summary ☞ Accepting a job at a local café and weaving her way in the cute barista's life was exactly her plan to bag him.
word count ☞ 1.6k
warnings ☞ fluff, barista!remus (i fell for the propaganda), reader's yearning and desperate to bag him, remus is an oblivious sweetiepoo, bad latte art description, no hogwarts au, modern au, love at first sight
mene's notes ☞ previously posted on @/selenewowww. legit forgot about this one. leave a comment and a reblog!
dividers by ☞ @cursed-carmine, @cafekitsune
Truth to be said, she only accepted the job because of Remus.
Being a barista wasn't by any means her dream job— far from it, actually. She only needed a job while getting a PhD in Math to cover rent and groceries costs, but Remus had managed to catch her attention.
From the very moment she stepped in a café for a simple cappuccino and saw him behind the counter doing god–knows–what with the coffee machine, she was left stunned. Mesmerised, even.
His tall frame, kinda lanky but somehow managed to have such broad shoulders had her in a chokehold. And those hair— God, she could tell it was so soft even from outside the bar and through the glass. How desperately she wanted to be able to run her hand through his fluffy–looking chocolate hair.
Not to mention the scars that adorned his peaceful face. Behind each scar was a story, a memory, and she was so terribly and deeply enamored with him, that she wished to hear every single one.
Hence, when she learnt that they were hiring, she unhesitatingly jumped in the opportunity. Getting a job where her newest crush also worked at? Killing two birds with one stone.
The prospect of having him so close to her, talking to her, teaching her how to be a perfect barista with that scar–covered face and those chocolate eyes made her weak in the knees.
God forbid a girl dreams over a boy.
That cute barista still hadn't left her mind. He was like printed permanently. Glued. He showed no intention of leaving her alone for a long time. She couldn't shake him out of her thoughts even if she wanted to. He had complete control of her mind, had her wrapped his finger, even though they hadn't properly met yet.
Perhaps love at first sight existed in real life too.
Working with Remus was just as dreamy as she had initially thought.
He was an angel with her. Always so patient and kind. Didn't mind showing her multiple times a day how to make a macchiato or reminding her what flavours of croissant they sold.
He knew it was a lost cause to try to get her to understand everything.
They became fast friends, spending their breaks together, spilling tea and having light–hearted charts over stolen goods from the pastry showcase and the espressos and lattes he had made.
From time to time, she attempted to flirt with him. She laughed at his jokes, brushed her hand against his at every given chance, complimented his looks like there was no tomorrow.
Either way, it all was of no use. He was a lost cause. He was too oblivious for his own good. There was no possible way to confess her love to him, he would certainly have turned it into some friendly comment, brushing it off without a second thought.
However, she was headstrong about confessing.
If the traditional methods didn't work with him, she would find a creative and unique way of doing it.
For that, she decided to arrive at work a bit earlier than usual— perhaps too early, but she was a girl in love and on a mission.
As she stepped in, the smell of coffee and freshly baked croissants and cakes met her, and she instantly smelt Remus. He had this smell of chocolate and coffee around him, that she had learnt to love and cherish over the time working together.
She took a breath and took confident steps towards the staff room, leaving her coat and scarf on the little hanger by the door and retrieving her beige apron, decorated with various pins— something she had deliberately and shamelessly copied off him— and tied it on, already in the mindset of a perfect charismatic barista.
In order to complete her love confession gift, she had begged, and paid, the cashier boy— her sweet, nerdy Noah— to cover for her while she was working on the surprise.
He was such a cutie and honestly her unofficial son. An eighteen year old trying to balance his last year of highschool and his job at the café. Apparently, he was saving for college, Caltech or Yale. He acted like a total sweetheart and such an innocent boy, and he sure looked the part, too.
She had taken an instant liking to him, took him under her wing and looked out to him.
With her spot covered, she rolled up her sleeves and got to work. She wasn't an efficient coffee art maker by any means. Far from it. Although, for Remus she was willing to give it a try, even if it meant making a mess all over the counter.
She gathered his favourite cup he drank from during their break–chats, a bottle of milk and a jug to pour the white liquid into the latte cup filled with his go–to order; a Chocolate Cold Brew.
She knew that was not how lattes worked. That much she knew.
But she wanted to make his favourite drink and simultaneously make it pretty, so why not doing latte art on a Chocolate Cold Brew? It's not like law enforcement agents would come knocking on her door if she did. Kinda like poetic licenses. No poet was ever arrested because they didn't respect grammar and syntax rules.
So while his drink was in the process of making in the coffee machine, she took a piece of parchment from her apron’s pocket and wrote a little ‘poem’, in hopes that he wouldn't interpret it as some request to upgrade their friendship from ‘good friends’ to ‘super duper best mates’.
He was well capable of it.
About twenty minutes later, Remus' shift started, and after half an hour, it was time for their break.
Remus was already reaching to make their gossip drinks, however, she stopped him in time, placing a hand on his arm.
“I've already got it covered for us. My treat today!”, she winked at him, eyes sparkling mischievously.
Remus looks at her, half amused and half scared for his life. “Oh… You sure? You want me to check them?”, he asks softly, subtly trying to prevent some kind of poison or expired milk to be inside their cups, not sure if he was willing to trust her coffee–making skills.
“I'm sure! Cmon, don't be a kid and get your pretty ass to our spot”, she insisted, grin widening and eyes shining brighter.
She grabbed his hand and dragged him to the staff room, her heart beating loudly in her chest at the prospect of finally confessing her love for her coworker.
She took him to their gossip–spot. A circular wooden table with two cushioned stools in the corner, by the window. Placed on top of it, there was the tray she had prepared in advance with their coffees and two slices of freshly baked lemon drizzle cake.
She took her seat on her usual stool, watching him doing the same while eyeing curiously the little folded note by his cup. He threw her a confused glance, silently asking for an explanation. But when he got none, he went to grab the note, unfolding it with care, eyes scanning the words written in black ink.
“Could this be love at first sight? Or should I walk by again for you to notice?”, he read out loud the words carefully written in a pretty handwriting.
He moved his utterly confused gaze to her nervous one, furrowing his eyebrows when he didn't find a sense to the sentences on the note. “What's this supposed to mean?”
At his question, she let out an incredulous scoff and leaned over. “Remus”, she said incredulously. He couldn't be that daft, could he?
“What?”, he retorted oblivious.
“It's a love note”, she explained gesturing to it. But he was supposed to already know that. It was rather obvious, wasn't it?
“Oh”, he blinked. “From who?”
She widened her eyes, now feeling more amused than anything else. “Me, dummy!”
“You?”
“Uh huh!”, she leaned back, and crossed her arms over her chest, looking at him with the exact same amused expression painted on her face.
Remus' ears flushed softly, a bashful expression overtaking his features. He cleared his throat and took a deep breath before muttering under his breath, words barely audible for her to grasp clearly, gaze promptly avoiding hers.
“Come again?”
“You don't have to…”, he murmured slightly louder, heart skipping a few beats.
“To what?”, she urged him on.
“Walk by again…”, he waited for a heartbeat before speaking up again. “... I already like you”
It was time for her heart to skip several beats, voice abandoning her and all other words fleeing her mind.
Only after a few seconds of silence she was capable of getting a few words out of her lips, a hint of a playful smile making its way on her face.
“That being the case…”, she started, her mind still trying to process the situation. “… Go out with me?”, she finally asked, eyes glittering with hope.
His whole face turned beet red and nodded quietly, the gesture partly hidden by his cup of Chocolate Cold Brew he was using to hide the obvious blush painting his cheeks. He took a small sip, feeling shy about the whole ordeal, but he was immediately taken aback from the taste of his coffee.
“It's actually good”, he stated, surprise evident in his voice.
“And you even doubted it?”, she exclaimed, pretending to be offended, before exploding in a fit of giggles.
He soon joined her, the sound of her laugh contagious, bringing a smile on his face.
Perhaps she had just found the perfect candidate to share rent and grocery costs with.
The party had ended nearly an hour ago, but your flat still looked like a disaster.
Empty bottles crowded the kitchen counter, music hummed quietly from a forgotten radio somewhere in the living room, and someone—probably Sirius—had left glitter all over your floor.
You stood on your tiptoes trying to shove glasses onto the highest shelf when a hand appeared beside you, effortlessly taking the stack from your grip.
His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, tie long abandoned sometime around midnight, soft brown curls falling messily over his forehead.
And he looked exhausted.
Not that anyone else would notice.
Remus wore tiredness well. Like an old coat he’d grown used to carrying around.
“I could say the same thing to you,” you replied, hopping back down onto your heels. “You didn’t have to stay and help.”
“Hm. Someone had to stop you from trying to carry six glasses at once.”
“That was one time.”
“That was ten minutes ago.”
You smiled despite yourself.
The flat had grown quiet after everyone left. Comfortable quiet. The kind that settled naturally between the two of you.
Remus moved around your kitchen easily, rinsing glasses beside you while soft music crackled through the radio. Every now and then your hands brushed reaching for the same thing, and every single time he pulled away just a little too quickly afterward.
Outside, leaves rustled against the windows.
“You missed a spot,” you murmured, pointing toward soap still clinging to one of the glasses in his hand.
Remus squinted at it.
“I’m choosing to believe that’s the lighting.”
“You’re getting old, Lupin.”
“That’s cruel.”
“You’re almost thirty.”
“And yet somehow already frail.”
You laughed quietly, and something in Remus’s expression softened at the sound.
Then he yawned.
Small.
Barely noticeable.
But you caught it anyway.
“There it is,” you said immediately.
He blinked. “What?”
“You’re tired.”
“I’m fine.”
“You just yawned into a wine glass.”
“I did no such thing.”
“You practically fell asleep standing up five minutes ago.”
“That’s slander.”
You leaned against the counter, watching him for a second longer.
There were faint shadows beneath his eyes, exhaustion pulling at the edges of his features now that the night had settled down around you.
And suddenly, the thought of him driving home alone at nearly two in the morning made your chest ache a little.
Before you could second-guess yourself, you spoke.
“You could stay here tonight, if you want.”
The words seem to catch him completely off guard.
Remus stills slightly, dish towel forgotten in his hands.
“What?”
“It’s late,” you say, softer now. “And you look exhausted.”
“I can still go home.”
“I know.”
A pause.
Rain continues tapping softly against the windows.
“You’d just have the couch,” you add quickly. “Not that my couch is uncomfortable—well, actually it is a little—but I’ve got spare blankets somewhere and—”
“I’d like to stay.”
You stop talking.
Remus looks almost surprised he said it out loud.
Then, quieter:
“If you’re sure you don’t mind.”
Mind?
Your heart is suddenly beating far too hard for such a simple question.
“You could never be a bother, Remus.”
The room goes still after that.
Something shifts in his expression—small, fleeting, but enough to make your stomach flip.
Like your words meant more to him than they should have.
Then he looks down with a soft exhale, the corner of his mouth lifting faintly.
“Well,” he murmurs, “that’s probably dangerous for me to hear.”
–
It takes Remus entirely too long to settle onto your couch.
Not because he’s complaining—he would never do that—but because he keeps insisting he’s perfectly comfortable while very obviously trying to figure out how to fold himself onto furniture that’s far too small for him.
“You know,” you say from the hallway, watching him attempt to rearrange the blanket for the third time, “watching this is actually a little painful.”
Remus looks up, already halfway amused.
“I’ve slept in worse places.”
“That sentence somehow makes this less reassuring.”
He laughs quietly at that.
The sound follows you down the hallway long after you disappear into your bedroom.
You change quickly, the apartment now wrapped in soft midnight quiet. The wind outside has eased to a gentle occasional whoosh against the windows, and somewhere down the hall you can hear the faint creak of the couch every time Remus shifts.
You stare at your ceiling.
Then close your eyes.
Then open them again almost immediately.
Because your bed is warm.
And Remus is currently folded onto a couch with one foot definitely hanging off the end.
You last approximately three more minutes before sighing heavily and throwing your blanket back.
“This is ridiculous,” you mutter to yourself.
The hallway is dark except for the soft amber glow from the lamp you left on in the living room.
Remus looks up the second you appear.
He’s already lying down beneath the blanket with his curls falling messily into his eyes.
“You alright?” he asks quietly.
You hesitate suddenly.
This had seemed significantly easier in your bedroom.
“I—um.”
Remus immediately starts sitting up.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” you say quickly. “You just look uncomfortable.”
“I’m perfectly fine.”
The couch gives a loud creak beneath him like it’s protesting the lie.
You stare at each other for a second.
Then, before you can lose your nerve,
“You could sleep in my bed instead.”
Silence.
Remus blinks at you.
Your heartbeat pounds so loudly you’re convinced he can hear it.
“I mean—with me,” you add, then immediately wish the floor would open beneath you. “Not—not in a strange way! Merlin, that sounded—”
“You want me to sleep with you?”
His voice is very careful now.
You fold your arms tightly across yourself. “Only because the couch looks horribly uncomfortable.”
“The couch is fine.”
“Remus.”
A pause.
Then, quieter,
“You’re too tall for it.”
Something soft flickers across his face then. Surprise, maybe. Or something more dangerous.
“You don’t mind?” he asks.
The question is so genuine it makes your chest ache.
“Of course I don’t.”
Remus studies you for another second before exhaling softly through his nose.
“Alright,” he murmurs.
The walk back to your bedroom suddenly feels impossibly small.
You try very hard not to think about the fact that Remus Lupin is following you into your bedroom.
Or the fact that he smells faintly like rain and soap when he passes close beside you.
The mattress dips gently as he settles onto the far side of the bed with almost comical caution, like he’s terrified of taking up too much space.
“There,” you say lightly, climbing in beside him. “See? Much better than the couch.”
“Hm.”
You glance over.
Remus is lying stiffly on his back, hands folded over his stomach like he’s being buried.
A laugh escapes you before you can stop it.
“What?”
“You look terrified.”
“I’m trying to be respectful.”
“You’re two inches from falling off the bed.”
“I’m managing perfectly well.”
“You’re literally clinging to the edge.”
“I like the edge.”
You grin into the darkness.
Slowly, carefully, you reach over and tug lightly at the sleeve of his t-shirt.
“You can come a little closer, you know.”
The room goes quiet.
Remus looks at you then really looks at you and something in his expression turns unbearably soft.
Then, after the smallest hesitation, he shifts closer.
Not much.
Just enough that warmth settles beside you.
Just enough that you can feel him there.
The mattress dips slightly beneath his weight, and suddenly the space between you feels much smaller than it did a moment ago.
Neither of you speaks.
Wind brushes past the windows.
Somewhere in the apartment, the old radiator clicks quietly.
You become painfully aware of everything:
The warmth of him beside you
The faint scent of soap and rain lingering on his skin
The slow, careful way he breathes like he’s trying not to disturb you
It’s ridiculous, really.
You’ve shared couches with him before. Fallen asleep beside him during grade school slumber parties and movie nights and long evenings in the library.
But this feels different somehow.
More intimate.
“You alright?” Remus asks softly after a moment.
You realize you’ve been staring at the ceiling in complete silence.
“Hm? Oh. Yeah.”
A beat passes.
Then,
“You’re still clinging to the edge.”
Remus lets out the quietest laugh beside you.
“You noticed that?”
“You look like you’re one strong gust of wind away from falling onto the floor.”
“I’m trying to give you space.”
“You’re in my bed, Remus,” you mumble sleepily. “I think we’re past worrying about personal space.”
The words slip out before you can think too hard about them.
Silence follows immediately.
Heat crawls up your neck.
Beside you, Remus goes very still.
“Oh,” he says quietly.
You risk a glance toward him.
Big mistake.
Because he’s already looking at you.
In the soft darkness of your bedroom, and exhaustion lowering all his usual walls, he looks at you with something so openly fond it nearly steals the breath from your lungs.
Your heartbeat stumbles painfully.
Neither of you looks away.
Then, very gently, Remus says,
“Thank you for asking me to stay.”
Not just for the bed.
Not just for tonight.
You can hear it in his voice.
For wanting him there at all.
Something in your chest aches softly.
“You never have to thank me for that,” you whisper.
His expression shifts at your words—small, almost imperceptible—but enough that you know they landed somewhere deep.
For a moment, he looks like he might say something else.
Something dangerous.
Instead, he only exhales quietly and lets himself relax a little more into the mattress.
A few minutes pass in comfortable silence.
Then, somewhere around the point where sleep finally starts pulling at you properly, you feel it.
Warm fingers brushing lightly against yours beneath the blankets.
Tentative.
Careful.
Like he’s giving you the chance to pull away.
You don’t.
Your hand shifts instinctively against his, fitting there easily.
Beside you, Remus goes very still for half a second.
Then his fingers curl softly around yours.
And sometime later, with Remus warm beside you, you fall asleep holding his hand.
First time I’ve ever properly written Remus, so I hope it’s up to standard 😅🤣
Set in Prison of Azkaban era, Professor Lupin wakes up next to the person he just spent the night with… one thing leads to another, and despite them repeatedly thinking they shouldn’t, they soon can’t help but fall into one another’s arms again… 🤭 forbidden fruit at its finest 😙
His hand swept over her bare upper arm as smoothly as the breeze outside his bedroom window. She stirred, only slightly, before resting peacefully against the bed again. Her back was to him in their current position, but after last night, she had the most beautiful back he had ever seen, and the way the sunlight cascaded across the parts of her upper body that weren’t covered by her bed sheets—neck, shoulder, arm from having it comfortably resting on top of the sheets—only amplified his flashbacks from the night before. Forbidden fruit had never tasted so good.
He dipped his chin a little more and pressed a soft kiss to her shoulder before closing his eyes again with a soft sigh. Her skin was cold. He made the decision to carefully lift the covers and place her free arm back under them in an attempt to warm her up, hoping he had done so subtly enough to not interrupt her sleep—he wasn’t entirely sure if they were at the stage where pulling her closer to him to warm her up wouldn’t seem a little too keen. It always amused him, that theory; where spending the night together wasn’t too far in order to scare the other off, but showing genuine care and affection was.
Regardless, he sank back down into the sheets behind her, cautiously not positioning himself too close, and tested his theory mildly by draping an arm over her body. He could’ve happily remained in this position for as long as time would allow, however, he did also think she was still sleeping.
She laced their fingers and squeezed his hand first, then followed with, “Good morning, Professor.”
Her voice was sleepy, and that mixed with what she had said certainly made him feel a little more alert than he had just been in his lazy, comfortable state.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.” he whispered.
She smiled, eyes still closed, fingers still laced.
“I’ve woken in worse places.” she said, covering her mouth with her free hand as she yawned. “In worse states.”
He let out a small, gentle laugh through his nose. “How did you sleep?” he dared to gently caress the back of her hand with his thumb. “Can I get you anything?”
She shook her head. “I slept wonderfully, thank you.”
“I’m glad.” he smiled.
“I’d turn around and give you a morning kiss,” she said, resulting in him arching a brow, “but I fear after last night I’m now stuck in this position.” this made him chuckle softly to try and mask the colour that his cheeks were turning. “It’s really showing my age, I think. I feel a bit stiff this morning.”
He smirked briefly, swallowed hard, and brushed his lips against the back of her neck, mumbling, “Happens to the best of us.”
She gasped playfully when she caught on to his insinuation and bit her lip, leaning back against him now as he pressed against her properly.
“Remus John Lupin…” she whispered, nudging his crotch teasingly. “You certainly weren’t joking.”
“Oh, my full name?” Remus grinned, narrowing his eyebrows when he felt her directly brush against him. “I am in trouble.”
“Yes, you are.”
“How so?” Remus smiled against the back of her neck, kissing it again.
“Your tongue committed some unspeakable acts last night…” she bit her lip, playing with his fingers.
Remus felt himself twitch as a result.
“Stop it.”
“Stop what?”
“Talking like that…” his lips had reached her shoulder. “I need to get ready for work.”
She giggled softly and closed her eyes again.
“Sorry, Professor.”
Remus rested his head back against the pillow again and also closed his eyes, keeping his arm hooked around her and their fingers laced together.
“Quite alright.” he mumbled.
They remained there for a few more moments, but his morning wood didn’t show any willing to depart from their current situation.
After a little while, she said, “This isn’t getting ready for work, Professor…”
“No…” Remus exhaled.
Before he could register what he was absentmindedly doing, his lips returned to her skin. He didn’t want her to think that he just assumed she was okay with this just because of what had happened last night, so it only lasted a few brief moments before he pulled away again.
This time, however, his eyes didn’t close. Instead, they looked directly at the body he currently had in front of him and sighed softly, flashbacks of the night before at the forefront of his mind again.
“Christ,” he mumbled—though wasn’t aware he had done it out loud at first, “I need a cold shower before I even thinkabout getting ready for work.”
There were a few moments silence before she replied this time, “I hope I don’t hear any suspicious noises coming from it,” she smirked, “or I might just have to come in and inspect the situation.”
Remus had never been more grateful that she couldn’t see his face and especially how red it was turning.
“I don’t know what you mean…”
Her lips pursed and she lightly nudged herself back against him. Remus’ breath caught in his throat.
“What are you going to do about this?”
“Oh,” Remus shamefully played dumb, “I’m used to letting that, uh… disappear on its own.”
She didn’t know whether to laugh or feel sorry for him following that last comment. She took his hand and placed it over one of her bare breasts, biting her lip with a grin when she felt him twitch against her.
“Not…” Remus cleared his throat pathetically, “N-Not helping…”
“And, yet, you don’t stop me.” she whispered, squeezing her hand over his.
Remus swallowed hard and narrowed his eyebrows. His lower stomach began to swish with desire, his cock was about to start leaking with sticky lust, and he wasn’t entirely sure that a cold shower would fix the situation at all—perhaps a quick jerk off into the sink? He wouldn’t want her to think that he expected any favours from her just because he had woken up in an aroused state. He could get up, quick ten steps to the bathroom, a couple flicks of the wrist with last night still fresh in his mind, and all of the mornings built up tension would soon disappear down the plug—he could even already start the shower running to disguise any noises he couldn’t contain from his lips.
But she had other ideas, and was now guiding his hand down past her lower stomach. Remus’ own stomach gave a jolt and his lips parted, allowing her free range of his hand.
“All I’m saying, Professor…” she cupped his hand between her legs, making a soft noise, “it would be a shame to waste it…” she squeezed his hand again and narrowed her eyebrows with a grin when one of his fingers slipped exactly where she wanted it to. “Especially at your age.”
Even as turned on as he was, Remus was also a little taken back by her comment.
“Excuse me?” his lips were closer to her ear now.
“You heard.” she bit her lip with a grin and parted her lips when she felt him move his finger of his own accord. “Would you like me to say it to your face?”
Remus was appalled by how much her attitude was turning him on even more.
“Oh, I don’t think you’d dare.”
She raised her eyebrows and let go of his hand before turning around to face him. His face had shocked arousal written all over it. He had pink, flustered cheeks, large eyes, and slightly heavier than normal breaths passing through his parted lips. His hair was dishevelled, and she took pride in knowing it was most likely from how her hands had writhed through it the night before.
“I said, Professor Lupin,” she cleared her throat, “a man of your age shouldn’t let such a needy morning hard-on go to waste.” then bit her lip, studying his reaction.
“And what…” he tried to clear his head enough to speak, “what was all that about?” he flexed the hand that had just been slotted between her legs.
“Just wanted to show you that you’re not the only one who woke up craving the other in this bed…” she shrugged, flicking her eyes to meet his.
“You’re going to be the fucking death of me, Arabella.” were the last words he spoke before his own lips were robbed from him and now joined with hers.
Their lips crashed together over and over again in desperate wave of passion, Remus’ hand now finding the back of her head to keep her face close. Arabella’s fingertips lightly brushed against the scruff on his scarred cheeks and she kissed him feverishly, both of them closing their eyes.
Arabella rolled against him, one leg now hooked over his bare hips and one arm on the pillow at the far side of his head. The hand of his that wasn’t buried in her hair cascaded down her bare back—his fingertips taking in each and every inch of her skin.
Fuck, he wanted this. Wanted her.
“Nobody can ever find out about this, alright?” he whimpered against her lips. “Nobody can know.”
“Yes, Professor.” she agreed, nudging her thigh over the warm stiffness beneath it.
Remus winced momentarily and pulled his head back so their eyes met. “Do you understand?”
“I understand, Professor.”
Continuously calling him that wasn’t helping the situation at all.
“Fuck,” he inhaled deeply through clenched teeth, then mumbled as her lips brushed against his, “I’ll be in so much trouble.”
Arabella moved on top of him properly this time and pressed her index finger to his lips.
“Not a word.” she moved her hips forward briefly. “I promise.”
Christ, he needed to be inside her. It was like a sudden desperate craving. He needed last night all over again. He needed it without hazy eyes, without drunken fumbling hands, without clumsy kisses.
“I could get used to seeing you up—“ he began, but she used the moment to sit over him properly. His jaw clenched and froze, only able to exhale a relieved, “Ohh…”
“You were saying, Professor?” she bit her lip, placing her hands against his chest to steady herself.
But Remus couldn’t think of anything to say now. Not now he could feel her squeezed around him, not now she was moving against him. He looked up at her helplessly and managed to raise his arms enough to place his hands against her thighs, shivering in delight as she began to move a little more purposefully and his eyes closed.
He’d have had to think very long and hard if he were to remember the last time he had had a morning like this. He adored the way she glided over him, it sent bolts of electricity throughout his older body. Gentle bolts—ones that left you with more yearning than an over and done quick fix.
Arabella’s hands found his against her thighs and squeezed them gently as she began to bounce properly. The bed reacted with a few cheap squeaks, and Remus moaned into the chorus of her soft sighs. She’d always had an idea that he was going to be big, but in all her time of wondering—and there had been *a lot—*she could’ve never imagined he was thisblessed. The kind of blessed that even after several times of having him inside her in the last 12 hours, she was still having to adjust to the size of him.
She watched closely as his face, eyes still closed, flashed with several expressions. The most common one being his eyebrows knitted together and his mouth making an ‘O’ shape. It was hot, she thought. Hot in a older-Professor-hasn’t-got-any-in-a-long-while-and-knows-he-probably-shouldn’t-be-getting-it-right-now kind of way. Perhaps she’d even go as far to say he was perfect for her. Always had been.
Her heavy eyes studied his face for as long as she could bare to keep them open; the face with the mysterious scars, kind eyes, scruff of a few days of unshaven facial hair, slightly thicker than the rest moustache that sat above the lips that never asked for anything. Never assumed. Never demanded. Only ever gently warned. Gently warned others that he was no good, and that they were better off without his company. That one day they would come to realise why he thought such things about himself. But Arabella didn’t think she’d ever think of him so lowly. So much so, she was now leaning over him and kissing those lips, her hands placed at either sides of his against the pillow.
She kissed his parted lips at first, then moaned softly when she felt him react by bringing both of his hands to her face and kissing her properly. Their lips began to meet in time with her hips, and Remus’ fingertips began to tremble against her cheeks. He whimpered softly and turned his head to deepen the kiss, their tongues now creating a dance of their own as her nails soothingly scratched against the sides of his neck.
Remus shivered, and his body vibrated against hers. Arabella broke the kiss, though kept her lips close enough so that he could feel her breath.
“How badly do you need to get off, Professor?”
“Not terribly.” Remus replied, opening his heavy eyes to gaze up at her.
“You might want to tell your cock that.” she teased, enjoying the feeling of him pulsing inside her.
“No, I didn’t mean—” he let out a small sigh, immediately cursing himself for his poor reply. “I want us to both enjoy it.” he swallowed hard. “Not rush it.”
It was true; he didn’t know when—or even if—he would ever find himself in a position like this again, and he certainly didn’t want to waste the opportunity of slow morning sex with a very pretty young lady with an age-gap he’d rather not think about.
“We’ve got all the time in the world.” she whispered, closing the gap between them by pressing their lips together again.
One of Remus’ hands rested against the back of her head and he kissed her back gently, letting out slightly heavier breaths each time she sat all the way over him.
“Fuck, I’ve been dreaming about how you’d feel from the moment I first got put in your class…” she spoke into the kiss, circling her hips briefly and letting out a soft moan as a result from the feeling it caused.
“You know you shouldn’t say such things.” Remus replied, one of his hands trembling over the small of her back.
“We can’t get into bother,” she smirked, kissing him again as she brushed her hips forward. “Not now that I’m technically employed.”
Remus inhaled sharply as his cock pulsed.
“You–” he regained his speech, “you were a student once.”
“Everyone has been a student at some point…” she grinned, leaning down to kiss him and adding, “Professor.”
“Bit of a difference between sixteen years ago and one month.” he replied, though kissed her back willingly.
“Still not a current student…” she kissed him harder, then said before he even had chance to respond, “even if I did want you to fuck me when I was a student.”
Remus parted his lips to respond but all of the air was suddenly robbed out of his lungs when Arabella sat up properly and started to bounce over him, using him as if he were a desperate po-go stick.
“Merlin’s— fuck!” he gasped in pleasure, his eyes immediately rolling back as his head dug into the pillow.
Arabella threw her head back and drove her hips down onto his, gasping in pleasure each time he filled her completely.
Remus felt as if he had slipped into complete and utter ecstasy—as if he had never woken up this morning at all, because never in a million years did he expect his morning to play out like this. He opened his eyes briefly and gazed up at her through the haze of pleasure, completely in awe of her. He’d give up a years worth of orgasms just for this to last as long as possible, he decided.
“Ugh, Professor…” she whimpered, narrowing her eyebrows and driving her hips down in a little less forgiving pace. “N-Need… you.”
Suddenly, as if he had mustered all the strength and drive of his youth, Remus sat himself up and wrapped his arms around her. Arabella continued to move over his cock, snaking her arms around his neck and immediately welcoming the new close embrace.
“I’m here.” he spoke so softly against her lips.
“Don’t ever go.” she whispered back, brushing their lips together a few times.
Her bare breasts pressed into his chest and moved against his skin each time she bounced over him. Remus kissed her clumsily, his arms tangled around her. They grunted softly in sync with each other, the sweat of their bodies now mixing.
“Lay down for me.” he said calmly, breaking the kiss and lowering his hands down her back a little.
Arabella narrowed her eyebrows and did as he’d asked, her head now dangling a little over the end of the bed.
“Like this?”
“Perfect.”
Remus took in the image in front of him for a few seconds longer than intended until his cock twitched from the lack of attention.
Slowly, still between her legs, he lowered himself down and thrusted himself inside her as delicately as possible—not wanting to rush a single moment.
“Remus…” she gasped faintly, arching her back a little against the bed.
He smirked, lips now inches away from her collarbone as he began to move his hips slowly. Arabella moaned breathily and wrapped her legs around him, her eyes rolling back in pleasure.
“Remus…” she said his name in a slightly more frantic tone this time when his lips made contact with her skin.
His kisses and gentle nibbles occupied her collarbones and breasts for the most part; leaving little red marks from where they had been. Arabella squirmed in delight beneath him, only encouraging him more. His hips moved in time with his lips, still cautious of wanting to really bide his time.
By the time his lips reached her throat, her fingers were combing through his hair. He lazily dragged his lips against her skin, kissing her throat tenderly before applying slightly more pressure once they reached the side of her neck.
“Mmhh…” she mumbled, biting her lip with a grin, “the Professor likes to leave his mark…”
“The Professor does.” Remus growled from the back of his throat, sucking on the crook of her neck whilst moaning shakily.
“I thought teachers weren’t supposed to have favourites…” she smirked, lifting her hips up a little to meet with his steady thrusts.
“Shut your pretty little mouth.” he growled from the back of his throat, thrusting his hips a little harder.
Arabella grinned and scratched her nails up his bare back, moaning louder each time he drove his hips forward. Her legs hooked around him held them against each other as closely as possible, and he peppered kisses up the side of her neck again, and actually found it hard to fight off the urge to bite.
“Mmh, mmh, fuck…” he whimpered, the arousal in his stomach starting to turn his thighs to led as his hips continued to move at this new, harsher pace.
Arabella reached down as far as she could with both of her hands and attempted at patting his hips. Taking this as an instruction to stop, he immediately did so.
“Everything alright?” he asked, half in a daze whilst gazing down at her.
“Don’t stop…” she narrowed her eyebrows, “I just…”
Remus started to move again, his lips parting in pleasure from the feeling. He didn’t need telling twice at this point.
“What is it, darling?”
She brought her hands up to his face and cupped it gently, arching her back in delight as she attempted at pressing a kiss to his lips.
“I want to make you cum, Professor.”
Remus felt a dangerous shiver take over his entire body for a few moments following this.
“I think you proved yourself rather capable of that last night…” he mumbled against her lips.
“I know, but…”
“What was it, three times?”
She twirled his hair around her fingers, kissing him again before speaking, “Could have been four…”
“I’m afraid you’d have been shagging a corpse by that point.” Remus chuckled.
“I don’t think anyone’s ever died from too much sex!” Arabella chuckled, one hand sliding down his back against so she could feel him as he thrust himself in and out of her.
Arabella lightly patted his hips and he stopped again, breathing heavily against her lips. Slowly, she pushed him back up again, lips still attached, and Remus wrapped his arms around her so that they continued to move together.
“Well, I don’t want to be the first…” he said, kissing her as he laid down on his back again, “not if it means I’d miss out on more mornings like this.”
Arabella grinned and started to move over him again, kissing his lips feverishly. “Why, do you like the way I ride your cock, Professor?”
“Oh, fuuuck…” he groaned from the back of his throat, feeling himself throbbing warningly. “Yeah.. I do.”
“I love making you feel good, Professor…” she leaned over him again, slowly kissing his lips.
“Th-This morning won’t last very much longer if you keep talking like that, I’m afraid…” he swallowed hard, pausing the kiss briefly to let out a heavy breath.
“Shh, shh…” she shook her head, her gentle movements continuing, “you let go whenever you want to let go.”
“A-And you?” Remus asked timidly, his fingertips brushing up and down her back.
“Oh, I’m close…” she moaned against his lip, kissing him feverishly, “so fucking close, Professor. Fuck…”
Remus made a soft noise in response to her words and reached for one of her hands, lacing their fingers together their arms rested by the side of his head. Arabella squeezed their hands together as she moved over him, their mouths now gaping open but both of them refusing to stop attempting to kiss.
Remus’ free hand trembled up and down her back and he whimpered against her lips, treading the very delicate line of wanting to chase his release, but wanting this feeling to last forever. Arabella narrowed her eyebrows and gasped against his lips, their hands now changing colour from how tightly they were clenched together.
“Remus!” she breathed out shakily, “Oh, Remus!”
“Yes… yes… fuck.” he inhaled sharply, their hands starting to mix sweat.
The feeling of her tightening around his cock took him to a place he could not return from.
“Oh, Bella…” he swallowed hard. “I’m going to cum, Bella…” he parted his lips to moan, his jaw locking in the process. “Bella, Bella—!”
Within seconds from his last exclamation, he was spilling helplessly inside her. He had peaked, so had she, and together they moved against one another as if trying to start a fire.
Arabella’s cry of, “Professor!” earned an even more elongated climax from him, his hand gripping her hip whilst their other hands remained tangled together.
Once Arabella let go of his hand, he immediately used both of his to cup her face in his hands and bring her into a trembling kiss.
“Oh, sweetheart…” he panted, both of them still rocking against each other but now at a less vigorous pace, “sweetheart…”
He continued to pepper sweet words against her lips in between kisses, his eyes still closed. His heart was racing, blood rushing through his body in a way that made him feel more alive than he ever had.
“I don’t want to wake up if my mornings aren’t like that.” Arabella spoke against his lips, kissing him slowly before burying her face in the crook of his neck.
“You’re incredible…” Remus fought through trying to catch his breath. “Incredible.”
She kissed the side of his sticky neck before moving to the side of him and staring up at the ceiling with a wide smile.
“I suppose you’re alright, Professor.”
Remus let out a small laugh, but mostly tried to get used to the feeling of her not being on top of him anymore. He sighed softly and turned his head on the pillow to look at her, smiling.
“What?” Arabella bit her lip, rolling onto her side.
“You’re just…” he exhaled, trying to muster something but settling on simply, “beautiful.”
“Thank you.” she blushed, leaning in to peck his cheek before swinging her legs off the bed.
“That was so much better than last night.” Remus sighed softly, one hand rested over his stomach as he gazed up at the ceiling.
“Oh, charming.” Arabella scoffed.
“No- I didn’t mean it like that!” Remus responded quickly, realising how it could have come across. Arabella made to get up, but Remus quickly reached for her hand, speaking with genuine sincerity as she turned back to look at him. “I didn’t. I promise.”
“Then, what did you mean?”
“Just in the sense that we were able to take our time…” he narrowed his eyebrows, lifting her hand to his lips. “Not rush anything.” he kissed the back of her hand delicately. “Just enjoy one another.”
She watched him brush his lips against her hand once more and smiled. “Well, I’m glad you enjoyed yourself.”
“I did.” he responded immediately, gazing up at her and letting out a half sigh, half laugh. “I’m sorry. I… don’t know what to say.” he bit his bottom lip with a shy smile. “I don’t usually do things like… last night.”
Arabella laughed now, but quietly. “I can tell.” she leaned forward to brush their lips faintly together. “It’s nice to know you still wanted me whilst you’re sober.”
Remus’ free hand came up to cup her cheek as he kissed her back slowly—but properly. “More than I’d care to admit, I’m afraid.”
“So much so,” she pushed his hair off his still warm forehead, “you’ve forgotten you should be getting ready for work… Professor.”
“Oh, no!” Remus widened his eyes, raising himself up on his elbows, “Shit, I’m going to be in so much trouble with Dumbledore!”
“On top of the trouble you’d be in for fucking an ex student…” Arabella mumbled under her breath, biting her lip to hide a grin as she watched him.
“Oh, god!” he exhaled heavily, running his hands through his hair. “I need to—!”
“What you need to do, Remus,” she spoke whilst placing her hands on his chest, trying to lay him back down.
“No, I don’t have time!”
“Listen to me.” she said, one hand still firmly on his chest. Remus swallowed hard, trying not to find this whole situation and her tone of voice arousing. “What you need to do,” she continued, “is realise that it’s the weekend. You don’t have work today.”
“What?!” Remus gasped, then fell back to the mattress with his hands covering his face, then mumbled something that sounded like, “oh, thank fuck…”
Arabella giggled and nudged her nose against his hands, gesturing for him to move them, which he did, so she could kiss him. Remus’ hands instead tangled in her hair, tilting his head as he deepened the kiss. He could do this all day.
“Still…” she mumbled, “that shower you were talking about having earlier sounds awfully tempting…”
Remus kissed her again. “Oh?”
“Just a thought.” she kissed him back.
“And, would this be a joint thing, or… separate, hm?”
Arabella inhaled dramatically as if pausing for thought, then she gazed down at him and said, “Well, that contraceptive potion we took last night lasts for twenty-four hours…”
Remus smirked, drinking in her suggestive tone and expression. “I believe that answers that, then, Miss Arabella.”
———
Thank you so much for reading! Please feel free to let me know what you think or anything you would like me to write/add another part 😊 I already have another one sitting in my drafts 👀 I think it’s gonna follow the same sort of vibe as the Snape/Eleanor and Sirius/Mina where they’re the main characters but the one shots don’t necessarily follow on from one another! 😁
———
Tags! ♥️:
(I tried to tag as many as it would allow, thank you for being interested in the first place, and please feel free to let me know if you ever would like your tag removing 🫶)
SUMMARY: Day five is here. Everything is about to change.
TAGS: Exes-to-lovers. First Wizarding War. Canon-divergent. Marauders Era. Remus Lupin is the loveliest broody boy, I'm not talking questions at this time.
WARNINGS: Mild angst. Hurt/comfort and FLUFFY FLUFF!!! (YESSSSSS!! WE ALL NEED IT, BITCH!!) Language. Suggestive content. Bit of filthy humour, courtesy of our favourite marauders! And Peter, whatever! (LOL I hate him! 🤡)
A/N: Shorter chapter — but no less epically significant. Aaaand... I got it out sooner, yay! WE’RE IN THE TURNAROUND, LUVS! This one made me cry, and I hope it gets to you too, MUAHAHA... ♡
DAY FIVE: Wednesday, 15 July 1981
The Sleeping Draught was good for twelve hours instead of sixteen. Just a small miscalculation, commonly known to happen. Which means, before the sun — and you — are up, Remus is.
He does feel quite refreshed and ninety-percent pain-free, which is major. Goes to show why some things in life are justifiably rare to obtain and overpriced for legitimate reasons. Like Patagonian moon-salts and extra-whimsical shimmery violet flower petals… whatever their name is… he already forgot (even though he still smells like them).
Just a few more items to the mental list of “Things I’ll never be able to repay or thank my Y/N for.”
This not-quite-morning feels… different, in several ways. It’s — if he can believe it — cold. Proper cold. London-in-March cold. Strange but not that shocking, given this place has not behaved normally since he arrived here, and even more so since you came. He wonders why that is sometimes.
At least the settee is leaving you alone. Or maybe it’s just because you’ve gone out of your way to have nothing to do with it. Not even draping a bath towel over its back. Taking a wide berth to make sure no part of you touches it. The rain fiasco still makes him secretly grin like an idiot, and even more secretly thank it with soft pats throughout the day. He swears the thing purrs a little when he does it.
Although, sharing a bed with you has been heaven and hell; he's glad for your comfort above all, and also your nearness. But your nearness is also... problematic. And your sweet smell. And the warmth that radiates from your body and your being that no one else can match. And your morning touches... It's been pure bliss, and sheer torture.
Case in point: the ‘pretzel’ situation he finds himself in yet again… well, at least it doesn’t throw Moony into a frenzy like yesterday, thank Merlin. He figures (while unconsciously making little figure-eights between your shoulder blades with his thumb) that the first-time novelty brought horny chaos to an unprepared lonely wolf-boy in love, but the second-day sort-of familiarity is rewarding him with enough self-control to briefly enjoy and endure.
Well, Remus still has to exercise incredible willpower to extricate his arms and legs from you. Your hands are so warm under his tatty Bob Dylan t-shirt, and they feel achingly perfect sitting on his ribs and chest like this. Your temperatures match everywhere you touch, and he hates to break the comforting feeling. And yeah — he also hates having to stop touching you, to be shamefully honest. Even though this is accidental and happening in your sleep, it still isn't right, and he will not cross any boundaries with you, ever again.
The chilly dawn of day five brings a forced clarity to face yesterday’s fuckups whilst filling his dizzy head with unwelcome thoughts and feelings way too early, so…
...what’s a bloke to do but to journal about it?
If James was here, the infinite piss would be taken, as he’s done every chance he’s got over the years since the three lads discovered his secret self-soothing hobby.
“Oh, I know! It’ll say, ‘Dear diary, today Y/N looked especially delectable in potions when she loosened her blue tie while brewing Pepperup. Pretty sure I saw the top of her tit-crack. When will I find the courage to ask her to make a man outta me, or at least polish my poor wand, my oh my?’”
“Shut up Prongs, she’s right there.”
“Yeah, Prongs, shut up ya twat. Leave sweet innocent Moonybuns alone, will ya? Besides, he’d write something way classier, like, ‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? ‘Cos thou art hot as all fuck and I’d give anything to dip my thirsty tongue into thine sweet puddle of—’”
Next thing, the two idiots were shouted at to scrub Professor Slug’s sludgy cauldrons after class, due to the silent but lethal Rictumsempra that hit James and Sirius so hard, they knocked half the class’s work all over the dungeon floors, squirming and screaming in ticklish agony.
Peter was useless the rest of the day, crying-laughing every time he remembered the scene. It’s still his best memory of fourth year. “Don’t sleep on Remus Lupin, the quiet ones are always the real danger!”
And still, Remus journals, to this day. Aspiring-writer-and-poet-and-scholar-shunned-by-society problems and all that.
Pouring out on the page what he can't tell you directly seems to be the best outlet at the moment. And so, what was meant to be just a typical stream of consciousness entry, a freehand brain-dump, if he will… shapes up to be more like a painful regret-filled love letter. One he never intends for you to see, of course.
I’m so sorry, dove. I was such an arse yesterday, even more than usual. Orders or not, you're being so good to me, pausing your whole life to come to this godric-forsaken place just to take care of me. You don't deserve what I've done to repay you.
Yesterday morning I touched you like I shouldn't have, taking advantage of your vulnerability. For a moment you felt so soft, smelled so bewitching. All wrapped up in me like that… as if you were still my girl. You moaned my name (I think) and you kissed my skin, and I lost my head for a moment there, wishing for all the saints to make it true. To let me have you again.
And now I can’t forgive myself.
And then I spent the rest of the day being a prick to you, to offset that.
Will I ever stop hurting you, one way or another?
I will confess this egregious transgression to you before you leave, so it doesn’t interfere with your remaining days here; you can hate me in your own time, free from the burden of looking at my face and sleeping in the same bed with me. Does this make me a complete creep? I should sleep outside like the mongrel I am.
I suppose I should stop calling you ‘dove’ as well.
Does Eriksson call you a pet name? Something Swedish and saccharine and stupid? Do you love him now? Are you dreaming of him when you latch onto me during the night? It would make sense.
I know — not my business. Whatever you do with your love life, whoever you end up with. I forfeited the right to any of that.
I’m so sorry. I hurt you, and I keep hurting you. You deserve so much better. You shouldn’t have to subject yourself to this. To me.
I’ll talk to Dumbledore. Figure out another way, so you don’t have to come back here if I’m still in exile, next moon.
I’m sorry for shouting and marding. I’m sorry for pushing you away when you’re just trying to do what you were sent here for: to help me. I’m sorry for acting so ungrateful and bratty.
But I’m really, really sorry for being a creep behind your back. I’m deeply ashamed.
I know you don’t love me anymore. I fucked that all up, royally. I deserve way worse than how you’ve been treating me. You're too good a person. Angel girl.
I love you. So much. And I’m weak. Pathetic. When you touched me in your sleep, it felt… so real. Like it used to be with us. I wanted a piece of our past so badly. I had no right. I’m sorry.
I love you. And because of that, I have to let you go. I promise I will. I’m not going to be a burden for you much longer.
Thank you. For everything. My sweet Y/N. Wonderful girl.
You are slowly roused by the sound of whisking. It soothes and surprises you, the instant comfort of such a mundane thing — the rhythmic clink clink clink against the porcelain bowl.
When you move your bare legs just a few inches, the sheets underneath feel like they're wet, making you twitch and shudder. Why is it so arse-freezing cold today? The rest of you starts to catch up to it, shivering spasms like little electric shocks all over.
Is it selfish to wish Remus was still next to you? His lupine temperature of around forty degrees celsius comes in handy on days like these. You hug his dark chocolate brown jumper around you a bit tighter, trying to find the courage to get up.
It's a dark grey morning outside the large window. Drizzling too. That type of drizzle that looks half-frozen, halfway to snowy-ish… just a bone-cold, bizarre climatic twist of a day. So much like London when it stubbornly refuses to transition to Springtime.
You hate being cold and unprepared for it as much as you hate being hot and trapped, but more importantly, the sober feeling in the air raises some contradictory feelings inside you: You miss home. Your bed, your mum's food, music, the telly, your patients. But here, you have Remus. So what if everything else is a tad bizarre and miserable?
— ☽ ☀︎ —
Your approach to the kitchen is slow, fuzzy socks and fleecy pyjama bottoms now on. Remus is placing two cast-iron skillets onto the hob. Not turning around yet, he murmurs, “Good morning.”
Upon a brief hesitation on your part, you tell yourself it's just to ascertain that ‘grumpy Moony’ is not in the room right now. What you find when he turns his head momentarily is well-known kind eyes and a barely there upward twitch of his lips.
Well then, it doesn't look like he'd be glad to see the back of you today. That's nice.
“Um… Good morning. What’s all this?”
“What I like to call Apology Eggs. And… Atoning drop scones?” He points at the table, sheepishly. You follow and see the creamy batter sitting in a different bowl, waiting for its turn on the hot pan.
“Mm. Heard of those. Delicious, most of the time. As long as those are blueberries and not… Nightshade…”
This time a breathy laugh escapes him.
“Want me to take the first bite to prove I’m not out to poison you?”
You smile, tentatively, arms still hugging yourself. “Maybe. Everything looks great. How're you feeling?”
“Good. Bit sluggish, but barely any pain at the moment.”
“That’s great, Remus. Brilliant for day five. How’s your hand?”
“Look.” He fully turns to show you, and sees what you're wearing: his favourite jumper. The one you knitted for him with the help of his mam, and he couldn’t find this morning. The very one you two stretched out, when he kissed you for the first time, on the old pier near the Snowdonia mountains.
“I borrowed this... Hope it's okay.”
“Yeah. You look… yeah, it's okay.” He backtracks from what he almost said, which would definitely be too on-the-nose flirty. “Bit nippy today, yeah?”
“You can say that. Definitely unexpected.”
“Not unheard of, though. We’re quite high up, wherever this place is.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
Two seconds of silence feel like two minutes. You pinch the long woolly sleeves caressing your knuckles.
“Are you warm?” His question is so dangerously soft and dripping with boyfriend-concern, it warms you from the inside out, threatening to discombobulate you beyond recovery.
“I’m alright, thanks. Um, can I see your hand?”
You extend your hand and he places his healed one, palm up, on top of it. A bandage-free palm with brand-new smooth skin, not a trace of a cut anywhere.
“Wow. That's really good.”
“Yeah, you can’t tell at all.”
“That's the snow-mermine oil. Wicked, huh?”
“Mm. Yeah...”
You caress his palm with two fingers, feeling the new skin the magical oil created, in awe. You fight the urge to feel it on your lips, your cheeks. When it’s getting way too long for the examination excuse, you finally let his hand go, clearing your throat. Remus flexes his fingers, not quite looking at you.
“You’ve been up long?” you ask.
“Couple of hours.”
“Oh no, I must've miscalculated the sleeping potion. I'm sorry.”
He looks up to you, his gaze open and vulnerable. “Please, don’t apologise. The only one who should be apologising here is me.”
He’s now fully focused on you. You wait in silence. You both take deep, silent breaths.
“Y/N… First of all, I’m really sorry for yesterday. I was completely out of line. Out of sorts, just… out of it. Not an excuse though, I was a total arse.”
“Don’t worry about it. Moon days, I know they're difficult.”
“Maybe. But still, not an excuse. You deserve better from me.” He takes a step closer. “I'll do better. For you.”
You squeeze your own forearms a bit harder, forcing your hands to find tactile comfort in the soft wool that smells like him and you, instead of going to his biceps, his shoulder, his face, his hair. The silences between you feel charged — not with heavy tension like yesterday, but a different kind of static.
“Second of all... I have an announcement.”
“Mm?”
“I am happy to announce that I'm officially done throwing hissy fits.” He does a little flourish of the hands and curtsy and you snort a laugh. His bashful smile sweetens the air in your lungs.
“You sure Moony is okay with that? He does love a hissy fit from time to time, doesn't he?”
“Well, I can't always speak for him, but I can make sure mister Lupin behaves like he was raised proper. How's that?”
You bite your knuckles to suppress the dorkiest smile, along with the urge to pounce on him with kisses. “That's very reasonable, mister Lupin. I reckon I'd like to pledge the same on my own behalf.”
“Shall we shake on it?” He extends his hand and you take it, firmly. “No more hissies.”
“No more hissies.”
You reluctantly let go, fingers brushing all the way. He doesn't seem to mind the extra touch, still smiling sweetly.
Mind your boundaries, your conscience chides.
“How can I help?”
“Want to do the eggs while I do the drop scones?”
“Sure.”
His hip bumps yours when he turns around to grab the bowl of eggs for you, and then again when he comes back to your side. Space is limited, you tell yourself with barely suppressed giddiness, absolutely not minding the way his body keeps making contact, and his right forearm brushes your left as you both move your cooking utensils around.
Remus uses a large serving spoon to drop the dollops of thick blueberry-sprinkled batter into his greased cast-iron skillet. It's impressive how good he is at calculating the exact quantity and dropping motion to produce the four-inch immaculate circles of Scotch pancakes, which come out perfectly golden and fluffy every time.
The greasy surface sizzles and the smell instantly comforts, reaching the deepest parts of your core memory. He's ready with the fish slice to flip them over once the bubbles appear on top.
“It's good that you're doing the drop scones. I still second-guess myself when it's the right time to flip them… always end up with scorched bottoms.”
“I remember. Gotta trust the bubbles, love.”
You smile into the jumper collar. “But they look so pale and undercooked, every time!”
“But they're not. Trust the bubbles, they don't lie.”
“I can’t trust the bubbles!” you laugh-argue.
“See? Come, look.” You lean in, pressing against his arm, and he hums. “Mm. There, wee bubbles on top. Now... you watching?”
“Oui, chef.”
He flips them with all the grace and dexterity of a world-renown cook. “See? Perfectly golden-brown.” He presses a bit more into you, his head leaning in closer to your ear. “Gotta trust the bubbles, love.” His tone is low and breathy, and so is your response.
“Well, I trust you.”
Remus huffs a shy little laugh, cheeks rosy. This is stupidly domestic. Just like it used to be a million heartbeats ago.
A desperate little part shoved deep inside of him hopes nothing breaks the spell, as he slowly plates the first four perfect small pancakes onto a large plate trying not to disturb what is fluttering between you two, and just as gingerly he drops four more dollops into the sizzling pan.
“We got Lyle's Golden Syrup for them? I mean, honey is fine if not.”
“We do have it. Molly sent me some last week.”
“Well done Molly.”
He swishes his wand over the serving plate and you watch the heat waves of the charm that will keep them at the perfect temperature and texture until the rest is done. Then, he'll finish the stacks with squares of creamy butter that will melt all over them, before you drench everything in the syrup.
Your mouth waters. These were always your favourite breakfast items at Hogwarts, and Remus never forgot.
The sizzling combined with the aroma of grease and fried batter also transport your daydreaming mind to lazy Sunday mornings at the small kitchen you once called your own, clad only in one of his oversized T-shirts or soft jumpers; usually followed by being hoisted onto the worktop, and being kissed so thoroughly the first batch of drop scones almost burned to crisps. Proof that even sexy perfect chefs can get distracted.
You were so indescribably happy then.
— ☽ ☀︎ —
After the delicious breakfast, Remus does the washing up while you start prepping for the Wolfsbane brew. You two continue to share the confined space in a companionable silence and long learned choreography, bodies brushing softly, brief words exchanged when needed.
There's a feeling of uneasy anticipation in the air. Things that need to be said today. Intentions made clear, important information shared. Whatever you two missed over the past year and two months, as painful as it is, needs to be discussed.
And so… No one is saying anything.
You start on the Wolfsbane and Remus goes outside for a bit, becoming engrossed in something you don't quite recognise — a dirty bulky book of some sort he's spell-cleaning and polishing with a rag.
You turn your attention wholly to the task in front of you and all your mental checklisting. After all, no mistakes can be made for the next four to five hours.
The crackling of magic in the crispy air and the firewood in the hob, the clinking of vials and silvery instruments, the distant sway and shudder of trees in the wind, the crunching and chopping and slicing and juicing of ingredients, the bubbling and hissing of the cauldron, the twinkling of precisely charmed hourglasses… these are the sounds that dominate the rest of the morning. All familiar and strangely not. Comforting, and also not.
Something is about to change between you and Remus. Again. You have no idea what, or how, but you just know. You feel it all over. And judging by the furtive glances he sends your way whenever you're hyperfocused on something else, Remus knows and feels it too.
Focus. Think about that later.
Only after the potion's done, and only after he's drunk it, maybe even only after lunch is sorted... maybe then you can find within yourself the courage to look him in the eye and start a very long, very difficult conversation that will probably occupy the rest of your day today.
After a delicious creamy potato with spicy sausage and herbs soup, you do the washing up slowly, having sent a protesting Remus to bed, to rest his knees. “Go fiddle with your weird little book some more, I got it here.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Oi, dinnae talk tae me like I’m yer old girlfriend McGonagall.” You put on the daftest Scottish accent imaginable.
“Then dinnae dae such a good impression o’ her. My heart cannae take it.” Remus’s attempt is somehow even worse.
“Dinnae fash, maybe she'll come visit ye next, for a fortnight of passion.”
“Ach, lass, a man can only dream.” You both dissolve into idiotic giggles.
This is good. Some old piss-taking banter between good mates. Maybe the rest of the week won't be so hard.
After today.
You take your sweet time tidying up the old place for a good while, until there's nothing else to faff about with.
It's time.
“Remus?”
“Yeah?” He shoves the heavy tome inside his bottom dresser.
“I think… We need to talk.”
He lowers his head, a heavy feeling pulling down on his neck. But he knows you're right. He knows this needs to happen. “Right. We should.”
You two sit on the bed facing each other as best as possible — Remus rests his back on the headboard, you have pillows propped against the window wall; the duvet (and extra heavy blankets Remus has fetched from somewhere) covers your lower halves, providing much-needed warmth. If your fuzzy-socked toes touch his thigh or hands from time to time, you don't seem to mind. So, he lets it happen, an innocent placating gesture, he hopes.
“So… I think…” you start.
“D'you want some tea? Sorry, I just thought of it.”
“Maybe? If you want some. Yeah.”
Remus returns in a minute with a full kettle and two mugs. You accept yours with an easy smile.
Passionfruit and honey. Perfect for the nerves.
After sipping in silence for a bit, you try again.
“So… I think we should talk because… Well… I’ve been thinking and… I think… it's pretty evident that we're going to be in each other's lives again.”
His breath stutters, “Y-yeah?”
“Yeah. This is a forever thing, I think. At least… I hope that's still true.”
Remus's eyes are round and luminous at that ‘forever.’ Hope springs up like a flash of light inside his chest. You being back in his life is only everything he wants. He nods, so much like a little boy, full of expectations.
You go on. “Even if… we're dating other people.”
The light goes out as quickly as it came. Remus does his best to mask the sadness that drenches him head to toe like a bucket of ice water. So this is confirmation then: you and Eriksson.
“We just need to be… alright with that, I reckon. Our history is, you know... and we… well, we just need to…” You're so nervous, you can't string a coherent, adult-sounding sentence for your life. Then, you hesitate further, studying your mug before uttering the next words that are truly meant for yourself, with a couple switched pronouns and royal we's.
“We just need to learn to... love each other differently.”
You blink way too much after saying that. And Remus nods way too much in response.
“Right. Yeah. Right.”
You slowly lift your gaze to him, a tad more determined now.
“And I meant what I said yesterday. I will help you, whatever you need. We will change things for the packs. We will continue what you started, Remus. I don't know who else you have that you can count on, but I'm with you.”
Remus's eyes become misty. It's a good bet this will happen a lot today. “I can't tell you how much it means to me, to hear you say that. But I want you to know that, erm, you don't need to promise me that. You're not obligated to commit to something so… impossible.”
“I know. But I want to. It's my life's calling. I've always known it, since the day I learned about your condition, Remus. That hasn't changed.”
Now it's your turn to get all misty-eyed.
“I am sorry for not being there for you this past year. It was immature and selfish of me, shutting you out like that. It will never happen again.”
“Please. You don't have to apologise for that either, Y/N. I was incredibly cruel to you. You had every right to never want to see my face again.”
“Well... turns out that doesn't work very well for me, not seeing your face again. I couldn't really…” you swallow, putting the mug down on the windowsill and gathering the courage to get soul-bared and dangerously vulnerable. “Can't really live without... my best friend.” you finish in a choked whisper.
Remus has to use all his willpower again, to not pull you into his arms. So, he just finds your hands and his voice, instead. “Turns out I can't really live without my best girl either.”
You, on the other hand, are not so strong. With a choked sob, you lean forward on your knees and next thing you know, you find the curve of his neck and shoulders to hide your face there.
He wraps his arms around your torso and holds you to him as tight as possible, wishing to convey all the love he has for you. Wishing to never let you go.
You hold each other through a cascade of salty tears that have been trapped for ages, and the indescribable flood of sweet relief that follows. Remus hears the moment your hearts fall in perfect sync; your breaths slow and deepen, your bodies fully melt into each other, finding solace, home.
You nuzzle his neck that still smells like lavender and the incomparably delicious gentian petals from last night’s bath, wishing you could taste it. You also wish you could take the last fourteen months back, erase your cruel absence, replace it with all the unquestionable support and devotion he dearly needed then, whilst you were nowhere near to offer.
“Forgive me, Rem?” your words are muffled against his pulse point.
“Of course, love.” he whispers into your skin. “Forgive me too?”
“Of course, love.”
There's no rush, no pressure, no awkwardness, no guilt. This moment needed to happen, exactly like this. Two souls finding each other again, knitting back together. Because your love for each other transcends mere friendship, romance, or sex. It's eternal. It's solid. It's pure, and right, and life-affirming. You will never let anything or anyone rupture your bond, ever again.
When you break apart, you sit next to him against the headboard. Legs, hips, hands touching. Holding onto each other, clingy and free of judgement. Just like you used to in the hospital wing at Hogwarts. Just like you're meant to: like true best friends.
“Would you feel ready to tell me… everything I missed? I want to hear. Everything you went through in your mission.”
Remus takes a few calming breaths, his thumbs caressing the tops of your hands, his stubbly chin and scarred cheek on your head, which is resting on the curve of his shoulder.
“Yeah. I want to tell you. You're the only one I ever wanted to tell.”
♥️ 🐺 ♥️ 🐺 ♥️ 🐺 ♥️ 🐺 ♥️ 🐺 ♥️ 🐺 ♥️
|| NEXT CHAPTER ||
Nerdy Ravenclaw Notes:
REMUS’S BODY TEMPERATURE: According to recent serious research on my part (aka Google lol 😭), the average normal human body temperature that’s considered safe is between 36-37 degrees Celsius, or 97-99 Fahrenheit. If you present with a forty-degree fever (104°F), that’s a high-grade fever (hyperpyrexia) and it can cause delirious episodes; needless to say it must be brought down as soon as possible. Unless you’re Remus Lupin, or you are with Remus Lupin. Then, you cuddle up to all that hotness during cold nights — pyjamas optional. AYOO! 🥵 Lucky us!
DROP SCONES (SCOTTISH PANCAKES): So, instead of defaulting to American pancakes again (my favourite), I put on my nerdy glasses and found the UK equivalent. Now I want drop scones!
A/N: Yay for being besties again, hurraaaayyy... (some of you are rolling your eyes at me so hard right now, LMAO) Oi! Restore friendship first, romance later! CHECKLISTS, PEOPLE!
Day five is going to be BIG. Probably three-parts big! Next, we will finally get a full picture of what Remus went through in the fourteen months he spent with the werewolf communities of Wizarding Britain and Ireland. It will take me a bit to put all the lore and plot points into it, so I'm scared and excited! DAY FIVE IS CORE-MEMORY STUFF, PEOPLE! It's my favourite day of this series so far, I've been looking forward to getting here soooo bad! I hope I do it justice! PLEASE drop me a note in the comments to let me know what you like, any questions, if you are picking up all the crumbles (some the size of loaves) I've been dropping! Positive comments are my favourite – well, every fanfic author's favourite. Those of you who know me here on Tumblr know how true it is, hahaha! ✍🏼 ♥︎
I write Remus Lupin and poly!wolfstar x fem!reader content. At the moment I have no plans to expand to other ships. Let me know in the comments if you’d like to be added to this fic's taglist or my permanent Remus and poly!wolfstar Masterlist taglists. 🌙 🔆 ⭐️
SUMMARY: Day four afternoon stretches on and tensions stretch everyone thin. Remus is still going through it, and trying to survive his urges, his guilt, and his grief. You are both immature and you are both hurt, so unfortunately the ridiculous miscommunication and unnecessary pettiness persist on both sides. Two highly intelligent people, deeply in love, who for some reason believe the other despises them.
The rowing and emotional dart-throwing is painful, like a solitary drunken night in some dingy pub in Shitestreet London. But the love and care that still pops up in spite of it is endearing and cosy, like that very special deep chocolate-brown woolly jumper you two stretched out.
TAGS: Exes-to-lovers. First Wizarding War. Canon-divergent. Marauders Era. Remus is the hero he’s always deserved to be, whether he believes it or not.
WARNINGS: Angst is angsting full throttle. Use of Y/N. Language. Suggestive content. Descriptions of cleaning a bloody wound. Loud, emotional arguments. Mentions of lycanthropes’ deaths – adults and children. Descriptions of animal cruelty. They’re magical and fictional (although based on real, cute species), but that doesn’t make it less painful to read and imagine. Brief description of a magical ingredient of animal origin (extracted humanely and with no harm inflicted when done right). I'm really sorry if this concept upsets some readers. Maybe our genius-reader-heroine can figure out a plant-based equivalent or how to magically multiply and mass-produce this in the future.
A/N: Day four turned out to be a mammoth of emotions, angst, and important plot points (aka unhinged word count), so I had to split it. Thanks in advance for sticking through the drama with me! Day four was always going to be a heavy day of fighting, endless frustration (for them and for us, lol), and getting some major things off their chests. I promise they will make up soon! My Barbies always end up kissing! ♡
DAY FOUR: Tuesday, 14 July 1981
“AFTERNOON DELIGHT”
The bread is soggy. The roasties are cold. The sandwich he rejected earlier slowly disappears behind your slow bites and morose chewing. You could've spelled it warm again, or given it a quick re-toasting on the hot plate, but you simply can't be arsed.
If this jolly meal isn't symbolic of your current situation with your lovely shackmate…
You look over to the bed, at the irregular rising and falling of his slender frame on the mattress. Remus lies on his side, facing the window wall. You're not sure if he's actually sleeping at the moment. Your eyes are fixed on his form, unblinking as if in a trance. It’s a rare respite, to be able to contemplate him in plain daylight, unafraid of getting caught... just taking him in, getting your fill. Realising how badly you’ve missed just looking, basking in his physical presence, his nearness.
His neck looks painfully red from the sun under the old off-white Dylan T-shirt, the contrast sharp. You slowly move your gaze over the outline of his shoulder blades, the wiry shape of his torso, the soft curve of his waist and the skin over his bony hips, showing above the elastic of the tartan flannel pyjama trousers sitting a bit lower on him.
This is a silhouette you know better than your own, and — for better or worse — still elicits all sorts of forbidden feelings inside you; not because they're vulgar or illicit, but because you're forbidden by reality and circumstance to act on them.
He's not yours. Not anymore.
And yet, the vivid flashbacks of snaking your arms around that narrow waist, spooning his lanky and strong body when it's made tender by moon-pain like this… it causes your fingertips to tingle, your abdomen to heat up, your heart to beat so fast and full that you swear you can feel the outline of it thump-thumping underneath your chest, as you briefly press your hand to check on it.
Earlier, Remus finished his shower — quite a long one — and went straight to bed. And for the last couple hours or so, you've been hearing badly suppressed sighs, the near-constant rustle of sheets, and the groans of the bedframe under the mattress. He's moving minimally but it's still restless; probably trying to find a position for his bones and joints to settle.
To hopefully hurt a bit less.
As disabused of the notion as he must be, after all these years.
You know what the moon does to him, without exception. How it never lets up, never gets easier. The most beautiful thing in the night sky will always be the cruelest to him.
You're debating yourself in that compulsive checklisting of yours: you know he needs pain relief. You know he should rest, but he also should eat and drink something.
You also know that he'll continue treating your interventions like the greatest nuisance of his life. The ‘day-four-grumpies’ is turning out to be a right ball-ache this time around.
It's been so long since you've been through a moon-week together. You feel out of practice, out of your depth, out of your Remus-fluency.
No matter, though — you have a job to do. More importantly, a recently renewed personal vow to fulfill.
You finish your sad late-lunch, brush your teeth, do the dishes, tidy the kitchen. When you run out of avoidance fillers, there's nothing else left but to approach him, bracing yourself.
He's still facing away, so you choose caution by standing on the side of the bed.
“Remus?”
“Mm— what...”
“Are you alright?”
“Mm.”
“Is it your stomach? You nauseated?”
A sigh. “‘M fine.”
No one you know has ever sounded ‘less fine’ while saying that, you think.
“What do you want to eat? It’s almost three.”
“Nothing.”
You try and fail not to sigh audibly, already tired of the row that hasn’t happened yet.
“How about just some brothy soup?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“If you’re in pain, you need to eat something first so I can give you pain potions.”
“Who says I’m in pain?”
“Uh… Everything is saying it, except your mouth.”
When he says nothing in response, you know you have to push a bit more.
“I’m not blind, or deaf, Remus. I can hear you fussing.”
His back visibly tenses underneath the flimsy T-shirt. “I already asked you not to baby me.”
“There’s a difference between being babied and being a baby, you know.”
You ache with empathy for him, but you’re not made of honey.
Remus once again doesn’t respond to your little quip, which is in itself a response.
A response you can’t fully decode.
What you don’t know is this: Moony's frantic energy is relentlessly thrumming through his bloodstream and pricking his skin, hidden underneath its layers. Every extremity of his tingles in the most discomfiting way the closer you are, and he can only pray that you don't notice how it makes him twitch, flinch, spark like a live wire.
He’s been fixated on this one thing all day: to stay away from you until all of it mercifully, hopefully passes — lest he does something impulsive and reckless again.
You're not his. Not anymore.
Problem is, you won't stay away from him.
His whole nervous system is ignited and misfiring, merely from your nearness. And right now, unbeknownst to you, you’re making everything worse.
She’s not mine. His pragmatic conscience painfully hammers the reminder.
You love her, Remus. Never stopped. Hope’s final verdict echoes and repeats over and over, like a skipping record, louder than reason.
Remus is terrified of himself.
With an exaggerated sigh, he curls a bit more inward and pulls the duvet over his ears.
It’s too warm for a duvet, you think to yourself, frowning. And then you notice the subtle but present shivering with the occasional twitches.
Which means — he's running a fever.
Which means — you have to touch him to make sure.
“What are you doing?!” He jumps when you lean over him to touch the back of your hand to his forehead.
“I’m just checking your temperature.” you sigh through your words.
“I'd prefer if you didn't touch me right now.”
You swallow your indignation because he sounds quite dispirited for some reason, and not solely for the sake of being caustic towards you. As a mentally sound adult patient, Remus does have the right to refuse being touched. Even being treated.
Well… to a point, you reason. You will never concede to his wishes if they're to his own detriment. You will never do him harm, or ever again leave him uncared for. And you don’t care how he feels about it. Truth is, you'd have no qualms in breaking a few rules for the sake of Remus Lupin.
“I'm sorry, I'll be quick.”
You wave your wand over him, spell ready on your lips. The tip turns bright red, just like you thought it would. This method is not as precise as the muggle thermometer sitting in your satchel, but it tells you enough for now.
He's definitely too hot. Dangerously so.
You try to move your hands under his jaw to check his submandibular lymph nodes, but he squirms away, closer to the window.
Why is he so tetchy and jumpy today? Did something happen? You try your hardest to pinpoint a moment, something you did or said, something he did maybe, and you come up with nothing. You've barely interacted today, with all that “gardening” he had to do, apparently…
Must be the combination of minus-three days to the full, after being estranged for so long; Moony is probably confused and angry because of your sudden forced proximity, after all the time apart. If Remus doesn’t love you, his wolf must despise you on a visceral level too.
Getting the Wolfsbane textbook-accurate this cycle has never been so imperative.
The mental strain it takes to not probe and poke until you know for sure is driving you mad; repressing the urge creates an aggressive, barely contained frustration, quite contrary to your gentle nature. Although, when it comes to Remus, the relentlessness is nothing new. Everything about him always compels you to act, and jump, and give, and fix, before asking questions.
You miss being able to read him like a book. You miss so many things about him.
You both have changed so much. You feel like strangers at times and it's eating you alive. It’s quite obvious that he’s keeping things from you now, just as you’re keeping things from him. Important things.
Meanwhile, a storm of feeling keeps raging inside Remus with you none-the-wiser. Once again, he has to shove down the memories from this morning: Holding you. Touching you. Almost kissing you. Wanking over dirty thoughts of you.
His nausea intensifies.
“I just need you to leave me alone, alright?”
“Well, I can’t do that, not really.” You choose your next words knowing but not caring that he won't like them. “And I won’t.”
“Why? It’s my body, I’m an adult.”
The urge to grab and shake him is nearly irresistible. Or maybe you just want to kiss the stubbornness out of him. You banish the thought as quickly as it comes on, replacing it with a mighty eye-roll behind his back. And another sassy quip.
“Because— One, you're clearly in a lot of pain, besides the fever. Two, it's my job to provide care and comfort to all my patients. And three, my duties don’t change, irrespective of you being stubborn as a mule for some reason!”
“Oh, I'm clearly in pain? What, you're a seer now, are you?” Unfortunately for Remus, even the unnatural way he twists his body around to get back at you face to face gives him away.
His eyes look like a ring of molten amber around his huge pupils. His hair is tousled every which way and falling in front of his eyes. His face is flushed and shiny from the sun. You want to kiss his red nose, smother his entire face in kisses. Heat rises inside your chest, and you feel your face flushing too.
He's not yours.
“You were mucking about in the dirt under the hot sun for hours, Godric knows why. At three days before the full? Smart move, Remus. That can’t feel good at all now, can it?”
“You don't know how I feel.”
“You look like a bloody lobster. And I saw you wobbling about before you plopped down here. Your knees, your hips must be screaming. Your wrists and shoulders too, I bet.”
His eyes soften for a moment before he closes them to hide his angry fondness for you. He can't help but admit, deep down, how he loves and hates how well you know him. And he loves and hates the terrible softness hiding behind your doctor-y petulant tone. It's in your annoyingly bright eyes, which threaten to kill him. It’s everything that you are. If only he could wrap himself all over you, submerge himself in all of you, until there's nothing else but you, you, you...
You're not his.
“Remus.”
He's brought back from his little pity-party-tangent as soon as he looks up at you. His heart gives a thud inside his chest, like it’s going to give out for good. It's your eyes again. Your bloody eyes and the bloody look in them, doe-like and projecting a deep sadness that cuts deep through every defensive layer he’s erected for himself.
“Please, let me help you.” Now it has reached your voice. Like melted chocolate. Like real love. Like a chronic love-ache that overwhelms his system head-on.
This is dangerous territory. The old Remus would cave by now — tail wagging, eyelids fluttering, tongue lolling in bewitched surrender. His arms itch and his fingertips burn to wrap around your soft torso and squeeze your warm skin; his red lips thirst for the taste of you, like it’s the only thing that can make him survive this.
But the old Remus is gone. The one who had permission to do those things. The one who could afford to be calm and mellow and stupidly in love, despite the world falling apart outside the door.
Your sharp eyes are on him, like a sniper. Aimed at his heart no doubt, you look poised to kill. He wonders if you are aware of the absolute power you forever wield over him.
“Remus, c’mon… If we don’t treat your symptoms now, you’ll just feel way worse tomorrow.”
“I’m used to it.”
The only shield he’s got left to hide behind is this: the bitter memories of all the letters he wrote to you coming back unopened and unanswered; the ice-cold rejection, the total renunciation of your entire friendship; the blatant refusal to let him apologise or get close to you again, resulting in the complete absence of you from his life for the past year. And all the pain he’s seen, and felt, in his own body, without you. Absolute hell.
He knows, deep down, that he’s being unfair; he broke up with you, he chased you away. If you can barely stand him as a result, it's nothing more than what he deserves. And yet, like a cornered animal, he retreats deeper into the cages he built, rejecting the open hand that wants to come close, touch, feed, and heal him again. Hiding and running from what he wants and needs most.
You are left standing there, increasingly gobsmacked by his irascible, cantankerous demeanour.
“Remus, you can't honestly be choosing pain over relief. Why?”
“Can you please… just…”
The sun arrives at a particular position outside the window that hits his face full on, making his pupils turn to pinpoints, his skull throb like knives through the eyes. His body immediately overheats and tingles in the worst way. Before he remembers himself, he lifts his right arm to shield his eyes.
“What is that? What did you do to your hand?”
Shit.
“It's nothing, I fixed it. Just a cut— hey! Stop!”
You're instantly kneeling over him and pulling at his wrist, unwrapping the bandage.
“Let me see.”
“No!”
“Remus, your hand looks purple. Something’s wrong. Let me see.”
“No! I can take care of minor bloody injuries, Y/N!” He yanks his hand back, re-wrapping the loose bandage, unable to look at you.
“Why didn’t you ask me to do it for you?”
“Because I’m not completely useless, am I? I'm perfectly fine on my own. Been for a while now.”
There it is. The other, deeper wound he’s also trying to hide.
In another life, ages ago, when your souls were perfectly in tune with one another, you would have heard all the pain and loneliness behind that last mumbled sentence. And you’d have enough discernment and foresight to probe gently, to get him to open up to you.
Unfortunately, at present, both of you are caught in full combative mode: exhausted, confused, hackled up, unable to see beyond the triggers that keep firing up on both sides. Inadvertently feeding each other’s insecurities and grief.
“Here it is again, bloody… you’re just… You are not alone, but you insist on acting like you are. What’s so wrong with letting me help you?”
Remus scoffs. Oh, now you want to help me, he thinks bitterly. After ghosting him for months, and then showing up here like it’s just another Tuesday.
“What’s it to you?”
“Uh, it’s my job? The sole reason I’m here?”
The sole reason. Duty. Impersonal and unfeeling duty.
“Well, I didn’t ask you to come, did I?”
His words feel like a proper slap in the face. Before you can filter yourself, you jab him right back.
“Well, I didn’t ask to come either!”
And it lands. His eyes grow round before they look away.
“Why did you then?”
“Because Dumbledore told me to! I follow orders just like you and everyone else in this bloody war.”
You miss the pain that flashes over his features, because your eyes start to get misty and threaten to add to your present humiliation. Your mind wars with itself, concealing what you really want to say: the impossible urge to spill out your eternal devotion to this boy, who doesn’t want it anymore.
You would do anything for him, even while he ignores and despises you. You made a vow back in first year to do all you can to take away his pain, and hopefully someday cure his lycanthropy. Friends or not, lovers or not, you are not breaking it, ever again. You can’t take the last fourteen months back, but you can make it right from now on.
Although, Remus is certainly not making it any easier, with his stroppy attitude.
“Oh, how noble of you,” he mumbles between clenched teeth.
Why you continue to choose defensiveness over earnestness will be something else you’ll regret later on this mucky day.
“What the fuck is your problem? You need me here and you know it.”
“Is that what you think? That after fourteen fucking months of you doing fuck-all for me, suddenly I’m all co-dependent on you again?”
His hands clench into fists, trembling. He doesn’t even notice the sharp sting of his own nails digging into the injured palm. There’s a wolfish fire in his eyes, a barely contained fury, or… something else. He masks the pain, the anger, and the want behind the acrimonious attitude really well.
For you, it's yet another proverbial slap in the face.
You shove down the part of your reasoning that actually agrees with what he just said, about you essentially abandoning him to himself, and you choose petty violence instead.
“You tell me, Remus. Have you finally learned how to brew Wolfsbane without fucking it up, perchance? Somehow, I doubt it.”
Two can play at it. Time to do all the muddy laundry then.
“Not to keep bringing back the fourteen-month calendar mark—”
“—and yet, you keep doing it…” you cut in while he barrels on, even more irked.
“—but in case you didn’t know or didn’t care, I’ve gone through fourteen full transformations—”
“—and there it is again…”
“—without!—” he shouts right over you again, fists clenched harder, tone vicious, “—without bloody Wolfsbane. And lo, I’m still here. Dunno why Dumbledore or your royal prissiness is bothering with it now.”
You keep matching his fire with your own. “Because, in case you haven’t noticed, this bloody mountain has zero space for a werewolf to run amok! You’ll destroy this shack and then plunge down to your death before your werewolf pea-brain knows it!”
“Werewolves. Are not. Stupid!”
“How would you know? You don’t even remember anything that happens! And I’d rather not find out while I’m stuck here with you!”
Stuck here with him.
Remus recoils, pulling the duvet all the way up, covering his face and turning to the wall again. He winces from using his injured hand, definitely not from your last cruel dagger.
“Feel free to leave if it’s such a pain for you to be here.”
“Can’t, bloody Portkey is set for the nineteenth only, isn't it? So I got five more days of this— fucking…”
You two never, ever, fought like this; and yet here you are, throwing inflamed darts at each other’s hearts like pros.
“Would you just fuck off, then?” Remus’s voice breaks. His breathless tone sounds more spent and hurt than irate now.
The complete silence that follows is enough to make him freeze in place, bracing for how you will finish him off.
“Remus...” your tone lowers and softens instead.
“Please, fuck off.”
“Your hand. It’s bleeding.”
He uncovers his face and half-sits, examining it. “Fuck…”
You’re already moving to fetch your kit. Remus gingerly unwraps the quickly soaking bandage, wincing as the last layer pulls on the gash, having got stuck to the partly dried wound that never fully closed up, in spite of him using loads of Dittany on it earlier. He looks at it, worried. The blood looks too dark, with streaks of silver that are reminiscent of the sharp edges of the strange trowel after his blood touched the blade.
“Give me your hand, please.”
He turns to you abruptly — startled out of his self-examination — right before you sit on the edge of the bed, quite close to him.
Your movements are slow and careful. The moment your fingers touch the back of his hand, he feels it: the sparks. The jolting sensation he’s been avoiding since this morning, that’s already doing things to his body. It’s the hardest thing to just sit there and let you touch him, like this. So tenderly, like you’ve been trading endearments instead of barbs.
The wolf inside him is howling and whining because he wants to ravage you, wants to continue what he stopped. While you delicately examine the long cut on his palm, he squeezes his eyes shut and tries to rein in his desires.
“This is… different from a regular cut. What did you cut it with?”
“Gardening tool.” The strain in his voice is so pathetic, he wonders how evident it is.
You glance up inquisitively. “Magical tool?”
“No,” he says quickly, but it's clearly a half-lie. He does suspect that there's something mysterious about that trowel, which would be fully congruent with the rest of this place.
“Does it hurt too terribly?”
“It’s… fine.”
“Mmm…” you continue examining it as tenderly as you can, only lightly pressing on the purplish skin around the cut, observing coagulation patterns, looking and sniffing for signs of infection — both the biological and curse-induced kinds.
“I need to clean it, alright? It’ll probably hurt, I’m sorry.”
“Do what you have to.”
You feel a warm puff of breath on your cheek and lift your eyes. His face is right there, eyes on you before quickly switching to your hands; the tips of your noses are so close, almost touching. You think for a split-second that it's inevitable that one of you will close the distance. At that precise moment his eyes glance at your lips for a split-second as well, before he lowers his head down again.
Could he…? Could we…?
No. Focus. Don’t be daft.
He’s not yours. He’s not into you, delusional idiot.
You turn away, to grab your wand and murmur a few numbing spells you're not sure will help, before you begin to clean slowly and carefully, first just the skin around the angry dark crimson line; your dabs and wiping motions are practiced and precise, using your magically sterilised and softest gauze available, soaked in your best wound-cleaning potion: a mix of Wiggenweld, Argentine Plangentines, and Murtlap essence.
Remus recognises the bright green solution and he knows for a fact that the first two ingredients in it are quite expensive. He wants to protest, but at the moment he’s busy trying not to hiss at the antiseptic’s smoking sting; you were right: it is quite painful.
Your other hand cradles his soothingly, thumb moving back and forth over the length of his stretched fingers, to keep his palm open. You know how badly this antiseptic potion hurts, even with numbing spells. It’s the strongest, most penetrating formula that goes after any impurity or cursed infection.
Once the wound is properly clean, your diagnostic spells reveal the absence of anything life-threatening.
You breathe deep in relief. “It’s clean. You’re safe.” Your barely-there smile is transitory, but he can see your shoulders moving down, your eyebrows and forehead relaxing from a frown.
Your tenderness with him is nearly unbearable; he desperately wishes you’d go back to shouting insults at each other, for safety. The way you move your thumb around the edges, and he can’t tell if it’s clinical or… personal… makes his chest light up with that familiar, everlasting torch that can never be extinguished. He licks and bites his kiss-starved lips.
“For some reason this cut is behaving like… a dark-magic injury, or a… um, a werewolf-inflicted wound? Even though it is not either of those things.”
You look at him tentatively, and sure enough, you see something weighing in his eyes that are avoiding yours.
“I think I’ll try powdered silver… with snow-mermine oil, not just Dittany. That should seal it.”
“Did you say… snow-mermine oil?”
Remus remembers this very rare, ridiculously expensive, and nearly-impossible to get oil from his NEWT-level COMC textbooks. The magical and elusive marten-ermine crossbreed species, only found in limited spots in the Carpathian or Siberian ranges. Even harder to find is the humanely-harvested oil that comes from their magically-secreting glands — cruelty-free, non-poacher sourced, free of the fear hormones that render it nearly useless. Not even taking into account the horrible things that poachers do to these adorable little enchanted creatures, in the name of profiting as many galleons as possible out of the oil and their soft fur. Sickening.
You two have talked about this before. How you’d dreamed of having a vial added to your healing kit, but how you would only ever accept the precious substance after thoroughly researching its origins, to make sure.
“Yeah. I have a vial now.”
“Don't use it. You should save it for someone who really needs it.”
“Your hand really needs it. It's not cursed, but it's still seriously damaged.”
The oil is excellent to soothe not only severe burns and skin abrasions, but also promotes rapid and complete surface healing from serious magical wounds, while leaving a protective layer of brand-new skin. Exactly what an injured werewolf needs.
If it was easier to come by, you would have made sure Remus kept his skin as smooth as it were never touched by cursed claws or teeth. Alas, such quantities would be impossible, even with all the money in the world.
“That's… too much.” Shame and guilt threatens to overwhelm him. Your head starts to shake in rhythm with his, in rebuttal.
“It's not. Two drops should be enough to form the right paste, with the powdered silver and the Dittany.”
He just lowers his head, defeated. “D’you, um… have silver? I ran out a while back.”
“Yeah, I have it.”
You rummage through the hidden drawers and trays inside your magicked kit, until you find everything you need: a round silver snuffbox with a screwtop, containing the alchemically purified metal; next, the small scoop used to get the exact quantity of silver, and the spatula to mix it; one of the many vials of Dittany you carry with you; the singular crystal vial containing the silky-golden snow-mermine oil; and lastly, a shallow silver-lined crystal palette to mix everything.
Silently and fully concentrated on your task, you take two scoops of silver and mix in the two drops of the sweet-smelling oil (the unique sweet fragrance being the proof of its purity) and three drops of Dittany, using the little silver spatula to make a thick but pliant sealing paste. It hisses and smokes dramatically when the Dittany is added, before it settles into a silvery-gold pearlescent sheen.
“Alright. Give me your hand?”
The way you hold his palm up to carefully apply it, the tips of his fingers inadvertently touch the soft curve of your breast. You are too focused to notice. Remus, however, bless him — turns the faithful colour of beetroot juice.
“Um… how did you get the snow-mermine extract?” He tries to say, voice faltering.
“Oh, Newt Scamander himself introduced me to his personal supplier in January, can you believe it? We were in Tibet for a magical healing summit. Unreal.”
Your face lights up every time you talk about one of your heroes. Remus bites down his smile and his urge to kiss yours, so awestruck and dreamy-looking. He missed your smile so much.
“Must’ve cost you a fortune.”
“Worth it. Mr. Shamanov is now my direct supplier, on Scamander’s recommendation and in exchange for some of my original potions.” Your smile now rivals the sun outside. Remus’s eyes go misty before he frantically blinks it away.
“How does it feel?” you ask him after a few more passes of the spatula, smoothing the paste into the cut until it’s perfectly blended with the rest of his skin.
“It tingles a bit funny, but… it doesn’t sting like it normally does.”
“That’s the mermine oil. That’s good, it means it’s working as it should.” You let out a breath of relief. “Look, your skin is back to pinkish. That’s also good.”
A silence envelops the room while you wrap his palm with new, top-grade magical bandages.
“Thank you, dove.” Remus murmurs after you finish, not thinking. Your breath catches and your wrapping motion falters before you finish with the Spellotape.
Your eyes lift up to meet his, and again, the eerie quiet and close proximity overwhelm you both with self-consciousness.
You touch the curve of his jaw, and he freezes. You move your hand to his left cheek, feeling. Then, his forehead.
“You’re burning up.”
Oh. You were just checking his temperature again.
You spell your instruments clean and sterile, collect your kit, and get up. “Let me run you a bath that will lower your temperature, soothe the sunburnt skin, and alleviate your body aches, yeah?”
“Y/N, no…”
“I’ve got other new ingredients and formulas I’ve been wanting to experiment with. I got Tibetan Moonpetal gentians, and obsidian moon-salt crystals from Patagonia.”
You sound chuffed. Remus is horrified. Quickly calculating the exorbitant costs of all the rare ingredients and spiraling back down into his deep-seated issues, even as you bounce towards the copper tub to get it started.
“Y/N…”
“There’s a mental waiting list at the few European apothecaries that carry the Patagonian moon-salt, you know, but it just goes to show that taking a trip to the other side of the world while having the right connections can do you loads of good…”
“Y/N—”
“And the Moonpetal gentian… Ah… These are the most beautiful ones I’ve ever seen, perfect silver-blue like moonlight itself. They’re preserved in stasis, so they should be good for years—”
“Y/N! STOP! I don’t want any of it!”
You whip around. “What? Why?”
“Because it’s excessive! And fucking unnecessary!”
Great… So we’re back to this then.
“Managing your acute pain and discomfort is not excessive, Remus!”
“Yes it is! It’s excessive, unnecessary, and unfair!”
“How is taking care of you unfair? You have a right to all the same resources and quality of care for your condition as any witch or wizard! Rich or poor, blood status… it doesn’t matter!”
“It does matter, and it is unfair! When—when…” Remus is so red he looks on the verge of keeling over, but his voice is as loud and intimidating as you’ve never heard him before, not even as a Prefect. “When I’m here being babied and pampered like a bloody Pharaoh, while five-hundred of my kind are writhing in pain at this exact moment! Men, women, and children! Not being looked after by anyone, forced to hide and disappear and pretend they don’t exist, not knowing if they will make it through another moon!”
Oh.
“Do you know how many of them died in front of me, Y/N? In my fucking arms even? Bleeding out when I ran out of silver and Dittany, and no one could get me more? Or days later, from infection, because I didn’t have enough bloody Murtlap Essence or the most basic potions to prevent it? The most stupid, common ointments and potions that currently rot from disuse in the hospital wing at Hogwarts, while we went without every month? Adult werewolves waking up to discover the younger ones didn’t make it through the carnage of the night? Not knowing who inflicted the fatal bite? And I’m supposed to lie here in silky sheets and let you slather Tibetan snow-mermine oil and alpine Moonpetals and all this imported, expensive shite on me… while little kids bleed to death in front of their adopted pack parents and siblings?”
He barely sobs out the last sentences, before collapsing back into the mattress.
And, finally… You understand.
Why he’s been resisting your treatments. Your care, your tender touch. Your expensive potions and balms.
He feels guilty. Guilty of his privilege.
Because he’s seen and experienced how the other lycanthropes are forced to live: with nothing. No one to advocate for them, no one to care for them. You have no idea what he went through, but you imagine it hasn’t been easy, not a single day of it.
Remus lived among them. First he was forced to fight them, but then he fought with them, and for them. Led them through the deep valleys of hell. Turned victims into victors, waywards into warriors. Changed their lives in every way he could, with little to nothing at his disposal. But, at what cost?
Of course he couldn't fix everything on his own in a bit more than a year. Without appropriate support or resources — which, clearly, he didn't get.
You’re still learning about all he did, and you know there’s so much more to the story. Because you were in the dark for fourteen months. And you are partly to blame, for not knowing. Not asking. Not helping.
And — of bloody course, after fourteen months of all that… He’s profoundly changed. His worldview has changed. Forged in the fires of those rudimentary campgrounds. His soul has changed, scarred and calloused and shell-shocked by the extreme violence, suffering, tragedy, and injustice — everywhere he looked.
How could he not?
How could you not catch this until now?
You’re starting to see. Starting to understand. And your heart is breaking faster than you can hold it together.
But you cannot let his martyr complex — completely justified, you must admit — take him to such depths as to refuse what he needs.
Because you know this boy. This… man. He will give the clothes off his body to anyone who needs it. He will sacrifice his own comfort, his basic needs, his own life, for another.
He’s a hero. In the truest sense. Good through and through. Born to lead. To care. Untouched by the iniquity of the world, no matter how many excuses and justifications he’s had to just say ‘fuck it,’ and flip to the dark side.
Remus is pure light. Pure fire. He’s so much more than a survivor.
He's a true Gryffindor.
He is a hero.
And you’ve read enough epic novels and history books to know that heroes cannot do it alone.
They need a support system. They need people willing to carry them when the burden they carry — the weight of the world on their shoulders — becomes too much.
In Remus’s case — it's the sheer weight of five hundred men, women, and children he now feels responsible for. All alone.
You used to be his person. His rock. His safe place. You don’t know if he’s really got anyone else now. You know he’s got a girl (which you’re still not ready to really think about), and you now know that his best mates haven’t really been there for him, but you don’t really know the depth of his current relationships, or if he feels supported at all.
The truth is, you don’t know him as well as you used to. At all.
“I’m sorry. I didn't know.”
He scoffs self-pityingly. “No, you bloody didn't. Because you shut me out.”
“I shut you out because you threw me out, Remus. What did you expect?”
The silence now is heavier, nearly unbearable. A dark shadow takes over the room: dark and ominous clouds rush in and cover the afternoon sun, bringing premature night and heavy air pressure inside. The trees sway dangerously, their branches bending fully horizontal. The air feels ten degrees cooler almost instantly. You shudder. Remus shivers, twisting painfully to glance out the window before curling back into himself.
You slowly approach the bed, not wanting to cause him or yourself any more grief with proximity. You crawl over to the window to shut it. The clouds outside look thick as black smoke, with a golden lining from the setting sun around them. Shimmery dandelion fluff swirls in the angry wind. It looks ominously beautiful.
The sting of unshed tears causes you to blink rapidly before you have to rub your eyes to make it stop. You are so tired. You don’t want to fight anymore. You want to resolve your differences. You want to be close to him again. Be a friend, an ally. Be whatever he needs.
“Remus.”
He remains slumped, sitting on the edge of the bed, both palms pressing into his eyes, hard.
“Please, watch your hand. Don’t press it like that.”
“Don’t...” he sounds like he's sick of hearing your voice. Another tear falls before you wipe it hastily.
Still, you move his right wrist softly off his face, while standing in front of him.
“I’m sorry, but I have to. Your palm… it needs time to fully heal and close up, otherwise I’ll have to make more paste and apply it again.”
That works. He would hate himself if he caused you to use more of that precious oil on him today.
He’s breathing heavily. Trying to suppress whatever else is threatening to explode out of him. The shaking could be due to his fever, his wolf-nerves, or both; veins are popping out in his neck and forearms. There’s barely hidden agony in every gesture.
“Remus…?”
He remains folded onto himself, elbows on knees, struggling to regulate his breathing. Not even a glance your way.
“We will change all that.”
Your words make him pause. Take a breath. When he hesitantly looks up, you're kneeling between his legs. Welled-up eyes locked on him. Your words feel weighed on your tongue like a prayer, a vow on bended knee. A full resolution.
“We will. Not today, not this moon, unfortunately. But we will change that. I will do whatever I can to help you change their lives. I promise.”
His eyes become glassy and his lower lip wobbles, even as he remains stoically still. You slowly touch his knee, drawing soothing, featherlight circles with your thumb. His eyes zero in your hand, the feel of your fingers over the soft tartan flannel pyjamas.
“But right now, I can only take care of you. And right now we need to lower your fever. Werewolf or not, it’s getting dangerously hot, even for you.”
Remus shakes his head while his eyes look far away, probably thinking of someone in particular with whom he’s bonded, who he’d give everything to trade places with you.
“Whoever you’re thinking of, they need you alive. Strong. So when you go back, you can continue leading them—”
“I'm not their leader.”
You doubt that very much, based on the few but amazing accounts you heard before you came. “Okay. Helping them, then. I haven’t met them yet, but it’s not hard to imagine how much they must appreciate you. How they look up to you, and love you — for all you've done, yes. But mostly… for who you are.”
Deirdre. Little Deirdre’s face invades his mind and floods his eyeline with more tears. He would give anything to know that she’s safe. He’d give anything to have her here instead of him, kept away from harm and being cared for by you the way she needs. Remus is absolutely sure you would immediately love Dee as much as he loves her. And she would love you right back, as much as she loves him.
The elusive dream of a family won’t leave the hidden little crevices of his heart, even though he can’t fully believe himself to be so lucky, so worthy to have that.
He focuses back on your hand caressing his knee and your low voice, your sincere words, instead.
“You need to use this time in exile to heal. To get stronger again. For you. For them. Your pack. Your mum and dad. Your friends.”
Your eyes say what your words won’t: For me. For us.
His shiny eyes lock onto yours, unblinking. You lightly squeeze the soft flesh under his kneecap.
“Let’s do that, yeah? Let me help you. Let me use you as my test subject. Let’s discover, together, what these great new ingredients can do. What works best for pain, and fever, and wounds, and pre-moon emotional distress, so we can help the others later. Please?”
You hope to Godric this is persuasive enough. After about a minute, he finally relents.
“Okay.”
You exhale hours of tension you’ve been carrying.
“Okay. Good. Give me a couple minutes and the bath will be ready. Go drink a glass or two of cold water, please. And nibble on a few biscuits, maybe some chocolate. We need something in your stomach.”
“Okay.”
Remus makes it to stand with great difficulty. You hear his knees and hip joints popping, right before he tries to cover up his wince.
“You alright?”
He sways a bit on his feet. On instinct, you put your hands round his waist. His skin feels on fire; you can’t quite tell if his fever is worse or your cold hands make it feel hotter than he really is.
Remus sucks in his abdomen at the sensation.
“Sorry, my hands are cold, I know. The temperature is dropping quite fast.”
He knows that’s not the reason his body reacted to your touch. “It’s fine.”
“You dizzy?”
“No, just… I think I got up too fast. I’m fine now.”
“I can fetch the water and biscuits for you if you want to sit back down.”
“No. I can get it. Please don’t worry about me so much.”
He sounds so defeated, it’s hard not to let yourself cling to him tighter. Or tell him how not worrying about him would be impossible.
You let go of him, and he trudges slowly towards the sink. You watch his back for a bit before redirecting your focus.
You have a medicinal bath, some tea, and potions to prepare. Deal with emotional stuff later, you tell yourself.
— ☾ ☀︎ —
You mash the Moonpetal gentian with a few marigolds and generous amounts of aloe vera leaves in your marbled pink himalayan salt mortar and pestle — which will take care of his fever, inflammation, and have a deep-calming effect all over, including his sunburnt skin.
Next, you add the usual ingredients into the tub as the water rises: lavender, patchouli, eucalyptus, and mooncalf milk drops; soon the milky bath emits a calming and inviting aroma.
When you add the obsidian moon-salts last, the water turns dark like a black hole.
“Whoa,” Remus murmurs, standing behind you. “Is this a portal of some sort? You sure I won’t be thrown into another galaxy or travel through time if I get in there?”
You smile. “Wicked looking, innit? Just give it a minute.”
Sure enough, the water turns into a moon-like pearlescent sheen after a minute.
“The moon-salts will draw out your deep muscle and bone aches like nothing before, help with joint stiffness, and calm down Moony’s uh, pre-moon agitation.”
Remus nods, still looking down at it. Godric knows — and so do you, apparently — that this is exactly what he needs.
He feels an all-familiar pressure in his chest, reminding him that he could live a hundred lifetimes and never be able to repay your kindness.
“The water is a bit tepid, because of your fever. I'm sorry about that.”
“That’s fine. I’m used to bathing in freezing cold water now.” He huffs a microscopic laugh. You don’t.
The camps. Of course. Merlin, winters must be really brutal for the packs.
“Let’s uh—” you quickly swallow another jolt of grief for this boy, and all others like him you haven’t even met yet. “Let’s have you in it for forty minutes to an hour. I’ll check your temp then, if that’s alright.”
“Okay.”
You turn around towards the kitchen so he can undress, but he reaches for your wrist.
“Y/N…”
He lets go quickly, but you look at him with open and soft eyes, feeling each fingerprint on your skin, wishing for so much more.
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For everything.”
Blood rushes to your cheeks in record time. “You don’t have to thank me.”
His face falls a bit. “Right. Orders and healer oaths.”
“No, no, no. I just mean… I’m happy to do it.”
How can you give just the right amount of truth about how you feel, without making it uncomfortable for both of you?
Oh, well.
“It’s what I want to do… What I love to do.”
Remus swallows a lump the size of his whole heart back down. Surely you must mean your healing vocation in general, not…
“I still should thank you. And, um… I’m sorry for giving the impression I’m… not grateful.”
“I get it. Or, I’m starting to, at least.”
You both nod in the uncomfortable silence.
“Alright. I’ll let you get in. Don't let your right hand get wet, yeah? I’ll make you that calming tea.”
You busy yourself with your herbs and seeds and the kettle, while hearing the soft rustle of clothes leaving his skin and the subtle splash of the tub when he lowers himself in. You both let out an audible sigh at the same time.
Between May of 1980 and the night his secret mission ended abruptly two weeks ago, Remus had been able to come back to London (and Wales) exactly three times. Only three rushed weekends, packed with secret debrief meetings that felt more like interrogations, a quick visit to his parents for just a meal or even less, and to replace whatever was stolen from his personal belongings, or torn to shreds during the moons.
More often than not, Remus would find himself tucked away in some dodgy muggle pub, sitting alone at a small table for two, shoved deeply in the back. Several hours (and pints) later, when the landlord had no choice but to kick him out, he’d stumble home to a dusty flat he’d rather not be at, to lie all alone in a bed that no longer smelled of you. Since rent was covered by the Order, he didn’t have an excuse to vacate it, even though nothing in it felt like home anymore. Nowhere in the world did.
Peter had told him in passing during a quick catch-up that you were back living with your muggle parents in Guildford, where you grew up, and no one ever saw you anymore. He also returned all the rejected letters Remus wrote to you, with a mournful look on his face for his ‘misunderstood best friend.’
Shame and grief scorched Remus head to toe, to the thought of how your nice parents must hate him now, for breaking their precious girl's heart. As much as you must obviously hate him too.
Mr. and Mrs. L/N are a sweet, very pleasant and uncomplicated couple who own a lovely bookstore for used and rare books in the heart of picturesque Guildford. Remus still has fond memories — or rather, wet dreams — of snogging and touching you quite inappropriately, hidden between the bookshelves in the back, whenever you were alone in the store, when he came to visit and would help out over Christmas and Easter holidays during sixth and seventh years.
He’ll never forget the afternoon he embarked on his ‘mad Greek mythology phase’ (your words). He’d pressed you a bit too hard against one of the stacks while filling you up and devouring your lips, when he heard a loud thuddump: his hand on your bum had dislodged a couple of heavy volumes of a Greek encyclopaedia that covered everything from history to the deepest mythological lore available in print. As he scrambled to put the dusty and bulky hardcovers back, mortified (whilst you giggled so hard you laid flat on the floor), he became intrigued by the titles, and asked your parents later at dinner if he could borrow the collection. They told him he could have them for as long as he wanted. “They're yours, Remus,” your dad had told him. “We're just glad someone shares our refined literary interests so avidly.” Your mum giggled, you rolled your eyes all the way back into your skull, and Remus smiled so big his face felt garishly stretched.
He loved — loves — your family.
He still has the books. He doesn’t know why he’s been carrying them with him everywhere, why they remind him of you as much as the hidden photo album in his drawer does. It’s just an odd sort of comfort that no one can really explain unless one feels it.
Remus closes his eyes, getting lost in the smells of the anise and chamomile tea you're making, in the poems of Homer’s Iliad he has memorised, in the phantom feeling of the soft curves of your body, better than any ancient books he ever held in his hands.
The only things that still feel like home.
“Hey. Remus.”
Your gentle voice lures him back to wakefulness. He opens his heavy eyelids with some difficulty.
“How’re you feeling?
“Hm? I’m— I’m alright I guess.”
“May I—?” You’re holding a thermometer in your hand, a cup of tea in the other.
He nods, and slowly drinks the calming tea while you gently place the thermometer in his ear and hold it there for three minutes. Your other hand supports the back of his neck right where it meets the wet hair at his nape, to keep his head in place.
“Mm. Looks… normal. Well, Moony-normal, anyway.” You rotate the glass cylinder until the Mercury line is clearly visible. “Thirty-nine… point… eight. That’s… good.”
“Good.”
“How’s your body?”
“Pardon?”
“Your body? Any pain?”
“Oh. No.”
“Good. Good. Um.”
You wish you could just touch him more. To make sure. And because.
“I think we can get you out now.”
Remus blushes at the implication, the ever-intrusive memories. And the realisation that he will need your help to get up and out. His body feels ten times heavier, his muscles and joints seem to have gone out of order.
“It’s alright, Remus.” you reassure him quickly, as if reading his mind. “This stuff makes your whole body feel like both lead and jelly, I know. I don’t mind.”
You tentatively slide your hands up his slick arms, ready to pull and support him as needed. Your touch is firm but tender, raising gooseflesh and heating up his face.
“Slowly now... Get on your knees first.”
He hesitates, knowing the murky water can't keep covering him once he rises even a bit.
“You can hold on to me. Or the tub.”
He holds onto the tub. You move your hands to hold on to his ribcage gingerly. His heart leaps inside it.
He slowly rises onto his knees.
And… he's fully exposed now.
If he had the courage to look at you at all, he'd see how your eyeline is fixed between his collarbones and his eyes. Ever the professional. Pinkish cheeks notwithstanding.
“Okay?”
“Yeah,” he breathes feebly.
“Dizzy?”
“No. Just... weird?”
“That's normal with the moon-salts and the gentian petals. D’you need a minute?”
“N-no, I'm– I'm fine.”
He's not fine. Not with you using your healer voice: all breathy and low and unintentionally sexy.
“Okay then. Bend one knee only. Foot firmly on the bottom of the tub. We rise together, I got you.”
His breath stutters.
“Ready? One, two, three, up.”
You both groan comically with the effort to get yourselves up together. His legs definitely feel funny, all wobbly and nearly useless.
“Hold on to me, Remus.”
While he hesitantly grabs onto your shoulders, you quickly wrap a towel around his waist. Your fingers graze his hipbone dangerously low where you tuck in the towel, and he's pretty sure that the thermometer would shoot up several more numbers if it were still inside his ear.
Next, you wrap a second towel he hadn't even noticed around his shoulders. Then you hold firmly onto his waist so he can carefully step out of the tub, one foot at a time.
“Alright?”
“Mm-hm.” Remus cannot look at you, or quite find his voice.
You slowly guide him to the bed, where his warm pyjamas and fresh underwear already await him.
“Oh... Thank you. You didn't have to sort out my clothes.”
“Well, I did, actually. You won't be able to move about due to the relaxers. No worries, I'm used to it.”
You busy yourself with draining and charming the tub clean while he listlessly dries and dresses himself, feeling like a six-foot-tall slug, but blessedly pain-free.
He doesn't remember being completely pain-free like this in months.
Fourteen of them, to be exact.
“Have you thought about what you want for dinner then? I'll be cooking, of course, so don't expect anything fancy.” You smirk. He doesn't reciprocate your humour. Just keeps looking down at his hands, down at the floor, down on himself.
Dinners… and miracle pain relief baths and potions...
He tries not to think of wee Deirdre again… or Sofie, Rolf, Magnus, or Barak — who have become his lieutenants, sort of speak; he definitely tries not to think about old-man Billius, the oldest and grumpiest werewolf of all, who hand-carved hundreds of wandsticks on Remus’s instructions like a master wandmaker, even going on to train others with similar talents to do the same (while whinging about it the whole time, of course), and who wouldn't rest until there was enough for everyone.
Are any of them getting the ‘hero treatment’ they deserve? Are they getting a hot meal tonight? Do they have a place to sleep? Does anyone care about any of them, now that he's here, completely separated from them?
“I don't want anything.” His words come out heavy and raspy with revulsion.
“Remus, you haven't eaten anything, all day.”
“I know. But I'm not hungry.”
“Is it your stomach, love? There's more anise and chamomile tea, or I can—”
“No. Just...”
He's tired. So tired. He doesn't want another fight. He doesn't want to explain this chasm inside his chest that keeps ripping itself bigger and darker, with nothing to fill it back up, nothing to repair it.
He wants to tell you. Everything. You said you'll help him change all of it. So he needs to tell you, if you're going to be an ally.
He wants to tell you.
Just not tonight.
He's a tired tall slug tonight, and his body doesn't hurt but his heart does, and there's no potion for that beside the sleep-like-you're-dead one. And he’s desperate for it. And he's desperate for news of Dee, and his mates, old and new.
And he's desperate for you. But he can't have you.
Why would you ever want him back, after what he did to you? Especially now that you found someone else? Someone who makes you smile with hidden little notes inside your diary, and warm nights in a bed that smells like you and him? Someone like you… Someone better?
But at least you'll be his friend again (maybe), and an ally (hopefully). And that's great. But it still hurts, it hurts so much. It hurts worse than the moon, he realises now that this is the only pain tormenting him.
“Just give me the Dreamless Sleep potion, please.”
“Remus…”
“Please.”
A peculiar sort of fatigue hits you right between the eyes – pulling down on your eyelids. Weighing down on your spine.
Time to pick your battles, wave the white flag for today.
“Fine.”
He glances at his watch: it's almost six in the evening. “Give me enough for at least sixteen hours, please?”
You stare at him. Debating. What he needs, what he wants, what you think he needs, and what you want. Maybe… this is best. Let him sleep this fucking day away. Try again tomorrow.
“Please, Y/N.”
His eyes reflect such pain, the sort that goes beyond mere physical moon-pain, the sort you have no potion for. You can hardly resist the way his beautiful honey-green irises glimmer and moisten against his will.
“Okay, Remus. Lie down, then, I'll get you the DSP. Sixteen-hour dose.”
Once Remus is completely out, you decide not to cook dinner for one, opting instead for some quick tea and toast with marmalade and clotted cream. All things considered, you're not very hungry either.
Feeling the uncharacteristic wintry chill that has settled in the shack, you put enough charmed wood on the range to keep the fire going through the night, and indulge in a hot and soothing lavender bath to stop shivering. It's a great idea that succeeds in relaxing your tired body, but unfortunately it doesn't work on your thoughts.
You're hoping to Merlin that Remus will open up to you more. Tell you everything he's been through, so you two can sort out a plan. So you can understand what he's still going through. So he won't feel alone in it anymore.
You're not trying to be there for him like a girlfriend — it's obviously not what he wants from you. You're just trying to be his friend, his ally. Someone he can count on. Someone who will not turn their back on him or mistrust him over nothing.
You can learn to love him in silence. With your actions. Quietly and inconspicuously. You can give without taking. You can be who he needs, even if he can't be who you need.
You can do this. You want to. And you will.
The cold weather is absolutely ridiculous. The temperature keeps plummeting, the winds howling. It's like the bloody mountain up and relocated somewhere near glaciers. You need to get under the covers (and near his body heat) quickly.
You eye his bottom drawer. Maybe he won't mind if you borrow one of his thick woolly jumpers. There's that deep chocolate-brown one you love, nice and fleecy. You knitted it for him, after all. Well, Hope helped. Well, saved it from total failure, actually. That was such a great Christmas holiday, back in fifth year. Right during his impressive growth spurt.
Remus kissed you for the first time that New Year's Eve, out on the dangerously dilapidated Bangor Garth Pier, while wearing the jumper. With you also inside, stretching it out to twice its size, and almost ruining Hope’s craftsmanship.
When you pull it from the back right of the drawer, something familiar and unexpected pops out with it:
The suede-like leather cover. With the little window carved in it. Showing the same moving Polaroid you insisted on putting there. Capturing the moment you both said ‘I love you’ at the same time, like lovesick dorks.
You are instantly stunned, confused as ever. Your hands grab for it without thinking, certainly without permission. Surely he’s not kept all those…
Oh, Merlin. Oh, Godric. Fucking… what…?
Your whole body shivers for a different reason while you turn page after page. They're all here, every single one… exactly the way you two arranged them over the years.
Tears now cascade down your cold cheeks, salty and bitter, seasoned with that stupid delusional hope that cruelly claws out of your carefully erected walls. The frantic questions that flood your mind are so many that they threaten to choke you.
Why?
Why does he have this here?
Why does he still have this at all?
Why pictures of us? There's no us! He doesn't want us! He made that very clear!
Why? Why? Why?
Why me and not… her?
Why not him and his girlfriend?
The one he left me in such a hurry for…?
Why not…
…Emmeline Vance?
♥️ 🐺 ♥️ 🐺 ♥️ 🐺 ♥️ 🐺 ♥️ 🐺 ♥️ 🐺 ♥️
|| NEXT CHAPTER ||
Nerdy Ravenclaw Notes:
COMC: Care Of Magical Creatures. Both Remus and reader took NEWT-LEVEL COMC at Hogwarts.
Shamanov: A Russified surname from the Siberian region, meaning "descendant of the Shaman." A good surname for an intrepid healer who will work hard to obtain snow-mermine in the humane, non-cruel way.
Snow-Mernine: A magical beast I came up with by combining the Marten and the Ermine into one magical, rare animal who in my lore is only found at the snowiest peaks of the most remote ranges. The oil is secreted from special hidden glands, and the extraction requires building total trust with kind humans so they allow themselves to be touched, and don’t bite fingers off or necks (ermines are known to be aggressive and feisty irl). Poachers use cruel methods like trapping and forcing them to secret the oil, many times killing them in the process. When they’re in fear, the oil loses its efficacy by as much as 80%; and yet these horrible excuses for wizards continue their evil practices, all for profit. Newt Scamander has done invaluable work rescuing and rehabilitating several of these animals along other species that are targeted by poachers all over the globe, as well as advocating for cruelty-free trades only.
A/N: sorry it's taken so long. I'm glad you're still here. My poor mental health has been getting in the way of my creative productivity big time, but I’m not giving up on this story, no matter how long it takes to write it.
So, yeah… as you can see, there's more unknown factors I haven't fully revealed yet, on purpose. I hope it will explain why they are so scared of getting close to each other again. There will be more explosive revelations on the next one; I'm so excited about the next one!
I write Remus Lupin and poly!wolfstar x fem!reader content. At the moment I have no plans to expand to other ships. Let me know in the comments if you’d like to be added to this fic's taglist or my permanent Remus and poly!wolfstar Masterlist taglists. 🌙 🔆 ⭐️
Something small I’ve been working on, I’ve been thinking about making this a series so let me know what you think
Please do not take my work as supporting J*R, she is an awful person
———
Sneaking around with Remus was fun. Doing anything with Remus was fun so that shouldn’t really come as a surprise to you and you were glad that you both had something to keep to yourself. Between His friends, which consisted of your very nosy brother, and your own friends the two of you barely got a minute alone. And while you loved James you’d shared everything with him since the day you were born, so the fact that you now had one of his closest friends all to yourself made you even giddier. ‘I can’t kiss you if you keep smiling’ Remus mumbles into your lips, which only made you grin wider
‘I can’t help it’ You’d both snuck off from the Gryffindor party the second everyone seemed drunk enough not to notice your absences and had somehow ended up in a random corridor, you weren’t really interested in figuring out your surroundings when the feeling of Remus’ hands travelling down your back and another holding your chin to keep your mouth level with his was so sweet. Although perhaps you should’ve been because the moment was broken by a soft yet bemused ‘Oh’
You untangled yourself from one another and turned to meet lily smirking at the both of you ‘Lily pl-‘
‘Oh please I’ve known about this forever, neither of you are very subtle’ she interrupted you just as you were about to plead for her not to tell James, considering you’d kept her feelings for him to yourself while she was still in denial she definitely owed you one. ‘Although you might want to find a better hiding place unless you want James to find out’ but Lily did not seem to actually care, she clearly found this whole thing very amusing, so did the tall boy standing next to you, he’d been grinning throughout this whole interaction.
‘Red! The party left with you’ a voice echoed down the corridor and you knew it could only belong to a very happy, very drunk, Sirius. ‘Well well well, what do we have here’ he seemed to up his dramatics after a few drinks if that was even possible ‘you lovebirds may want to find a better hiding place though’ and you knew that, if two of your friends had found you it was only a matter of time before James came along as well. ‘I’m not sure James would be too happy about this’
‘James would get over it’ Remus defended although he didn’t seem to be taking the situation very seriously, he’d mentioned the idea of telling everyone about your relationship and while you had no issue with people knowing and never wanted to keep Remus a secret you also knew how deeply your friends would pry into your relationship once they found out so the idea of keeping Remus all to yourself for just a little bit longer was much too appealing. And as if the universe had suddenly developed a sense of humour the very man you’d been avoiding came around the corner.
‘Hey! I’ve been looking for all of you, Pete’s setting up uno’
‘We’ll be right there’ you tried to cover up, as Remus huffed out a laugh next to you and if James wasn’t slightly oblivious he probably would’ve found this situation strange, you and Remus stood strangely close together while lily and Sirius beamed at you but luckily he seemed more interested in getting back to the party Lily grabbed both James and Sirius' arm and dragged them back to the common room.
Remus turned to you and gave you his charming crooked smile ‘We probably should be more careful’ you said with little severity
‘Oh like James would ever be suspicious of his friends’Perhaps taking advantage of James' trusting nature was wrong but you couldn't find it in you to care as Remus’ lips met yours once again.
