Pairing: poly!Moonkiller x vamp!Reader
Summary: An apology, a stunt in the Great Hall and academic stress are your final closing notes before you get to enjoy three long weeks at home with your family—sans Barty, for once. Just when you think this Yule break couldn't possibly get any worse, you find out your parents are buddying up to the Lupins, and now you're stuck with their son—who happens to have never quite left your mind, especially those lips of his. Maybe you'll do something about that, huh?
Warnings: violence, mentions of blood (if you don't know this by know idk what to tell you bro she's a vampire), makeout session (from 'What happens next is a blur to you' to 'Just when you feel your instincts' if you wanna skip)
Content: BartyFangs make up yay! The Valkyries and Barty get along, some ranomd NPC dude slanders werewolves, you do not stand for that bcs only you get to discriminate another minority, RemusBat enemies to maybe friends to oh shit we kissed, so much tension between you and Remus it's ridiculous, your parents are low-key besties, also your parents are great and powerful and I low-key wanna marry the mum, vampire things, near full moon shenanigans, Hope Lupin is cockblocking you bcs the universe (me) said so, Remus Lupin low-key proposes to you
WC: 11.1k (I'm so sorry this one's long)
AN: this took me nearly half a year to write...I hope the wait was worth it and with this I officially welcome you back to another installment of Bloody Hell! Shout-out to my wife @revesephemeres for beta reading this <33
Disclaimer: English is not my first language, all mistakes you see are my own! I never have and never will use AI for my writing, this work is entirely of my own creative doing.
Taglist: @starrystormwritings @whimsical-mistakes @hellokitty-girl666 @lettertovera @bubblegumcat229 @daydreamandforget @justyesbecauseyeswhynot @loonyladystardust @majesticallyzo @curtain-crawlerr @dakotali @rubyinthebooks @usedrosaries
s.masterlist | Act i | Act ii | Act iii | Act iv | Act v
The infirmary is almost peaceful in the morning. Almost.
The only thing keeping it from being a truly picturesque example of calmness is the repeated slamming of the poor door—hoards of students rushing in and out even at these early hours. Somehow, the experience brings you new found appreciation for the ward matron’s work.
After her initial check up on you once you roused from sleep—and a friendly reminder that you really only need some blood in measures to make a swift and full recovery— she busies herself with the incoming students, dedicating time to hear each of them out and help them with their aches. From migraines to broken bones, colds and period cramps, she takes the time to make sure everyone is well taken care of before they leave the ward or stay to rest.
It keeps you from going back to sleep, and instead of dozing off or busying yourself with something to cure your boredom, you find yourself trapped replaying the events of the night. Now that it's over, the realisation sticks to you like grime after a house fire. It haunts you, deep and aching, much like the image of the corpse you left behind. You’ve taken a life—a man now on your consciousness for the rest of your undead life. You don’t know what’s scarier—the fact that he’s your first kill, or that small voice that whispers he won’t be your last.
Even though you blacked out throughout the ordeal, the feeling of bones cracking and shattering beneath your touch echoes in the hollows of your mind. Like a shadow at the edge of your vision—only barely perceived, flickering into nothing when you try to grasp it.
The realisation sits heavy in your gut, makes bile rise to your throat and within seconds you find yourself retching your soul out into the bucket Madam Pomfrey had the foresight to give you when you awoke this morning. When the last bit of blood-tinged broth leaves your mouth, you wipe it off your mouth with the sleeve of your sweater and curl into the bed with a whimper. The lights are too bright, your brain is a jumble of thoughts and all you really want right now is a hug—preferably from your parents, but you wouldn’t complain about a friend coming in to help you. For a moment, your mind flashes to Lupin’s appearance in the ward yesterday, and a part of you wonders if he’d feel enough pity in his too tall body to give you a hug if he were to see you like this.
The thought isn’t even granted enough time to disintegrate from your mind—the door to the infirmary is slammed open with such force you’re sure the sound resounds all the way into Hogsmeade. A small groan escapes your lips at how the loudness worsens your headache, especially with your already heightened senses so hypersensitive and in recovery from the blood overconsumption last night. You assume that whoever entered so dramatically might have a real emergency, like a bleeding beheaded student or something of similar calibre. Instead of hearing someone call out to Madam Pomfrey, you’re surprised with the frantic shouts of your name and thundering steps that rush to your side. In an instant, Barty materialises at the foot of your bed, his face etched with worry and fear.
You blink, trying to figure out if hallucinating is a normal side effect of whatever the hell you got going on at the moment, but you find the–admittedly very real looking–Barty hallucination to blink back at you. Your name is uttered with tenderness that makes your entire being ache, hallucination be damned. His eyes examine every inch of you, from the state of your face to the sweater you wear with the bloody sleeves. You can hear his heartbeat, irregular and jumpy like he can't quite decide whether to relax upon seeing you or feel anxious about your state.
“I heard from Lily,” he mutters, eyes stuck on the blood staining your sleeves.
Deafening silence fills the room, static whirring around you that pushes everything else into the background. For a moment, you are back to being the only people in the world—in your own little bubble where nothing else matters. Yet the tension prevails, his hands twitching by his side like he's trying to stop himself from reaching out to you.
“Fangs,” he whispers softly, oh so reverently. The name comes out a little clumsy, a little rough at the edges because it hasn't been said in a while, yet with the same fiery passion and affection solely reserved to be yours. It's all that you need to break, your eyes filling with tears when you open your arms in an invitation for a hug. It takes him all but a second to register the cue—but as soon as he does, he's rounding the bed to be by your side and sinking onto the mattress to embrace you.
His arms wrap around you with the sort of tightness that one reserves for reunions between war-torn lovers perhaps, or the force with which you try to keep someone who's falling apart together. He's half kneeling on the bed, half standing and bending at the hip in a way that couldn't possibly be comfortable at all, but you reckon he doesn't care right now. Not if the way his face dives into the juncture of your neck is something to go by, or the shuddering inhale of your scent—like he's finally home and can't believe it.
The strain of half sitting, half laying while your arms encircle his neck is torture—at least with your aches and pain right now, so you don't waste time in pulling him into the limited space of your infirmary bed. It's a tight fit, but you manage to make it work because that seems to be the motto of your friendship of sorts: make it work no matter the circumstances, events and odds.
His weight atop yours is comforting, steady and heavy in all the ways that anchor you into reality, keeping your mind from drifting into the murky darkness of the maze that is your own thoughts. And his scent? A mixture of half faded cigarette smoke, the moisture clinging to the air of the Slytherin common room mixed with the cologne you gifted him two years ago for his birthday. It's familiar, yet strangely different from what you're used to. Perhaps it's the time spent apart—or the distance that claws itself between you—but you find yourself relearning the ways he fits against you, the way his hair tickles the expanse of your neck when he's all nuzzled against you. It's a little nostalgic, a little bit like a knife gutting you from the inside, but more than anything—it's exciting to know there's always space for you to get to know Barty all over again no matter how bad things get between you.
You don't know how long you spend wrapped in each other like that—minutes, hours or an eternity feel all the same with Barty. Still, tension hangs heavy over you, all the words still unspoken filtering through the way you both keep silent. Perhaps it'll fester, you briefly think to yourself, and you both will never talk about this to preserve what little peace you've restored between you. Really, you'd prefer ignoring what happened all together, go back to being best friends and act like the last few weeks were just a really bad dream.
Very clearly however, Barty is allergic to leaving things as they are. He props himself up, twisting limbs and moving blankets out of the way until he's sat on the bed, one leg dangling down the edge while he picks at the frayed ends of his trousers. You manage to sit up and lean against the wall—with minimal pain mind you, a hurray to vampire insta-healing genetics—to face him.
Everything in you screams to avoid this conversation, and honestly? You can come up with excuses for days—months even—to avoid this. But deep down, you know you can’t avoid this forever—not if you want your best friend and other half back.
So, instead of running away like you actually want, you pull the sleeves of your—technically Barty’s, but who's counting?—sweater and fumble with them before making eye contact with Barty.
He's already staring at you, lips parted like he wants to say something but can't quite get the words to make sense yet. For a fraction of a second, he flinches when you look at him, almost like he's expecting you to yell at him or turn your face up in disgust at the sight of him. You take a deep breath, deciding that this couldn't get much more awkward and try to break the silence.
You stare at each other for a moment, blinking surprised. Perhaps it's the absurdity of the moment, or the fact that you're still oh so in sync despite the distance between you. You don't know what exactly makes this moment funny, but the both of you burst into laughter at the same time without meaning to. That of course only further fuels your laughing fit, rendering you unable to breathe for an entire five minutes before you finally get your act together.
You watch Barty wipe the remnants of his tears before his eyes settle on you, this time with a lot less guilt and anxiety in them. It suits him, you think to yourself—pools of hazel gleaming in the serene sunlight that filters through the windows, no longer burdened by blame and what ifs. You reckon your eyes are the same now, a weight silently lifted off both of your shoulders after you realized you can still laugh together like before.
He looks like he's about to say something, but you finally gather enough courage to beat him to it.
“Look B, I’m sorry for freaking out and ignoring you for so long,” the words are a little shaky, a little clumsy like you haven't really thought about what to say yet. It's not rehearsed, unlike your usual demeanor, but full of error and all that awkwardness that Barty has come to dearly love about you.
With almost an incredulous offense, Barty prepares to launch into a counter argument. His attempts however are silenced, no thanks to the pillow in the next cot over you quickly hex to throw at his face. Pointedly, you glare at him and continue with your words.
“Sure, I was hurt and I honestly still kind of am upset about the whole thing,” you admit, “but I think I probably should've given you a chance after I cooled off so you could explain yourself. I'm sincerely sorry for being this petty and not hearing you out.”
You force yourself to look Barty in the face, despite everything in you screaming at you to run straight out of the infirmary and continue ignoring him. It’s almost comical to see Barty’s face distort at a rapid speed—likely mirroring only a fraction of what’s going on in his head.
Still, despite seeing his face and watching as it settles from guilt and pain into something calmer, it nearly knocks the air out of your lungs when his hand reaches to hold yours. The world stops and spins at high speed at the same moment his fingers intertwine with yours, his thumb drawing soothing patterns across your knuckles that you’ve missed far too much in the last few weeks.
All at once, the warmth of his human body seeps into your cold one. It brings back colors into your vision in waves—colors that had previously dulled into lifeless grays and monotonous chromes.
“Fangs I-“, his voice is raspy, a little hoarse and broken in a way that was never meant to be because of you. It had that distinct lilt, the one that carried nights worth of tears and exhaustion engraved so deeply into his bones he could barely tell where the grief started and where he ended.
But that had always been because someone or something else dragged him down–his father, teachers at school, his own insecurities—but never once were you the cause for that bone deep aching grief he carried like a secret.
The guilt you tried to bury beneath layers of repression and ignorance flared up, setting your entire being aflame within mere seconds. You wanted to apologise and make his grief go away—but how do you fix someone else’s grief when you’re still hurt by what they did?
Instinctively, you squeeze Barty’s hand tighter. His eyes lock into yours, gold and green swirling into a mixture you’ve memorised by heart at this point. Your touch is reassuring rather than forgiving—not quite a ‘It’s okay’ but more of a ‘I got you’, because that’s the one thing that never changes between you, isn't it? No matter what happens, you’ll always have his back, even in moments like these.
Filled by renewed confidence, Barty gathers his bearings and speaks again, this time with much less wavering and only echoes of the previous trembling in his voice.
“What I did was absolutely fucking shit, and for that I owe you so many apologies. It wasn’t just betraying you and hurting you, but keeping secrets from you and hurting you out of my own stupidity and fear? That’s not what our friendship is supposed to be.”
You can see actual tears forming at the corners of his eyes, glistening liquid that threatens to spill over with the way his breath hitches and his voice breaks. Without meaning to, you lean forward and wipe his tears with your free hand gently, giving him an encouraging smile in the process.
A dry laugh bubbles out of his chest, so unlike the laughter you shared only minutes prior. Before you can pull away, he presses his hand over yours, nuzzling his face into your open palm.
“Merlin, I missed this,” he murmurs. Subtly, or at least in an attempt of what he probably thinks is subtlety, he inhales your scent and relaxes beneath your touch.
His eyes flutter shut with relief when he sees that you aren't opposed to the affection and proximity, almost like a man starved and parched finally tasting the sweet taste of salvation.
Silence blankets the both of you, but this time it isn’t tension that weighs heavily on your shoulder. Rather, it’s the weight of all the things left unsaid because there’s a mutual understanding for them, without you needing to actually voice them out loud.
“I’m sorry for everything,” he mutters against your pulse, eyes cracking open to give you a look into the turmoil he usually hides skilfully under armour and walls of detachment.
Anything you might’ve wanted to say dies in your throat, instead you press your wrist closer to his lips, basking in the way his warm breath ghosts over your veins.
“I’m sorry too,” you reply, the I forgive you nonetheless you both think but don’t say out loud hanging in the air.
It’s not what it used to be, not quite yet.
But it is enough to let the tight wound coil in your stomach unravel just a bit.
And perhaps, it’s the perfect start for something excitingly new in all the ways you know matter.
The weeks that follow are a flurry of stress, assignments and trying to stay afloat in the raging storm that is adult life creeping up on your horizons of childhood. Barty and you fall into rhythm again, finding your footing into the dynamic you used to have. It’s a bit strange, you must admit, because the shadows of your fight still cling to the corners and haunt you when you aren’t looking. That doesn't change the fact that you’re actually somewhat happy about it, because this experience showed you the extent of what you and Barty could survive together.
It goes—without saying of course—that your reconciliation caused equal parts relief among your friends and more gossip material among the general student body. And well, if Rita Skita was mysteriously found to break everything she touches and therefore sentenced to endless months of detention, who’s to prove that Barty had any hand in play?
Neither of you mention anything in relation to the preparator of the fight, the one and only Remus Lupin. In fact, it almost seems like you both subconsciously make the effort to avoid him. It isn’t like you don't want to talk about what happened—at the party and the night Remus saved you—but you’d much rather treasure the fragile peace you’ve barely just regained instead of shattering it all over again.
Barty for his part seems to agree with you and goes out of his way to avoid Lupin even in the hallways. No longer do you fight and argue publicly, and no longer does B growl and hex him out of spite. Instead, there’s a different type of tension brewing beneath the surface, threatening to go up in flames should you bring even the tiniest spark near it.
Remus Lupin though? Oh the bastard seems now all too keen on following you, especially when you’re trying to see less of him. All of a sudden, he’s everywhere, following you like a ghost driven by vengeance. You bump into him in hallways, in the library, whenever you leave or enter classrooms and hell, even outside in the courtyard! It’s maddening to be unable to get rid of him, because as soon as the events of that night slip your mind, he’s there again, standing in your line of vision with an infuriating smirk and a condescending remark to go with.
Seeing that stupid handsome face of his brings back memories of the night he saved you in floods. So many questions pop in your mind when you remember the concern he had for you, the panic you could feel in his entire being. Why would he save you, the girl he’s hated since day one? How had he even known you were out there, alone and injured?
So many goddamn questions, yet not a single opportunity for answers in sight.
You’d love to march up right to his face and yell at him. Ask him why he brought you clothes, why he bothered to sit by you and make conversation, answering all your questions when he had no obligation to. Maybe he’d tell you what he was thinking of when he sat on the infirmary bed, why he hasn’t picked a real fight since then.
Unfortunately though, you can’t do that. By doing so, you’ll actually have to admit that he hasn’t left your mind since that night—not really at least. And come on, what is more embarrassing than telling the guy you’ve been feuding with for the past six years that you can’t stop thinking about the way his lips looked?
Yeah, you are definitely not about to do that.
What you do instead is focus on your school work and drag Barty to the library and Great Hall just about every day. It isn’t much of a choice actually—if you don’t throw yourself into your academic work you won’t be able to keep up with the sheer amount of material and assignments your professors throw at you.
More often than not, you’re spending your afternoons at the Great Hall for study hall, either with your Slytherin friends—though Evan’s presence has been more and more scarce as of late, no one knows why—or joining your Gryffindor girls while they lament the woes of being in their final year.
Barty—bless his heart—is all too happy to let you drag him to either table, making quick friends with Marlene and Mary. Though friends might not be the appropriate term to use, you think ‘criminal allies that discuss morbid ways to escape responsibilities’ might actually be more fitting—much to your and Lily’s dismay.
Your evenings and nights are spent at the library, pouring over tomes and scribbling notes, memorising ingredients and spellwork until the words blur together and your hands cramp from writing.
Your day often ends with Barty half dragging you back to his or your own dorm—his is the far better choice honestly—only to crash into the bed together for measly five hours of sleep before you have to wake up again. You curl into his side, enjoying the warmth he offers while he attempts to fuse himself into you even when asleep.
Is it an exhausting routine to keep up with? Absolutely.
Does it help you ignore your little Lupin problem? Oh without a sliver of doubt—hence why you will be continuing it, thank you very much.
On a very particular Friday afternoon however, you find yourself catching the attention of Lupin in ways you’d never done before—whether you know it or not.
That particular day, your Study Hall period had started out just like any other one. You’d dragged Barty by the wrist into the Great Hall, half listening to him as he babbled on about the newest piercing and metamorphosis spells he wanted to try as soon as he was in his dorm, half looking for the girls at the Gryffindor table. When you spot Lily’s bright red hair and Marlene waving from across the room, your face splits into a grin and you weave through the throngs of students entering and leaving.
“Hello there, fellow inmates,” you greet them, plopping down onto the bench. Barty follows suit, taking up the spot next to you and throwing a solemn look into the round.
”Evans,” he quips, his face schooled into an indifferent expression.
Lily meets his stare with a levelled one of her own, replying in the same smooth cadence.
Anyone else might have thought the both of them at war with the glacial cold in their tones, but the barely there upturn of Lily’s lips and the twinkle in Barty’s eyes tells an entirely different story. They are cut from the same cloth, those two, and naturally butt heads at every turn.
Simple questions and discussions turn into philosophical debates with the kind of fiery passion people only reserve for treason accusations, and at every opportunity presented they compete with each other to an almost childish degree. It partly warms your heart because they're some of the most important people in your life, and seeing them get along? Priceless.
Sensing that Barty might start some sort of debate with Lily again, you proceed to elbow him in the ribs and begin to spread your materials out on the table, silently threatening him into compliance.
And of course because Barty loves you, he only drastically huffs and does the same, muttering something about bodily harm and tattling to your parents about this treatment.
With a satisfied smile, you turn to your studies and let the noise around you fade into the background.
There’s a lot for you to do, particularly in DADA, and the better part of your first hour in the Great Hall is spent combing through your book to find any kind of information about the topic of your essay. Though you reckon you might actually be able to do it all without source text to go by, considering you’re supposed to write about dark creatures of the night. A little too on the nose? Most definitely, but it isn't like you can actually complain about the topic, or the things that your school book says about your kind and your fellow dark creatures.
In order to avoid suspicion, you’d chosen to write about werewolves. Even if they were the number one natural enemy of vampires—followed closely by human magic folk—you can appreciate the shared struggle between your kinds. Persecution, prejudice and dealing with unnatural changes that you had zero say in. Merlin knows you wouldn’t be able to handle turning into a big, furry monster that mindlessly craved violence every month, so there's a speck of respect somewhere in the crevices of your heart for them.
Which is exactly what leads to you verbally abusing a fellow sixth year who had the misfortune of sitting within earshot of you and Barty while he mouthed off werewolves and their supposed ‘disgusting’ nature.
”Seriosuly, I don’t get why we don't just put these rabid monsters down,” he snarked to his pathetic group of friends who’d mindlessly muttered their agreements. “I mean no one wants to be around werewolves, they’re disgusting and dangerous and should be exterminated once and for all.”
You turn your head slowly into the direction of his voice, eyes narrower with sheer disgust at what you’re hearing. Before anyone can question you, you’re already pushing yourself up from your seat and stalking down the table to pinpoint the idiot who just said that.
When you do find him—a scrawny looking blonde with buglike eyes that stare at you with fear and recognition—you yank him by the collar of his stupid vest.
“Mind saying that again, Mister Know-It-All?” You spit out, anger coursing through your veins. You can hear his heart stuttering his chest, all his blood pumping at high speed to supply his panicking body.
He reeks of fear and helplessness, just like the prey you chase during the full moon. For a moment, you’re back at the clearing, your fangs tearing through the flesh of a grown man twice your size while panic seizes him until the last remnants of life bleed out of him.
The boy—something something Heatherstone, you somewhat recall—squeaks in fear, thrashing against the firm grip you have on his clothes in an attempt to look somewhat in control of the situation.
“It’s true though,” he protests, “Werewolves are a danger to everyone! If we got rid of them then we wouldn’t have to deal with the trouble they bring.”
Something inside of you snaps at his sheer audacity, and before you know it, you’re leaning in dangerously close, eyes no doubt gleaming red by now.
”Listen here you arrogant little shit,” you whisper with so much venom, it’s really no wonder Heatherstone is shaking in your hold.
”Before you decide to open that useless trap of yours to cosplay as pure blooded magic fanatic, I recommend you pick up a book that isn't written by one of your inbred ancestors and actually use that lump inside of your skull that’s supposed to be a brain and think.”
”Do you really believe that anyone out there wants to turn into a monster once a month and be out of control of their body? If there were less wizarding extremists like yourself, perhaps werewolves wouldn’t have to live in recluse and be violent and suspicious to literally everything out of fear they might be killed.”
By now, more than a few people had paused their activities to crane their necks and get a better look at the—albeit one-sided—fight happening. Barty of course had long joined your side, standing at full menacing height with a snarl so horrid it scared off even most professors.
He leans down to join you, an arm casually slung over your shoulder when his lips slowly widen into a grin that reveals his sharp teeth.
“Maybe we should hex him, Fangs,” he chirps, “I know a few spells that’ll have him writhing in unbearable pain every month, see how he likes walking in the shoes he wants to get rid off.”
If Heatherstone wasn't afraid before, he certainly was now, especially at the sight of the cold smile that made its way on your face. Your grip loosens, just a fraction, and your free hand reaches for your wand.
”I quite like that idea Barty,” you reply smoothly, now tilting Greenwood’s chin up with your wand. He lets out a pathetic whimper, his eyes clamped shut in fear and remorse. With controlled force, you push him into the table, revelling in the pained hiss he lets out when he collides against the wooden edge. You straighten up, spine rigid as you tower above him with an air of calculated arrogance.
“Next time I hear you talking like that about anyone—not just werewolves—I’ll make you realize why mere humans don’t have the right to decide who gets to live and die.”
Your voice is firm, the words echoing through the hall with a finality that has everyone holding their breaths for a few beats too long, watching your next move intently.
But there is no next move—just a quiet exit that is dramatic in its own right. Barty follows you, one step behind with squared shoulders and an expression that dares anyone to retaliate against what just happened. No one does, all of them too spellbound by your sudden display of cool rage.
Slowly, chatters revives in the Hall and everyone returns to whatever they were doing, their gazes no longer following you. By the time you return to your place and pack your things to leave, no one is looking your way and watching you and Barty exit through the doors.
No one but a certain starstruck boy, who heard every word you whispered underneath your breath.
A boy whose eyes were glued to the doors long after you left, taking his ability to form any thoughts and words without you.
Time flies, as it always does, and before long you’re back at Platform Nine and Three Quarters, exiting the Hogwarts Express with your luggage and fighting to find your parents in the masses of students and families reunited for the start of the three weeks long Yule Break. The cold air bites through your layers of clothes, though it isn’t actually unpleasant for you as someone who’s undead. With ease, you shoulder your luggage and try to slip through the gaps in the crowds, desperate to find your father or mother amidst the chaos. It proves to be an arduous task, especially with the noise clouding your senses. Spying out to your mother’s faint heartbeat is a challenge, but with intense focus you can approximate her location and follow the noise until you hear someone shout your name.
You don’t even have time to look around for the source of the shout—someone rushes towards you and lifts you into a tight embrace. The smell of parchment and blood surrounds you, coaxing your muscles into relaxing all at once.
“Dad!” Your arms lock around your father’s neck, your feet dangling a few centimetres off the ground.
“Oh, my sweet Blood Drop,” he sighs into the crown of your head, finally relenting and dropping you onto the ground.
“Missed you too, dad,” you reply, still nuzzled into your father's embrace.
In his arms, the rest of the world ceases to exist. There's only warmth and safety seeping into you, shielding you from the noise and chatter of the platform.
It's a challenge to not sink into that warmth, let it lull you to sleep right there and then with the way it eases all of your muscles and tension.
A familiar scent joins soon after, the only motivator for you to break away from your father. Your mother promptly takes his place, pulling you into her chest and beaming brightly at you.
“My darling girl,” she murmurs, her hands on your face to tilt it and inspect it from every angle. You indulge her, because the poor woman has been worried sick about you and her fussing will only worsen if you don’t let her. Once she deems her inspection successful, she pushes you away—only for her to fuss over your clothes, straightening and fixing things that don’t particularly need fixing.
She takes your hand into hers—your father already doing you the favour of taking your luggage from you—and looks around in confusion. “Where’s Barty?” She asks, her eyes scanning over the crowd in hopes of finding the boy.
You shift your weight from one leg to the other awkwardly, pulling both of your parents along to the exit as you try to break the news to them.
“His father wants him home for Christmas,” you mutter bitterly, not without cursing the wretched man out under your breath.
Your father looks unimpressed, a small frown on his face as he shakes his head. “Surprised he remembers he has a son at all,” he joins your muttering, making sure that he speaks quietly enough so only you can hear it—your mother would surely disapprove of his vocal hatred for Crouch Senior.
With that, the topic was closed—the two of them focusing on you instead. With your father’s massive height and your mother’s commanding presence, the crowds part like the Red Sea. People feel them before they see them, the pressure of their mere existence alone enough to make people bend to their will. It takes you no longer than five minutes to find your way to the Floo network with your father ushering your mother to go first.
You watched the green flames swallow her up, transporting her somewhere across the country back to your home. Without needing to look at your father you step in after her, spine rigid in an attempt to imitate her composure. With practiced ease, you go through the motions of flooing—grabbing the powder, calling out the name of your destination clearly and tossing said powder.
Green fills your vision, a pleasant tingling sensation licking at your skin. The world tilts behind your closed eyelids, wobbling and spinning until the ground steadies beneath your feet. When your eyes flutter open, the interior of your home’s living room greets you in that same nostalgic unchanged way it does every time you come home from school. The same pictures decorate the walls and surfaces, the same furniture you’ve grown up with. Plants, candles and different souvenirs from fairies and outings are scattered tastefully across the room—the very same way you left it four months ago.
Your mother is already somewhere inside the cottage you’ve had the pleasure of calling home for the last 16 years. You move through the room with familiarity, the homesickness that's been festering inside you for weeks now finally quelling. Behind you, the sound of the Floo port goes off again, indicating that your father has also joined you. You pick up on his muttering, dragging your bags with him when he takes the stairs to put them in your room. You make a mental note to smother him in affection later for thanks and head straight to the kitchen where your mother has beat you to. She glances up in your direction, a knowing smile on her face when she pushes a tray with a filled wine glass and a bowl filled with dark red spheres. The pleasant smell of blood immediately fills your senses, your body moving before you can realize it.
The blood-filled glass is the first to go in big, greedy gulps. Next are the frozen bloody treats—a mixture between herbs, blood and potions all serve to replenish your energy and health. Your mother watches you devour the snacks—all made and developed by her, mind you—with a fond smile.
”Someone’s been hungry it seems,” she teases, moving on and about through the kitchen while various ingredients and utensils float behind her. The air is thick with magic, but not the industrial kind you know from Hogwarts—no, this one is warm and flows freely through the air, unrestrained and unbound by rules and the clinical precision you study.
“Hungry is an understatement,” a huff comes from the door, where your father leans against the door frame watching the two of you intently. “More like ravenous, eh?”
A sputtered noise of indignation tries to escape your mouth, but it’s barely an attempt considering your mouth is full.
”See? Point for my case,” he says with a pointed look, ducking when your mother sends a hex in his direction.
He has the decency to look guilty when she stares him into the ground, choosing to mutter something about it being a joke before joining her to help with lunch. “Quit bullying you daughter,” she scolds, shoving his side with a spatula.
The entire exchange is of great amusement for you, there’s no denying that. When your mother turns her back, you stare at your father and stick your tongue out at him in mock victory. You can tell he’s about to retaliate when your mother says his name—a single syllable that has him freezing on spot.
”Yes my sweetest darling?”
“Cease bullying a child—our child no less—and make yourself useful this instant.”
You take that as your cue to retreat to your room, giving both of them a quick hug before exiting the kitchen with a promise to set the table later.
You take the stairs two at a time, driven by the blazing urge to finally be in your own space again. When you push the door to your room open—the third floor, on the side that faces the river—you can finally feel the tension bleed out of you.
Everything is just as you left it when you departed for Hogwarts—plushies and trinkets in the same place, throw pillows and blankets arranged neatly on the bed.
For a few moments, you stand in the middle of the room—much larger without Barty to fill it with you. You can see traces of him, even in his absence. One of his leather jackets, still draped across your desk chair, post-its on your dresser filled with his—surprisingly—neat handwriting. Your eyes wander to the pinboard above your desk—the collection of memories you always come back to. A few photographs from childhood—baby pictures Barty liked to coo and swoon over, some from your first village fair and other various precious moments you immortalised in the form of a images. Then there are ones from your time at Hogwarts—mainly with Barty in just about every picture. The first snow, the first time in Hogsmeade, you and your girls at the Black Lake while Barty hangs upside from a tree in the background.
Your favourite pictures though? The family ones—and not just the ones with you and your parents. In more than just a few, your parents, you and Barty are depicted doing various things. Hiking, swimming, going for an outing in some nearby town. It makes you miss him even more than before, the empty space he left aching like a wound that cannot be healed.
With far too much flair and theatrics, you throw yourself onto your bed—not unlike the tragic heroine of a doomed play.
The break may be long, and Barty isn't by your side which sucks—but it won’t be too bad, right?
‘Not so bad’ turns out to be an impossible to reach standard, you lament while you sit in the dining room of the Lupins. Your parents sit beside you at the table, across from them Hope and Lyal Lupin. Across from you? Their wretched, wretched bastard of a son—none other than Remus Lupin.
He’s avoiding your gaze, staring into his plate like Cordon Bleu and salad are the most interesting things he’s ever seen. Your families are getting along like a house on fire, cracking jokes you both aren’t privy of, recalling memories they made during the duration of their short friendship.
Merlin, you should’ve trusted your gut feeling when your father casually mentioned an invitation by this couple across the village.
New friends they made after you left for Hogwarts, your mother had added. Something about them having a son around your age who also happens to be a wizard. Come on, that should’ve been the incriminating piece of evidence that supported the uneasy feeling the mention of those friends brought on.
But what were you supposed to do? You know how hard it is for your parents to make friends in this community—the burden of their identity as vampires posing too much of a risk. And with your mother being a witch turned vampire? She might as well just hand herself over to the Ministry without a fuss.
So them making friends? Close enough for them to be casually invited over for dinner? That was a huge deal you didn't want to ruin for them—even if you could think of a million better ways to spend your evening, none of them including being in the same room as Remus.
Silently, the both of you come to an agreemen—don’t talk, don't look at each other and pretend like everything is fine. And hey, it works great—until Hope Lupin turns her attention to you with that quiet and warm smile you swear you've seen her son give terrified first years during duels.
“So, you also go to Hogwarts dear?” Your heart sinks to your ass when she asks, and if Remus’ heartbeat is anything to go by, he too is absolutely shocked and terrified at the sudden turn of events. The food in your mouth suddenly feels like stones, taking immense effort to actually be swallowed before you nod timidly.
“Uh, yeah I do, though I'm a sixth year,” subtly you try to direct her away from the subject of school, but if she noticed she ignored you completely.
Her eyes light up—part excitement, part delight—and she leans forward to give you more of her attention. “Oh how wonderful, Remus here is a Seventh Year actually!” She sounds so incredibly proud, it takes everything in you to not cringe at the way you nod along like you haven't plotted his death multiple times.
“Oh that's great, I don't think I've ever really seen him around,” from the corner of your eye, you can see him sputtering and downing some water to ease his coughing at the lie that you smoothly dish out.
Lyal–bless his heart–is more concerned about the choking, patting his back and making sure he isn't actually dying.
When he does recover, the adults at the table stare at him expectantly—an unspoken demand for the question that lingers. His gaze lingers on you for a moment too long, the air between you shifting into something filled with tension and boiling bitterness. If he outs your lie now, you'd have to tell your parents the entire truth. And then what? Watch them lose the only friends they made in the last Merlin knows how many years? Deal with them potentially killing someone?
Your heart hammers in your chest, a silent plea in your eyes as you hold his gaze.
“Can't say I've really seen her either,” he finally replies with a shrug, his attention back to his food.
Your relief is instant, allowing you to sag into your chair a little more comfortably. “Maybe we just run in different circles,” you add on, half surprised by the sheer smoothness of your lies.
That is how the rest of the dinner goes—both your parents ask questions regarding school and your personal life, Remus and you evade them skilfully by building off each other's lies.
”You mentioned a duelling club Remus, is it perhaps the same you’re in?” Your father asks at some point.
Though it pains you to lie to him, you pretend to mull it over. “The one with Professor Northwood? I think we are in different groups for that.”
Remus hums noncommittally, a small smile on his scarred face.
“Yeah, I usually hang around the Gryffindors in that course”
You know, you know so well you could bring up the time he nearly killed you during a duel—but you don’t. You like your parents free and not in Azkaban, thank you very much.
Before long, the dinner finally ends and it’s high time for your family to leave. An urgent meeting at the Highland Castle looms on the agenda of the night—as highly esteemed governors, your parents cannot afford to miss out on it.
”Careful Bat,” he remarks, his hand coming up to poke your cheek, “almost sounded like you want me too.”
You want to say something in rebuttal, but the words die on your tongue. The entire situation is all too familiar, except this time he’s close enough for you to drink in all the details of his face.
The scarred tissue around his mouth.
The three large gashes that run diagonally across his face.
The golden swirls in his amber eyes.
The plumpness of his lips.
The way his hair falls in gentle curls over his face.
It knocks the air out of your lungs so hard, you barely notice the shift in his scene—now sweet and floral with want.
All it would take is for him to lean down just a fraction and he could kiss you. His eyes roam your face, memorising and committing every line to memory the same way you’ve done to him. You can tell he’s thinking about it—kissing you right here and then—from the way his eyes drift from your eyes down to your lips and back up.
Is it ridiculous to be in this absurd situation with none other than Remus Lupin? Perhaps.
Is it still thrilling to have his entire attention focused on you like he wouldn’t want anyone else there? Absolutely.
A loud call of your name snaps the two of you back into reality, whatever magic tethering you two into a world of your own suddenly broken.
Your mother and father stand ahead at ny the gate that leads into exit of the Lupins farmland—both impatiently waiting for you to join them With an awkward clearing of your throat you reluctantly step away from your heat source, briskly walking to join your parents and bid the Lupin couple goodbye without once turning to their son.
You’re curled up on the armchair by the fireplace while your parents get ready for their meeting. It’s a bit of a longstanding tradition now, born from the times you used to toddle down the stairs and watch them don their governor attire in a mixture between awe and longing.
Your mother is wearing that black velvet dress you’ve come to adore—deep midnight fabric clinging to her body like shadows, flared wide sleeves that swish and ripple softly with her every move. On her neck is a pretty choker necklace made of pearls and one singular, gorgeous ruby stone that glows softly under the dim lights. From where you sit, it nearly looks like it pulses faintly with a heart beat—alive and heavy with duty and power. She stands in front of the floor length mirror—that has been specifically added to the living room for this very occasion—trying to put on her earrings that match the necklace she wears. Soft magic thrums in the room—raw and powerful, just like your parents.
Your father steps out the shadows, his three piece suit with the various insignia and rubies tailored within an inch of its life to match your mother’s attire. He stands behind her, hands gently prying the earrings out of her grasp to attach them himself while she leans into him.
”You look ravishing, my dear,” he murmurs into her neck, a smile visible on his face where you sit.
”Don’t twaddle,” you warn them in mock disgust at their display of blatant sweetness.
Through the mirror your mother bites back a smile, turning around to fix your father’s kravatte. “She’s right, save the reverence for later and restrain yourself,” she scolds him with affection, letting out a satisfied hum when her work is done.
You follow them out to the balcony where they stand side by side. For a moment, you allow yourself to feel the age old awe at their appearance—dark power and authority wrapped in velvet and steel. They’re all sharp edges and predatory dominance with glinting fangs, sharp nails and red eyes that glow dangerously in the dark of the night. You can imagine them sitting in that meeting room, commanding the masses to silence with their presence alone. It’s surreal to remember in these moments that your parents aren’t just your parents—fun-loving people who fill your every moment with patience and care—but also semi-nobility in the vampiristic society. High governors in the Welsh Highlands with so much power at the tips of their fingers. It gives you a glimpse into a future you could have too—should you choose to abandon the wizarding world and step into your heritage as a vampire.
”You got along quite well with Lupin's boy,” your mother’s voice pulls you out of your musings, her steady smile a familiar sight. Your father hums in agreement, his arm wrapped around her waist in preparation for their departure.
It takes a lot for you to not cry out in defense—your carefully crafted ruse in the back of your mind—and opt to shrug instead. “‘Suppose he ain’t too bad.”
“Good, perhaps you two will also become friends.”
The grimace on your face is thankfully taken as some sort of aversion to people in general, not Lupin specifically.
”Sure,” you add with too much enthusiasm, “we can try if we have the chance!”
With that, your parents bid you their good nights and disappear into a flurry of shadows and smoke—but not before catching your eye with that glint that has your spine tingling with a foreboding sense of doom.
Said doom arrives quickly at your very doorstep the next morning. There’s knocking at your door, which you—in your still sleep-addled state—think may be your parents. Never mind the fact that they can freely enter and exit the house without the need for keys, you still walk all the way down in your sleep-wear—a shirt Barty left at your place forever ago and Batman pyjama bottoms of his that half make you trip in their length.
When you open the door, still messy and rumpled from having just left the comfort of your bed, you’re surprised to see none other than Remus Lupin at your door.
You blink—once, twice—just to make sure you aren’t having a nightmare.
”Hmm, no I’m not doing this,” you mumble, quietly step away and close the door in his very face.
More knocks, this time harsher and insistent, stop you from turning around and going back to sleep.
”Open the bloody door you noodleheaded twat,” he barks through the door—voice torn between disbelief and exasperation.
the door nearly flies off its hinges when you open it again. “What did you just say to me?”
He’s quiet—a surprise really, you didn’t know he’s capable of shutting up—before his face morphs into a shiteating grin.
”Batman, huh? Didn’t peg you as a comic fan.”
It’s only then that you become aware of what you’re wearing—and how shabby you look in comparison to his slacks and dark sweater. Your face flushes with indignity, your choice of response being a pointed glare. ”What do you want?” You ask through gritted teeth.
He shoves a basket into your hands, one filled with various items—some of them warm enough for you to feel it.
”My parents said to give that to you,” he says with a roll of his eyes. “Apparently yours mentioned they won’t be ‘round till noon today—it’s breakfast and lunch.”
It’s a sweet gesture—really, and it would’ve moved you if it didn’t mean his parents were so close to yours they were making their son send you food.
Merlin help you, you might actually see him more often than you’d like this break.
Merlin is clearly a treacherous arse because he does not help you. In fact, his lack of help is so evident you actually see Lupin for nearly every blood day of your break. The Lupins come and go to your home like they nearly live there—much like your family does with theirs. Shared meals, helping out with Yule, Winter and Christmas decorations and even running errands together become part of your daily routine.
Through it all you have to bear Remus and his annoying presence, while also pretending like you haven’t been in a longstanding feud with the boy since your second year.
The two of you fall into some sort of awkward rhythm where you pretend to get to know each other, smiling and wrapping yourself in conversation when your parents are nearby. As soon as they're out of the picture? The sarcasm immediately becomes the language you converse in.
But somewhere between thinly veiled insults and half hearted lies, the tension between you bled into something a little softer. Not friendship, but perhaps a less jagged version of your feud?
Maybe it’s all the time spent together—one runs out of things to insult when you see someone on a daily basis—that has led to you breaching open new topics of conversation. From books to actual discussions about shared literary interests that somehow wandered off into petty school gossip and the few recounted childhood memories—there was a little bit of everything present.
No longer did you fill every moment of silence with venom and anger, but a rather frankenstein’d sense of peace. He allowed you to lounge around his bedroom—a tiny space filled with books, the silliest mugs you’ve ever seen, photographs, sweaters and more books—while you both read in silence. In turn, you allowed him into the library of your home. His face was honestly a comical sight—as soon as you opened the small dark mahogany door at the east side of the second floor, his jaw dropped to the ground.
The room—expanded with the help of intricate magic—nearly put the Hogwarts Library to shame. Tall shelves—floor to ceiling in height—lined every possible bit, filled to the brim with tomes of all kinds. From the entrance, you couldn’t see the end of the room, but you knew by heart it would take at least 15 minutes to walk from one end to the other without magic or getting sidetracked in the various hallways and nooks.
A few lamps and different seating arrangements were elegantly incorporated to give the entire room a polished yet timeless feeling.
”This,” Remus whispered as he spun around to take the entire place in, “is bloody insane. Who has a library like that just casually in their house? Where on earth is the ceiling?”
You couldn’t help but laugh at his positive confusion, simply choosing to take the lead and give him a brief tour of your favorite sections.
“My mother is a genius in practical magic,” you remarked while pointing to yet another hallway that branched off the main room and led somewhere you didn’t concern yourself with. “She built this place for my father for their fifth wedding anniversary—it took her nearly three years to collect all the books and we all have been adding our own over time.”
”Does this genius streak run in the family? Should I start planning a proposal?” His joke—though clearly casual in nature—almost immediately makes heat crawl up your neck. For one terrible moment you pictured it—being married to Remus Lupin and sharing a life with him.
Nope, absolutely not. You will not be going there thank you very much.
After that day, Remus seemed to be drawn to your home library like a moth is to light. He would knock at the door first thing in the morning, smiling sheepishly whenever your parents opened the door and ushered him inside. Most of the time you were still fast asleep then, rudely awakened by him shaking you. Most of the time he’d join you for breakfast, never quite questioning the packets of ‘cranberry juice’ you seemed to consume every morning—blood enchanted to look and smell like juice to anyone who isn’t a nocturnal creature.
Half of your day would be spent in the library, the other half helping his parents with the winter work on their little farmland. It wasn’t much of a farm in the literal sense—a few chickens, three goats to be milked and far too many plants growing everywhere. The task you both were often left with was unfortunately weeding and cleaning the vast yard grounds, despite the icy temperatures.
What little fragile routine you’ve built shatters spectacularly just a few days before Christmas—in the bloody shed out back where his parents kept the gardening tools.
With the full moon approaching rapidly, your temper flared and soured consistently—a little less than usual considering you're keeping up with your body's blood demand, but still noticeable enough for it to be a conscious effort to tame on your end.
And really, you were doing so goddamn well around the Lupin couple too—even if your parents told you you were free to stay home and not interact with people until the full moon passed. But by Merlin, their son was one hell of an infuriating twat. For three days now he's been snapping and jabbing at yours, irritation oozing from him as soon as you enter any room. You'd be lying if you said you didn't nag and fight with him too, but hey, you were just returning what you were given!
So there you stood in the tool shed after three entire days of waging cold war, silence and tension so thick in the air you could've cut it with the garden shears. You're trying to not say anything—something along the lines of if you don't have something nice to say, don't say anything at all. Clearly, Remus does not share that sentiment because he glares at you from the other side of the shed.
“Can you like, not breathe so loud? It's annoying.”
“Alright then, guess I'll just fucking die or something,” you mutter in response, not even bothering to turn around to acknowledge him.
The hairs on your arms suddenly raise, all alarms and instincts going off out of nowhere. Before you know it, something—in this instance, a someone named Remus—is behind you, herding you against the nearest wall.
His eyes are narrowed, fury radiating off of him in waves. The smell of metallic anger is nauseating—but somehow, it doesn't bother you. In fact, it makes something inside you twist and coil. He's all up in your face, his fram—easily over two meters in height—blocks what little light came from the cracked door, shrouding you in a sort of muffled darkness.
“What the fuck is your problem with me?” He barks out, his breath hot against your face. “You've been nothing but a nasty bitch to me since third year and just when I thought you might be somewhat okay, you start acting like an asshole again.”
Many emotions course through you at this very momemt—disbelief the most prominent of them.
“Me? What's wrong with me?” you ask with wide eyes and a laugh that nearly borders on manic. “How about you start explaining why the fuck you'd try to kill a girl half your height and younger than you,” you spit out, finger jabbing him square in the chest.
He hisses at the contact, immediately grabbing your hand and pinning it over your head with strength you didn't assume him capable of.
“Don't pin this on me now, you're the one always picking fights with me and glaring across the room like some obsessed stalker.”
“Like you're any better, why do you always rile me up when you're supposed to be all calm and mature?” Your quip is as fiery as the rage blazing inside of you, dripping in venom and hate.
You try to writhe against his vice-like grip—he matches you in both supernaturally enhanced strength and anger. It should make you suspicious actually—have you question how a boy as lanky and sickly as him could possible completely with pure vampire strength. But you can't focus—not when he's all up in your personal space, snarling and ready to maul as soon as you show your own claws. Definitely not when he's invading all your senses like a parasite—smell, touch, sight, and sound. All that's lacking is for you to taste him—and you think you can from how close he's breathing you in.
”You could also just not engage with me.”
”And deny you the privilege of my attention that you very clearly seek?” A smile, sharp and dangerous curls on your lips. You lean to his face, able to murmur directly into his ear with the way he’s leaning down to your level. “I think not, Remus.”
The sound of his name rolling off your lips is perhaps exactly the thing that undoes his fragile self restraint—the metallic anger now blending with something deep and rich you’re not familiar with.
His mouth is agape, eyes roaming your face like he can’t believe the situation he’s in. It makes you squirm—from what, you don’t want to know yet.
He doesn't say anything for several beats, so you bite the bullet and question him, with much less bravado than you’d want.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Your voice breaks—much to your embarrassment—and is quieter than before. The air shifts around you, thickening with unspoken tension of the kind that has been lingering at the edges of your interactions for far longer than you could count.
”Like what?” A low response that vibrates against your entire body.
The words are at the tip of your tongue, but a part of you knows if you say it out loud—things will change in a way you cannot predict.
”Like you can't decide between fighting me or kissing me senseless.”
Silence stretches, thinning with every second until it snaps.
”Maybe I can’t decide,” he replies quietly, “and maybe I want both.”
That’s all you really need to cross the line—the one you’ve been dancing around ever since that night in the infirmary.
What happens next is a blur to you—suddenly your hands are on his shoulders while his arms keep you upright against the storm of fervent kisses and bites.
His lips crash against yours—not soft or hesitant, but with the force of a man starved gazing upon his last meal. It dizzies you on spot, turning off the rational side of you that screams to let go and stop this nonsense.
You try to gain the upper hand—teeth clashing and tongues entwining so hard you can’t tell where you stop and he starts, but he’s clearly desperate to do the same. With each passing moment, you grow bolder—your hands wander from his shoulders to his neck, tracing along faint scars and bumps you commit to memory.
When he pulls away to regain his breath, you chase his lips desperate.
“Don’t stop now,” you warn, “don’t you dare stop when it’s your fault.”
”Wouldn’t dream of it,” his lips are on you again, this time however on your neck in a way you hadn’t expected. It’s a pleasant sensation—despite the novelty—and you only grow to crave it more when he nibs and suckles on that particularly sensitive spot behind your ear.
A strange sound escapes your throat—half whine, half breathy sigh that spurs the urgency in his move.
“Do that again,” he mumbles against your skin, littering soothing kisses across the skin he just bit.
“Make that noise again f’me.” A small, far too soft kiss that contrasts to what you’ve been doing so far, is placed at the corner of your mouth.
Well, if the Remus Lupin asks you so nicely, who are you to refuse? Especially when he slots his knee between your legs, allowing you to sink your entire weight on him and stop worrying about your wobbly knees.
Just when you feel your instincts—the restraint you’ve trained yourself to display at all tines—begins to slip, the universe decides interference is of need.
A particularly loud noise—at least loud to your keen senses—makes both you and Remus jump apart like deers in headlight.
“Remus darling? Where are you?” His mother’s voice comes from outside the shed—probably somewhere by the front garden—but it’s just as startling as if someone had poured a bucket of ice on top of your head.
The realisation of what you just did—still itched to do—dawns upon you. One look at Remus’ flushed and wide eyed expression tells you he’s having the very same realisation.
“Remus?” Her voice is closer this time, somewhere actually within the backyard and it adds fuel to the fire of your panic.
”I- I should go,” you stammer, eyes wildly searching for an exit that won’t let anyone see you in your disarrayed state. Clothes rumbled, face warm and multiple blooming bruises across the side of your neck.
Anyone with half a brain cell would know what you two were up to in here.
Remus takes a step into your direction, fuelling your panic into something akin to terror—you can’t be here, with him doing anything. You fear his touch, the same touch that got you into this unbelievable mess.
With hurried strides, you nearly trip over your own feet when you beeline towards the back door. He’s planted to the spot, watching dumbfounded as you disappear into the bushes.
You race back home, hiding your supernatural speed be damned.
You just made out with Remus Lupin in the bloody shed of his parents—and worst of all?
Merlin, now you totally get what Barty meant back then.
