“It’s a slur.” Remus corrected, drawing the damp fabric between his hands. A few pieces of stray porcelain shook out, scattering beneath the couch and coffee table. If one was inclined to look at it with optimism, the young werewolf had been gifted with an early mastery of common cleaning and mending spells. Despite the outpouring of affection from his parents and the solace of his mother’s warm embrace as she tiredly mumbled healing charms, he’d started hiding the true brunt of his wounds by the time he was nine. Likely, he remembered thinking, this furtive practice was the only reason he’d been able to wordlessly send Borgin backward in their scuffle. “Tergeo.” The socks dried in boy’s palms, smelling faintly of bergamot–an addition he’d perfected before even receiving his letter. Just as he made a move to pull them back on Mary’s heels, she drew away from his grasp so quickly one might have thought she’d been burned. Right. You can’t have it both ways, Lupin.
He cleared his throat, regretting his spill a second time. For someone consistently at the top of his class, he really did have a rather poor way with words. “They call it my furry little problem.” A joke that one of them, who could even guess which now, had made back in third year. It was too easy then, to compare his condition with the cycles of the witches in their year. Aw, Moony, is it your time of the month? He watched with both affection and exhaustion as Mary stumbled over her overture before he conceded slightly and crawled back onto the cushions with all the grace of a spent pup. “I can still bite a kid, even if they’re not mine.” The sleepiness of his tone gave way the clear notion that he’d, however willingly, begun to lose this battle. “Could bite the twins. M’brothers. One mistake–s’all it takes.” Remus hand raised upward, thumb grazing her chin and then jolting back. “Snivvy found out when Pads tried to sick me on him.” A wrinkled appeared deep in his forehead, as though the memory itself could bring back that night from fifth year. “Like ‘m some sort of attack dog. Like I…wouldn’t have to live with that for the rest of my life.”
There were a precious few moments growing up, that Remus allowed himself to think of this very instant. Not only the promise of a future, but one filled with joy, with laughter, with Mary, even if the latter had taken nearly a decade to finally realize. The concrete feeling of her fingers dancing lightly over his cheeks and her eyes dancing over him with adoration, though, far exceeded each of his boyish daydreams. In terms of reckless behavior, Remus considered, this was a better venture than most of the Marauder’s pranks. If he had the mental capacity for it or the sociopathic disregard for another, he might have wondered why he hadn’t busied himself with the closeness of his peers far more often; with their once wandering hands, and arms tangled around each other, there was hardly a point in the dim flat where Remus ended and Mary began. He traced over the jagged scar etched into his cheek, trying to remember all of the reasons he ought to hesitate, but each time even an inch of his skin brushed against hers, he could see sparklers fizzling. “Feels like I’m wasting my breath.” Warmth seeped into his body at the points of contact spreading through him like a heavy drink, rendering him loose and malleable. “You really can’t be talked out of this?” Remus asked, his tone challenging, almost daring her to catch on to the great cosmic joke of his condition and pull away. He lightly touched Mary’s arm at the elbow, sliding his fingers down the inner wrist and the scar that seemed to have unintentionally set this fire. Please, he thought, for the love of God, say no.
“It only has meaning if you let it.” She shrugged, it’d taken her a long time to make it lose it’s meaning and she was proud of how it could roll off her tongue now. As if it wasn’t branded in her mind in the same way the dark mark was branded on her forearm. “I don’t let it. I’d rather be a mudblood than an ignorant purist.” There was a finality in her voice at that, like she’d made that decision long ago and wouldn’t waiver. And she had. Mary loved her muggle roots. Her family. That her dad taught her to drive a car and her mom taught her to make baked goods without the aid of a wand. That her siblings and her had grown up playing football, not riding toy brooms, but she’d still earned a spot on the quidditch team. That she’d had to learn to use a quill and ink well, when she had grown up using pens and pencils. She truly had the best of both worlds, in her mind, and that was the true reason purebloods must have felt inferior, wasn’t it? Because they didn’t understand? She watched her socks go dry and the bits of glass fall to the floor. Her eyes fell slightly.
A small smile cracked at his words. They call it my furry little problem. “Not your time of the month?” She quipped, because that’s what she would have gone with. Mary would have called it PMS, Proper Moon Syndrome, or something of the likes, depending on which word she could come up with to fill the ‘P’. But, as quickly as the smile had come, the frown replaced it. “You’re careful, thought, aren’t you? From being around others on full moons? It couldn’t have been an issue if you were allowed at Hogwarts. I’d think as long as you were careful, it wouldn’t be an issue.” Not that Mary was ready to have the discussion of children now, anyway. “Oh, come off it. You don’t see the twins enough and I’m not scared of you biting them. Or me. Or anyone. Okay? I know you, Remus John Lupin. You’re too much a worrywart for to allow any of it.” Of that much, she was certain. The corners of her lips pulled down further when he told her what Sirius had done. “He did what?” Her whispered words full of horror, the color, she could feel, drained from her face. Mary held Sirius in such high regards. Always admired him for leaving behind his family in the name of what was right. Loved their shared recklessness and hate for pity. Their pride. “And you forgave him?” How? Was Remus really so forgiving? She didn’t think she could ever be. “Fucking little bastard.” A fire seemed to ignite in her with those words. It was lucky that the sandy hair boy had her wand and Sirius was not around, because she’d have hexed him right then, without a doubt. Or punched him. Violence and outrage were never far from Mary’s person.
Of course he was wasting his breath. They both knew it, didn’t they? Both knew that Mary was far too stubborn to listen to reason, especially about her feelings towards the werewolf. He was her friend. His presence was one she’d found so much solace in throughout the years. Was it really a surprise to either of them that her feelings had developed. That his lips over the fresh engraving of the dark mark on her wrist had elicited her undying devotion? An urge to kiss him? No, that was who she was. Her feelings were intense, because she was intense. Her love was strong and her will stronger. She wanted to be with Remus and werewolf or not, it didn’t change matters for her. He’d been a werewolf since before she’d met him, so really, he was the same person. “No.” She said finally, voice concise; certain. Still she sucked in a breath when he touched the healing mark on her arm again. “You’ll never talk me out of wanting you.”
