summary: remus had long established a routine of meeting you after class with a chocolate bar he unfailingly carried, only to learn, almost a year into your relationship, that you actually despise chocolate.
warnings: mentions of food aversion, remus is so fucking in love, tooth-rotting fluff, remus mentioned to be taller than reader, emotional moments, mild disappointment, lighthearted teasing, no major triggers.
authors note: this was actually sent as a request, but i couldn't find it in my inbox at all ;( masterlist
Remus truly, utterly felt betrayed.
It was as though he had been struck—swiftly and unforgivingly—by the revelation, as though the world he had so tenderly built around the small, consistent gestures of love had been rendered false in a single breath.
For nearly the entirety of your relationship, he had offered you a bar of chocolate nearly every day, without fail, drawn from the stack he perpetually kept within his satchel or coat pocket. It had become his ritual; his quiet devotion.
And you, his incomparably lovely girl, had always received it with such radiant warmth: a smile that could rival the sun’s gentlest rays, a kiss to his cheek that left him flustered still, even a year into the comfort of your love.
You would unwrap the chocolate bar with familiar eagerness and take a bite, your laughter trailing behind you as you walked toward your next class.
That was all it took for Remus to make certain he never left his dormitory without a piece tucked away—because the joy that bloomed across your face whenever you beamed “Thank you, Remmy,” before pressing your lips to his cheek, was nothing short of a reward in itself.
To him, that small exchange was a thread that stitched itself into the very fabric of your love story.
Which is why, now, standing across from Lily Evans in the quiet corner of the library, Remus could scarcely process the words she had just spoken.
He stared at her, lips parted, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and silent injury. His voice, when it returned to him, was low and flat. “She hates chocolate?”
The words felt blasphemous, treacherous, as they escaped his mouth.
Lily gave him a look that balanced both sympathy and exasperation, as if she had long anticipated this moment and dreaded being the one to deliver it. "I’m sorry, Remus. I thought you knew. Honestly, I assumed you’d figured it out by now."
He shook his head slowly, brows drawn in quiet confusion. "No, no, that makes absolutely no sense. She eats it all the time. I give it to her every day, Lily!"
"Yes, Remus," Lily said gently, her tone soft but firm, "because she doesn’t want to hurt your feelings. She knows how much it means to you."
Remus stared at her for a long moment, and something subtle but significant shifted behind his eyes. "But I only ever gave it to her because I thought it made her happy."
"It does," Lily replied, placing a careful hand on his arm. "Because you gave it to her. Not because of what it was."
Remus looked past Lily, eyes unfocused, his thoughts spiraling.
He tried to recall every moment. Every time he had handed you a bar of chocolate with a gentle smile and a kiss to the temple. Every time you had taken it with a thank-you and a laugh, like it made you happy. It had felt like something sacred between you. He had always thought it was.
"How long have you known?"
"Since forever?" Lily said carefully, watching him. "Everyone knows Y/N hates chocolate, Remus. I thought you did too."
Remus exhaled, a slow and disbelieving sound. He pressed a hand to his mouth as if to ground himself. And then, faintly, as though speaking more to the universe than to her, he murmured, "I have been feeding her tiny instruments of misery every morning like clockwork, and she accepted it with grace I did not deserve."
Lily smiled, but her eyes were soft with understanding. "That’s love, Remus, and it goes both ways. But maybe next time… ask what her favourite treat is."
He gave a faint, breathless laugh, still trying to reconcile the odd ache blooming in his chest. "I will. Merlin, I will."
Which is how Remus, now two days later, found himself back in routine, standing just outside your arithmancy classroom with his hands tucked into the pockets of his trousers, waiting for you.
The hallway smelled like parchment and ink and something faintly sweet from the kitchens, and when you emerged—laughing at something one of your friends said—Remus stood a little straighter.
Your eyes found him instantly, bright and warm as ever, and you gave him that smile, the one that always made his chest feel too full.
"Hey, dovey," he murmured as you reached him, wrapping an arm around your shoulder in a quick hug. "How was your day?"
You beamed, already beginning to ramble as the two of you started walking down the corridor, hands laced. "It was so boring in the morning, but then Slughorn paired me with Mary for the new potion, and we actually didn’t mess it up for once. And oh, you know that weird Ravenclaw boy who always brings pickles to class? He—"
God, Remus had never been more in love.
He let you talk, content to let the sound of your voice wash over him like sunlight through a window on a cold morning. Your fingers stayed laced with his, as you gently swung your joined hands back and forth in that familiar rhythm you always slipped into when you were truly happy.
In that moment, with your laughter filling the space between you, Remus was especially happy to know that you were happy with him.
You suddenly paused mid-sentence and looked up at him with a soft frown. "Wait—what about you, Rem? How are you? Does your knee still hurt?"
His heart tugged at the way you remembered. He gave your hand a squeeze and shook his head. "No, love, it’s alright. I wrapped it up this morning. Feels much better today."
"Good," you said, then smiled when he reached into his satchel.
He pulled out a neatly wrapped little bar and offered it to you. "Brought you something."
Your eyes lit up at first, the way they always did when he gave you something, but then you blinked, taking the bar from his hand.
“This wrapping looks… different,” you said curiously, turning it over. “Did you change the chocolate brand?”
Remus didn’t say anything at first. He just watched you, his expression soft as ever, fondness written in every line of his face.
You unwrapped the bar, expecting the familiar scent of cocoa, but instead—
"Wait—this is caramel?" you said, sniffing.
"Mhm." he hummed, the sound low and pleased.
You looked up at him like he’d just handed you a puzzle you weren’t expecting. “Since when do you get caramel?”
He just smiled, slipping his hands into his coat pockets as he leaned a little closer, shoulder brushing yours with that casual, familiar ease that always made your heart skip.
“Thought I’d switch it up,” he said lightly, like it was nothing — even though, from the way he glanced sideways at you, it clearly wasn’t nothing at all.
You took a slow bite, still suspicious, but your eyebrows rose as soon as the caramel hit your tongue. “Oh! Wait—this is actually… really, really good.”
Remus turned his head just enough to catch your reaction, a satisfied smile playing on his lips. “I had a feeling you’d think so.”
You narrowed your eyes at him, lips twitching. “You’re being weird.”
“Am I?” he asked, all innocence and wide-eyed mischief.
You nudged him lightly with your elbow, the wrapper still in your other hand. “A little.”
He laughed under his breath, then reached over to gently swipe a bit of caramel from the corner of your mouth with his thumb. The touch was warm and brief, but it made your breath catch just slightly.
“So,” he murmured, “does that mean I should make a permanent switch to caramel?”
Truthfully, Remus had sworn to himself he’d never let you near chocolate. Especially now, with the knowledge Lily had casually dropped like a grenade two days ago, everything made horrifying sense. The way you’d force a smile, the slight wince you tried to hide, the polite little nod as you bit into something you clearly couldn’t stand.
But you were also you. And so, despite that little white lie he was keeping tucked behind a caramel-flavored peace offering, he couldn’t help teasing you anyway.
You rambled before you could stop yourself. “I mean—I don’t mind anything from you, obviously. I just think the caramel’s a really nice change from the chocolate, y’know? But of course I’d love whatever you gave me. Really. I just think this one is, like, such a good choice, Rem.”
Remus blinked in surprise, then laughed—an unrestrained, genuine sound that rose before he could stop it. His heart pulled tight in his chest, aching in that soft, familiar way it always did around you.
Because of course, even now, even with your clear dislike for chocolate, you’d still accept it if it came from him.
You’d eat something you couldn’t stand just to make him happy. You’d sweeten your words, cover the truth in kindness, and act like it didn’t bother you at all.
And here you were now, flustered and stammering and still trying to be gentle about the switch, just in case it hurt his feelings.
He looked at you like you were the most precious thing on earth. “Well then,” he said softly, “I guess caramel it is, dovey.”
You brightened immediately, smiling so wide it made Remus feel like he could float.
You stood on your tiptoes without thinking, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Thank you, Remmy!”
And as always, he blushed.
Truth be told, Remus didn’t mind carrying two different bars in his pockets now—chocolate for himself, caramel for you. Because in the end, he still got his soft little “thank you, remmy,” still earned his daily kiss on the cheek, and—most of all—he still got to watch you smile like he’d hung the stars just for you.
Yeah. The switch was definitely worth it, if only to become a blushing mess over you all over again.
summary: in which you, a chaotic orange cat animagus known as snickers, unleash midnight zoomies on the gryffindor dorm, dragging padfoot into absolute mayhem and wrecking everything in sight.
a/n: this tiktok is literally snickers and padfoot wth?? masterlist
Remus was particularly accustomed to the chaos that punctuated his life at Hogwarts—the unruly Marauders, the unpredictable phases of the moon, and the relentless demands of both magic and mortality.
Yet, nothing in his experience – no amount of weariness or forewarning – had prepared him for the spectacle that awaited behind the worn door of the Gryffindor dormitory after a long, grueling night of study.
The moment the door1 creaked open, an uproarious cacophony assaulted his senses.
Books and parchment littered the floor like casualties of a minor explosion. A startled owl screeched and flapped against the far wall, desperate to escape the pandemonium.
Amid the wreckage, two figures blazed with frenetic energy: Snickers, the fiery orange blur of a cat animagus possessed by the most intense zoomies anyone had ever witnessed, and Padfoot, a dark shadow of equal parts menace and mirth, darting and bounding with predatory zeal.
James sat perched atop the dresser, arms folded, laughter bubbling from his lips as if he were witnessing the most entertaining spectacle in years.
“Remus! You missed the highlight reel—Snickers just launched herself off the bed and knocked over the whole lampstand. Padfoot’s been chasing her tail for the past five minutes.”
Snickers skidded across the floor, knocking a stack of books into the air. One fluttered down to land on James’s head, eliciting a dramatic groan.
Without pause, you streaked between Remus’s legs and shot upward like a comet, claws scrabbling at the ceiling tapestry.
Padfoot was instantly on your tail, teeth bared in a playful snarl.
“James, why aren’t you breaking this up?” Remus demanded, trying to keep his voice steady over the uproar.
James shrugged, grinning unabashedly. “And ruin the fun? No way.”
A low growl sounded from the corner, and you responded with a triumphant yowl as you vaulted toward a precarious stack of quills.
Padfoot intercepted you mid-air, sending both of you crashing into a pile of scattered robes. The ensuing tumble sent Remus staggering backward, narrowly avoiding a flying textbook.
He closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, breath hitching. “I just—after today’s exam, I was hoping for some peace.
“Peace died the moment Snickers remembered she’s a cat with a rocket strapped to her back,” James said with a wink. “Seriously, moony, I think she’s been holding all this energy in since the last full moon.”
Snickers (you) exploded into another frenzy, darting from wall to wall, a streak of orange lightning barely visible in the dim light.
Padfoot yipped and leapt after you, knocking into the dresser and sending a cascade of socks raining down like confetti.
Remus didn’t even make it fully to the chair.
He’d aimed for it—honestly, he had—but between the pile of exploded parchment, the mangled remains of what he hoped was just a textbook, and the streak of orange that rocketed under his feet, he never stood a chance.
One foot slipped, the other tangled in a sock, and suddenly he was flat on his back, blinking up at the canopy.
You zipped past his head, your claws skidding dramatically against the wood floor, tail puffed up like a bottlebrush, pupils blown wide with ecstasy.
“I will hex both of you!” Remus snapped, pointing furiously at you as you vaulted off James’s trunk, ricocheted onto Padfoot’s back mid-run, and used him like a trampoline, vanishing under the bed in a blaze of orange rage.
Padfoot howled and spun in three tight circles, eyes wild.
“Don’t you dare—” Remus warned, finger still raised.
Too late. Padfoot launched after you with the reckless momentuml, disappearing under the bed with a guttural growl and a flurry of socks.
“Padfoot, get out from under there! And you—” he pointed to the bed frame, where the tip of your tail flicked defiantly out from beneath.
“Come out before I charm your paws to the floor!”
Another crash answered him from beneath the bed.
“WHAT are you doing?” Remus shouted from the floor, voice cracked and betrayed.
James was doubled over on his bed, face purple with laughter, tears streaming down his cheeks. “You just got demolished, Moony—by a ten-pound feline!”
Padfoot reemerged with your tail in his mouth. You were yowling furiously, limbs flailing like a spaghetti demon, fur puffed in seven directions.
“Let her go, you maniac—!” Remus scrambled up, just in time for Padfoot to tear through the room in a victory lap, dragging you along the floor like some kind of orange war banner.
James was now on the floor, laughing so hard he wheezed, slapping the stone tiles.
Remus sighed, ducking as a pillow launched itself from the bed and exploded into a storm of feathers.
You broke free with an acrobatic twist, rebounded off the wall, and scaled James’s curtains.
From the top of the bedpost, you looked down with imperial menace, panting, fur standing on end.
Padfoot barked again and lunged up after you, but missed and headbutted the wardrobe.
There was a long silence.
Then a crash.
Then the wardrobe tipped sideways and slammed into the floor.
Padfoot didn’t pause to assess the wreckage. The wardrobe had barely finished slamming to the floor when he snarled—low and guttural—and launched himself at you.
You barely had time to adjust your footing on the bedpost before he collided with the frame below, sending the whole canopy rattling.
He jumped again, this time with intent, claws scrabbling, teeth flashing.
His weight rocked the structure, and before you could leap away, he caught your leg in his mouth.
“PADFOOT—!” Remus’s voice cracked like a whip, sharp with panic. He was already on his feet, wand half-raised, eyes wide. “Let go! What are you doing?!”
You twisted in his grip, yowling in protest, your ears flattened, body writhing like liquid fury. He didn’t release and so you raked your claws across his snout with a hiss.
Padfoot reeled back with a yelp, fur bristling, blood blooming where your claws had connected.
And then—shift—he was Sirius again, all limbs and wild black hair.
“You psychopath!” he barked, staggering backward and rubbing at the scratch on his nose. “You clawed me across the face!”
“You tackled her!” Remus shot back, storming forward now, eyes flicking between the two of you, trying to determine if he needed to physically intervene. “She’s half your size, Sirius—what the hell was that?!”
“She bit me first!” Sirius shouted. “And look at her!”
You were still vibrating at the top of the bedpost, fur puffed, eyes blazing, tail whipping side to side like a live fuse.
“She’s got demon energy! That’s not a cat!.”
And then you moved.
You leapt off the post in a blinding flash of orange and took off across the room like your tail was on fire, skidding across a pile of quills, then rebounding off a chair.
“Oh, hell no—” Sirius dove after you, crawling under the bed, swearing violently. “Come back here, you absolute gremlin—”
Remus reached out a hand to stop him but missed. James was back to wheezing on the floor.
“This is better than the Gryffindor vs Slytherin match,” he gasped.
You darted out from beneath the bed just as Sirius lunged again, sending both of you toppling into the curtains. The fabric ripped, Sirius cursed as yoy tore out of the mess and leapt onto his back.
“OW—bloody hell—she’s on me again—Remus! Help!”
But Remus didn’t move.
Yiu shifted mid-pounce, landing on Sirius’s back in human form, knocking the wind out of him as he crashed forward with a grunt.
“What the—?!” He tried to turn over, arms flailing, but you hooked an arm around his neck and pulled him down again.
“Not so fast, mutt,” you growled, grinning into his ear.
“Oh, now you’ve done it—” Sirius flipped under you, wrestling playfully, his hands grabbing at your waist as he tried to flip you back. “You think you can scratch me and tackle me?”
“Yes, I can!” you shot back, elbowing his ribs.
“Gods, you’re feral,” he wheezed.
“You attacked me!”
“You attacked me first!”
“You bit my tail!”
Remus groaned, rubbing both hands over his face. “Can we please go one night without bloodshed?”
You rolled off him, flopping back on the floor, hair a mess, breath heaving. Sirius followed, lying beside you, shoulder brushing yours.
Then, suddenly, Sirius scrambled to his feet with dramatic flair and sprinted across the room.
“Moony!” he wailed, arms outstretched like a tragic widow. “Your girlfriend is so mean to me!”
Remus barely had time to react before Sirius flung himself forward and latched onto him like a lifeline. “She scratched me! She bit me!”
“You dragged me across the floor by my tail!” you barked from the other side of the room, indignant, hair wild, one sock still stuck to your elbow.
“What was I supposed to do? Purr?!”
Remus, to his credit, didn’t flinch. He stood there with Sirius clinging to him like a particularly dramatic scarf and let out a long, exhausted sigh.
You gaped. “I’m rabid?! You’re the one who went full wolf-on-steroids—Remus, tell him he’s wrong! Tell him I’m not rabid.”
Remus looked between the two of you, the absolute carnage of the dorm, his slashed-up bag in the corner, and said, “I think I’d like to transfer schools.”
James snorted into the pillow he was using to hide his laughter.
Sirius groaned dramatically. “Just hold me while she reloads.”
“Oh my god—” You stomped across the room, snatched Sirius by the collar, and yanked him off Remus with zero effort. “That’s my boyfriend, thank you.”
Remuss finally let the corner of his mouth lift, soft and a little stunned, like he couldn’t believe the storm had finally passed. “Do I get a say in any of this, or…?”
“No!” you and Sirius said in unison.
Then you laughed. Loud and unfiltered and stupidly happy. And Sirius was laughing too, leaning against your shoulder now, his bruised ribs forgotten.
And somehow, even surrounded by feathers, overturned furniture, and two emotionally unstable friends arguing over rights, everything felt exactly right.
hello !! i absolutely adore your marauders fics so much :)
i was wondering if i could request a remus lupin x fem reader fic (reader is an animagus) where they’re in a relationship with eachother however recently remus has been very sassy and sarcastic with her (i am a firm believer in sassy remus lupin, i hc that he can be so annoying sometimes 😭), and reader is getting really fed up with it so she punishes him by transforming into her animagus form (her animal could be a cat or a rabbit, i don’t really mind) and she gives him the silent treatment by glaring at him menacingly as her animagus
i just think this would be such a funny and petty way to get back at remus 😭
Cattitude Problem
Remus Lupin x fem!reader
summary: in which remus has been insufferably smug all day, pushing you to shift into snickers, your sleek orange cat animagus, to escape his relentless teasing. leaving him to try and win your forgiveness while keeping your claws at bay, but it seems snickers (you) has her own mischievous plans to drive remus just as mad as he has driven you.
warnings: mild language, persistent teasing, light emotional tension, pet behavior, affectionate stubbornness, reader being extremely stubborn and petty, lots of ignored apologies, verbal sparring, emotional vulnerability, occasional sarcasm, remus being a sassy little shit, remus pov where he is so in love, reader's animagi is called snickers, fluff.
w/c: 3.8k masterlist
Remus has been insufferable all morning.
Which wouldn’t be unusual if it weren’t for the fact that you actually love him— which, unfortunately, makes everything worse.
Because when someone you love spends the entire day being casually, infuriatingly smug, it doesn’t hit like a joke. It lands like the sting of a rubber band snapping against your skin: quick, deliberate, and just painful enough to make you flinch.
It started at breakfast. You’d woken up late, your hair had declared mutiny, and the last slice of toast had vanished without a trace. Still half-asleep and already on edge, you’d muttered something—less a complaint than a sigh scraped out of frustration.
And Remus, seated across from you in infuriating serenity, calmly buttering his toast like he had all the time in the world, had the nerve to say,
“You’d find mornings easier if you actually prepared for them the night before.”
That was all it took. One sentence, spoken casually and without a care, and somehow you wanted to launch the entire plate at his head.
You didn’t. Mostly because you still had a shred of dignity. And partly (entirely) because Remus Lupin, infuriating as he was, looked so bloody handsome.
Even sitting down, he somehow managed to tower over everything. One arm slung across the back of his chair, legs sprawled like he owned the bloody sun, and a piece of toast held delicately between his fingers like it had earned the right to be touched by him.
You were not proud of the thought, but God, you would’ve traded your soul to be that toast.
Golden and warm, pressed to his lips, held like it belonged there.
You weren’t proud of it. But there it was.
You’d looked at him then, waiting for a smirk, a wink, something to break the tension. But he didn’t even glance up. Just folded the edge of the Daily Prophet like he hadn’t said anything at all.
And the worst part? This fucker knew he was dreamy. Knew it in the smug little way he wore sleep-soft curls and slouchy cardigans, like the universe had handed him beauty on a silver platter and he hadn’t even bothered to say thank you.
Which is precisely why it had been barely an hour since he woke up, and already he was getting on your nerves instead of your pants.
Unbelievable.
And that was only the first strike. The rest of the morning followed suit.
In Defense, when your wand sputtered and your spell tangled mid-air before fizzling out completely, you stumbled a step back, catching yourself on the edge of a desk.
Remus didn’t laugh. That would’ve been too kind.
He just tilted his head and said, “Close,” in a tone that made it perfectly clear it wasn’t.
Later, in the corridor, when you claimed—accurately and with mounting exasperation—that one of the staircases had shifted mid-step and nearly launched you into the abyss, he simply blinked.
You stood there, arms crossed, waiting.
When you finally snapped, “What?”, biting down the urge to throw a shoe at him, he only shrugged.
“Nothing. You’re just… you.”
And somehow, that was worse than any insult.
Now it’s evening, and he’s back in the common room, perfectly at ease as if nothing had happened. He sprawls in his usual chair, a blanket draped casually over one knee, a book balanced effortlessly in one hand.
You linger in the doorway, jaw tightening without conscious thought. His eyes lift, as if drawn by the very weight of your silent ire, and he meets your gaze with that infuriatingly placid expression he’s worn all day—calm, unreadable, and utterly maddening.
“You’re still sulking, then?” His voice is low, smooth, laced with vague amusement.
You say nothing.
He flips a page like it’s the most natural thing in the world and adds, almost as an afterthought, “Hope you found the scarf, by the way. Would be a shame if you lost another thing you swore you didn’t misplace.”
Your fingers twitch, restless and sharp at your sides.
You don’t know what irritates you more—his words, or the effortless way he delivers them, offhand, like he’s commenting on the weather instead of poking at your temper with a feather.
You step further into the room, arms folding across your chest like a shield.
“I didn’t lose it,” you say sharply, voice tight.
“Mhm,” he replies, turning the page with an air of practiced disinterest.
You wait for an apology, a joke, something—bloody anything.
But there is only the soft rustle of parchment and the maddening scrape against the corner of the page as he folds it back into place.
He doesn’t even bother pretending to be interested?!
“You’re doing that thing again,” you say, arms still crossed tightly over your chest, your voice taut with the frustration you’ve been holding in all morning.
He barely lifts his head but arches an eyebrow, that infuriating smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “Which thing exactly?”
“That thing where you act like you’re listening, like you’re actually paying attention to what I’m saying, but really you’re just waiting for me to exhaust myself—waiting until I give up on arguing.”
He lets out a quiet chuckle, almost indulgent, as if this bickering between you has been rehearsed a thousand times before.
“You know, you usually do,” he says softly, with a tone that drips equal parts amusement and quiet certainty.
You narrow your eyes and press, “Do what? Wear myself out? What exactly do you mean by that?”
His smile widens just enough to reveal the smugness beneath. “I mean you get so worked up, so tangled in your own frustration, that before long you’re done. You stop fighting, because you’ve run out of steam.”
His words settle in the air like a weight you hadn’t expected, sharper than any insult you could have thrown.
Fine, Remus.
There is only a long breath you never fully take, and with a sly tilt of your head, you shift.
The room falls silent, as if holding its breath in anticipation.
You curl into yourself, bones reshaping and fur sprouting in a rush of magic.
Your limbs shorten, claws extend, and the familiar sleek orange coat of Snickers, your Animagus form, ripples across your skin—every graceful line and stripe settling into place as you become the cat he knows so well.
You leap lightly onto the arm of his chair, your paws sinking into the worn fabric with deliberate grace.
Settling yourself, you curl your tail once around your body and fix him with a gaze sharp and unyielding.
For once, Remus does not respond immediately. He simply studies you, and for the first time all day, the usual smirk falters.He exhales quietly, a low, resigned sound, and drags a hand across his mouth before casting a sidelong glance at the flickering fire.
“Right,” he mutters, more to himself than to you, “she’s shifted.”
You flick your tail in acknowledgment, then resume your silent vigil, watching him as though he stands before a court of judgment.
Remus reaches for his tea and takes a slow, deliberate sip without meeting your eyes. “This feels deserved,” he admits softly.
At first, he cannot take it seriously.
You, curled up in the unmistakable shape of a very unimpressed orange and white cat, seem like a temporary protest.
He’s seen this before. When you’re annoyed, you shift into your cat form—not just as a silent protest, but as part of a well-rehearsed routine.
Usually, you curl up around him, all sleek fur and sharp claws, until you wear yourself out and reluctantly shift back. It’s your way of saying, I’m mad, but I still need your cuddles, remmy.
He knows this too well. He’s certain you’ll return to yourself once the storm inside settles. Ten minutes, he thinks, then everything will be exactly as it always is.
He turns back to his book.
But five pages later, his eyes drift upward, and there you are still perched—ears half-flattened, tail twitching with a slow, venomous rhythm, unwavering in your silent verdict.
You look deeply offended and this close to filing a formal complaint against his entire existence.
He blinks at you, then smiles, slow and fond, like he finds this ridiculous in the way one finds an angry kitten ridiculous — all teeth and noise and absolutely no threat.
“Oh, dovey,” he murmurs, setting the book aside as he leans forward in his chair, a slow smile curling at the edges of his mouth.
“You’re so cute when you try to be mad.”
His fingers reach toward you gently, expecting a reluctant purr or at least a half-hearted flick of your tail.
Instead, you hiss.
“Right,” he says slowly, pulling back like he’s just remembered you have claws. “Okay. So we’re really doing this.”
You turn your head away with all the dignity in the world, as if further conversation is beneath you. Then you hop off the arm of the chair and stalk across the common room, tail high and every step dripping with carefully performed indifference.
Remus watches you go, utterly baffled.
He blinks, then stands, his hand still tingling from where he nearly touched you.
“Love,” he calls after you, voice cautious but already softening at the edges. “Alright, alright, I may have been—slightly unbearable today. But you’re still being dramatic, aren’t you?”
You say meow nothing, of course. Instead, you leap onto the table beside the sofa, where his books lie neatly stacked—or at least they did—and with one light, deliberate flick of your paw, you send the top one sliding off the edge.
It hits the floor with a solid thump.
Remus opens his mouth. No sound comes out.
You knock another.
And another.
Then you pause, watching him.
“You wouldn’t,” he whispers.
You blink at him, once, as if to say try me.
The last book falls.
Remus exhales, somewhere between horrified and awed, and watches as you stretch lazily before padding toward the corner of the room — where his favorite sweaters are folded in a pile beside the laundry basket.
He sees your eyes narrow.
He sees your paws flex.
He knows exactly what’s coming.
“No, no, no, wait!” he blurts out, nearly tripping over the rug as he scrambles forward.
“Please, please don’t! Not the lambswool! That one’s… it’s—well, it’s my favorite!”
You’re already there, tail flicking with that slow, inevitable menace, claws just barely unsheathed.
He throws up his hands in surrender. “Listen, listen, I’ll do anything! I’ll buy you a lifetime supply of cat treats, I’ll give you the comfiest spot on the couch forever, just please don’t shred the jumper!”
You raise one paw, slow and deliberate, sinking your claws just an inch into the collar of his softest jumper.
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry!” he pleads, voice desperate now, eyes wide like you’re holding his wardrobe hostage.
“Truce, ceasefire, I’m on my knees here! Just… please don’t ruin the lambswool!”
You hold your paw there a moment longer, claws teasing the fabric, eyes locked with his like you’re daring him to breathe wrong.
You retract your claws slowly, then hop down without a sound, sauntering away as if you’re entirely above the violence you almost unleashed.
Remus lets out a soft, barely audible breath of relief and mutters something under his breath about being emotionally held hostage by someone with whiskers.
He thinks that’s the end of it.
It is not.
Because not even thirty seconds later, you’re perched on his desk—the very surface of his work—tail swishing lazily over stacks of notes and essays, eyes locked onto the glass bottle of ink teetering dangerously close to the edge.
“No, Snickers, no!” he says immediately, stepping forward, voice sharpening with panic. “No, no, no, don’t even think about it—”
You think about it.
Then, with one deliberate paw and zero remorse, you bat the ink bottle clean off the desk.
It lands sideways, splattering ink in a dramatic black arc across his half-finished essay. The ink bleeds into the parchment with the slow devastation of spilled wine on white carpet.
“Oh my god, Snickers!” he screams out, voice cracking slightly as he rushes to the desk, grabbing useless scraps of parchment to blot at the disaster.
“Do you even understand what you've just done? That was three nights of research. I footnoted.”
You turn, tail flicking, eyes gleaming with mischief.
He moves faster, reaching to catch you before you can leap off the desk.
“Love, wait—don’t—”
But you hiss sharply, a low warning rumble vibrating from your throat, claws flashing just inches from his outstretched hand.
Remus freezes mid-reach, eyes wide.
“Okay! Okay! I’m sorry, Snickers,” he says hurriedly, hands up like he’s defusing a bomb.
“No scratches, please! I’m on your side—I just don’t want my essay to look like a Runes class went wrong.”
He crouches at the side of the desk eyes soft and serious as he meets your unrelenting glare.
“Alright,” he begins, gentle, breath catching slightly.
You’re still glaring, tail curled neatly around your paws, but he looks at you like you’re the moon dragged down to earth just to ruin him.
“I know I’ve been insufferable today. I know. You have every reason to be angry with me. I was smug, and sarcastic, and far too pleased with myself, and instead of stopping when I saw it bothering you, I kept going—like a complete idiot who thinks being annoying is somehow endearing.”
He lets out a breath, eyes not leaving yours, not even for a second.
“I thought I was being clever. I thought teasing you was harmless. I thought… that making you flustered would make you smile eventually, because you always do. But I wasn’t charming today. I was cruel without realizing it. I didn’t mean to be. But I was, and I hate that.”
You blink once—slow, regal, unreadable.
Still, he takes it as hope, and he continues.
“I shouldn’t have called you dramatic. I didn’t mean it in the way it sounded. I meant dramatic the way feelings are—when you love someone so much, everything feels bigger. You care so deeply, so fiercely, and sometimes I forget how easy it is to hurt you when you’re trying not to let it show. I made light of that, and I made you feel small, and there is nothing I regret more right now.”
Your posture doesn’t change. Still tall, still elegant, still completely done with him.
But he’s already too deep to stop.
“I love you,” he says, and this time it lands like something sacred.
“I love you more than being right. More than whatever was in that essay. Honestly, I’d write the entire thing again—by hand, twice—if it meant I wouldn’t have to sit here with you looking at me like that.”
He lifts one hand slowly, fingers curling slightly toward your ears.“Please, Y/N, come back to me.”
And that’s when the door swings open.
“Oi!” James’s voice hits the room like a Quaffle through a windowpane. “Dovey’s here, isn’t she?”
Sirius steps in beside him with the ease of someone who expects trouble and knows exactly how to enjoy it. He surveys the wreckage — the spilled ink, the fallen books, Remus kneeling in defeat — and then clocks you on the desk perched high up, still glaring, still regal.
Sirius grins, slow and dangerous. “Y/N?”
You meow, cheerfully, like nothing is wrong. Like you haven’t spent the last hour hissing and orchestrating the emotional collapse of the person who loves you most.
James lights up like a bloody Christmas tree. “Knew it.”
He opens his arms without hesitation, and you—utter traitor—leap gracefully from the desk into his chest, tucking yourself into the crook of his arm with an actual, audible purr. A purr. As though you haven’t spent the evening exacting revenge with the elegance of a queen and the precision of a general.
Remus watches, stunned.
Watches as you blink slowly up at James, all soft and lazy, your gaze half-lidded with practiced affection. And he knows exactly what that means in cat language.
He’s seen you give it to him a hundred times.
Only now, you’re giving it to bloody James.
And Remus is the one glaring.
Sirius reaches out and strokes behind your ears, chuckling as you lean into it like you were born to be adored. “You’re really working the drama today, sweetheart.”
Remus sits on the edge of his bed like a man exiled from his own kingdom, a book open in his lap and completely unread, his eyes fixed somewhere between the page and the small orange-and-white blur tangled in Sirius’s arms.
He turns a page every few minutes just to keep up appearances.
He is sulking. Completely, utterly, unapologetically sulking. From the corner of his eye, he watches as you roll across James’s lap like royalty, pawing lazily at the cuff of his sleeve before hopping effortlessly into Sirius’s waiting arms.
Sirius accepts you with a grin, like you’ve never once shredded a sock in passive-aggressive protest, murmuring praise and dragging his fingers gently behind your ears as though you’ve earned every bit of affection.
You purr, loud and deliberate. Your tail curls around Sirius’s wrist like a silk ribbon drawn tight, and then comes the softest, most calculated meow he’s ever heard.
It sounds smug and pointed and designed specifically to unmake him—full of pride, absolutely, but still so stupidly cute it makes something in his chest ache.
It’s unfair, really, how bloody adorable you are. And all he wants—desperately, irrationally—is to hold you. To bury his face in your fur and keep you close.
He flips another page.
Sirius traces a thumb down your spine, slow and affectionate, and Remus—who is definitely not watching, and definitely not fuming—tightens his jaw and exhales through his nose like a man suppressing ancient fury.
And yet he says nothing, just sits there, shoulders too straight, like he is not currently being excluded from the most intimate feline cuddle session Hogwarts has ever seen.
It goes on like this for an hour.
An entire hour of tactical silence, purring treachery, and the steady sound of Remus Lupin quietly losing his mind.
James eventually falls asleep first, snoring lightly into the crook of his arm. Sirius remains where he is, his hand still lazily carding through your fur, but his eyes have gone soft and drowsy, his words slowed, fading into silence.
You’re still curled into him, your breathing steady now, the rise and fall of your little frame barely perceptible, your tail twitching only once before it stills completely.
And then, gently, with all the quiet reverence of someone who understands how sacred you’ve become in that moment, Sirius lifts you into his arms.
He stands without a word. Pads over to Remus. Pauses in front of him like it’s a peace offering.
“She fell asleep,” Sirius murmurs. “Properly asleep. Been purring like mad, figured she might want to be with you now.”
Remus looks up. His heart twists.
You’re nestled in Sirius’s arms like the embodiment of warmth itself, your fur soft and glowing under the flicker of firelight. Your face is tucked into your paws. You look defenseless. You look peaceful.
Sirius lowers you carefully into Remus’s arms, and something in Remus aches when you instinctively nuzzle into his chest, still half-asleep, still warm from being adored.
Sirius doesn’t say anything else. Just nods and turns back toward his own bed, collapsing into it.
Remus adjusts you slightly, letting you rest against his sternum. Your small form is a ball of orange and white, impossibly soft, your breath a feather against his collarbone.
And for a long time, he just sits there.
Then, gently, he lifts a hand and gently strokes behind your ears, fingers moving barely there.
“I’m sorry, love,” he whispers.
“For all of it. For being smug and stupid and talking to you like your feelings were inconvenient. For thinking I was funny when I was just being a complete git. For not noticing how close you were to snapping. You deserved better than that.”
He smooths his fingers down your spine.
“I hate that I made you feel like you had to run away from me just to be heard,” he continues, voice barely audible. “I hate that I pushed you so far you thought being a cat was the better option, and I know you’ve forgiven me in the most dramatic, theatrical way possible, but just in case any part of you is still a little mad — I’m saying it again. I’m sorry, Snickers.”
His other hand comes up, resting carefully over your back, not holding you in place but simply resting there.
“I’ll do better. I’ll listen. I’ll stop trying to be right all the time. And I’ll never — never — say you’re dramatic again. You are... overwhelming, yes. Important things always are. You take up space in my life that I never want to give back, and I adore you for it.”
He exhales, his thumb stroking softly over the spot between your ears.
“I love you,” he says again, and this time it lands like truth. Quiet, warm, real.
For a moment, nothing changes. You stay curled, still pressed beneath his chin, your breathing slow, deep.
And then you open your eyes.
Golden and gleaming and terribly alive, you lift your head just slightly and look up at him, your yellow cat eyes meeting his, unblinking for one long beat — and then, slowly, with that feline elegance that says everything words never could, you blink. Once. Twice. Long and deliberate.
He lets out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, soft with relief and disbelief all at once.
“Oh, love,” he murmurs, a smile tugging at his lips. “If you’re going to turn into a cat every time we argue, the least you could do is let me pet you.”
You narrow your eyes instantly. Then, without moving from his arms, you unsheathe your claws by a fraction and tap them meaningfully against the fabric of his jumper.
He Laughs again. “Alright, alright. Sorry, message received.”
Satisfied, you curl tighter against him, nose tucked into the curve of his neck, your breathing steady, your purr deep and content.
Remus doesn’t move at first. He simply holds you, cradling your small form like something rare and impossibly fragile, his fingers resting protectively along your spine, as though even a breath too sudden might break the spell and scatter you into smoke.
In that moment, his heart feels impossibly full—so heavy with love that it almost aches. He’s never been happier, never more certain that you are everything he wants to hold onto, everything worth fighting for.
And then—seamlessly—you shift.
A quiet exhale, a shimmer of magic against his chest, and you’re back. Warm and real and unmistakably you, curled in his lap with your cheek still pressed to the hollow of his throat, your breath soft against his skin like nothing has changed at all.
“Hi, love,” he breathes, voice warm and stunned.
“Hi, Remmy,” you whisper, eyes barely open, voice thick with sleep.
“Hi,” he says again, a little breathless this time, like he still can’t believe you’re real.
You nuzzle closer, arms looping around his waist, body curling instinctively toward his warmth.
“Am I forgiven?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper, his thumb brushing lightly against your cheek, gentle and uncertain.
“I’ll do anything you want.”
But inside, something curls tight and trembling in his chest, a quiet dread laced with all the things he’s too afraid to name. He waits, not daring to speak or move, because he doesn’t know what you’ll ask for next — and it terrifies him, in a way nothing else ever has.
Not because he doubts you, but because he doubts himself. Because if you ask for something he can’t give, if your forgiveness slips, even for a second, through the cracks in his hands, he knows he’ll fall apart trying to reach for it.
He is not built for losing you.
Not to James, not to time, not to silence, not even to one of your moody afternoons when you ignore him for an hour just to prove a point. Even then, even in those small, petty standoffs, his mind races.
Because the truth, the horrible, unspoken truth, is that Remus doesn’t know how to exist in a world where you are distant.
He’s smug and sarcastic and impossible, the king of casual remarks and maddening glances. But all of it, every last bit of it, is just a flimsy curtain he hides behind — a way to mask the simple, aching fact that he’s yours.
Utterly and pathetically yours.
Even when you're mad. Even when you're claws and narrowed eyes and sharp little hisses of warning, especially then. Because beneath every hiss is a heart that hasn’t stopped choosing him, not once.
And gods, he loves you for it.
He’s a bastard, sure. But he’s your bastard. And the thought of not being—of you turning your gaze elsewhere, of that soft affection in your voice belonging to someone else, even for a heartbeat—undoes him.
And even if you don’t say it, even if all you do is blink at him with tired indifference — he’ll still be here.
Because no matter what, Remus cannot stop loving you.
Your voice breaks through the haze of his thoughts, quiet and half-lost in the fabric of his jumper.
“Anything?” you hum, soft and slow, the syllables slurring slightly with sleep.
His smile wavers, flickering with tentative relief. “Anything, dovey.”
You fall silent for a moment, resting against him like you’ve never left, because in his heart, you never really did. Then, softly and sincerely, free of any trace of your earlier fire, you murmur—
“Can you make a spell that turns me into a toast?”
Remus stills. “I’m sorry—what?”
You nod, eyes closed. “I wanna be a toast.”
There’s a beat of stunned silence as he looks down at you, utterly baffled.
“I—why would—love, why would you want to be a toast?”
You sigh, sleepy and serious. “You looked so happy eating it this morning.”
Remus stares at you for a long, silent moment, torn between concern and complete adoration.
Then he lets out a soft laugh, presses a kiss to your temple, and whispers, “Alright. I’ll see what I can do.”
summary: after a rough weekend with your family, where your mother’s harsh criticisms cut deep, you come home tense and withdrawn. remus won’t let you bear it alone. he stays close, reminding you that you are loved far beyond her words.
warnings: body image issues, emotional distress, family criticism, verbal abuse, low self-esteem, anxiety, remus being a total sweetheart, intimate moments, reader has a horrible mother. masterlist
You were perched on the kitchen counter, legs swinging idly, while Remus stood a few feet away at the stove. The steam curled up from the pot between you, carrying the smell of pasta and herbs.
He had a wooden spoon in one hand and a crease of worry etched deep into his brow.
“Are you sure you don’t want more food, love?” he asked, holding up the spoon like an offering. “If you don’t like this, I can make something else.”
You shook your head with a small smile. “No, I’m full.”
His eyes flicked to the pot, then back to you. “You haven’t even had breakfast,” he said gently, almost like the fact itself was enough to convince you.
“I just… I’m not hungry,” you murmured, watching the steam rise as though it might shield you from the conversation.
He gave a soft sigh, then scooped up a small portion of pasta and held the spoon toward you, stepping closer. “At least try a bite? Please, dovey?”
The warmth in his voice made it harder to refuse, but you shook your head again. “Remus, it’s fine. I promise it’s not the food.”
Still, he searched your face like he was trying to solve a puzzle. “You haven’t been yourself since you came back from your parents’ house two days ago.”
“It’s only been two days,” you said with a faint laugh, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “What difference could you possibly notice?”
He set the spoon down on the counter and moved to stand between your knees, cupping your face in one warm, calloused hand.
His thumb brushed along your cheekbone in slow, absent circles. “I always notice a difference when it comes to you,” he murmured. “You’re my girl. ’Course I notice.”
Your throat tightened, the gentleness in his voice pressing against the ache you’d been holding back. “I’m sorry, Remmy,” you whispered.
He shook his head, leaning in to rest his forehead lightly against yours. “Don’t be sorry. Just… let me take care of you, yeah?”
You nodded, eyes fluttering shut as his other hand came to rest at your waist. For a moment, the world shrank to just the warmth of him, the quiet hum of the stove, and the soft scent of basil in the air.
When you finally opened your eyes, he was smiling at you — small, reassuring, and impossibly fond. “One bite,” he said, picking up the spoon again and holding it to your lips. “For me?”
This time, you let him feed you.
Remus coaxed two spoonfuls past your lips, his palm steady beneath your chin as if afraid the pasta might tumble away before you could take it.
The warmth of the food lingered on your tongue, fragrant with garlic and olive oil, and for a moment you almost managed to forget yourself.
But then—unbidden, like a wasp slipping into a summer room—the memory arrived.
Your mother’s voice, sharp and unyielding, as if it had been rehearsed for maximum incision. You had been reaching for another helping at her table, laughing at something your cousin had said, when her hand had stilled the serving spoon.
Her words were not loud, yet they rang with a precision that had lodged itself deep into your chest.
How much you had eaten already. How, at this rate, you would not grow into the sort of woman worth looking at twice. How some people were born with self-control, and others were destined to learn it the hard way.
The sting of it returned in full, curling like smoke through your ribs. You set the fork down and leaned back, your mouth gone dry.
“Dovey?” Remus’s voice was gentle, but you stepped away before he could offer another bite.
“I don’t want to eat, Remus,” you murmured, your voice almost breaking on the last syllable. You tried to smile as if to soften it, but it felt more like a grimace.
His brows furrowed, the soft confusion in his eyes searching yours for an answer you could not yet give.
You moved past him into the sitting room, curling on the couch with your knees pulled to your chest, arms wrapped tight around them like you could make yourself disappear if you just stayed still enough.
You feel the shift of weight as Remus lowers himself down beside you. He doesn’t crowd you immediately — he just sits there, elbows on his knees, head tilted to watch you.
“Talk to me, love,” he says gently. “What’s going on?”
You shake your head without looking at him. “It’s nothing.”
“Nothing doesn’t make you look like that,” he replies, voice quiet but steady. “You were fine a few days ago. Now you’re barely eating, you’ve gone quiet, and you’re sitting here like the world’s just ended. So, no, I’m not buying ‘nothing.’”
Your throat feels tight. You keep your eyes fixed on the fabric of the couch, tracing the weave with your fingertips. “You’re gonna think it’s stupid.”
“Try me.”
You let out a shaky breath, the words catching before they even leave you. “When I was at my parents’ this weekend… my mum—” Your voice wavers, and you have to stop, pressing your lips together hard before you continue.
“She was going on about how I’ve… I don’t know… put on weight. How I’m ‘letting myself go.’ How if I keep looking like this, I’ll just… lose you eventually. That someone like you wouldn’t want—” Your voice breaks completely, the rest coming out between hiccuping sobs.“—wouldn’t want someone like me.”
Remus’s eyes darken immediately, his jaw tightening. “Oh, love…” He shifts closer, his arm sliding around your shoulders, pulling you in against his chest even as you try to hide your face.
“Come here. No, don’t pull away. Let me hold you.”
You’re crying properly now, your shoulders shaking against him, your words spilling out in fragments. “It’s— it’s just— I can’t stop hearing her voice in my head. Every time I look in the mirror, it’s all I can think about. And now I just… I don’t even want to eat because I feel so— so—”
“So what?” he murmurs into your hair.
“So disgusting,” you whisper.
He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, his hands steady on your face. “Your mother? She’s being cruel, plain and simple. What she said isn’t just wrong—it’s pathetic. She’s spent years trying to tear you down, picking apart everything because she’s miserable or jealous. But none of that says anything about you. It only shows how small and bitter she really is.”
You sniff and look away, but he gently lifts your chin so your eyes find his again. “And listen carefully: what you eat, how you look, how you live—that’s your business. Not mine, not hers, and not anyone’s. You owe no one an explanation, and you certainly don’t owe them the satisfaction of shrinking yourself to fit their nonsense.”
He holds your gaze, his voice softening. “And lastly—I need you to hear this—I am completely, utterly in love with you. The kind of love where I see you and know you’re the one. It breaks me that you think I’d be repulsed by you.”
He presses a hand to his heart in mock offense, which earns him the faintest watery laugh from you. “Truly. How little you must think of my taste, darling.”
You shake your head, wiping at your cheeks. “It’s not that I think you’re shallow—”
“I know,” he says quickly. “I know, love. But I need you to remember that I didn’t fall for you because of a number or a measurement or any of that. I fell for you because you’re… you. And that’s never going to stop being enough for me.”
He leans in, kissing your temple, your cheek, the tip of your nose. “Now, how about I make you a cup of tea, and we find something to watch? And maybe — maybe — you let me feed you a little more pasta?”
You let out another small laugh, your chest still aching but a little lighter now, and you nod against him.
You sniffle one last time, eyes still a little wet but softer now. “You’re the best, Remmy,” you murmur, voice quiet but sure.
His mouth curls into that slow, crooked grin you know so well. “Matter of fact,” he says, brushing his thumb softly over your cheek, “you’re the best for putting up with my stubborn streak, my scarred body, and my horrible laundry skills.”
You laugh, a little hiccup still catching in your breath. “It’s okay. I love you lots for it.”
“Yeah?” he teases, leaning closer, his forehead resting gently against yours, his breath warm on your skin.
“Yeah,” you whisper back.
“I wanna show you just how much I love you,” he murmurs, voice low and husky, eyes darkening with something unspoken but unmistakable. “And this body.”
Before you can respond, his lips brush against yours—slow, deliberate, lingering. His hands slide down to your waist, fingers curling possessively as he pulls you closer, the heat between you unmistakable.
You melt into him, the silent promise of the moment heavy and full of things left unsaid.
Just as he starts to lift your top, his lips moving to kiss along your collarbone, you gently push him back.
Remus pouts, his lower lip jutting out in mock disappointment, eyes shining with playful defeat.
“Wait!” you say breathlessly, catching your breath and laughing softly, “I wanna eat the pasta first.”
when you move into town with ribbon-wrapped sweets and a voice like honey, cowboy!remus finds himself having thoughts far less innocent than your pies. (5.8k)
Unbearable, Desperate, and Holy (hurt/comfort)
remus has always believed he’s destined to break what he loves, until you. (3.6k)
R u mine? (smut)
after a week-long fight, you try to make remus jealous—and it works. with the full moon close, he snaps and reminds you who you belong to. (4.1k)
♡ Crawling Back To You (hurt/comfort + smut)
you’re sirius black’s sister, and remus lupin is the one person you shouldn’t want—yet before every full moon, he’s yours in secret, tangled in sheets and forbidden love. (4k)
a taste of comfort (hurt/comfort)
after a weekend of your mother’s cruel words, you come home tense. remus stays close, reminding you you’re loved. (1.7k)
♡ chocolate & kisses on the cheek (fluff)
remus had made it a habit to meet you after class with a chocolate bar, only to discover, nearly a year into your relationship, that you despise chocolate. (1.8k)
when did you get hot? (smut)
returning for your final year at hogwarts, you’re caught off guard when your best friend remus suddenly looks more attractive, sparking a heated moment on the train. (5k)
The Dating Hypothesis ( fluff + crack)
professor lupin’s applied statistics class should have been easy, but it never was. for their final project, the golden trio tests whether looks affect dating choices, using remus as their secret subject. you, unknowingly drawn into their experiment, end up skewing the data, and his heart too. (3.1k)
♡ made from man’s rib (angst + hurt/comfort)
after years of loving remus and navigating his condition together, you’ve come to terms with it. he trusts you, but the one thing he keeps to himself is that he’s getting much worse. (7.4k)
snickers & remus (orange cat animagus!reader)
↳ Cattitude Problem (fluff + crack): remus pushes you into shifting into snickers, but earning your forgiveness proves harder when you fight back. (3.8k)
↳ Midnight Zoomies (fluff + crack) : in which you, a chaotic orange cat, unleash midnight zoomies and drag padfoot into full-blown dorm destruction. (1.8k)
synopsis: remus has always believed he’s destined to break what he loves. but you never give up on him, patiently waiting through every silence and every shadow. slowly, he begins to see that even the most guarded hearts can find peace when they’re no longer fighting alone.
—or, in which remus is desperately, irrevocably in love with you.
warnings: emotional vulnerability, self-worth issues, chronic pain mentions, soft angst, heavy yearning, remus pov centric. ft remus being in love and convinced he doesn’t deserve it.
w/c: 3.6k
a/n: based on this request!!! this was a little chaotic and messy to write, so sorry anon :(
masterlist
Remus Lupin always thought he took up too much space in the wrong ways. Not loud or large or looming—but in the way dust clings to the windowsill long after the window has been opened.
He believed himself to be made of things left behind: claw marks in soft wood, dreams forgotten on pillows, the distant echo of someone closing a door too softly to be angry.
He didn’t trust joy when it came, didn’t reach for it with open palms—only half-closed ones, calloused and cautious, like someone expecting to be burnt for touching too long. There is a kind of sorrow in him that doesn’t cry out but seeps, that settles into his bones like a draft through old stone, quiet and cold and constant.
You notice it most in the mornings, when he sits on the edge of the bed as though he’s apologizing to the sunrise for waking up again.
When he’s low, he forgets how to carry his own name. He becomes a silence instead, all sharp edges muted beneath the weight of memory and moonlight. His shoulders hunch as if he’s always expecting the next wound, and you know—it’s not because he’s weak, but because he’s survived so much. He’s learned how to brace for pain like it’s weather.
There are days when he walks like he’s walking through fog, distant, unreachable, tethered to something far away. On those days, you learn to speak softly, not because he’s fragile, but because the world has never been gentle with him, and it is a gift to offer what it never gave.
There is a rhythm to being with him, one that requires stillness and patience and the kind of listening most people never bother to do. The full moon casts long shadows in your shared life, but even longer silences. He tries to shield you from them, tries to sleep elsewhere, speak less, touch nothing.
He thinks if he makes himself smaller, if he disappears just enough, you won’t feel the darkness inching in behind him. But you do.
At first, you think it’s you. That maybe you said something wrong or left the light on too long or held his hand too tightly that morning when he was already somewhere else. That maybe this time, this year, this particular stretch of days—bitter with memories and cold with something more than weather—has worn too thin between you.
He’s always quieter when the seasons turn, when autumn collapses into that sullen, skeletal hush before winter begins, but this silence feels different. Less like absence, more like exile.
He doesn’t just withdraw. He vanishes. Not with dramatic exits or cruel words, but with doors left slightly ajar and eyes that don’t meet yours for more than a moment. He forgets things. Misses dinners. Doesn’t respond to notes. When you speak, you feel like a ghost tapping against a window—never quite loud enough to be let in.
It isn’t only you, you realize. Sirius stops by one evening, his hair wind-blown and his mouth lined with worry, and tries to coax something out of Remus with his usual half-mocking, half-loving bravado.
Even Sirius—who wears loyalty like a second skin, whose mischief is a language all its own—gets nothing more than a brittle remark and the echo of a slammed door. You catch the way he flinches, not from fear, but from something quieter and sharper: the pain of watching something once solid begin to fracture.
“He’s not himself,” Sirius mutters, his jaw tight, like that’s meant to be enough. But you know better. He is himself.
This is exactly what he does—he recedes. He withdraws like tide from shore, leaving behind the wreckage of everything he doesn't know how to say.
He doesn't break loudly; he disappears in pieces so small you almost miss the moment they go. And the worst part is, you see it. You’ve always seen him, even when he tries so hard not to be seen.
You see the way he grips the inside of his sleeve when he’s afraid of his own hands. You see how he tries to breathe evenly when his body betrays him and the full moon crawls closer, quiet and cruel.
You see how he smiles with only half his mouth when he's pretending. You see every fractured corner of him and still—still—your heart stutters when he walks into the room.
Still, you think his voice sounds like a poem.
Still, you’d memorize the map of his sorrow just to know which part of him aches the most.
You don’t want to fix him. You don’t even want to save him. You just want to stay close enough that he remembers what it feels like to be touched gently, to be wanted without expectation or fear.
And maybe that’s your flaw—this quiet hunger of yours.
Not for the parts of him that are whole, but for the ones that aren't. For the soft ruin he tries to hide, for the way he breaks without sound and still, somehow, gathers the strength to offer you the pieces.
You need him the way lungs need air—not in some sweeping, cinematic way, but in the aching stillness between heartbeats. In the way your fingers ache when he’s too far away. In the way your chest feels hollow without the steady rise and fall of his beside you.
You are not whole without him either, and maybe that’s why it hurts—because you don't know how to ask him to stay when staying is the thing he fears most. But even now, even here, even in the silence he’s built around himself like armor, you would still crawl through the dark just to sit at his feet..
And so this is how you find yourself wandering the halls after hours, trailing fingertips against the chill stone walls as if they’ll speak back to you.
The night is folded quiet around the castle, stitched with the kind of stillness that seems to hold something in its lungs. You don’t know why your feet bring you here, not in language anyway—but your heart has always known his hiding places. The places he goes when he thinks he doesn’t deserve to be found.
He’s in the back corner of the library, where the dust settles like snow on forgotten pages and the lamps burn low enough to turn everything sepia.
He sits with his shoulders slightly curled inwards, like he’s folding in on himself, like he thinks maybe he can disappear into the book in front of him if he turns one more page.
You stand at a distance for a moment, drinking him in—the long stretch of his spine bent toward something invisible, the soft brown of his hair touched gold by the lamp above him.
He looks like a boy carved out of dusk and silence, like something you could hold in your hands and still lose. And there’s something inside you—an ache so deep it doesn’t have a name—that can’t bear to watch him slip further away.
So you go to him.
Your skirt brushes against the chair, your hand resting lightly on your lap, your fingers brushing the hem of your sleeve as if it anchors you to this moment. You don’t look at him, but you feel the way the air shifts—how his shoulders tense, then hesitate, then ease, like he’s trying not to hope and failing quietly at it.
He doesn’t move. But after a long silence, his voice comes low, grainy with sleep deprivation. “Shouldn’t you be asleep?”
You don’t look at him yet. Just offer a small smile to the table between you. “Could say the same to you, Remmy,”
He exhales, slow and tight, like his ribs haven’t expanded properly in days.
“I couldn’t.” His eyes are on the book again, though you’re almost certain he hasn’t seen a single word.
You nod, “Me neither.”
He still doesn’t look at you, but his fingers pause on the page. “You don’t have to stay, you know?”
You turn toward him then, just a little. Enough that he could feel it if he wanted to. “I know, Rem,”
A heartbeat passes between you like a held breath.
“I haven’t… I’m not good company,” he says. It’s said like fact, like something he’s recited to himself often enough that he’s started to believe it.
You don’t answer right away. Instead, you look at him—really look at him.
The curve of his nose, the faint circles under his eyes, the way his hands twitch with things he won’t say. You look at the boy who builds cages around himself and calls it kindness. You look at him like he hung the constellations.
“I’m not here for company,” you say, and it’s true.
You’re here for him. For the boy who forgets he’s allowed to be held. For the boy who thinks silence is safer than softness. For the boy who doesn’t know what it’s like to be seen and not turned away.
He blinks slowly, his expression unreadable.
“I don’t want to hurt you.” His voice barely carries.
You watch the shadows move over his face like clouds across the moon. “You’re not.”
He tenses again, then lowers his head. “Not yet.”
And oh—how much he believes that. How deeply it’s carved into him, like an old wound that never quite healed.
You’ve always known there was something inside Remus Lupin that had been twisted into believing pain was his only inheritance. That someone, somewhere—whether by words or absence—made him believe that hurting was the price of being alive. That being needed was the only way he was allowed to exist.
What a cruel inheritance it is, to grow up thinking that breaking is a prerequisite to belonging. That love must be earned through silence and suffering.
You want to reach inside that place and rewrite the story. But for now, all you have is this moment, and the way he keeps his distance like it’s an apology.
So instead, you reach out, barely brushing the sleeve of his jumper. “I don't think you're capable of hurting me, Remus. Even so, I think you would be the first wound I would welcome,”
He breathes like it hurts.
The library has long since fallen into hush, shelves turned to shadows, the faint golden lamps burning low like evening stars. Somewhere far off, a grandfather clock stirs, humming the hour gently to itself.
Remus exhales slowly, tension ebbing from his frame like the tide drawing back from the shore.
He turns his head, just slightly, just enough to look at you, and you see the faintest softening in the lines of his face. His hands are loose now, resting on the open book between you both, though he hasn’t turned a page in what must’ve been an hour.
You don’t speak again. You just let the silence rest there, not as something to be broken, but as something shared.
After a while, his voice brushes against the quiet, low and husky and no longer strained. “It’s late.”
You nod, rising slowly. He gathers his things with the gentle, practiced care of someone used to hiding when he’s hurting.
You watch him shift his weight, just slightly, and there it is—a flicker of a wince, the subtle press of his hand to his hip. That old, stubborn ache, the kind that lingers long after the moon has gone. He tries to hide it, like he always does, swallowing it down like it's just another part of him that shouldn’t be seen.
But before he can say a word, you step forward and quietly take three of the heavier books from his arms. He glances at you, almost sheepish. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to,” you say, and you mean it.
So you walk beside him, quiet again, the weight of his books in your arms, the weight of unspoken things hanging just slightly lighter in the air now.
The sky outside is indigo and plum, the moon tucked away behind lazy clouds. The castle has gone drowsy—only a few lit windows flicker in the distance, like small beacons.
You cross the cobbled path near the courtyard, where the grass glows silver in the low light, and as you step into the open, the moment shifts.
And then— A low, deliberate sound breaks the silence.
You both stop.
There, perched just beyond the hedgerow, is a cat. Or something shaped like one.
Sleek as poured ink. Eyes like molten coin. It steps forward without fear, emerging from the path that leads—oddly—toward the Slytherin dormitory.
You tilt your head, intrigued. “Where did you come from?”
The cat makes no sound this time. Just watches you with the unnerving patience of something ancient.
You crouch, arms out like instinct. “C’mere, lovely.”
It hesitates. Blinks slowly. Then steps forward as if it had always meant to. With deliberate grace, it presses its body into your hands, and your face breaks open like a dawn.
“Oh my God, look at you,” you breathe, cradling the creature with reverence. “You’re gorgeous.”
And you are glowing—full of some private joy that seems to spill out into the night.
Remus watches you from just beyond reach.
And something inside him folds in on itself.
You hold the cat against your chest like it’s something holy, like it might purr a spell from your ribs. And he stares—not at the cat—but at you. The way your face softens. The way your hands move. The way your smile is a whole sunrise pressed into one expression.
He loves you.
He loves you so much it terrifies him.
It’s not new, this feeling. It’s been creeping into him for months—slow and sure like ivy around stone—but right now, watching you croon at this creature like it's the only thing that’s ever existed, he feels it all at once. Like a star collapsing inside his chest.
You’re too lovely for him. Too good. You glow even when you’re tired, even when you’re angry. You love with the kind of heart that bends toward ruin and still reaches for more. He doesn’t understand it—how you can look at someone like him and see something worth staying for.
He used to think his curse was what would keep people away. Now he realizes—it’s the wanting that frightens him more. The unbearable ache of being loved so gently it might undo him.
You press your cheek to the cat’s head, grinning. “It’s purring like mad.”
He doesn’t trust his voice, so he nods.
And you glance back. “You okay?”
He nods again. But something in his expression must shift, because your eyes soften even further, if even possible.
“I don’t know how something this lovely just wandered up to me,” you say absently, kissing the cat’s head.
He does. Of course he does.
Because the world is always giving you beautiful things. Because you're the kind of person who notices, who loves first, who stays.
The cat lifts its head suddenly, silver eyes locking onto his.
It looks at him too long.
And for a single heartbeat, Remus swears it knows him.
He blinks, and the moment’s gone. The cat stretches luxuriously in your arms, curling into you like it belongs.
You turn your face toward him again, and your smile—lit by nothing but starlight—undoes him entirely.
Eventually, the cat begins to shift.
It lifts its head from the cradle of your arms and stretches, slow and serpentine. Then, without ceremony or gratitude, it slips from your grasp and lands with a quiet thud on the grass. You watch as it pads off, vanishing once more toward the shadowed path that brushes the edge of the Slytherin dormitories.
You straighten slowly. Your arms feel colder without it.
“A shame,” you murmur. “I liked it.”
Remus doesn’t speak.
He watches you instead. Watches the soft, almost childish pout of your lips. The way your arms fold loosely over your chest. The way your eyes linger in the direction the cat left, as if willing it back with sheer want alone.
He should say something.
Should offer comfort, a joke, or even a distraction.
But all he can think is how beautiful it is that you felt that so deeply—something so small, so fleeting. You love like it matters and you mourn even the briefest magic.
He’s never met anyone like you.
You glance at him, eyes still wistful. “We should go.”
You bend down, gather the books again with care, and without needing to be asked, fall into step beside him. He walks slowly, careful of his hip, and you match him without making it feel like a mercy.
The grass fades to stone beneath your feet. The castle looms closer, golden in the glow of scattered sconces. A wind curls around your ankles like a whisper.
“Do you ever feel like…” you begin, then falter.
He glances down. “Like what?”
You pause, then smile faintly. “Like if you look at something too long, you’ll start loving it.”
His breath catches.
You’re still looking straight ahead. Not at him, or at anything.
“I think that happens to me a lot,” you add softly. “Maybe too much.”
And he knows—knows without needing to ask—that you’re not just talking about the cat.
Remus clears his throat. “You don’t—” he swallows. “You don’t love things too easily. You just... see them clearer than the rest of us.”
You glance at him again. And this time, the look in your eyes is sharper. But he can’t hold your gaze.
Because loving you feels like standing at the edge of something infinite—and part of him still thinks he’ll be asked to jump to prove he’s worthy.
There are some things he’s never told you. Things like how his worst fear isn’t the full moon—it’s this. You. Your gentleness, your trust, your stupid, stubborn, beautiful belief in him.
Because someone once taught Remus Lupin that to be wanted was a debt. That love came with strings. That to be chosen meant to owe something back—and he’s terrified he doesn’t have enough to give.
Terrified that one day, you’ll see the wolf before the boy.
That you’ll flinch.
That you’ll leave.
But you never do.
You're walking beside him still, arms full of books that should've been his burden, his to carry. Your fingers brush his once—lightly, accidentally—and he feels it in his ribs.
You don’t know this, but he's been learning to breathe slower around you. Like if he’s not careful, his chest might crack open under the weight of what he feels.
You're both quiet for a long moment. Then you speak again, voice softer than parchment turning.
“Do you ever wonder if we’re just circling something we’re too afraid to name?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. His hand flexes at his side.
“Sometimes I wonder if I am.”
You both stop at the landing where the staircases begin to split—one path to Gryffindor, one to your dormitory down the corridor.
You shift the books in your arms.
He finally looks at you, the corner of his mouth twitching like he might say something this time.
Instead, he asks quietly, “Would it ruin it? If we didn’t keep pretending?”
“I don’t know,” you say. “But I think not saying anything hurts more than the risk of saying ever could.”
“Yeah, you’re right.” He whispers.
" ’Course I am, Remmy” you chuckle. And that sound unravels feelings in his chest.
Remus looks at you and something in him stirs, fragile and vast and frightening in its depth.
It doesn’t come all at once, not like a storm or a flare of lightning. It creeps in slow, seeps through the cracks he didn’t know he’d left open, pools in the hollows of him like moonlight in an empty corridor.
There you are, standing with your arms wrapped around a stack of his books like you’ve always done it, like the weight of them is familiar, and you’re smiling at nothing in particular, soft and full, the ghost of a cat’s purr still caught somewhere in your chest.
Your hair is tousled from the wind, your sleeves ink-smudged, and Remus thinks it might be the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
There’s something unbearable about it.
He reaches for you then, and it isn’t steady. It’s desperate, like his hand has a mind of its own, like some part of him is reaching through time and memory and every ache he’s ever felt just to touch this moment and keep it.
His fingers brush your wrist—not to stop you, not to ask anything, just to anchor himself to the now, to the real, to you. Like if he doesn’t, he’ll dissolve.
You tilt your head toward him, the lamplight in your eyes. Your smile doesn’t falter or shy away.
“Goodnight, Remus.”
He swallows, and it feels like his whole heart is caught in the back of his throat.
“Goodnight, dove.” he says.
And he watches you go—books pressed to your chest, footfalls soft against the stone. The night swallows you gently, like it knows what it’s holding. The scent of parchment and something warm lingers behind, delicate as breath, and Remus stays rooted to the spot, as if moving would undo it all.
For so long, he’s believed love was something earned only through suffering. That tenderness was conditional, a fragile thread easily snapped by the truth of what he was. That to be wanted meant to be useful, to be worthy meant to be silent, and to be loved—if such a thing was ever possible—meant hiding the parts of himself that had teeth.
He thought that pain was stitched into his name like an heirloom, something passed down quietly, without ceremony. Not a gift. Not a lesson. Just a weight.
But you—you looked at him like none of that mattered. You stayed. You listened. You touched his wrist like it wasn’t something dangerous. You carried his books like they weren’t heavy. You looked at him like he wasn’t something to be fixed. Like he could simply be. And now you’re gone, and the silence you leave behind doesn’t feel like absence—it feels like a held breath.
The ache in him is no longer sharp, no longer a wound fresh and bleeding. It has softened, folded into something quieter yet far more relentless—a slow tide of warmth and weight that settles beneath his ribs and hums beneath his skin like it was always meant to be there, waiting for its moment to rise.
He thinks of all the nights spent cloaked in shadow, the endless hours when he was convinced the only way to keep those he loved safe was to disappear, to push away, to become a ghost in his own life.
But now, walking through the quiet corridors, each step steadier than the last despite the lingering aches that remind him of every harsh moon that passed, he feels something new stirring—a fierce tenderness that coexists with the scars and the solitude.
It is a love born not from storm or fury, but from the smallest, most sacred moments; a touch, a presence, a look that does not demand perfection but simply asks to be there.
His heart aches with a desperate yearning—he wants to worship everything you touched, to trace the paths your hands have traveled, to claim even the weight of those volumes as holy because they were yours.
The air still holds the faint scent of old paper and quiet evenings spent near you, and he craves it like a lifeline, as if being near any part of you could pull him back from the shadows he’s long haunted.
There is no grand revelation, no thunderous cry, just the quiet certainty of something holy and unbearably real—this aching, desperate love that has claimed him wholly and will not let go.
It is unbearable, desperate, and holy love.
He reaches out one last time, fingers trembling as if you were still there, brushing against the empty air where your wrist had been—not to hold, not to ask, but to linger, to remember, to claim this fragile moment before it slips away.
And as he turns, heart thrumming fiercely, a quiet storm of longing and hope that will carry him through every lonely night to come, he walks back to his dorm, carrying you with him still.
