moon

The halls you’d memorised by second year became half-lit, all curves and corners that felt more familiar than your own dormitory. At night, Hogwarts wasn’t just home - it was yours. Your secret, your sanctuary.

You moved quietly, the balls of your feet brushing over cool stone. Not because you were guilty - you weren’t breaking any rules that mattered (sneaking out doesn't count, you're only guilty if you get caught) - but because there was something sacred about the stillness.

You’d just slipped behind the tapestry shortcut near the Grand Staircase, feet bare for speed and stealth, when you heard them.

Footsteps.

Not the confused shuffle of someone lost. Not the reckless pounding of a student running from a Prefect they saw down the corridor fast approaching. These steps were measured. Purposeful. Two sets, moving together, rhythmically, like they’d done this before.

You froze, every muscle held tight in an instant, and pressed yourself against the wall. Fingers curled into the folds of the tapestry, you leaned slightly forward and peered through the gap in the fabric, breath shallow.

There, illuminated by the soft blue glow of a hovering lantern charm, walked Remus Lupin and Madam Pomfrey.

You blink at the sight - once, then again - trying to make sense of what you’re seeing. Because it isn’t strange to see a student with a teacher. But this? This didn’t feel disciplinary. It didn’t feel like a student caught out of bed, dragged back to their dorm with a lecture trailing behind them. It felt. . . familiar. Practiced.

Pomfrey’s hand was firm on Lupin's arm. Not yanking or pulling, but steadying. Guiding. Protective in a way that spoke of history, of routine. She wasn’t scolding him - she was supporting him.

And Lupin -

Lupin looked ill.

You couldn't tell much as they are a good distance away and the castle is much too dark, but even you could tell that much from where you were hiding,

He didn’t speak. Didn’t look up. Just kept walking beside her in silence.

You didn’t follow. Even though your curiosity had woken up with a start, sitting upright and alert in your chest. Even though your mind immediately began stitching theories together like some frenzied seamstress. You weren’t nosey.

And it wasn’t your business.

So you let the moment pass.

Once their footsteps faded and the shadows settled back into stillness, you stepped out. Carefully. One foot, then the other, like the floor might still hold their presence.

You glanced down the corridor, half-expecting to see them again, but it was empty now - only the torches and the faint warmth of their passing remained.

You didn’t think about it again until you were in the kitchens, the portrait swinging closed behind you with a soft huff of displaced air.

The elves greeted you like they always did - not with surprise, but with familiarity. Like you were just another part of their nightly routine. One of them pressed a plate into your hands without asking, another handed you a steaming mug, and a third patted your arm before bustling away to stack dishes.

You sat on one of the benches, cross-legged and quiet, the warmth of the tart melting through your fingers, the cocoa steaming in slow curls. The room hummed with gentle magic, old and kind, like a lullaby with no words. You sipped, and chewed, and listened to the stillness.

And even though you weren’t thinking about it - not consciously, not really - a part of you kept replaying the image. The two of them walking together in that dim corridor, her hand on his arm. His silence. His eyes.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. That maybe he had the flu. That maybe she was just being kind.

You told yourself not to wonder.

But you did.

The next morning, Remus came to breakfast late.

Not just a few minutes behind everyone else. No - late enough that the owls were already gone, the porridge was cold, and most of the chatter had dwindled to tired murmurs.

He looked worse than he did last night, didn't Madam Pomfrey assist him?

There was a hollowness to his face, like something essential had been scooped out in the night and hadn’t come back yet. The dark circles under his eyes weren’t just shadows - they were bruises, dark and deep, like sleep had tried to find him and failed.

You watched as he reached for the pumpkin juice, his movements slow, careful. He winced when his fingers closed around the pitcher. Both of his hands were wrapped in fresh white bandages - not the kind Madam Pomfrey handed out for blisters or scrapes, but the thick kind, the serious kind. The kind you wore when something had torn open and they didn’t want anyone to see.

His posture was wrong, too. He sat stiffly, spine too straight, like his whole body was a single long ache.

Sirius Black was being loud.

He was telling a story about something ridiculous - Peeves, maybe, or James turning a Slytherin’s robes inside out mid-duel - but he was telling it too fast. Too loud. Like he was trying to fill the space so no one would look too closely.

James, beside him, eagerly clinging to Sirius' words.

And Peter - Peter kept glancing at Remus like he was watching a sandcastle about to collapse. Small, subtle flicks of his eyes, the kind you might miss if you weren’t paying attention.

You watched them from your end of the table, your spoon suspended halfway to your mouth, cereal going soggy while you took them all in.

Weird.

That’s what your brain settled on, in the absence of any better explanation. Just. . .weird.

You decided then, at the age of 13 that boys were weird.

You didn’t ask. Didn’t say anything to anyone. You just swallowed it down, along with your lukewarm breakfast, and filed it away into that mental cabinet you only opened on quiet nights.

And then it happened again.

The next month.

And the next.

And the one after that.

Always the same rhythm. Always on the full moon. Always late to breakfast, with new bandages and new silences and new shadows under his eyes -

Always with Madam Pomfrey.

And the injuries - they never matched the stories.

He’d claim he fell down the stairs, or tripped over a bookcase, or had a nasty encounter with a particularly aggressive Puffapod. But they didn’t match. Not really. The scratches were too deep. The bruises too well-placed. The pain too real for something so mundane.

So you did something instinctive.

You started keeping track of the moon.

Just to see. Just to make sure.

And when the pattern held - when the full moon rolled around again and Remus limped into the Great Hall with a split lip and a bandage on his collarbone - something inside you shifted. Quietly, but permanently. Like a book falling off a shelf and opening to a page you hadn’t meant to read.

You had to know.

You waited for the next full moon like it was a secret coded into the stars. Like the answer to everything was tucked between the spaces of its rising.

Second-year : June 8th, 1973

You snuck out long after curfew, later than even your usual kitchen adventures. The castle was silent in the way that made your ears ring. You moved like a shadow, slipping through corridors with your breath tucked tight in your chest.

You followed them - just far enough behind not to be seen, but close enough to feel the pull of where they were going.

Through hidden doors you hadn’t known about. Behind suits of armor with eyes that flickered in the dark.

They left the castle.

You didn’t follow further - not then. You stood at the edge, just past the last torchlight, and watched them walk into the trees. Madam Pomfrey still had her hand on his arm. Remus still didn’t say a word.

But you remembered the direction.

The next morning, just before the sun crested the hills, you crept out again.

The castle was still sleeping, tucked in its dreams. The grass outside was wet with dew, the sky pale pink and lavender, a canvas not yet painted. The air was thin with morning -

The Shrieking Shack is where you ended up in when you followed their path through the whomping willow. It looked empty, broken, all boarded windows and peeling paint.

You’d grown up with stories about it - how it was cursed, how ghosts screamed through its halls on stormy nights, how even the bravest dared not enter.

You climbed anyway, your breath shallow and your palms sweating. Each step up the hill felt heavier than the last.

The wooden porch creaked beneath your weight. You didn’t go inside fully - didn’t have to. There was a break in the slats, a crack just wide enough to see.

And through it, you saw him.

Remus Lupin.

Lying on the floor, curled in on himself like a question. His body was all angles and shadows, chest rising in small, uneven breaths. Sweat beaded his skin, and there was blood - not dried, not old. Fresh. Soaking through the rips in his shirt, streaking down his back.

The wood beneath him was scarred, clawed deep, as if something monstrous had raged and thrashed and left the wreckage of itself behind.

You didn’t scream.

You didn’t run.

You didn’t cry.

You just stood there, hands clenched at your sides, staring through the slats while your heart beat like thunder in your throat.

Not afraid. Not really.

Just. . . changed.

You knew now.

And you wouldn’t tell a soul.

The first time, you left a biscuit.

It was stupid, maybe. Too sentimental - yes.

You left a ginger biscuit on the windowsill of the Shrieking Shack. Wrapped in a napkin. No note.

He never mentioned it. You didn't check.

The second time, it was tea.

Strong, spicy black tea in a little tin you nicked from the kitchens. A scribbled note under the lid: For the mornings after.

You tucked it behind a warped slat in the wooden fence and walked away before sunrise. Your heart thudded the whole time.

After that, it became a pattern.

A chocolate frog.

A worn paperback copy of Magical Creatures That Might Not Kill You, pages annotated in your tiny, looping scrawl.

A knit scarf in Gryffindor red - faded, a little too short, the wool pilled but warm. It smelled like chocolates and apple pie.

A tiny pot of bruise balm, brewed in secret and labeled only with a hand-drawn moon.

You never stayed to watch him find them. Never left a name. But you started sleeping easier on full moons, knowing you havedone something - even if it was just a biscuit or a scarf.

It was a ritual now. A kindness you couldn’t explain. A secret kept not out of fear, but something deeper. Quieter. Something like care.

Remus Lupin was not thinking about breakfast.

He was thinking about how his ribs still ached when he twisted. How his left shoulder clicked when he lifted his fork. How he hadn’t told anyone about the things that kept showing up at the Shack - soft, sweet, thoughtful things that made his chest tighten in a way he didn’t know how to name.

He kept the scarf in his trunk. Wore it when the wind bit too sharp. It still smelled like something warm and alive.

That scent was on his hands now - faint - when he lifted his mug of pumpkin juice.

And then it hit him again. Strong.

Not in memory. Not in theory.

In the air.

He went still.

And then she walked past.

Not toward him. Not looking. Just brushing by the Gryffindor table with her bookbag slung across her chest and her hair still damp from her morning shower.

Her.

That was her scent.

He blinked too slowly, jaw slack, brain fuzzy with the sudden rush of realization.

James nudged him in the ribs. “You planning to breathe again anytime soon, or. . .?”

“What?” Remus mumbled, eyes still half-tracking her down the table.

“Oh my God,” Sirius muttered, leaning across the table with a shit-eating grin. “He’s gawking. Our Remus Lupin has joined the land of the living. Quick, someone write this down.”

“Who is she?” James asked, glancing over.

Peter - helpful, as always - perked up. “That’s ____ ____. Mum knows her family - they’re old Gryffindor and Ravenclaw stock. Her older brother was Head Boy last year. Works at the Ministry now.”

“Seen her in the library with Evans at times,” Sirius said, squinting. “Didn’t she get detention for arguing with Professor Binns about why unicorns aren’t boring?”

“She loves magical creatures,” Peter added. “Like, properly loves them. Obsessed with that Scamander bloke.”

Remus blinked slowly. “Newt Scamander?”

“Yeah, him. Think she’s got, like, a poster in her dorm or something - heard McKinnon tease her about it.”

James whistled low. “Wow. So, Remus - that your type then? Bookish - much like you, and oddly into carnivorous beasts?”

Sirius grinned. “Makes sense. Remmy here is a bit of a carnivorous beast himself.”

Remus flushed scarlet to the tips of his ears - nevermind how Sirius is yet again teasing him about his furry problem, he's been doing it since they found out last week.

He didn’t say a word. Not about the scarf. Not about the tea. Not about the quiet, careful gifts that smelled like her.

But he looked down the table at her one last time - and this time, she looked back.

Just for a second.

And he thought: She knows.

And worse: She’s kind.

And worst of all: He might come back anyway.

Second-year : June 11th, 1973

The lightin the boys’ dormitory had dimmed low, casting flickering shadows against the stone walls and warming the edges of the red and gold tapestries. Outside, the wind howled against the castle, rattling the windowpanes and whispering through the gaps like it wanted in. Inside, the mood was loose-limbed and half-lazy - that specific kind of comfort that came after dinner but before sleep, when everything felt suspended in amber.

Remus was stretched across his bed, back propped against the headboard, legs tangled in the duvet. A book sat forgotten on his lap, pages soft with wear. He hadn’t turned it in twenty minutes.

Sirius lay upside down on James’s bed, his head hanging off the edge, one hand tossing a Snitch into the air and catching it again with practiced ease. He was bored - which was dangerous. Sirius bored meant Sirius thinking, and Sirius thinking meant trouble.

James, ever restless, was perched on the edge of his desk, swinging his legs and poking aimlessly at the seams of a half-peeled Chocolate Frog wrapper. His hair looked like it had just lost a fight with gravity - worse than usual, which was saying something.

Peter was on the floor, cross-legged, unwrapping a packet of Every Flavour Beans like he was defusing a bomb - since when was this boy without treats?

It was peaceful in the way boys’ dorms are when the world feels far away - low laughter, familiar smells, the constant undercurrent of magic humming in the stone.

And then, Sirius opened his mouth.

“Gonna tell your little moonlight admirer how you feel,” he drawled from the foot of James’ bed, “or just keep inhaling her scarf like it’s your lifeline?”

James cackled immediately, delighted. “Bet she knits you socks next. Or a mitten. Should’ve seen the way you practically wagged your tail when she would pass.”

Peter, never one to be left out, piped up with wide eyes and even wider enthusiasm. “She’s got a whole book on werewolf habitats, y’know. I saw her reading it yesterday in the library. Highlighting bits, just wanted to say hi then she started feeding me facts about it. Not exactly my idea for a snack.”

Remus tried to laugh. He really did. His mouth twitched, the sound caught somewhere behind his teeth - but when it finally escaped, it wasn’t laughter. Not really. Too quiet. Too strained. It hit the floor between them like something delicate that had cracked on landing.

He rubbed a hand down his face, slow and bone-tired, then let it fall into his lap. His voice came out quiet, nearly swallowed by the room. “What if I’m just another creature to her?”

The effect was immediate. The teasing halted.

James stopped swinging his legs. Sirius sat up properly. Peter froze, a half-eaten bean forgotten between his fingers - probably for the better, the flavour was cobwebs.

Remus didn’t look up. Couldn’t. His gaze stayed fixed on the blanket, where his fingers twisted the fabric into nervous knots.

“Like. . . like a case study,” he said, the words slow, deliberate. “Another fascinating, tragic monster to write about. One she can observe from a distance and feel good about.”

The silence after that was different - thick and uncomfortable. It wasn’t the usual easy quiet that fell when they all drifted into their own thoughts. This one had edges.

Sirius shifted. The creak of the bed springs echoed louder than it should have in the hush.

“She idolizes Newt Scamander,” Remus continued, voice thin but steady. “Reads about magical creatures like they’re novels. What if I’m just one of those fantastic beasts? A good story for someone like her.”

His voice cracked - not loud, but raw. Frayed at the edges. “I don’t want to be a thing she pities.”

James was the first to speak. But this time, his voice had dropped from its usual larkish rhythm - softer now, almost hesitant. “That’s not exactly bad, is it?”

Remus blinked. Just once. Like the thought had knocked something loose.

“She knew,” James said, gently now. “And she didn’t flinch. Didn’t tell anyone. Didn’t run. She sees you - all of it - and she still brings you tea.”

Sirius, uncharacteristically subdued, let the silence stretch for a second before adding, “If I fancied a creature,” he said, “I’d give it a leash. Not a bloody knitted scarf.”

That earned him a look from James, but the meaning lingered underneath the sarcasm - unpolished but true.

Remus finally looked up, eyes flicking toward Sirius.

Sirius shrugged one shoulder. “That was a gift, mate. Not a 'Care for Magical Creatures' project.”

The words settled in the space between them like warmth. Heavy, but not burdensome.

Remus didn’t say anything. Just nodded once. Slow. Then, like it was second nature, he reached beneath his pillow and pulled out the scarf. His fingers curled around it - not in desperation, but something steadier. Quieter.

He held it close.

Like maybe, just maybe, it could keep the moon away.

Third-year : November 17, 1973

“You’re watching her again,” James whispered one day during Charms, his voice pitched low enough to avoid detection, but not low enough to hide the teasing fondness in it.

Remus didn’t even bother pretending to look away. He was watching you from across the room, where you sat cross-legged in your chair, completely absorbed in whatever you were sketching in the margins of your notes. Your tongue poked out in concentration, a tiny, unconscious thing, and he wondered if you even knew you did that.

“I’m not watching her,” Remus mumbled, even as his eyes remained fixed on you.

Sirius leaned in, smirking. “Mate, if you stared any harder, you’d see through her robe.”

“She’s just - she’s interesting,” Remus said, voice barely above a whisper. He was trying not to turn red, trying not to feel the way his pulse picked up when you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “She reads Beasts & Beings for fun.”

Peter raised his eyebrows. “Still funny when she told Kettleburn that his dragon theory was outdated. She quoted Newt Scamander at him. In detail.”

“She did,” Remus admitted before he could stop himself. The corner of his mouth twitched. His eyes softened as he watched you scribble something else on the edge of your parchment.

That night, he found a tiny pouch smuggled into his bookbag - he definitely did not put that there. Inside was a single lemon drop, his favorite. There was no note. Just a ribbon tying the pouch shut. Green, not his House color.

He stared at it for a long moment, heart twisting, then quietly tucked it into the back of his drawer, not intending at all to eat it.

Third-year : January 14, 1974

You and Remus got paired in Potions.

It hadn’t been planned. Slughorn, flustered after Wilkes nearly caused a cauldron explosion, had shuffled everyone around. You’d ended up beside Remus, settling into his table like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Hi,” you said, bright and easy. “We make a good team, yeah?”

Remus could only nod mutely, trying to focus on the flobberworms he was supposed to be slicing. His hands weren’t steady. He nearly took off a fingertip.

“You alright?” you asked, leaning in a little closer to check his work.

He could smell your hair. It was warm and comforting, like chocolate and apple pie, like something from a dream he hadn’t let himself have.

“Fine,” he croaked, forcing himself to look at the cutting board instead of you. His ears were burning.

After class, he sat on his bed for half an hour trying to write a thank-you note for the lemon drop - just something simple, something kind. But nothing felt right. Every line sounded stupid or too much or not enough.

In the end, he burned it.

Fourth-year : September 31, 1974

By then, everyone knew you were odd.

Not in a cruel way - at least, not most of the time. You didn’t go on many Hogsmeade trips, claiming you were “busy” with things no one else seemed to understand. You doodled magical creatures in your textbooks, filled the corners of your parchment with sketches of things no one else cared to imagine. Once, someone caught you reading a book about Chimaera taming and called you weird to your face.

You just laughed.

Remus loved that laugh. It was soft and sheepish, like you knew you were strange and had already made peace with it - like you have decided that's who you were and, what's so bad about it?

Sirius came storming back into their dorm one night, arms crossed and indignant.

“Marlene just said she’s lame for skipping Hogsmeade again,” he declared. “Knitting. Can you believe it?”

Remus blinked. “She’s what?”

“Knitting. Like a bloody gramma. Didn’t even say no - just mumbled something about wool gauge and disappeared.”

Remus neglected to comment on it - although he is interested, anything about you was a sure way to get his attention. Just the mention of you makes him perk up.

The next morning, after a particularly rough full moon, Remus found a scarf folded neatly right near the passage in the Shrieking Shack. Green and gold. Loosely stitched with little stars embroidered at the ends. It was soft - softer than anything he owned.

He clutched it to his chest for ten whole minutes, eyes closed, breathing in your scent, before hiding it under his jumper just in time for Madam Pomfrey to pick him up.

Fifth-year : March , 1975

The Animagus transformations worked.

It was an absolutely insane idea - one only the Marauders of all people could think of - and it worked! They ran with him now. Laughed and barked and butted heads beneath the moonlight. It wasn’t just suffering anymore. He wasn’t alone.

But you didn’t know.

You still left things for him - little kindnesses you never claimed. A pair of self-warming socks. A clipping from The Daily Prophet with an article about centaur diplomacy, your notes scribbled in the margins. A new tea after every full moon.

You thought he was still alone every time. Still cold and trembling in the Shrieking Shack.

He couldn't confront you about it and open the exploding can of worms, so he also couldn't let you know that he had friends - brothers - to be with him every full moon.

His very own, mismatched pack -

Fifth-year : February 16, 1976

Sirius dropped onto Remus’s bed one night, his ribs still sore from the transformation -

“Alright,” he said with a sigh, flopping backward. “I get it.”

Remus looked up, eyes tired. “Get what?”

“The scent thing,” Sirius said. “You said she smells good. You’re right. She smells like - something sweet and like, pastries. Like she’d be soft to the touch.”

Something flickered behind Remus’s eyes. Sharp. Territorial.

“Don’t talk about her like that,” he said, voice low.

Sirius blinked. “Whoa. Relax -”

“I mean it.”

James poked his head through the curtain, eyebrows raised. Peter followed.

Sirius sat up slowly, then grinned. “Ohhh. We’ve reached the territorial stage.”

Peter snorted. “Our Moony’s in love.”

“Shut up,” Remus muttered, but his face was already turning red.

“You could tell her,” James offered. Not teasing. Just kind.

Remus stared at the scar across his palm. The latest one. Pale and healing.

“I don’t want her to see the monster.”

James sat beside him, patting his knee. “She already has, Mate,” he said softly, “and she still leaves you biscuits.

Sixth-year : December 16, 1976

It’s nearly Christmas break. The snow is falling heavy, blanketing the castle in white. The moon is coming. He can feel it in his bones.

You passed him in the corridor today, cheeks pink with cold, scarf askew.

“Remus!” you called, smiling wide. You held up a parcel wrapped in paper. “I made extra peppermint bark. Want some?”

He nodded, throat too tight to speak. You pressed it into his hand like it was nothing - like you didn’t even realize what it meant to him.

Later, in the quiet of the dorm, he pulls out the scarf - the green and gold one - from under his pillow. It still smells like you - after all this time, he had managed to preserve it - he's always been the best at charms among Marauders. Still feels soft from your hands.

He presses his face into it as snow begins to fall outside, the world hushed and gentle for once, and wonders - not for the first time - if maybe, just maybe, this ache inside him might quiet someday.

Remus gets up abruptly - “I'm off to go patrol.”

You don’t look up from your knitting. The yarn pulls tight between your fingers, snagging slightly as though it’s resisting your movements - like it’s aware your mind isn’t really here, not in this warm, humming common room, but somewhere else entirely. Somewhere a few feet away.

Somewhere just across the rug where a certain someone used to lounge with a book half-hidden behind the arm of a chair, scarf always knotted around his throat no matter if it was snowing or sunlit outside.

“It’s not a crush,” you mutter, voice low and stubborn.

Marlene laughs, not cruelly but with that familiar ease of someone who’s seen all your tells. “It’s a tragedy,” she says, brushing a bit of fluff from her sleeve. “The boy looks at you like he’s starving and won’t let himself eat.”

Your fingers slip - just for a second - but it’s enough to drop a stitch. You suck in a breath through your teeth.

Marlene doesn’t push. Just reaches over and tugs gently at the yarn, not enough to undo anything but enough to make a point. “Come on. Go steal something sweet. Butterbeer tart’s still on the menu if you’re lucky.”

You don’t reply. Don’t even nod. But ten minutes later, your knitting tucked away and scarf bundled into your bag, you’re gone.

The corridors are quiet, hushed in that late-night way where even your footsteps seem cautious, like they’re afraid to be caught out of bed. You’ve walked this route more times than you can count - past the tapestry with the unicorns and the secret shortcut, past the suits of armor that hum little tunes when they think no one’s paying attention.

You’re one portrait away from the kitchens.

But you never make it.

Not this time.

Because the second you turn the corner, just as the warm smell of baked bread begins to tease your senses, a voice cuts through the soft torchlight.

“Caught you.”

You nearly jump out of your skin. Heart stutters, breath catches—and of course it’s him. Of course it’s Remus bloody Lupin, arms crossed in that quietly superior way of his, prefect badge gleaming like some smug little moon pinned to his chest.

You blink at him, trying to figure out just what he meant by those words, then blink again as if you can reset the moment.

“I’m sleepwalking,” you say, trying to summon a convincing tone but failing miserably.

One eyebrow rises, unimpressed.

“This is a dream,” you try again, lifting your chin like that’ll help sell it,“you’re a dream.”

Still no smirk - but now there’s a grin, and it’s worse, somehow. Wide and real and golden with amusement, warm in a way that knocks the breath out of you. “Right. And the hallway is a marshmallow field?”

“No,” you say primly, adjusting your bag. “It’s a treacle tart field. Get your dream logic straight.”

That makes him laugh. Really laugh - not the usual quiet chuckle he gives when he’s grading papers or half-listening to Sirius’ antics, but something bigger. Breathless and surprised. It bubbles out of him and wraps around you like sunlight.

“Come on,” he says, tilting his head toward the kitchens. “Let’s go see if the dream pantry’s still stocked.”

Inside, the house-elves beam the moment you enter. They flit around like you’re a favorite relative come home for a visit, pressing warm pastries and mugs of cocoa into your hands, asking after your classes like they haven’t seen you in months.

You accept a tart with a smile you don’t quite realize is on your face, drop into your usual seat near the hearth, and glance up - only to find Remus still watching you. Not in a way that feels heavy or intrusive, but like he’s seeing something he hadn’t noticed before.

“Do you come here often?” he asks, accepting a steaming mug from a house-elf with a polite nod.

You take a sip, let the heat settle in your chest, and shrug. “Only when the moon’s not full.”

His expression shifts, just slightly. His eyes flicker, and for a heartbeat you wonder if you’ve pushed too far, said too much.

But then he smiles again - softer this time. Quieter. A little sad.

“Right.”

And you both leave it at that, he misses his chance and you don't give him another one.

It earns a huff of laughter, soft and full of something you can’t quite name. You don’t say anything else after that - not for a long time. You just pass bites back and forth between you, let the cocoa warm your fingers, and sink into the kind of silence that feels full instead of empty.

He walks you back when the clock nears curfew.

The halls are darker now, hushed with sleep, shadows curled in every corner. Everything feels like it’s been dipped in ink—quiet and secret and slow.

“I should write you up,” he says, casual as anything, hands in his pockets.

“You should try to catch me awake next time,” you toss back, bumping your shoulder lightly into his.

He laughs again - richer this time. Like he’s not pretending to be anything. And it’s the kind of sound that lodges itself in your chest, something you’ll hold onto in the days ahead.

When you reach the portrait hole, you pause. Neither of you says goodnight - not yet.

You just look at him.

And he looks back - like he’s memorizing your face in this exact light, like he’s afraid it might be different tomorrow.

“Thank you,” he says after a moment.

“For what?”

He hesitates, like the answer might tip something between you. Then: “For. . .” he trails off, letting the words simmer in his mouth, for not running, he let it die down. “tonight, it was fun. I'm glad I didn't turn you in - for now.”

Later that night, he doesn’t reach for the scarf.

Doesn’t wrap it around his throat like armor.

Doesn’t need to.

Because your scent clings to the jumper he wore - honeyed and soft, threaded through with cinnamon and something warmer he can’t name. Something alive.

He buries his face in the fabric, lets the night fold around him.

And for the first time in a long while, he sleeps like he wasn't being crushed under the weight of the moon.

Sixth-year : January 6, 1977

You don’t mean to listen in on the Marauders.

You were just on your way back from the kitchens - late again, as always - and your steps slowed outside the hospital wing out of something you didn’t want to name. It’s the morning after a full moon. And even if no one else says it out loud, your body seems to know. The air feels different. Heavier. Like it’s holding its breath.

You hear the tail-end of voices.

Remus, angry. Fraying at the edges in that quiet, splintered way he always tries to hide.

“I told you to leave me.”

James, patient - always the one trying to stitch everything back together. “We just wanted - ”

“You don’t get it,” Remus snaps, bitter like blood in the mouth. “You can’t.”

“We do, mate,” Sirius cuts in, uncharacteristically soft - careful, like he knows the cracks. “That’s why we’re here.”

Remus exhales, and it sounds like it hurts him to do so. “Then stop pretending you can fix it, I almost killed Wormtail last night!”

A pause. The kind that stretches and settles in the hollow of your throat.

Then footsteps.

You start to back away, heart hammering, limbs sluggish with indecision - but James steps into the corridor and spots you before you can vanish, caught like a secret you didn’t mean to keep.

He doesn’t startle. Just stops. Looks at you like he expected this. Like he knew exactly where you’d be.

“He’s not himself right now,” James says, voice even but not unkind. “But you calm him down. More than any of us.”

You blink at him, trying to figure out just what he meant by those words, then blink again - because your hands suddenly feel too empty. Too full. Like they’re holding something invisible and precious and terrifying all at once. You nod.

“Go,” James says, softer now, “he needs you.”

The hospital wing smells like potion fumes and something burnt. Something scorched at the edges, like a fire only just put out.

You step in quietly.

He’s curled on his side, back to you. Bandages at his ribs, neck, arms - he looks like someone who’s lost a war he never volunteered for. Someone still bleeding from it.

You pause at the foot of the bed, uncertain.

“Remus?” you say softly, like saying his name too loud might break something.

No response.

You glance around. Madam Pomfrey’s not here. The salves are still out on the side table, lids half-off, like someone left in a rush. Like they couldn’t stand to stay.

“I can help,” you offer, voice gentle, fingers already reaching. And when he still says nothing - no yes, no go away - you take that as a maybe.

This is it, the silent confirmation that you knew what you knew - not much else to say about it. But this one move was the last hit to break the dam.

You kneel beside the bed, the stone floor cold against your knees. Your fingers find the jar of ointment. Your hands don’t shake - but only because they’ve done this before. Only never like this. Never with so much quiet wrapped around you both.

You dab the salve to the edge of a wound along his ribs. He flinches. A breath hitches.

“Don’t,” he says, voice wrecked and raw around the edges.

You hesitate, jar in one hand, salve catching the light. “You need it.”

“Don’t feed it,” he whispers, like a prayer, a plea disguised as a warning, “you keep poking the wolf. Without meaning to.”

You go still.

He doesn’t look at you. Just stares at the ceiling like it’s safer than your face.

“Most days I feel more like it than me,” he says. “The wolf wakes up earlier. Stays longer. It’s harder to pull away.”

A pause, jagged.

“And then there’s you.”

You don’t move. You’re afraid if you do, he’ll stop.

“You,” he says again, like it costs him something. “With your scarves. And your tea. And your smile. You keep being kind. And I can’t take kindness. I latch onto it. I have latched onto it.”

Another pause. One that sinks into the space between your ribs.

“Don’t feed it. It’ll come back.”

Like a starving stray that has known kindness for the first time ever.

You set down the jar. Slowly, deliberately.

Then you reach for his hand - the one resting awkwardly near his side, too still to be comfortable. You take it gently, hold it like it’s already breaking.

He stiffens.

You don’t let go. You squeeze. Just enough to be felt.

And then, finally, you force him to meet your eyes. “That’s not so bad, is it?”

And he looks at you like you’ve set something in him on fire - or maybe put it out. You’re not sure which would be worse.

You squeeze his hand again.

“I’m still here.”

He doesn’t say anything.

But when he finally falls asleep, it’s without the scarf.

And your scent lingers. Treacle and something warm. Something alive. Something his wolf doesn’t want to chase away.

Sixth-year : January 10, 1977

The Great Hall is alive with golden light and louder voices, laughter ricocheting off enchanted ceilings and floating candles. Someone at the Hufflepuff table is singing a ridiculous version of the school song - loud, off-key, and entirely too enthusiastic for this early in the morning.

You’re sitting between Marlene and Mary, halfway through your toast and entirely caught in the middle of an argument about Quidditch that’s escalating in volume and absurdity.

“You couldn’t even smack a Bludger if it has been yelling at you to be hit,” Marlene snipes across the table at Sirius, who grins - all teeth and mischief - and leans over to smear jam onto the sleeve of her robe like it’s a personal victory.

“Oh please, I don't even need to look to hit,” Sirius says, smug. “I'd hit that.”

“You smack like a toddler with noodle arms.”

Peter snorts into his pumpkin juice, nearly spilling it. Mary leans into his shoulder, her hand curled around her cup, and whispers something that makes Peter turn a particularly impressive shade of red.

You glance across the table to where Remus is sitting, posture relaxed but eyes too still. He’s reading. Or pretending to read. His eyes flick up the second you laugh - then dart back to the page like he hadn’t been watching you for the past fifteen minutes. Like he didn’t already know the shape of your voice when it’s soft with amusement.

James doesn’t notice a thing. He’s too focused on Lily Evans, who is seated two tables away, expertly ignoring him with the kind of grace that only makes James Potter want her more.

You nudge Marlene’s knee under the table. “Do you think Potter has ever blinked around her?”

“No,” she replies, taking a casual sip of tea. “I think he’s saving them all up for a dramatic flurry when she finally says yes.”

You nearly spit your drink laughing.

Later that week - same messy group, same noisy chaos, but the setting’s shifted. The common room is a sprawl of limbs and parchment and unfinished essays. Firelight flickers gold across tired faces.

James is doodling something on his supposed Transfiguration essay (you assume it’s Lily-related - possibly tragic, definitely dramatic), Sirius is lounging upside-down on the couch and attempting to convince Marlene to let him smack a Bludger to her to test how long a bruise would last. . . for science.

“The people must know, there is a thirst for knowledge” he insists, waving an imaginary wand like it’s a microphone.

“All you have in you is thirst, you wanker,” Marlene says without looking up.

You’re sitting on the floor, legs crossed beside Remus.

He’s reading about werewolf legislation reforms - you recognize the spine immediately. You gave him that book last Christmas, carefully wrapped with no tag, as if anonymity might soften the meaning behind the gift.

You’re flipping through Fantastic Beasts for what has to be the hundredth time, hunting for a creature you haven’t already committed to memory. The pages are worn and curling at the corners. You like it better that way.

“You ever consider writing Scamander a letter?” Remus murmurs, his voice quiet, his eyes still on the page. “I think he’d actually love to hear from someone who’s read his book so many times the corners are falling apart.”

You shrug, but there’s a smile in it. “What if I sound like a fan? Or worse - like I want to marry his Niffler or something?”

Remus glances at you then, mouth twitching. “You’d probably take better care of it than most people.”

And for a second, just a second, there’s something in his eyes. Something soft. Something oddly mournful, like he’s mourning something that never had the chance to begin.

You look away first.

Sixth-year : February 19, 1977

Saturday morning: the boys’ dormitory, loud and warm and cluttered with socks and open books.

You’re not there, of course.

But your name echoes anyway.

“Did you hear?” Marlene’s voice bounces into the boys’ dorm via the open stairwell. “She had been invited to a date at Hogsmeade today!”

Peter blinks, mid-yawn. “Wait. Who said yes to what?”

“____,” Marlene announces, practically beaming. “Said yes to a Hogsmeade date with that cute Puff. You know the one who messed up the Bubble-Head Charm and nearly drowned himself.”

Sirius lets out a low whistle. “Bet Moony is thrilled.”

James nudges Remus with his foot. “You gonna let her slip away like that, mate?”

“She’s not mine to begin with,” Remus says. He doesn’t look up from his book.

But the boys notice. They notice the way his hand tightens on the spine, how his thumb presses hard against the edge. How he hasn’t turned a page in ten minutes.

Then a second date. Then a third.

Each time, you return laughing. Bright-eyed, breathless, the sleeves of your jumper dusted with cold air and crumbs from Honeydukes. You say he’s funny. You say he always forgets the way to Madam Puddifoot’s and insists on turning right at least three times. You say he tripped on his own shoelaces and tried to pretend it was a dance move.

You never say romantic. Never say interested.

You keep saying friend.

But it doesn’t matter.

Because every time you tell the story, Remus hears it in the space between your words.

He hears it because he’s always listening for you. Even when he wishes he wouldn’t.

The fourth date happens on a crisp Sunday morning in late-April. The kind of morning where the sun pretends it’s warm but the wind says otherwise.

You meet him outside the gates, scarf tucked around your neck, mittens on your hands. You’re unaware that Marlene is watching from the entrance like a hawk.

By dinner, she’s had enough.

“Four dates is basically a proposal,” she declares at the table, voice cutting through conversation like a blade.

Sirius chokes on his pumpkin juice.

The boys freeze.

James lowers his fork slowly. “Is that. . . is that a real rule?”

“It is now,” Marlene says, matter-of-fact.

Peter side-eyes Remus. “Well. Better start planning the wedding.”

Remus says nothing.

Just folds the scarf you gave him - the one he never wears in public, but always carries anyway - and tucks it back into his pocket. The same way he always does when his hands are shaking.

Seventh-year : September 24, 1977

Sixth year ended in a blur of exams and the golden haze of summer seeping into every hallway. Marlene starts a game where she dramatically announces “End of an Era” every time someone does anything - eating a last toastie, turning in their final essay, waving goodbye to a professor.

She nearly burst into tears when you all board the train home. She insists she isn’t crying, just “suffering from seasonal sentimentality,” but even Sirius hugs her twice - some appeasement -

But seventh year comes faster than you expect.

James gets Head Boy. Lily Evans, Head Girl.

And you? You find your name stitched in gold thread into a seventh-year Prefect badge - and beside it, written as if it was always meant to be, is Remus J. Lupin as your male counterpart.

James beams when he sees the list. “Match made in Prefect heaven,” he says, far too pleased with himself.

Remus narrows his eyes. “You did this.”

“Me?” James clutches his chest, mock-offended. “I would never meddle in school administrative affairs. Except when I do.”

Remus sighs, but there's a flush blooming at his collar, subtle but unmistakable.

That Friday, you’re on your first patrol of the year - the corridors are torch-lit and unusually quiet, with that soft, heavy hush that only Hogwarts seems to have at night. Every step echoes like a secret, every laugh feels louder than it should.

You’re making dumb jokes about Peeves trying to charm the Ravenclaw bronze eagle knocker into falling in love with him when Remus suddenly asks it.

“So,” he says, voice casual but noticeably strained, “how’s your boyfriend?”

You blink at him, trying to figure out just what he meant by those words, then blink again, slower this time, processing the implication.

“My what?”

He glances over at you, brows furrowed in confusion. “That boy - the one from last year. Weren’t you seeing him? You went on 4 dates - ”

You laugh, quick and surprised, shaking your head. “You mean Truman from Charms? That wasn’t - oh, no. I didn’t even realize those were dates ‘til Marlene started threatening to sketch out my wedding dress.”

He doesn’t say anything after that. Just keeps walking - like he was starting to rewrite everything in his head.

You glance sideways and grin. “I’m single, Remus. Wildly, tragically single. You could even ask me out, if you wanted.”

Remus nearly trips over his own feet. You were too bold, but then again - you wore red robes.

“What?” he says, voice pitched higher than usual, startled and almost horrified. “You - you’d want - ?”

“Remus,” you say, barely holding back a laugh as you nudge your shoulder into his, “how about it? Next Hogsmead weekend? Or do I need to formally petition the Department of Magical Creatures to approve a date with you?”

He’s still pink in the ears. It spreads slowly, like the blush is rising against his will.

“You’re very high maintenance,” you tease, turning down a corridor as your footsteps fall in sync. “I’ve been flirting for years and you just kept blinking at me like I was a particularly confusing Runes puzzle - you had to make me ask you.”

“I thought you were just. . .kind.”

“I am,” you say, soft but sure. “But not that kind.”

He grins then, wide and stunned, like he’s been holding his breath for a year. “Alright then. It’s a date.”

It appears he's still a Gryffindor after all.

Later that night ; the boys’ dormitory -

Remus walks in dazed, dreamy-eyed, still looking like he hasn’t fully returned to earth.

James glances up from his exploding snap game, eyes narrowing. “You look like you’ve just seen Merlin himself.”

Sirius sniffs the air dramatically. “Do I smell. . .triumph? Or fear?”

Peter leans across his bedpost. “He’s smiling. He never smiles like that unless it's something involving ____.”

Remus blinks once, still dazed. “She asked me out.”

The room erupts.

James throws his deck into the air, cards scattering like confetti. “Finally!”

Sirius howls like an actual wolf. “The wolf has RISEN!”

Peter nearly falls off his bed laughing. “Do you need help picking out an outfit? I can lend you my cologne. It’s French.”

Remus groans, flopping back onto his bed with the dramatic flair of someone halfway between overwhelmed and elated. “I hate all of you.”

Sirius pelts him with a sock. “You love us, you fucking sap.”

You should be glad you didn't get to watch the chaos, or you'll recall your 13 year old self and confirm that yes, boys still are very weird.

Seventh-year : October 15, 1977

You tug your scarf tighter around your neck, the ends whipping in the wind, cheeks already pink from the chill. But the warmth curling in your stomach has nothing to do with the weather. It builds quietly, steadily, like something planted long ago finally beginning to bloom.

Remus is already waiting outside the Three Broomsticks, hair wind-tousled and eyes soft. He’s smiling at you like he still can’t quite believe you’re real, like this moment is something borrowed from a dream he’s too afraid to wake up from -

Perhaps this has played out in his dreams.

“You came,” he says, voice soft with disbelief.

You blink at him, then you snort. “I asked you.”

“I know,” he replies, glancing away like he’s embarrassed by his own hopefulness. “Still feels like a dream.”

Honeydukes -

He offers you his arm like a gentleman out of time, and you loop yours through it without hesitation. It fits - effortlessly, like this has always been waiting in some quiet corner of the universe.

Inside Honeydukes, the air is thick with sugar and nostalgia. You ramble about the magical properties of Fizzing Whizzbees, the way their carbonation interacts with wizarding blood to produce temporary levitation. Then you’re onto exploding bonbons, and how they mimic Puffapod seed reactions when dropped at the right angle.

Remus listens like your words are music. His smile is quiet but wide, the kind that settles deep into the bones. He doesn’t interrupt, just watches you like your joy is something sacred. When you finally pause, mid-sentence and mid-laugh, he holds out your favorite sweet without saying a word.

“For the creature expert,” he says, and it sounds like something more than just a joke.

Through Town -

You walk slowly, deliberately, letting the afternoon stretch itself out. The sky is a soft watercolor of clouds, and your footsteps leave gentle prints in a thin veil of snow.

You pause at the post office and point at the rows of owls. “Great Greys mate for life,” you say, all faux-seriousness and scientific pride.

Remus makes a quiet noise in his throat. “Lofty standards,” he mutters. “Terrible pressure, really.”

You laugh, loud and sudden, and he turns to look at you like he’s trying to memorize the sound - like he could bottle it and keep it in his pocket for later.

Madam Puddifoot’s -

“I swear I didn’t know it would be this. . . pink,” you whisper as you both slide into the lace-covered booth, eyes wide at the heart-shaped sugar bowls and twinkling fairy lights.

“I did,” Remus says, and there’s something suspiciously smug in the way he hides a grin behind his teacup.

You shoot him a betrayed look. “You listened to James bloody Potter?”

“To be fair,” Remus replies, sipping from the floral rim, “he is in a long-term campaign for Evans’ heart. Something must’ve worked.”

You both giggle, quietly conspiratorial. The table feels impossibly small, the air around you steeped in rose-scented steam and unspoken things. He reaches for the sugar at the same time you do, and your fingers brush.

Neither of you move for a second too long.

Shrieking Shack Hill -

As the sun begins to dip below the trees, the two of you find yourselves at the top of the hill, under the old tree that’s watched over this strange little shack for decades.

“I used to think that place was haunted,” you murmur, voice quiet with memory.

Remus hums beside you, low and thoughtful. “It is.”

You glance at him, surprised by the certainty in his tone. But he’s watching the horizon, face unreadable, wind threading through his hair.

Then he turns. His eyes meet yours, and they soften, all the armour gone.

“Thank you,” he says, the words carrying more weight than you expect. “For all the scarves. And the tea. And the creature facts. And. . .for not running.”

Your heart stutters. You blink, then breathe in slowly, steadying yourself against the gravity of the moment. “I wasn’t planning to. Not then. Not now.” Not ever.

Silence settles over you both, thick with promise. Not awkward - just full. Like the world is holding its breath.

Then you smile. “Did you know bowtruckles won’t let anyone near their trees unless they like them?”

Remus chuckles, warm and real. “Are you comparing yourself to a bowtruckle?”

You shake your head, nudging his shoulder with yours. “No, I’m comparing you to one. Grumpy. Guarded. Weirdly charming - green and cute.”

He throws his head back and laughs, loud and unguarded. For a moment, you think you’ve never seen him look quite so alive.

Seventh-year : October 15, 1977 - in the evening

The Gryffindor common room was golden with firelight, every velvet surface draped with seventh-years in varying states of homework neglect. Someone had spelled the windows open just enough to let in the crisp night air, and it smelled like leaves, candle smoke, and the faintest hint of caramel. The kind of night that made even essays about goblin rebellions feel a little romantic.

You were curled into the corner of the couch, knees pulled up as Remus sat beside you, quiet and warm, his fingers occasionally brushing yours on the cushion between you. You weren’t holding hands, not exactly -

“Alright, someone spill it,” Marlene declared, sitting on the armrest of the sofa with her legs dangling over the side, Mary sat properly on it next to her. “Potter has been suspiciously quiet for the past two hours and Evans is pink in the cheeks.”

Lily groaned. “Oh, Merlin’s sake - ”

“She said yes!” James blurted before she could protest. He was practically vibrating where he sat, one leg over the other armrest of his chair, looking like someone had hit him with a cheering charm. “We’re going to the next Hogsmeade weekend. Together. As a couple - I'll propose then.”

The room exploded. Sirius let out a fake sob and clutched his chest. Peter whooped. Mary clapped like it was the Quidditch Cup final.

You could only stifle your laughter behind your hand.

“About bloody time,” you muttered, nudging Remus with your elbow. He smirked.

Lily rolled her eyes but didn’t stop smiling. “Propose on the second date and we are breaking up before a monthsarry.”

“Third date then,” James said, positively beaming.

Mary twirled a strand of Lily’s hair around her finger lazily. “Love is in the air,” she declared. “Must be something in the tap water this year.”

Peter looked up from where he was cross-legged on the rug. “Or the food. Might be time to test the pumpkin juice.”

“Please do,” said Marlene. “Because if I had to watch another moment of unspoken yearning between you idiots, I was going to take matters into my own hands.”

Sirius raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“I had the love potions ready,” she deadpanned. “Evans and Potter over there, obvious as sin. And you two - ” she pointed between you and Remus, “were worse.”

Your cheeks flushed. Remus let out a soft laugh, dropping his head to you, face hidden into your hair - you blush harder.

“Unlike bloody Evans who was stubborn as fuck,” said Mary. “You two were just bloody idiots plain and simple.”

“Harsh,” Peter quipped, half-heartedly.

“Oh shut up,” Remus mumbled, but there was no real bite in it. His hand brushed yours again, firmer this time. You let it happen.

Then, because Peter had never known when to stop: “So Marlene, you and Sirius have been getting close, huh? All that Quidditch banter. . . odds on a third Gryffindor couple forming?”

There was a beat. Everyone turned.

Marlene blinked once. “Peter, I’m gay.”

Sirius made an offended sound - obviously holding back his laughter while a glint is seen in his eyes - like he always knew. “What? And here I thought we had something special!”

“You have brain damage,” she replied cheerfully, folding her arm to rest it on Mary's head.

The room dissolved into laughter again. Even Lily cracked a grin as she leaned into James. Mary chatises Marlene for messing with her hair.

And amidst the chaos - the comfort of old jokes, the glow of firelight, the echo of seven years of shared history - Remus leaned just slightly into you. His hand found yours, finally, properly this time. No accidental brushes. No scarf between you.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to.

The common room hummed with joy, and for once, no one was pretending not to notice.