime.â
You take a sip.Â
Sirius groans dramatically, flopping back in his seat. âThis is blatant favouritism.â
âYouâre just mad because she doesnât threaten to hit me,â Remus replies, entirely deadpan.
âIâll start,â you offer, raising your eyebrows at Remus in mock challenge.
He grins, a slow, crooked smile. âIâd like to see you try.â
Before you can respond, the door to the pub swings open and a gust of summer air follows James and Lily in. James is grinning, his hand causally linked with Lilyâs as she glances around, eyes landing on your table.
James and Lily slide into the booth with the easy comfort of long familiarity â James immediately reaching to swipe a chip from Siriusâ plate, Lily pressing a quick kiss to your cheek as she squeezes in beside you.
âWeâre not late, are we?â she asks, already pulling a notepad and pen from her bag.
âPerfect timing,â Remus says, glancing towards the bar where the pub quiz host is fiddling with a mic.
âBrilliant,â James says, cracking his knuckles. âBecause Iâve been revising.â
âRevising?â Sirius snorts. âIs this the A-Levels again?â
âBetter,â Lily says, shooting a grin across the table. âHe made me quiz him on obscure geography facts while I was straightening my hair.â
James winks. âMultitasking, babe.â
You laugh into your drink, heart buoyant with the energy around the table. Youâre hemmed in by Lily on one side and Remus on the other, the heat of his thigh brushing yours beneath the table. Heâs not moving away, and neither are you.
The quiz kicks off not long after â a crackly voice through the speakers announcing the rules as the pub dims the lights slightly and the host launches into the first round.
It starts out strong. Lily knows every answer in the literature round. Sirius, unsurprisingly, nails the music one, especially anything classic rock or 80s synth. James and Lily dominate the sports and politics sections, passing the pen back and forth like it's a baton in a relay.
Youâre good at the random ones. The weird general knowledge stuff no one expects anyone to know. But every time you offer a hesitant guess, Remus is the first to jot it down without hesitation.
âSheâs right,â he murmurs after you mutter something about which planet has the longest day. âItâs Venus.â
You glance at him. âAre you sure?â
He taps his pen, smirking. âPositive.â
And heâs right.
Remus is the dark horse of the whole night. Quietly scribbling answers during the history and science rounds, barely even hesitating. Everyone starts deferring to him, especially when it gets harder.
At one point, James throws down his pen and mutters, âWhere do you keep all this stuff? Is there a little librarian in your brain with a filing cabinet or something?â
Remus shrugs, barely biting back a smile. âJust... remember things. I read a lot.â
You lean over and murmur, âYou know so much weird information. It must be all the books.â
He turns to look at you, eyes crinkling. âYou say that like itâs a bad thing.â
âNo,â you say, grinning. âItâs kind of impressive. Annoying. But impressive.â
Remus nudges your knee with his. âThanks, I think.â
But when the final scores are tallied, and the host calls out your teamâs name as the winners, the entire table erupts.
You blink in disbelief, then burst out laughing as Sirius howls, leaping to his feet and banging on the table like a victory drum.
âWe won! We actually won! Weâre legends! Immortalised in pub quiz history!â
Lily rolls her eyes fondly and raises her glass. âTo Remus, our walking encyclopaedia.â
They present the prize â a bottle of cheap prosecco and a ÂŁ25 bar tab â and you all decide to split one more round with it. The drinks are sweeter, the laughter looser. Thereâs music playing now, and you find yourself talking to Lily about your favourite poetry collections while Sirius tries to convince Remus to dance.
Eventually, the evening wanes. The pub thins out, chairs scraping, the air thick with the scent of beer and summer sweat. You and Remus walk home together under a sky lit dimly by street lights and stars.
Itâs warm enough now that your jacketâs slung over your arm. Your trainers scuff the pavement in easy rhythm beside his.
The walk home is slow, lazy with the warmth of the evening and the quiet hum of contentment between you. The street is dappled with soft pools of golden light. You and Remus fall into step like always, shoulder to shoulder, the occasional brush of arms sending quiet ripples through the comfortable silence.
Youâre still buzzing from the night, from the win and the wine and the lingering warmth of everyoneâs laughter. Every time you glance at Remus, heâs smiling, that soft, secret smile that curls at the corner of his mouth when he thinks no oneâs looking.
âI still canât believe you knew the name of the first cloned sheep,â you say, bumping your shoulder into his.
âDolly,â he replies smugly.
âI know,â you groan. âIâm saying I canât believe you knew that.â
Remus shrugs, casual. âItâs basic trivia.â
You huff a laugh. âItâs bizarre trivia.â
âItâs useful trivia,â he counters, giving you a sidelong glance that makes something flutter low in your belly. âWon us a bottle of cheap prosecco, didnât it?â
You grin, and the quiet stretches between you again.
Your hands swing close again, knuckles brushing lightly. Neither of you pull away.
He shifts slightly, just enough that his fingers brush yours again, and this time, they stay. You glance down, heart in your throat, and feel his hand open, tentative but waiting.
You donât think. You just slide your hand into his.
His fingers curl instantly around yours, warm and certain. You both keep walking, pretending itâs nothing, pretending your heart isnât hammering so hard it hurts.
-
You step inside, the familiar hush of the flat wrapping around you both. Remus toes off his boots and hangs his jacket up, and you do the same, suddenly hyper aware of the proximity, the quiet.
He turns to you, lingering just a step closer than he needs to be. The air between you feels too full, your skin thrumming where heâs still holding your hand. His eyes flicker down to your mouth, just for a second. Barely a heartbeat.
Then he leans in.
Itâs subtle at first, a shift in weight, his eyes still locked on yours. And then heâs close, close enough to kiss you.
And he almost does.
His breath ghosts over your lips, and you tilt your chin up instinctively, eyes fluttering shutâ
But at the last second, he stops. Pulls back.
Just a fraction.
You blink up at him, startled and flushed and blinking hard, heart suddenly thudding in disappointment.
He opens his mouth like he wants to explain, but nothing comes out. You clear your throat, trying to save the moment, to make it feel less heavy.
âRight. Umâgoodnight, then,â you murmur, stepping back and turning toward the hall.
You donât get far.
âWaitââ he says, voice low and rough.
You freeze.
Then you feel it, his hand catching your wrist.
You turn, breath held tight in your lungs, and heâs right there again. Eyes stormy and wide, jaw tense.
âI canâtââ he starts, but the words twist out of him like theyâre too slow for what heâs feeling. âIâve wanted toââ
And then he kisses you.
Itâs not gentle.
Itâs urgent â a bruising, heated thing that steals the breath from your lungs and sends your hands into the fabric of his shirt, gripping tight. His mouth moves over yours like heâs been holding this back for too long, like heâs starving for it.
You gasp, just slightly, and he swallows the sound with a low groan, his hands sliding up your arms, into your hair, down your back. Youâre pressed against the wall before you even realise heâs moved you, his body warm and solid against yours, his mouth insistent.
Thereâs no space between you anymore. Just warmth, friction, hands fumbling and mouths desperate.
You break for air only to pull back in with even more hunger, his lips on your jaw, your neck, then back to your mouth like he canât decide what part of you he wants more.
âRemus,â you breathe against him, dizzy.
His hands settle on your waist, gripping tight like heâs anchoring himself. His forehead rests against yours for a breath, and then he murmurs, âCome with me.â
You nod.
He leads you to his room without another word, fingers still laced with yours, and when he closes the door behind you, the air changes again.
Slower, now.
More deliberate.
The urgency is still there, but it softens into something deeper, more consuming. He kisses you again, slower this time, reverent. His hands roam, mapping, remembering. Yours find the hem of his shirt, the warmth of his skin.
You donât rush.
You undress each other like a secret being unfolded. You climb into his bed like youâve always belonged there.
And when he finally sinks into you, itâs not rushed, not hurried.
He holds you like heâs afraid to let go. Like heâs wanted this for months and is still struggling to believe itâs real.
And when you come apart beneath him, itâs with his name on your lips and your hands in his hair, and the kind of breathless clarity that tells you nothing will be the same.
-
The first thing you feel is warmth.
From the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek, the steady heartbeat you must have drifted off to somewhere between kisses and whispered breaths.
Youâre tangled up in Remus Lupin.
The duvet is twisted around your legs, one of his arms is slung heavy and loose around your waist, and his bare chest is the perfect place to rest your cheek. His skin is warm, smooth in some places, scarred in others. You trace a lazy finger over one of the faded marks near his collarbone, remembering where your mouth had been hours earlier.
Heâs still asleep, face tilted slightly toward you, lips parted just enough to show the edge of a tooth. His hairâs a mess â curling against his forehead in soft, unruly waves â and he looks younger like this. Softer. The tension that he sometimes carries, that quiet weight he doesnât talk about, has slipped away entirely in sleep.
You smile without meaning to, letting your eyes wander across his face.
How is this real?
You stay like that for a while, not quite ready to break the spell, watching the soft flutter of his lashes, the faint rise of his chest. You feel safe, grounded, like the world could wait a little longer.
And thenâ
Your phone buzzes.
You blink, reach for it blindly, and when the screen lights up, your stomach drops.
â8:43 AM â New Message from Manager: Hey! Just checking youâre still coming in?â
You sit bolt upright.
âShitâshit, shit, shit.â
Remus stirs beside you, brow furrowing slightly, but doesnât wake. You scramble out of bed, moving towards your own bedroom trying to get ready as quickly as possible.
You do a rushed version of your morning routine in the tiny bathroom â brush teeth, splash water, a swipe of mascara and a spritz of dry shampoo that does absolutely nothing. When you return to his bedroom, Remus hasnât moved. Heâs sprawled diagonally across the bed now, hair mussed, arm half-reaching toward where youâd been.
And then youâre out the door, down the stairs, and into the rush of the day.
-
The hours drag.
Your body is at work, but your mind is still back in that bed. On the way Remus had looked at you. On the way heâd touched you. You spend the day replaying it in loops, trying not to let it show on your face.
Itâs hopeless. You catch your reflection in a window around lunch and see it: the too-bright eyes, the almost-smile that keeps slipping onto your face for no reason.
-
By the time you get back to the flat, youâre not sure what to expect.
Remus is in the kitchen.
He looks normal.
Hair still messy. Wearing one of his old jumpers â the navy one with sleeves that swallow his hands â and stirring something in a pot on the stove. You hover in the doorway, your bag still slung over one shoulder.
He glances over, smiles. âHey. How was work?â
Itâs his usual voice. Easy, casual. Like itâs any other day.
You blink. âUh... fine. Busy.â
He nods, turns back to the stove. âYou want dinner? I made pasta.â
Your heart sinks a little, stupidly. âIâm not super hungry right now,â you murmur. âThanks though.â
He doesnât push. Just shrugs and says, âAlright,â like nothingâs strange.
But it is. You can feel it.Â
The thing that bloomed between you last night, heavy and breathless and real, has been tucked neatly out of sight.
Maybe he regrets it.
Maybe it was a one-time thing.
Maybe he doesnât want it to mean what it meant to you.
Eventually, you mumble, âIâm gonna go change,â and head down the hall before he can answer.
You close the door to your room with more force than necessary, leaning back against it with your eyes squeezed shut.
You feel foolish. Youâd thought...
Well.Â
Youâd thought it might change things.
Instead, it feels like everythingâs gone backwards.
So you do what you always do.
You hide.
You crawl under your duvet and pull your knees up to your chest, pretending youâre tired. Pretending youâre not waiting for a knock on your door that never comes.
Youâve fallen back into your routine from when you first moved in. Hiding away in your room, when Remus is in the living room. Retreating into yourself, an act of self-preservation, you think.Â
Youâve escaped from your room today, Remus away at the doctors. Laying out on the sofa with a glass of cold water to combat against the heat that seeps into the flat, the hottest day of the year. You stare at the tv, staring unseeingly.
Youâre halfway through the worldâs most pointless reality show when the front door clicks open without warning.
You flinch slightly, half-rising off the sofa, until a familiar voice echoes from the hallway.
âDonât get up on my account, sweetheart.â
A second later, Sirius is leaning over the back of the couch, sunglasses perched on his head and a takeaway iced coffee in each hand. He pokes you in the shoulder with one long finger, smirking.
You blink up at him, disoriented. âHow did you get in?â
He raises an eyebrow. âStill have the spare. You lot never changed the locks after that one time I borrowed the toaster.â
âStole,â you correct automatically.
He walks around the sofa and flops down beside you like he owns the place, long legs kicked out, one arm draped over the backrest behind your shoulders. He hands you one of the coffees. âDrink this. You look like youâre dying.â
âThanks,â you mutter, finally slumping back into the sofa, gaze returning to the screen, where someoneâs just burst into tears over a ruined meringue.
Sirius watches you for a beat. Then he leans in again, voice pitched low.
âSo⊠whatâs going on with you and Moony?â
You blink at him, your brain stuttering.
âWhat?â You shake your head. âNothing. I mean, I have no idea. We donât really⊠talk.â
Sirius clicks his tongue.
âAh. Problem found.â
You glance over. âWhat?â
He gives you a look thatâs both amused and just this side of exasperated. âHeâs mopey. Has been for like, a couple weeks.â
You try not to let your expression betray you. âI donât think thatâs about me.â
âYeah,â Sirius says dryly, âand Iâm the Pope.â
Sirius watches you steadily, the smirk slipping off his face just a little as the silence stretches. You take a long sip of the iced coffee, letting the condensation chill your fingers, and avoid his gaze.
Finally, you exhale. Itâs a slow, reluctant thing. âWe slept together,â you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. âIt wasnât⊠nothing. I mean, it didnât feel like nothing.â
Siriusâs eyebrows shoot up, but to his credit, he doesnât interrupt. Just takes a slow sip from his own drink and waits.
You run a hand through your hair, the heat of the day clinging to your skin like guilt. âIt was after the quiz. We were walking home and thenâgod, it just happened. And it was⊠really good. But I had to go to work the next morning. And then when I came backâhe didnât bring it up.â
You swallow. The words are harder to say than you thought theyâd be.
âI figured if he wasnât talking about it⊠maybe it was just one of those things. A mistake, even. So I didnât either.â
Sirius lets out a low whistle, tossing his head back against the cushions. âBloody hell.â
You roll your eyes. âYeah. That about sums it up.â
Thereâs a beat of silence. You focus on the way the ice is melting in your cup, the way your pulse hasnât quite calmed down.
Sirius shifts beside you, his voice quieter now. âLook. Remâs a smart bloke. But sometimesâŠâ he trails off, shaking his head. âHe forgets people canât read his mind. Thinks if he doesnât say it out loud, itâs safer. Like he can keep it from meaning too much.â
âAnd heâs got it in his head,â Sirius continues, nudging your knee with his own, âthat youâre far too good and far too pretty for him.â
You snort. âWhat, so he thinks I pity fucked him? Are you serious?â
Sirius deadpans, âUnfortunately.â
âThatâsââ You set your coffee down with a soft thud, sitting up straighter. âThatâs the most idiotic thing Iâve ever heard. Heâs gorgeous.â
Sirius flashes a grin, all teeth. âPreaching to the choir, babe.â
You blink at him. âWait, youâ?â
He waves a hand. âNot the point. The point is, heâs probably thinking heâs ruined everything and youâre here thinking you did. Youâre both being daft.â
You sigh again, pressing your fingers to your temples.
âYou think I should talk to him.â
âI think,â Sirius says, voice level now, âthat you need to. Because heâs not going to. Not unless heâs sure you want him to.â
âOkay,â you say finally, softly. âOkay. I will.â
Sirius reaches over, squeezes your shoulder with surprising gentleness. âGood girl.â
You roll your eyes. âDonât push it.â
He winks. âWouldnât dream of it.â
-
You feel grosser and grosser as the day goes on, becoming more sweat than girl. Whether itâs because of the heat or nerves youâre not sure. An unhealthy mix of both, probably.
Youâve run through what you want to say a million times in your head.
Maybe more.
Every version sounds wrong. Too much. Too vulnerable. Not enough.
So you sit on the sofa, legs crossed, iced coffee long since gone watery, clutching a cushion to your chest like itâs armor. The fan is humming in the corner but it does nothing to move the heat pressed into the walls of the flat.
When the front door creaks open again, you sit up so fast your spine protests.
Remus walks in slowly, his posture heavy with the weight of the day. He pauses when he sees you sitting there, like he wasnât expecting it. Thereâs a split second where his face flickers. He gives you a tight, polite smile. The kind you might offer a stranger you bumped into at the shops.
Then he turns wordlessly toward the hallway.
âRemus.â
You say it before you can talk yourself out of it. Your voice doesnât shake, but itâs close.
He stops. Still facing away. One hand resting on the edge of the doorframe.
ââŠYeah?â
You take a breath that doesnât help at all. Then another.
âI did want to talk about it.â
His head tilts slightly, just enough that you see the edge of his profile. Thereâs a pause. Like maybe heâs hoping he misheard.
âAbout what?â he says finally. Neutral. Careful.
You press your palms against the cushion like it might anchor you.
âAbout us having sex,â you say plainly. Then, softer: âAnd the day after.â
He winces.
You see it even from across the room â pain flashing over his face before he schools it away again. But not fast enough. Not before it lands in your chest with a hollow thud.
âI justâŠâ You trail off, shake your head, try again. âI donât want to pretend it didnât happen. Because it did. And it wasnât nothing to me.â
He turns at that, just enough to look at you properly. His arms are crossed, but not in that closed-off way you sometimes see, more like heâs holding himself together. His brows draw in, mouth set like heâs bracing.
âI know it wasnât nothing,â he says quietly.
You sit back a little, heart thudding so loudly youâre sure itâs rattling your ribs.
âThen why didnât you say anything?â It comes out softer than you mean it to, more hurt than accusatory. Your voice dips at the end like youâre hoping heâll have an answer that makes it all make sense. Something that takes the last few weeks and peels the ache from them.
Remus hesitates. Then he laughs â dry, self-deprecating. Not unkind. Just tired.
âBecause you didnât say anything either.â
Your mouth opens. Closes again. You hadnât expected that.
He rubs a hand across the back of his neck, the gesture tight with nerves. âI thought Iâd messed it up. I thoughtâI donât know. That maybe I crossed a line. You left so quickly that morning, and then you justâdisappeared. And I thought, alright, thatâs fair, it was a heat-of-the-moment thing. And I didnât want to make it harder by pushing.â
âBut I didnât disappear,â you whisper. âOr I didn't mean to, I had to go to work. You acted like nothing happened when I got home.â
He meets your eyes then. And for the first time since that night, he looks open. Vulnerable in a way that makes your stomach twist.
âBecause I thought if I let myself believe it meant what I wanted it to mean,â he says, voice low, âand I was wrong⊠I wouldnât be able to look you in the eye again.â
You blink. âWhat did you want it to mean?â
Thereâs a beat of silence between you. The fan hums on, useless. The world waits.
Remusâs eyes are soft, almost pleading. âEverything.â
Your breath catches in your throat.
He exhales like heâs been holding it for hours. Days. Weeks, maybe.
âI wanted it to mean weâre not just friends who got carried away,â he continues, stepping closer, careful. âI wanted it to mean I get to look at you in the mornings and kiss you before you leave for work. I wanted it to mean you wanted me, too. Not just that night. After.â
Your heart cracks wide open.
âI do want you,â you say, voice trembling now, but sure underneath. âI never stopped. I thought Iâd imagined itâthat you regretted it. That it was a mistake.â
âIt wasnât,â he says, quickly. Firm. âNot even close.â
You stare at him, all those weeks of doubt pooling like ink in your chest. Slowly, you set the cushion aside, like shedding a shield.
He watches you. Doesnât move.
âI wanted to tell you,â you say, standing slowly. âI just didnât know how.â
âYouâre telling me now,â Remus says softly. âThatâs enough.â
You cross the room in four steps, barefoot and shaky and brave, and then heâs in front of you, warm and real and still yours to choose.
âI missed you,â you whisper, hands coming up to rest against his chest.
His arms come around you immediately, pulling you in like heâs been waiting this whole time. His face presses into your hair, his breath warm against your ear.
âI missed you more than I know how to say.â
You lean back enough to see his face, your hands curling in the hem of his jumper.
âThen say it like this.â
And you kiss him.
This time, itâs not urgent. Not desperate. Itâs steady and soft and full of all the things you didnât say. His lips move slowly over yours, reverent. Familiar. Like a promise.
He smiles into it. And when you pull away just enough to look at him properly, you find his eyes lit up with something youâve only seen once before.
Hope.
âYouâre not getting rid of me now, you know,â you say, resting your forehead against his.
âGood,â he murmurs. âI was hoping youâd stay.â
The days stretch a little shorter now, but summerâs warmth still clings stubbornly to the air, trailing behind in the soft buzz of bees and the golden hush of late afternoons. The flatâs windows are thrown open, letting in the scent of sun-warmed pavement and the rustle of dry leaves skittering along the street below.
Remus is barefoot in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, humming something low under his breath as he chops herbs with practiced ease. The late light catches in his hair, softens his features into something dreamlike. Thereâs a faint breeze lifting the curtain near the sink, and the clink of glass as he pours two drinks, glancing toward the living room where youâre curled on the sofa, legs tangled with Siriusâ across the cushions.
Lily and James arrive a few minutes later, the door swinging open with a chorus of greetings and laughter. Lilyâs holding a warm loaf of bread wrapped in a tea towel; James has a bottle of wine under his arm and a grin too big for his face.
âBoo! I hate you guys being happy and in love,â Sirius announces, flinging himself into a new position across the armchair.
âYou love it,â you say without looking up, one hand reaching blindly for Remusâ as he passes you a glass. He presses a kiss to the top of your head before he settles beside you, his arm slung across the back of the sofa, fingers brushing your shoulder in a quiet rhythm.
He hasnât stopped touching you since that night.
Itâs not overwhelming, not loud. Just soft, consistent reminders that heâs here, that youâre his, that heâs yours. A hand at the small of your back, knuckles brushing your thigh under the table, lips against your temple as he passes. Like heâs still learning how to believe it, but heâs trying every day.
Dinner is chaotic and loud, wine-stained and full of clattering cutlery and overlapping stories. Someone burns the garlic bread, Sirius knocks over a candle, and Lily accidentally flings a piece of tomato into Jamesâ lap.
Later, when the plates are stacked and the last of the wine has been poured, Sirius puts a record on â something old and scratchy and perfect â and Lily pulls James up to dance. They sway messily in the living room, laughing, bumping into the furniture.
Youâre half-tucked under Remusâ arm when Sirius offers you his hand.
âCome on, one dance. For your favourite.â
You shake your head, smiling. âNo way. Youâll trip me up.â
âProbably,â Sirius concedes cheerfully. âBut what a way to go.â
Remus chuckles beside you, warm and low, and you turn your face toward him instinctively. His gaze catches yours, steady and soft. Like everything else has blurred out.
âGo on,â he murmurs. âIâll be here.â
You kiss him once â quick and fond â before letting Sirius spin you clumsily around the room, both of you laughing like children.
When the night winds down, James and Lily head off with matching yawns and promises to host next time, and Sirius dramatically declares heâs staying the night, already halfway through making the sofa into a makeshift bed despite your offers for him to sleep in your room that goes largely unused.
You and Remus retreat to his room, quiet and content. You curl into bed with the windows still open, letting the night breeze ghost across your skin. He wraps an arm around your waist and kisses your shoulder, murmuring something half-asleep against your skin.
Itâs nothing dramatic. Just a slow, steady settling. A feeling in your chest that hums: this is it.
This is going to sound insane, but instead of ai for writing, try looking at Reddit true stories. I donât even have a Reddit account, but today I looked up âhorrible roommate storiesâ and it gave me inspiration for something completely different in my book. I put my own spin on it to the point where itâs completely different, but it was helpful to get me started.
This is a way to get inspiration without copying other writers. I am now a full chapter ahead of where I was yesterday in the planning process!!!
