Forget || Wolfstar Word count: 1,057
@wolfstarmicrofic @lilldrknesss @ineffablelyqueerwolfstarshipper
Remus Lupin forgets things.
Not the important things—never those. He remembers dates, passwords, obscure footnotes from books he hasn’t touched in decades. He remembers the exact tone of Sirius’s laugh when it’s real versus when it’s performative. He remembers how many steps it takes from the bedroom to the kitchen in the dark.
But the small things slip.
Where he left his glasses. Whether he already fed the cat. If he took the kettle off the stove or only thought about doing it.
Sirius notices before Remus does.
At first, he assumes it’s stress. They’re older now. Life has weight. Some forgetfulness is expected. Sirius makes jokes about it, gentle ones, the kind meant to cushion rather than poke.
“Professor Lupin,” he’ll say, handing Remus his wand, “you dropped this again. Honestly, I worry.”
Remus laughs, because Sirius expects him to. Because laughter is easier than admitting the quiet panic that sometimes flickers when his mind comes up empty.
The forgetting isn’t dramatic. It doesn’t arrive all at once. It drips in.
Remus forgets the name of the shop they’ve been going to for years. Forgets a conversation they definitely had—Sirius is sure of it, because he remembers being annoyed. Forgets what he was about to say mid-sentence and trails off, embarrassed.
“I’m sorry,” Remus says too often.
Sirius hates that part most.
One evening, Remus stands in the doorway of their bedroom, frowning faintly.
“Did we… move the wardrobe?” he asks.
Sirius looks up from tying his boots. “No.”
Remus nods slowly. “Right. That’s what I thought.”
He doesn’t sound convinced.
That night, Sirius lies awake listening to Remus breathe, counting it without meaning to. In. Out. In. Out. Like a spell he’s afraid to break.
The forgetting has edges. Sharp ones. It snags on Remus’s old habits—his tendency to blame himself first, to assume fault where there might only be chance.
“I’m just tired,” Remus insists, when Sirius finally brings it up. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s something,” Sirius says gently. “It doesn’t have to be terrible to be something.”
Remus looks at him for a long moment, eyes tired but steady. “I don’t want to be… difficult.”
Sirius’s chest tightens. “You’re not.”
“I don’t want you to have to—”
“Remus.” Sirius takes his hands, grounding them both. “You don’t get to decide what I’m willing to do.”
Remus exhales, shaky. “I don’t want to forget you.”
The words land hard and quiet.
Sirius presses his forehead to Remus’s. “You couldn’t forget me if you tried.”
That makes Remus smile, just barely. “I have tried,” he says. “You’re rather difficult to misplace.”
They don’t name it. Not properly. There’s a doctor, eventually. Conversations with too many pauses. Words like progressive and monitoring and we’ll see.
Forget is a gentle word for it. It sounds like something you can choose.
Remus forgets the ends of things first. The last line of a poem. The conclusion of an anecdote. Sirius learns to fill them in without making it obvious.
He forgets where he put his notes. Sirius starts putting them back in the same place every time.
Remus forgets what day it is. Sirius writes it on the fridge in big, looping letters.
They build a life designed to catch what falls.
Some days are better than others. Some days Remus is sharp as ever, teasing Sirius over breakfast, correcting his pronunciation of obscure French authors. On those days, Sirius pretends not to notice the relief humming through his bones.
Other days, Remus stares at a book he’s read a hundred times and frowns like it’s written in a foreign language.
“I know this,” he murmurs.
“I know,” Sirius says.
Remus presses his fingers to his temple. “I hate this.”
Sirius sits beside him, shoulder to shoulder. “I know.”
“I don’t want to be someone you have to remember for.”
Sirius turns, eyes fierce. “You are not a burden.”
Remus flinches anyway. Old instincts die hard.
That night, Remus forgets Sirius’s middle name.
He knows instantly that he’s lost it. He feels the gap where it should be, like a missing tooth. Panic blooms fast and sharp.
“Hey,” Sirius says softly, catching his expression. “What’s wrong?”
Remus opens his mouth. Closes it.
Sirius’s heart stutters.
“…Remus?”
“I—” Remus swallows. “I know you. I know you. I just—there’s a word. I can’t—”
Sirius doesn’t let him spiral. He takes Remus’s face in his hands, steady and warm.
“It’s Orion,” he says. “Sirius Orion Black. Named after a constellation and an ego problem.”
Remus lets out a shaky breath. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t,” Sirius says. “That one’s my fault anyway.”
Remus laughs weakly, tears in his eyes. “You always did hate it.”
“Desperately.”
They hold each other for a long time after that. Sirius’s arms are a constant. A promise.
The forgetting continues. Slowly. Unevenly. Cruel in its unpredictability.
But there are things Remus never forgets.
He never forgets the way Sirius smells—leather and soap and something indefinably him. He never forgets the sound of Sirius’s footsteps, the weight of him in the bed, the way he says “Moony” like it’s a secret.
He never forgets that he is loved.
One morning, Sirius wakes to find Remus already up, standing at the window, sunlight catching in his hair.
“Morning,” Sirius says.
Remus turns. Smiles. “Morning.”
There’s a pause. Sirius’s chest tightens, bracing.
Then Remus says, softly, “I know you.”
Sirius crosses the room in three strides and pulls him close, burying his face in Remus’s shoulder.
“I know,” he says hoarsely. “I know.”
Later, much later, when the forgetting takes more than it gives, Sirius becomes the keeper of their shared history.
He tells Remus stories. About school. About the war. About the day they finally stopped pretending.
Remus listens, eyes bright, like it’s new every time.
Sometimes he says, “That sounds like us.”
Sirius smiles. “It is.”
On a quiet evening, Remus looks at him suddenly and asks, “Have I ever loved you?”
Sirius’s throat tightens.
“Yes,” he says. “You do. You still do.”
Remus considers this, then nods. “Good.”
He reaches for Sirius’s hand, grip firm.
“I might forget things,” Remus says. “But don’t let me forget that.”
Sirius squeezes back. “Never.”
And if Remus forgets everything else—names, places, years—Sirius will remember for both of them.
That’s the promise.
That’s the love.
That’s the thing that does not disappear.
