Marks the Moon Made || Remus lupin x Slytherin!bully!reader
Summary - You learned cruelty early, ingrained through a cold upbringing in a pure-blood household that valued reputation over feelings. By the time you arrived at Hogwarts, you had mastered the art of appearing untouchable, a trait that Slytherin only honed further. You despised the chaotic Gryffindors, especially the Marauders, but found Remus Lupin particularly irritating your disdain festered into a habit of targeting him—mocking his limp and scars, feigning concern.
Warning - Mention of abuse , gore and blood, The following content is explicit (hate sex) and intended for mature audiences only. It contains graphic sexual descriptions and dialogue that may be considered offensive or inappropriate by some readers.
Wc - 3.3k
A/n - Honesty is lost interest while writing this, I had some great expectations for this and I would have made reader grovel a lot more but I got bored and I just couldn't write-
You learned cruelty early.
Not the loud, reckless kind that drew detentions. Yours was precise, inherited, taught between slammed doors and cold dinners where affection was measured and mistakes were punished. In a pure-blood household where reputation mattered more than bruises, arrogance was not a flaw. It was armor. By the time Hogwarts wrapped itself around you with stone walls and floating candles, you already knew how to look untouchable.
Slytherin only refined it.
You walked the corridors like you owned them, spine straight, expression bored, eyes sharp enough to cut. People moved out of your way. They always did. It was easier than being reminded of home.
You hated the Marauders on principle.
James Potter was insufferably loud, Sirius Black too reckless to fear consequences, Peter Pettigrew too eager to follow. They were chaos wrapped in Gryffindor red, and they reminded you of everything you despised. But Remus Lupin stood apart from them in a way that irritated you most of all.
He did not match them.
He was quiet where they were noisy, withdrawn where they were bold. He laughed softly, like he was borrowing the sound, and he always seemed tired, eyes ringed with shadows even after full nights of sleep. He carried books like shields and apologies like reflexes. You could not understand how a Gryffindor could be so small.
And then there were the scars.
You noticed them the first week of term. A thin line cutting across his cheekbone. Another near his eyebrow, pale against his skin. They were not dramatic, not impressive. They looked accidental, careless. You decided they came from clumsiness, from tripping over his own feet, from being too weak to protect himself.
That assumption became fuel.
The first time you targeted him, it was in the library. You leaned over his table, shadow stretching across his parchment, and asked loudly if he needed help reading the words. His ears turned red immediately. He apologized, even though he had done nothing wrong. That only encouraged you.
After that, it became routine.
You mocked the way he limped slightly on bad days, asked if he’d fallen down the stairs again. You commented on his scars with faux concern, wondering aloud how someone so fragile had survived childhood. Sometimes you laughed when he flinched. Sometimes you pretended not to notice him at all, which hurt worse.
He never fought back.
That was the strangest part.
James bristled. Sirius snarled. Peter hovered. But Remus only lowered his gaze, shoulders folding inward, as if he were trying to make himself smaller. He absorbed your words like rain into soil already soaked. You told yourself it was because he deserved it.
You never saw the scars beneath his clothes.
You never saw the marks that traced his torso like constellations, pale and jagged. You never saw the ones at his neck, hidden by collars, or the older ones that wrapped around his legs. You never questioned why he disappeared once a month, or why Madam Pomfrey watched him with quiet worry.
You only saw what you wanted to see.
And so you kept hurting him, convinced that whatever had marked Remus Lupin was nothing compared to what the world had done to you.
One evening, after a particularly grueling Potions class where Slughorne had favored your precise brewing with a rare nod of approval, you found Remus alone in the corridors near the Astronomy Tower. The castle was quiet, the other Marauders off causing some idiotic prank in the common areas, leaving him to his solitary wanderings. You had seen him slip away, his steps uneven, hand pressed subtly to his side as if nursing an invisible ache.
You followed, silent as a shadow, your robes whispering against the stone. He didn't notice you until you stepped into his path, blocking the dim torchlight. His eyes widened fractionally, that familiar flicker of wariness crossing his face, but he said nothing. Just stopped, book clutched to his chest like a talisman.
'Lost again, Lupin?' you drawled, voice low and edged with that practiced disdain. You stepped closer, invading his space, watching how his breath hitched. Up close, you could see the faint sheen of sweat on his brow, the way his shirt clung slightly to his frame. He looked… disheveled. Vulnerable. It stirred something in you, a twisted curiosity beneath the cruelty.
He shook his head, murmuring, 'No, just heading back.' His voice was soft, almost swallowed by the echo of the hall. You tilted your head, letting your gaze drop to the scar on his cheek, tracing it with your eyes as if appraising a flaw in fine china.
'Heading back to hide those little accidents of yours?' You reached out, fingers brushing the edge of his collar before he could flinch away. He did anyway, a sharp intake of breath, stepping back until his shoulders hit the wall. The movement pulled his shirt taut, and for a split second, you glimpsed something—a pale line disappearing beneath the fabric, curving toward his collarbone.
Your pulse quickened, not from fear, but from the thrill of uncovering a secret he guarded so poorly. 'What's this one from? Did Potter trip you into a thorn bush during one of their escapades? Or did you just forget how to walk straight?'
Remus's face paled, his lips pressing into a thin line. He didn't answer, just stared at the floor, fists clenching around his book. The silence stretched, heavy and charged, and you felt a rush of power, the kind that came from pressing until something gave. You leaned in closer, your breath ghosting his ear. 'Or maybe it's from something worse. Something you can't explain away with your Gryffindor bravado.'
He swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing, and for the first time, you saw a crack in his composure—a tremor in his hands, the way his eyes darted as if seeking escape. You pressed your advantage, your hand flat against the wall beside his head, caging him in. The heat from his body radiated toward you, mingling with the cool draft of the corridor. You could smell the faint trace of ink and old paper on him, undercut by something earthier, wilder.
'Tell me, Lupin,' you whispered, your voice dropping to a silken threat, 'how many more of those are hidden under there? Do they go all the way down? Across your chest? Your stomach?' Your eyes flicked downward, imagining the map of them etched into his skin, and a dark heat uncoiled in your gut. Not pity—never that—but a possessive hunger to know, to expose, to claim the vulnerability he buried so deep.
He turned his face away, cheeks flushing with humiliation, but he didn't push you off. Didn't fight. Just stood there, trembling faintly, as your words sank in like barbs. You lingered a moment longer, savoring the way his body tensed under your scrutiny, before stepping back with a smirk.
'Pathetic,' you said lightly, as if it were an afterthought. But as you walked away, the image of him pinned against the stone lingered, stirring questions you hadn't anticipated. What else was he hiding? And why did the thought of peeling back those layers make your blood run hot?
The full moon hung bloated and merciless in the sky, its silver light slicing through the castle's narrow windows like a curse. You shouldn't have been wandering the corridors that night—curfew had long passed, and the air carried that restless hum of secrets the old stones seemed to whisper. But sleep had evaded you, tangled in memories of slammed doors and the sharp sting of a belt across your back, hidden now under the crisp lines of your Slytherin robes. Your footsteps echoed softly as you paced, the chill seeping through your socks, until a distant snarl cut through the quiet. Not a cat's hiss or Filch's shuffle, but something primal, ragged, pulling you toward the grounds like a hook in your gut.
The Whomping Willow loomed ahead, its branches still in the unnatural calm, but noises—growls, thuds, a pained whine—drew you closer. You crouched behind a cluster of boulders, heart pounding against your ribs, peering through the gloom. There, in the clearing, was Remus Lupin. Not the quiet boy you knew, but something unraveling. His body arched, shirt tearing at the seams as fur rippled across his skin, bones cracking and reforming in a symphony of agony. His face contorted, eyes wide with a terror that mirrored your own as claws sprouted from his fingers, fangs elongating in his mouth. You froze, breath caught in your throat, every instinct screaming to run, to scream, to pretend this nightmare wasn't real.
But you couldn't look away. In those final human moments, before the beast fully claimed him, his eyes met the moonlight—raw, pleading, etched with a pain so deep it clawed at you. Not anger, not rage, but exhaustion, like carrying a war inside his bones. The transformation hit its peak; he dropped to all fours, a massive wolf now, fur matted and heaving, yellow eyes scanning the dark with feral confusion.
Then the others appeared—James, Sirius, Peter—slipping from the shadows like ghosts. You watched, stunned, as they shifted too: stag, dog, rat, circling the wolf with practiced ease, nudging him away from the castle's edge. No judgment in their forms, just fierce protection. They herded him toward the Shrieking Shack, the wolf's howls fading into the night, and guilt crashed over you like a hex. All those times you'd sneered at his scars, called them marks of weakness, mocked his limps as clumsiness. Now it made sense—the monthly absences, the shadows under his eyes, the way he'd shrink from your barbs. You'd been carving into wounds that ran deeper than skin, blind to the monster that tore him apart from the inside.
Dawn crept in slow and gray, the moon's grip loosening. You trailed at a distance, robes muddied from the damp grass, until you saw them emerge from the Shack's direction—James supporting Remus's slumped form, Sirius barking orders, Peter fidgeting. They made for the hospital wing, and you hung back, pulse racing with a mix of dread and compulsion. Madam Pomfrey met them at the doors, her face a mask of weary efficiency, shooing the Marauders out with sharp words about rest and interference. "He's safe now—go, before I hex you all." They grumbled but obeyed, vanishing down the hall, leaving the wing's heavy doors to swing shut behind them.
The air inside smelled of potions and clean linen, a stark contrast to the night's wild rot. Remus lay on a bed in the far corner, curtain half-drawn for privacy. His shirt was gone, discarded in the chaos, revealing the map of scars you'd only glimpsed before: jagged lines crisscrossing his chest, dipping toward his ribs, fading into older, silvery tracks on his abdomen. He shifted restlessly, eyes closed, breaths shallow and ragged, skin slick with sweat that caught the lantern light. Each twitch pulled at the fresh marks—red welts from the night's frenzy—and you remembered your own body after your father's rages: curled on cold floors, bruises blooming like ink under fabric, the burn of welts you layered clothes over to hide. The isolation of it, the shame that no one saw, no one understood.
You moved closer without thinking, drawn by that shared silence of suffering. Your hand hovered, then brushed his chest—light, absentminded, tracing a raised scar from his collarbone downward, feeling the warmth of his skin, the faint tremor beneath. A melody slipped from your lips, unbidden: the soft lullaby your sister had hummed in the dark after the worst nights, her voice a fragile shield against the storm. "Hush now, shadows flee… let the quiet come for thee…" The notes wove through the room, low and soothing, your fingers following the ridges of his pain like mapping a familiar hurt.
You didn't hear his breathing steady, didn't see his eyelids flutter open. He watched you, silent, the tune wrapping around the ache in his joints, easing the fire in his muscles. Your touch—gentle, exploratory—sent a warmth spreading, unreal as a dream, blurring the line between torment and solace. For a moment, the world narrowed to that contact: your palm flat against his sternum, feeling his heartbeat slow, the melody vibrating in the space between you.
Then you looked up. His eyes were open, hazel depths locking onto yours, clear despite the exhaustion. No accusation there, just a quiet intensity. He looked… ethereal in the dim light, hair tousled against the pillow, lips parted as if tasting the air. Soft edges to his face, but not fragile—strength carved into the lines around his mouth, the set of his jaw, like someone who'd borne too much for too long and still rose each dawn. Not weak, not broken, but enduring, a quiet force that made your chest tighten with something achingly real.
You froze, hand still on his skin, the melody dying on your tongue. The room held its breath, the weight of unspoken truths hanging between you—your cruelty, his secret, the scars that bound you both in ways you'd never imagined.
Your hand jerks back as if his skin scorches you, fingers curling into a fist at your side. The warmth of his chest lingers on your palm, a ghost of the touch you didn't mean to give. The room spins for a second, the potion vials on the nearby shelf blurring, and you step away from the bed, robes whispering against the stone floor. Remus's eyes stay on you, steady, unblinking—hazel flecked with gold in the lantern's glow, holding no flinch, no instinctive recoil like all the times before. That gaze pins you, strips away the layers of your practiced disdain, and shame floods in, hot and unrelenting, seeping into your bones like ink in water. You can't undo the barbs you've flung, the laughs at his expense, the way you've prodded his wounds without knowing their source. The cruelty sits heavy now, a weight you can't shrug off, and for the first time, you see the wreckage you've helped build.
He doesn't accuse you. No sharp words, no demand for explanation. Just silence, thick and accusing in its absence, twisting the knife deeper than any shout could. It hurts more than you expected, this quiet judgment, forcing you to confront the echo of your own voice mocking him in the corridors. Finally, his lips part, voice soft but edged with fatigue, like gravel underfoot. "How long were you there?"
The question hangs, simple and devastating. Guilt surges, a tidal wave crashing over your chest, making your throat tighten. You swallow hard, gaze dropping to the floor, to the scuffed tiles that have seen too many secrets. This is the first time he's looked at you without that subtle shrink, without the wary hunch of shoulders. No fear, just a weary assessment, and it unravels you further.
"The whole thing," you murmur, voice cracking on the edges. "From the Willow. I… I followed the noise."
His expression doesn't shift, but something flickers in his eyes—resignation, perhaps, or the dull ache of inevitability. He props himself up slightly on the pillows, wincing as fresh scratches pull taut across his ribs, the sheet slipping low on his hips. The scars map his torso like a brutal history: deep gashes fading to white lines, newer ones raw and pink. He sets a deliberate distance, not with anger's fire, but a cool self-preservation, pulling the sheet higher as if redrawing boundaries you've crossed too many times. "Why are you here?" he asks, tone even, probing without heat.
You meet his gaze again, the words tumbling out honest for once, raw and unfiltered. "I didn't know." It's a confession, small and inadequate, but it spills anyway, carrying the weight of all those unseen nights you'd sneered at his limps, his absences, his fragility.
Remus exhales slowly, the sound measured, almost cold in its calm. "Ignorance didn't stop your cruelty." His words land like a quiet hex, not laced with venom but truth, sharp and unyielding. For the first time, he holds the reins of this exchange—no stammer, no evasion. The power shifts, subtle but seismic, leaving you exposed in the wake of your own actions. He watches you, not with triumph, but a guarded detachment, as if weighing whether this glimpse of remorse is real or just another layer of your games.
Shame roots deeper, twisting in your gut, a reminder that some damages can't be mended with apologies. You stand there, frozen, the air between you charged with the unsaid: your father's fists leaving their own hidden brands under your robes, the isolation you've both worn like armor. He's rotting from the inside out tonight—body spent from the shift, muscles trembling faintly under the scars, eyes shadowed with exhaustion that clings like fog. Yet there's a hunger in his stare now, raw and unpolished, born from the vulnerability you've both bared. He needs this, needs to reclaim something in the ruins, and the pull drags you under, obsessive and tangled with the hate you've nursed, the guilt that's flooding your veins, the fragile thread of forgiveness neither of you can name yet.
You move before thinking, shedding your robes in a heap, the cool air hitting your skin, revealing the faded welts across your back, the bruises long healed but etched in memory. His eyes trace them, darkening not with pity, but recognition—a shared language of pain. "Don't," he says, but it's half-hearted, voice rough as you climb onto the bed, straddling his hips. The sheet falls away, exposing him fully: cock half-hard already, thick and veined, stirring against your thigh despite the night's toll. He's wrecked, breaths shallow, but his hands grip your waist, fingers digging in with a possessiveness that borders on punishment.
Guilt drowns you as you sink down, guiding his length inside you, the stretch burning sharp and immediate. You gasp, shame coiling tight in your chest, but you ride him anyway, hips rolling slow at first, feeling every inch of him fill you, hot and insistent. He's bad at holding back—thrusts erratic, hips bucking up into you with a growl that rips from his throat, fueled by the beast still lingering in his blood. "You think this fixes it?" he mutters, voice low and biting, one hand sliding up to pinch your nipple hard, twisting until you whimper. Hate simmers there, in the way he watches you bounce on him, scars flexing with each movement, but it's laced with need, his free hand bruising your thigh as he drives deeper.
You lean forward, nails raking down his chest over old scars, drawing a hiss from him that mixes pain and pleasure. Shame floods hotter with every slap of skin, every grind of your clit against his base, but you can't stop—obsessed with the way he feels, the forgiveness you're chasing in his grunts, the guilt that makes your walls clench tighter around him. He flips you suddenly, strength surging despite his fatigue, pinning you beneath him. His mouth crashes to yours, teeth nipping your lip until copper blooms, then trails down, sucking bruises into your neck, your collarbone—marks to match his own.
He shifts lower, shoving your legs apart with rough hands, and buries his face between your thighs. His tongue lashes out, flat and demanding, lapping at your folds before spearing inside, tasting the slick mix of your arousal and his earlier release. You arch, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling hard as guilt twists with ecstasy—every flick of his tongue a reminder of the cruelty, every suck on your clit a step toward absolution. He eats you out like he's starving, nose grinding against you, growling vibrations that send shocks up your spine. "Fuck," you moan, shame making tears prick your eyes, but he doesn't let up, fingers curling into you, hitting that spot until you shatter, thighs clamping around his head, cum flooding his mouth.
He rises, slick-chinned and feral, cock throbbing as he positions himself again. This time, he lets you take control once more, guiding you to straddle his face first—no, wait, he pulls you down onto him reverse, your back to his chest, so he can watch the scars on your own body while you ride. His hands roam, one thumb circling your ass, pressing in just enough to tease, the other slapping your hip to urge you faster. You grind down, taking him to the hilt, the angle letting him hit deep, bruising your insides. Obsession burns—hate in the way you clench to hurt him back, guilt in the apologies whispered between gasps, forgiveness in how he meets your pace, thrusting up until he spills inside you, hot pulses that leave you dripping.
But he's not done. Energy flares, unnatural and desperate, as he rolls you onto your stomach, spreading your cheeks to lick a stripe over your hole, tongue probing wet and insistent while his fingers fuck your pussy, stretching you with two, then three. Shame overwhelms as you push back, begging incoherently, the vulnerability cracking you open. He mounts you from behind, cock sliding into your ass this time—slow at first, the burn making you sob, but he doesn't stop, pounding in with sloppy, forceful strokes that echo the night's chaos. His hand snakes around to rub your clit, forcing another orgasm from you, walls fluttering around nothing as he chases his own, filling you until it leaks down your thighs.
You collapse together, sweat-slick and spent, his weight a heavy comfort across your back. Silence returns, but softer now, laced with the ache of growth yet to come. He doesn't pull away immediately, breath ragged against your neck, but the distance lingers in his touch—guarded, a promise of the slow path ahead. Redemption isn't here yet; it's a burn that will scar, but in this moment, tangled in sheets and secrets, it's a start.