#fourmoonysasks

Sirius can hear his heartbeat in his ears, feels like his heart is about to jump out of his throat. He wants to cross the room and tell you everything. He wants to tell you that he never meant to hurt you, that sure, maybe finding out you were muggle born fuelled his desire to date you, if only to piss of Walburga and Orion, but he’d already been planning on asking you out, and as soon as he knew you – truly knew you – it didn’t even matter to him. His plan of pissing off his parents had gone completely out the window the first time you smiled at him, like, really smiled at him, unguarded and completely happy. He hadn’t thought once about the connection between your bloodline and his between stolen kisses in the dormitory stair wells, or on overly touchy walks to class, or mornings spent trying to make you laugh over breakfast. 

Sirius had truly, truly loved you – still does. He never meant to break your heart, and he’d spend the rest of his life making it up to you. But you’d made it perfectly clear – you never want to talk to him again. So, instead of begging you to hear him out and likely embarrassing himself in front of Lily, Marlene, and Mary – which he'd do in an instant for you if he thought it would work – Sirius takes himself to bed. He waits until he’s in the confines of his curtained bed, muffliato spell double cast, and he lets himself break down. 

– 

You haven’t slept in almost a week. Not since Sirius had confirmed your biggest fear. He’d looked you right in the eyes, his heart visibly breaking, tears streaming from slate grey irises, and promised you he hadn’t meant to hurt you. 

It started out as that, yes. But the minute I got to know you – really know you – it didn’t matter anymore.

The truth is, you saw the heartache on his face. You know he loves you. But you can’t stop picturing him, using you as a bargaining chip against his parents. His parents who he hates. He’d used your name, your bloodline, to get a rise out of them. You’re not sure you can forgive that.

The sky is clear, an inky black that swallows the rolling hills in the distance. You can see the twinkling lights of Hogsmeade, not nearly as bright as the stars above. You’re not sure why it feels like torturing yourself, staring at the brightest star in the sky. In a way, it’s the only way you can look at him – a piece of him – without getting the taste of bile in your mouth. For the last couple of days, every time you’ve seen Sirius – the person, of course – your stomach rolls and your chest aches, fingers reaching out to comfort him because, truthfully, he looks like shit. He looks exhausted, broken. Then the anger kicks in, takes over your bones until all you feel is a burning in your stomach and disappointment so heavy it weighs you down, stops you from approaching him. 

The astronomy tower in the middle of the night is peaceful. Truthfully, you think you’d come here that first night hoping he’d be here, like he usually would be. Waiting for you with stolen pastries from the kitchens and the warmest blanket from Remus’ collection. Every night he hadn’t come had felt both a relief and a bitter disappointment. 

You’re not expecting him now, though. Don’t hear him climb the metal steps, or call your name. Perhaps he hadn’t expected you. He calls your name, your entire body stiffens like a reflex. You used to love the way he said your name, the way it made you feel love in its simplest form. Now, it makes a lump rise in your throat as you turn to face him. He has the map in his hand. 

“That’s not fair. I told you I didn’t want to talk to you and you’ve used the map to corner me.” You’re aware of the cold temperate of your voice, how harsh you sound, when Sirius flinches like you’ve struck him. Your mouth tastes bitter. 

He looks infinitely more tired than he had mere hours ago in the common room. His face is splotchy, his hair a tangled mess, and his cheek bones are more hollowed than normal – he looks almost as sickly as he does when he returns from Grimmauld Place during the summer. Hasn’t looked like that since he moved in with James. It’s a conflicting feeling, to care for someone so much and have them shatter your heart. Your hands itch to touch him, to soothe the skin of his face with your fingers, but the weight of your disappointment keeps you rooted to the spot. 

“I didn’t even look at the map. Just brought it in case I ran into Filch.” Sirius offers. His voice is monotonous, flat. His posh accent comes out more when he’s trying to hide his emotion, a habit of growing up in the environment he did, you assume. You hate that you’re on the receiving end of it. 

You nod once, stiff. Sirius sighs, jamming the backs of his wrists into his eye sockets as he takes a calming breath. The map crumples in his fist when he squeezes it tightly. 

“I don’t know how to do this.” Sirius tells you. His eyes are honest, vulnerable. He considers taking a step closer to you, out of the shadows and into the moonlight but thinks better of it. He stays rooted to the spot, clenching and unclenching his fists. “I hate seeing you so sad. I hate knowing it's my fault even more.” 

“Perhaps you shouldn’t have used me, then.” 

Sirius looks like a kicked puppy, though he nods like he knows he deserves your harsh words. 

You bite out a quiet, “sorry.” 

“Don’t apologise.” Is his instant response. 

Silence befalls you both. Only the gentle breeze can be heard. You don’t know what to say, what to do. You hate the silence between you both, hate how far away he feels. 

“I wasn’t fair to you,” Sirius rushes out, almost like he was scared he might not say anything at all if he didn’t practically shout it at you. “I should have told you sooner. From the very beginning, even. But if I’m being honest, the minute you said yes to going out with me, the thought of how being with you could piss off my parents, it just… it vanished.

I was so happy that I had a shot, that I had a chance, I didn’t even think about it again.” 

Your heart pounds against what feels like broken ribs, your breath stuck in your throat. 

“Then how did Regulus find out?” You ask. 

Sirius scoffs at the mention of his younger brother, “Because he’s Regulus. He couldn’t wait to tell Walburga, it was practically the first thing out of his mouth off the train – that you and I were together. As much as it pains me to say it, he’s smart. He told her you were muggle born for his own gain, but he watched as she…” He trails off, eyes cast at the ground. Sirius has never been particularly forthcoming with the details of his life at Grimmauld Place, not with you. He always said your ears were far too pretty to hear such stories. But you could imagine, if the scars on his back were anything to go by. 

Your heart clenches at the thought. 

“He watched. And I’ve never been one to take a beating without a fight. So I antagonised her. I egged her on and I used your status to do it,” He sounds bitter, self-loathing, “and I will regret that for the rest of my life. I promise you, I never had any intentions of hurting you. I never…” 

He’s crying, quiet tears and soft hitches of his breath. You realise, startled, that you’ve followed suit. That’s not how Regulus told you the story, which, of course, makes sense. 

“Sirius, I…” You don’t know what to say. Your head is spinning and your heart hurts for him, because of him. He broke your heart, still. Just, maybe not as bad as you’d thought. “I get it. It couldn’t have been easy to grow up there. With them. But you are good. You are not like them. I would like to think I know your heart, if at least a little.” 

Sirius shakes his head disbelievingly. “I’m a Black. This is what we do. We darken everything that is good.” He tells you. 

A small laugh escapes you, quiet, barely there. But Sirius catches it, head snapping up to look at you. There’s hope there. You wouldn’t dare squash that. 

“You always did have a flair for the dramatics, Sirius. You are not them.” 

Sirius looks ready to argue that point, but he thinks better of it, afraid of breaking the small spell of peace that has come across you both. So, he nods, a resigned look on his face. 

“It’s not fair to ask, but do you think you’ll ever be able to forgive me?” He looks so childlike, his voice quiet and unsure. You’re reminded of twelve-year-old Sirius. He was brash, bold, and loud. But there were moments where you could tell… he was just a child who came from an unloving home, who had to battle for his mother’s approval. He’s still that boy, deep down. Maybe that will never leave him, even in his adulthood. 

You don’t know how to answer him. Don’t know if you’re ready to begin thinking of an answer. Truthfully, you don’t know the answer. Sirius took your most precious possession – your trust, your love – and broke it. He looks at you, his expression growing more solemn the longer you take to answer. Your Sirius, your happy, loud, joyful Sirius. His love had been real, hadn’t it? You’d experienced it, felt it through stolen pastries, soft kisses, silly doodles, ridiculous jokes. You’d relished in the safety he offered you, in his patience, in his doting, his sarcasm, his flirting. 

“I think,” You sigh, “perhaps, with time. I care so much for you, Sirius. But I’m not sure it can ever go back to the way it was.” 

Sirius looks deflated, but he nods. Understands. 

“We can start by being friends.” You tell him, eyes searching. 

There’s a spark there, in his eyes. Hope. Relief. It puts a piece of your heart back into place. 

“Friends.” He agrees. 

You hate that it’s true. Your boyfriend has good days and he most certainly has bad days, but he never has days where he’s not in some sort of pain. Remus’ illness has taken a lot from him; his childhood, at times, his social life, his freedom. You think maybe Remus thinks if he lets you know how bad it can truly be, it’ll cost him you, as well. It doesn’t seem to matter how many times you remind your boyfriend that it won’t scare you away, it never seems to stick.

“Okay, tough guy,” You scoff, finding that Remus often responds better to sarcasm and tough love than being babied or fussed over, especially when it gets bad, “fancy getting up to get me a glass of water?”

“Get it yourself, lazy girl.”

You can’t help the startled laugh that falls from your lips, eyes wide as you catch the sly grin on your boyfriend’s face. Remus laughs soon after, leans forward to press a loving kiss to the crown of your head. His own way of saying you know I’m kidding. You do know he’s kidding, so you kiss the underside of his jaw in return.

“Take some pain killers, baby. You know they’ll help, even if only enough to help you fall asleep.”

“Already have.” Remus chirps, pulls you by the shoulders until you’re resting across his chest.

Your boyfriend runs like a furnace at all times, the familiar feeling of warmth mixed with the signature scent of his shower gel has your muscles uncoiling as you relax into him. You’re cautious of putting all of your weight onto him until he shifts, further into the pillow mountain he’s created and pulls you along with him. He breathes deep at the relief he must feel from the new angle, reaches onto his bedside table for the television remote.

“Any requests?” He asks, words mumbled into your hair.

His arms are tight around you, thumbs brushing where they meet in the middle of their waist. You settle in, hook your leg over his good leg. One of his hands slips to the curve of your bum at the opportunity you’ve presented him, a gentle, nonsexual touch, but intimate nonetheless. “Not really. Just whatever you like.” You hum quietly.

He turns the volume back up a smidge on the sitcom you both like. His touch is soft and feather like, a comfort that pulls you fast stead towards sleep. The slow rise and fall of your boyfriend’s chest has your own breaths syncing up, lips turning every now and then to press kisses over his heart.

“Do you ever think about the crash?” You ask, eyes focussed on his raised knee.

Remus doesn’t startle. He might have, at the beginning of your relationship. He’d only told you in bits in pieces, back then, that he’d been in a terrible crash as a boy; the reason for his terrible joint and muscle pain.

You feel him shake his head, lips still firm against your hair. He presses a kiss there, then dips his head until he’s closer to your ear. His voice is quiet, tired, perhaps a little sad when he speaks; “Not as often, now. When I was a teenager, when I was in constant pain because I was growing all the time - yes. I thought about it every day and I thought about how unfair the world was, how unfair my life was.”

“What changed?” You ask, quietly.

He’s silent for a moment, only the sounds of his breathing and the quiet drone of the television can be heard. You can tell he’s thinking it over, a sense of unpleasant nostalgia somewhere in the way he audibly swallows and the slight twitch of his fingers against your skin. Eventually, he sighs, “A lot of things, really.”

"I changed doctors, for a start. They're much more understanding of my condition at the one down the road, much more patient and less skeptical of whether I'm faking it for the free codeine."

You laugh a little at the idea. Half the time, Remus refuses to take pain killers at all. "I like Doctor Frank, he's nice." You tell your boyfriend, who hums in agreement.

"He is," Remus agrees, "And then there was becoming an adult. Hard enough without carrying around so much anger. I was sort of forced to just let it go. Accept that this was my life and I was still capable of so much despite my illness."

You can't help but smile at that. Remus is the gentlest person you know. He's rough around the edges, a sarcastic, smart ass and a mean flirt, but he's gentle, all soft beige cardigans and old library books, gentle touches and even gentler kisses. Your boyfriend has never once dared to raise his voice at you, even in his moments of utter agony. He's kind and has a big heart and you can't imagine fifteen year old Remus, angry and hateful and mad at the world. It wouldn't have suited him.

So, you're proud of how far he's come. Even if he still deals with the trauma of the crash, the hatred he has for the scars it left him with and the pain he lives in. It's less. It's dialled down to one, maybe a two on his bad days. Your Remus looks at the world like a challenge, now. A challenge to overcome, to be the best he can be, to keep fighting. You love him so, so much, and you place a kiss to his heart as the feeling washes over you. Bright and light and floaty.

"And you, dove."

Your lips curl upward at his words, spoken so soft you're not really sure if you were supposed to hear them. Remus pulls you impossibly closer, holds you tighter as he ducks down to your ear, breath fanning across the skin and leaving goosebumps in its wake.

"If there was ever something to live for, something to not be angry about. It's you. The way you love me, your patience, your laugh, your smile. I think you were the universe's apology for that crash." Remus presses a kiss to the side of your neck when he's done and it sends a shiver through you.

There's tears in your eyes. Blinding you until your boyfriend becomes a blurred cheeky grin amidst the blue light of the television. But you're happy. So happy and so in love.

But you can't fight the urge to tell Remus, "Your consolation prize."

His startled laugh is music to your ears, a softness breaking through the storm clouds of your heavy conversation. He tuts a moment later, kisses you for the millionth time, "I prefer God given solace."

You roll your eyes. The man doesn't believe in God, but you'll take the compliment, you decide, as you curl back into him.

"Thanks for opening up. I know it's hard."

You spot it on the drying rack, hand reaching out for the soft fabric of his orange sweater. Remus turns, eyes softening when you place the mug in his hand. He kisses the very tip of your nose, eyes intent on watching the way your cheeks redden. "I wouldn't have any argument. I've never seen The Nightmare Before Christmas." You shrug, eyes fixed on the way Remus' long fingers wrap around his mug.

Your boyfriend tsks, "That just won't do."

You laugh as Remus flicks the kettle on, peering over the edge of Mary's pot to check on the soup. It brings tiny drops of condensation to his chin, his forehead. You reach out and swipe at the skin with gentle fingers. Remus smiles softly when you venture up into the curls of his hair. He needs a trim, you think.

"Best tell Mary her soups about to burn." Remus speaks lowly, like he's scared he'll scare you off from touching him if he speaks too loud.

It's a warranted idea. His beauty is astonishing, really. Intimidating. You'd never take your hands off him if you let yourself. But you do, now, to turn the burner off and move the soup to the side.

"You think Sirius will banish me for not having seen his favourite movie?" You ask humorously.

Remus chuckles, stirring his tea. "Best not mention it, love."

He turns, hand encasing yours as he tugs you towards him. He smells like pumpkin and his eucalyptus shower gel, a little like cigarettes, but you won't begrudge him it. Marlene's a bad influence. His hugs are always warm, comforting. You turn your ear to his heart, revel in the feel of his strong hand against your skull and shoulder blade, listen to it's steady thump, thump, thump.

His lips press to the side of your head, just at the same time Sirius appears in the arch way entry into the kitchen. He has his hands on his hips and a fury in his eyes, "Y/N," He huffs, "Tell them that The Nightmare Before Christmas is definitely a Halloween movie!"

Remus laughs quietly into your hair, his shoulders shaking with the effort to hold it in. You shove your boyfriend away, though he doesn't go far. He never does.

"Soups ready!" You smile, as convincingly as you can.

Sirius nods, all too pleased with himself. "Off with a bloke I had imagined. Gideon Prewett's had his eyes on you all night. Or, actually, that might be Fabian. Ask Jamie, I still can't tell them apart." He shrugs.

There's tiny bits of black glitter around Sirius' eyes; smudged, from his eyeliner, you assume. It draws out the pale grey of his eyes. He looks really pretty. Like someone that would have their painting hung in some grandiose museum. For, like, being historically beautiful.

With a snort, you roll your eyes. "Fat chance of that."

Sirius isn't stupid. He knows you've never had a boyfriend. He's never brought it up, never teased you about it. He just glosses over it like he does most things. For that, you're grateful.

But he frowns at your words, regardless, as he says, "Why?"

You're a little shell shocked as you stare back at him blankly. There's not really any reason for you not to talk to Gideon. Or Fabian, which ever one of them it is. But you don't have Sirius' confidence or sheer lack of care. So, you don't. You stay firmly rooted in your seat, unsure of how to tell your perfectly capable best friend that you're severely under-experienced for a party hook-up with one of his former classmates.

Sirius sighs when you don't answer.

"There has to be a first at some point."

You can't help but bristle at his words, even if they're meant to be encouraging. "I know."

Sirius' fingers poke at the side of your face where his hand is slung over the back of the couch. "Hey," He whispers, head dipped to meet your eyes, "Sorry."

You smile, lean towards his fingers as they turn less teasing and start a gentle path along your cheekbones. "I just want it to be with someone I know. Someone I trust. At least the first time, you know?" You hate the way it sounds. Like a damsel holding on to her last shred of innocence.

But Sirius nods, eyes genuine and understanding. Soft, lovely. Like he always is with you. It's like his chaos gets dialled down when he's with you. Like he can breathe, take a minute to just... exist.

"You trust me?" He asks, swallowing after.

You're not an idiot. You know he's about to offer himself as your first kiss and you hate that it makes flowers bloom between the cracks in your ribs. Your palms grow sweaty and your tongue darts out to lick your lips as if on instinct. "I trust you. But you can't kiss me."

Sirius' brows furrow. "Why not?"

You laugh, albeit a little awkwardly. "Because we're friends, Sirius."

And because you're scared you won't want to kiss anyone else ever again.

Sirius smirks. It's full of mischief and knowing he's likely to get his own way. "What's a little kiss between two friends, gorgeous?"

His fingers tuck a piece of hair behind your ear and you melt into him. So close that you can smell the beer he's been drinking, a little hint of cigarette smoke clinging to his hair. You want this. But maybe a little too much. Sirius is still grinning, very much able to read you like a book. But he waits for you to nod, to give him permission before he scooches closer to you.

"Okay." You whisper, suddenly shy.

If someone had told you as a teenager that you'd be at a party with what is possibly the world's most heartbreakingly beautiful man you've ever met, kissing him in front of a room full of people, you'd have cringed. It'd have been too much to handle. Too much want, too much fear.

But as much as everyone else often describes Sirius Black as Too Much, he's never been that way to you. Not even as his hand shifts to cup your jaw, pulling you so close that his breath fans over your face, warms the skin there. He's so gentle, respectful. It makes you want to sob. Because this is a kiss between two friends.

First, Sirius presses a kiss to the left of your mouth. His lips are gentle, soft. Your eyes flutter closed of their own accord and that's when he swoops. It feels odd, at first. You feel frozen, until Sirius runs his thumb against the underside of your jaw, adds a little pressure under your chin. He tilts your head back and all you can do is respond greedily. You need more of him, more of that pressure against your neck. More of his lips moving against yours with the perfect amount of force.

You sigh into it, one hand on his bicep and the other on his knee. Sirius smiles a little, leaning into you until you're pressed back into the arm of James' couch. It swallows you whole, the kiss. It's raw, beautiful, a little dirty, just like Sirius.

When he deems you've had enough (though, you'd disagree), he pulls away, pressing a doting kiss to your forehead before he retreats. His eyes scan your flushed face.

"See, not so bad." He shrugs as he pulls you into his side.

You rub your lips together, still tingling, and nod. "Yeah, not bad at all."

"Should we find James and ask which one of the Prewett twins has been eyeing you all night?" Sirius asks, though his voice doesn't sound as enthusiastic as it had, earlier.

"Sure. In a minute." You murmur.

"Did you order chips and cheese?" James asks, frowning into the tub in his hands.

"No." You hum, sitting in your previous place on the floor.

Your dress puffs out around you, a sea of white and tulle and James smiles over at you. It's a knowing smile, a smile that you've shared multiple of all day. The 'I'm so happy, I love you so much, this is the best day ever' kind of smile. James slides down from the couch to sit beside you, setting the mystery container of chips and cheese onto the coffee table.

"Well, they sent us some." He shrugs.

"Nice."

It's domestic and it's nice. It's better than the 'thank you for coming' and the 'oh, I'm over the moon, it turned out beautiful' conversations you've been having all day. It's chill and comfortable and it's just you and James in your tiny little cottage after a busy day filled with love and laughter and energy.

"Here." James passes you your container, a donner kebab.

You smile, "Thanks. Don't get me wrong, I loved the menu we picked. Seriously, best Balmoral chicken I've ever had. But I have been craving this all bloody day."

James nods in agreement, mouth too full of chicken pakora to say anything. He's leaning over his container to avoid spilling on his suit, but you don't have the same thought, biting into your kebab and gasping when the sauce spills out and onto the white fabric of your dress.

There's a moment of stunned silence between you and James where the TV show you both love drones on in the background and you just stare at each other. You assume James is waiting for you to have some sort of meltdown. Instead, you purse your lips, eyes alight with amusement and James cracks first.

You're both laughing so loud it overshadows the sound of the television, collapsing in on each other until you can't breathe.

"Oh, baby," James sighs, "Your dress."

He has the decency to sound deflated for you but you shake your head, smiling like the cat who got the cream. "It's okay, handsome. I already had the perfect day in my perfect dress."

"It was a pretty good day, huh?" James asks, returning to eating straight after.

You follow suit, leant over your container this time, "Yeah, it was. You know what beats it, though?"

James hums in acknowledgement.

"This. Right here."

James looks at you like you've lost your mind and you laugh.

"Today was perfect. I love you so much, and I couldn't wait to be your wife. I love our friends and our families, I loved celebrating with them. But my favourite moments always end with us back here. Me and you, sharing a kebab, watching shitty TV, and laughing until we can't breathe. That's what I couldn't wait to spend the rest of our lives doing." You tell him, eyes shining with emotion.

James sets his box on the coffee table, reaches out for you and you go because there will never be a time when James Potter calls and you, his wife, don't go.

"You looked beautiful today, you know?"

"I did?" You muse, settling into his lap, his arms warm and strong around you.

James presses his lips to your shoulder when he nods, sure and firm, "Yeah. But you look etheral right now."

"Covered in kebab sauce?" You ask.

James laugh, low and sweet and your stomach flutters, "Oh yeah."

"Hm," You hum, "You look pretty handsome."

"That's 'cause you're on my lap."

His eyes are big and brown and full of love and all you can think to do is kiss him. It's sweet and soft and it's all of your love for each other wrapped into one. He squeezes your waist, pulls you further into him and it all just feels perfect. You're so full of love you could burst.

"I love you, Mrs. Potter." He tells you, eyes so open and honest and it brings tears to your eyes.

"I love you, too, Mr. Potter."

It's sickeningly sweet and cringey and you wouldn't have it any other way. The guests have all gone, the wedding is over, you're home, with James, your husband, and you're married and you're happy and content and in love.

"Eat up before it gets cold." You urge James, handing him his pakora before reaching for your kebab.

Sirius holds his hands up in mock defence, his smile equally as goading as it is knowing. "I'm sure I have no idea what you mean, doll face." He quips, stuffing the cookies into his jacket pocket and using his now free hand to poke at your cheek.

You try to bat him away whilst fighting off an amused smile.

"Oh, my!" Sirius beams, "Your cheeks are as cold as ice cubes," his pointer finger boops your nose, "Nose, too!"

"I'm fine." You pout, childishly.

It's rare, that Sirius is wholly right about something. You know he's going to milk this all day, now.

"If only you had a handsome, smart, caring, wonderful, boyfriend who could have pre-warned you that this might happen!" Sirius exclaims. Passers by eye you both sceptically, but you're used to the attention with Sirius - always the loudest in any room - Black.

"Okay, enough. I'm fine, really." You shoulder Sirius on, who's still muttering about how amazing he is at predicting the future.

The next few stalls are torturous. Your face only gets colder, your sniffling louder. Sirius refrains from goading you further, but seems to reach the end of his tether when he catches you blowing into your hands and rubbing them on your nose.

He sighs, pulling you to the side and out of the way of foot traffic.

"Okay, give me your face." He says, bluntly.

A startled laugh tumbles from your lips, "What?"

"Give me your face, I'm going to warm it up."

You stare at him perplexed, "Sirius-"

"No, your nose is practically blue. I love you, but I think I'm just vain enough to be less attracted to you if you don't have a nose." Sirius takes your face in his hands.

Your eyes go wide, desperate to fact check whether your boyfriend would actually love you less without a nose, but Sirius already has his entire mouth around your nose. His teeth nip the skin a little teasingly and you huff, resigned to the fate of having a slightly abnormal boyfriend.

You're glad he's pulled you away from the crowds as he blows hot air directly onto your nose. The warmth is welcomed, but his method is arguably questionable.

When he's done, he pulls back and gives you a once over. Then, he removes his scarf and wraps it in bundles around your neck. He presses a final kiss to the tip of your nose, which, thanks to him, you can feel.

"See, fixed it. Nose safe. Lets get some treacle tarts and head home." Sirius says, like he hasn't just tried to eat your nose.

It's a little much to keep up with, so you allow him to guide you, rather stunned, along to the next treat stall. It's not until you're home, in fuzzy pyjamas, with a mug of hot chocolate that you remember to ask, "Would you actually love me less without a nose?"

Sirius looks over, a little alarmed, with a mouth full of cinnamon cookie. He swallows, shrugs, devilish smile on full display. "As long as I'm here to save you, we'll never know."

"So," Remus huffs, "The Potter's are having a masquerade party for halloween."

"I've always wanted to go to one of those. They always have such romantic vibes." You sigh wistfully.

Isn't it every little girls wish to have a prince chase after her, trying to find her, because he doesn't know what she looks like - only that she's the love of his life?

Remus smiles down at you. It pulls the tiny scar atop his lip taught. You can't help but reach up to peck it softly. Remus doesn't believe you love his scars as much as you say you do. But it's true. They make him even more handsome. Infinitely more interesting to look at. You could stare at him all day long if he'd let you.

"Okay, well, I doubt that'll be the vibes at this one. More like Monty and Euphemia net working whilst Sirius makes us get drunk in the parlour like we're still sixteen." Remus laughs. "But I'd still love for you to come. To meet James' parents."

Your boyfriend's own parents have always had a strained relationship with him. They're good people. They just don't see eye to eye with Remus sometimes. You know well that Remus thinks of the Potters as a second set of parents, a safe place. And you're honoured that he'd like for you to meet them.

"I'd love to, Rem." You tell him.

He smiles, eyes crinkling in the corners. He's so beautiful.

You reach a small bench, Remus pulls you to sit beside him. You drink your coffees in silence, commenting only when someone passes with a cute dog. The leaves fall around you and you feel utterly content.

You nod, wiping at tears with the backs of your hands. "That's okay, Rem."

His sweet, forgiving girl. "What happened?" Remus asks, making himself useful and gathering everything he'll need to get you cleaned up.

You sigh, rather bitterly, "I fell."

He doesn't mean to chuckle, but it slips past his lips anyway. You don't chastise him for it, but he sees the resigned look that crosses your face. "I thought as much." He tells you, pressing an alcohol wipe to the cuts and scrapes.

You wince, lips wobbling. "It was really embarrassing. Everyone at the shop saw. I just wanted to get us something nice to have for dinner." You sound so defeated.

It makes his chest ache. The fondness he feels for you is unparalleled to anything Remus has ever felt before. It could easily swallow him whole.

"You're so lovely. I'm sorry that happened to you, baby." Remus coos as he peels the backing off of a plaster.

You sniffle, "Thanks."

Remus smiles kindly, a fool in love, and places the plaster on your knee. "All better." He speaks quietly, tossing the rubbish in the bin under the toilet.

"Still hurts." You murmur, seemingly aware of how childish your pouting is when your lips threaten to tilt up in a smile.

It makes Remus' chest want to crack open. He doesn't know how to contain his feelings for you in a normal, sane way. His fingers brush gently along your bare leg. "Need me to kiss it better?" He asks, brow quirked.

That makes you smile. Watery and a little snotty. But you smile and nod. "Would you? Please."

He huffs an amused laugh through his nose and bends forwards to press a kiss to the skin of your shin. He works his way up, gentle and perhaps a little teasing if the little breath you let out is anything to go by, until he reaches the covered skin of your plaster.

"Better?" He asks, hand holding your leg in place.