♥️🐺♥️ Dreaming About RJL…

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. 

==============================================================

My dearest, loveliest Y/N, 

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! ✍🏼 ♥︎

© daydreamandforget  Do not copy, translate, or repost my work anywhere under any circumstances. 

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.  🌙 🔆 ⭐️

Fic Taglist: @moonstruckness  @notsolong-pause