#moonchasermicrofic

“I can’t believe this is real,” Sirius said for what felt like the tenth time that hour, sprawled on the couch in the Gryffindor common room as James dramatically scribbled Sirius, you are so rude and I hate you. on a notepad. “You’re suffering, but this is honestly a dream come true for me.”

James gave him the finger.

But Remus Lupin didn’t find it funny.

At first, it was peaceful. Quiet. A calm sort of tranquility that descended over breakfast as James couldn’t talk with his mouth full (or at all), and instead made sad little whimpering noises every time he couldn’t gossip about McGonagall’s new tartan dress robes.

Then it turned tragic.

By mid-morning, James had tried to mouth something that might have been “I miss you” or “I’m dying”—Remus wasn’t sure which—and tried to kiss his cheek. The problem was that James’ kisses were like punctuation to everything he said. Kiss on the temple: “You’re brilliant.” Kiss to the knuckles: “I love you.” Long, showy kiss to the lips: “Look how hot I am, and how lucky you are.”

Without them, Remus felt like he was reading a very poorly written letter. One without commas.

“You haven’t kissed me in seven hours,” Remus whispered, standing in the empty corridor beside James between classes. “Seven. Do you even love me anymore?”

James looked offended to the core of his being and attempted to tackle-hug Remus, but it came off a bit desperate and a lot sad.

“Right, sorry,” Remus said, catching him. “You do. I just... I wasn’t prepared for this, you know?”

James sighed and pulled out his ever-shrinking notepad, scribbling: I LOVE YOU. I’d tattoo it on my tongue if I could.

Remus took the note, kissed it, and dramatically pressed it to his chest. “Still not the same as the real thing.”

James melted, clinging to him like a puppy who’d been denied pets for a full year.

By hour ten, Remus was unravelling.

“I’ve realized something,” he muttered to Sirius and Peter in the common room. “I require physical affection. Like, constantly. I thought it was James being clingy, but no. It’s me. I’ve gone soft. I miss his mouth.”

Peter looked scandalized. “Remus!”

“Oh, please. Not like that. I just—” Remus sighed. “He kisses my forehead every time I stress about an essay. He does that stupid thing where he brushes his nose against mine and says something cheesy. Sometimes he just kisses my hand for no reason and I pretend it’s annoying but it’s not. I love it. I want it back. I miss his stupid lips.”

James, who had quietly entered behind them, blinked hard and clutched his heart. Remus turned, saw him, and promptly dove into his arms.

“I can’t do this, Jamie,” he whispered. “You haven’t even told me you love me today.”

James whipped out the notepad again. I told you in the corridor. In writing. Twice. Then, under it: You are SO dramatic.

Remus nodded. “I learned it from the best.” Then he kissed James. Hard. Fierce. Long enough that Sirius yelled “Oi!” and Peter ran away blushing.

James kissed back with all the passion of a Shakespearean ghost returned from the dead to see his beloved. He still couldn’t talk, but Remus could feel it—the frustration, the love, the dramatic flair.

At dinner, James sat beside him and kept scribbling increasingly ridiculous compliments on the parchment in lieu of conversation:

Your eyes are prettier than every star in the sky.

If I die like this, promise to bury me in your jumper.

Do you think Slughorn would let me lick the antidote early? I am wasting away.

Sirius leaned over. “He wrote “I’d marry Remus with my mouth sewn shut.” He’s getting worse.”

“I am also getting worse,” Remus groaned. “He keeps doing that thing where he sighs longingly and rests his head on my shoulder and it’s very distracting.”

“It’s a love language. Just not a verbal one.” Then Sirius smirked. “Honestly, Moony, I think this might be a blessing. You’ve got him completely silent and extra clingy. You’re basically in paradise.”

Remus opened his mouth to argue—then considered. James was, in fact, wrapped around his arm like a koala, silently pouting and blinking up at him with the most tragic eyes known to mankind.

“Okay,” Remus said. “Yeah. You might be right.”

At exactly 9:00 the next morning, Slughorn arrived in the Gryffindor common room with the antidote. (Sirius had bribed him with cauldron cakes and enchanted wine.)

James downed the potion in one gulp, let out a gasp, and immediately grabbed Remus' face.

“Oh my god,” James breathed. “I thought I was gonna die. I missed talking, Moony, but even worse—I missed kissing you. I missed your stupid dimples. Your ridiculous little sighs when I kiss your neck. Your—”

Remus shut him up with a kiss, finally, finally not one-sided or desperate. Just warm and relieved.

When they pulled back, James was grinning. “I love you so much it physically hurts. I never want to be quiet again.”

Remus narrowed his eyes. “I want you to kiss me every five minutes from now until the end of time to make up for lost affection.”

“Done.” James kissed his nose. “I was already planning on it.”

From across the room, Sirius sighed loudly. “You’re both unbearable. I liked him better when he was mute.”

James cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “I LOVE YOU, REMUS LUPIN!” for the entire tower to hear.

Remus, predictably, beamed. “God, I missed your stupid voice.”

1. Kenya

2. Togo

3. Liberia

4. Senegal

5. Bostwana

6. Morocco

7. Egypt

8. Zambia

9. Mali

10. Somalia

11. Ivory Coast

12. Algeria

13. Rwada

14. Malawi

15. Burundi

16. Gabon

17. Cameroon

18. Mauritius

19. Eswatini

20. Angola

21. Zimbabwe

22. Seychelles

23. Ethiopia

24. Madagascar

25. Cape Verde

26. Nigeria

27. Lesotho

28. Benin

29. Ghana

Remus stretched, running a hand over the empty sheets. Cold. Which meant they had been gone for a while. That was concerning, considering neither James nor Sirius believed in the concept of early mornings. The only time James willingly woke up before noon was for Quidditch practice, and even then, it was with the attitude of a man being dragged to his execution.

Remus frowned. He listened. The dormitory was silent except for the occasional snores from Peter’s bed. No sounds of a sudden explosion from a botched prank. No chaotic whispers of “No, Prongs, I’m telling you, it won’t fit in the cauldron.” Nothing.

This was either a very bad sign or a very good one.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, grabbed the nearest jumper (which, judging by the loose fit and faint scent of cinnamon, belonged to James), and made his way down to the common room.

Nothing.

Suspicion bloomed in his chest.

They weren’t morning people. They weren’t responsible people. So where the hell had they gone?

With a sigh, Remus decided to head to the Great Hall. If they were anywhere, it was likely stuffing their faces with breakfast after whatever mischief they had gotten into.

Except they weren’t there either.

Remus sat down, poured himself some tea, and began mentally preparing himself for the worst. Maybe Filch had already caught them, and they were rotting in detention. Maybe they had decided to test a new prank and were currently stuck inside a suit of armor. Maybe—

“Moony!”

Remus blinked up just in time for James to drop down onto the bench beside him, looking entirely too pleased with himself for someone who had likely been causing trouble for the past few hours. Sirius followed, flopping down dramatically across from them, looking far less enthused.

“You abandoned me,” Remus said flatly.

“You were sleeping, and I didn’t want to disturb you,” James said, as if this was a noble act and not a direct violation of his usual wake-Remus-up-in-the-most-obnoxious-way-possible routine.

Remus narrowed his eyes. “Where were you?”

Sirius groaned, shoving a piece of toast into his mouth. “He dragged me to Hogsmeade.”

Remus raised an eyebrow at James, who was practically bouncing in his seat.

“I needed to find the perfect present,” James declared.

Remus blinked. “For what?”

James grinned. “For you, obviously.”

Remus stared. “You woke up early—voluntarily—to go to Hogsmeade just to find me a present?”

James looked affronted. “Of course I did! You deserve only the best, Moons.”

Remus sighed, rubbing his temples. “You’re ridiculous.”

Sirius groaned. “Tell me about it. He dragged me through every bloody shop, only to go back to the first one we stopped at. I haven’t suffered like this since my mother’s last Howler.”

James ignored him, grinning as he pulled a small, wrapped package from his pocket and slid it toward Remus. “Go on, open it.”

Remus eyed him suspiciously but took the package and unwrapped it carefully. Inside was a leather-bound book, the kind with gold-lined pages and a sturdy spine. He ran a hand over the cover, feeling the quality of it.

“You’re always running out of space in your journal,” James said, watching him eagerly. “And I know you like the ones with thick pages, so I made sure it wouldn’t smudge when you write—”

Remus cut him off by leaning over and kissing him, soft and lingering.

James hummed happily against his lips, clearly very pleased with himself.

“You’re ridiculous,” Remus muttered again, but this time, there was only affection in his voice.

James beamed. “Yeah, but you love me for it.”

Remus huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah. I do.”

What no one realized—not even Sirius Black, who prided himself on being the world’s leading expert in all things James and Remus—was that Remus knew. Of course he knew. How could he not? James’ love was loud, as most things about James were. But Remus was quiet, gentle, and terrified. Because James was James. Bold, brilliant, brave James. Remus didn’t think he stood a chance, and he would never be the one to speak first.

So of course Sirius decided to take things into his own hands.

Which is why, on a cool October morning, James Potter sat down at the Gryffindor table and took a massive gulp of pumpkin juice without realizing that it had been heavily spiked with Babbling Beverage.

“Morning,” Remus said softly, looking up from a book he’d somehow balanced on the table next to a plate of toast. James smiled dreamily and reached for another sip.

“Morning, Moony,” James said, and then promptly kept talking. “Merlin’s pants, this toast is crunchy, like ridiculously crunchy, why is it so crunchy? Is it stale? I like it, though. I think I like it. Maybe I hate it? No, wait, I love toast. You know what I really love?”

Sirius, sitting across from him, bit back a grin and leaned forward like he was watching a Quidditch final.

Remus blinked. “What?”

“I love your hair,” James said, words spilling out now in a steady stream. “It’s ridiculous how soft it looks, I think about it way too much, actually, like unhealthy amounts of thinking about your hair, and your hands, and the way you do that little frown when you’re reading and—and—oh no—oh no—”

James slapped both hands over his mouth, eyes wide, but it was too late.

“I love you,” he said, voice muffled. “Oh Godric, I love you, Remus Lupin, I’m in love with you and your hair and your smile and your stupidly good handwriting and your entire face and—SIRIUS ORION BLACK I’M GOING TO KILL YOU—”

With that, James shoved back his chair so hard it skidded and bolted from the Hall like a first year who’d seen a ghost.

There was a stunned silence. Peter choked on a piece of bacon. Sirius cackled like a man possessed.

And Remus? Remus went very pink in the face and stared at the empty spot where James had been, lips parted like he’d just been hit with a Stupefy.

“He meant it,” Sirius said after a beat, clearly delighted with himself. “You should go after him.”

“I—he—he said he loves me.”

“Yeah. You gonna make him run the whole castle before you say it back?”

Remus stood so quickly his chair nearly toppled. “Nope.”

He was already halfway out of the Hall before Sirius high-fived a confused-looking Peter and said, “Best prank ever.”

He didn’t expect to find it interesting, much less to start staying after class to ask questions, borrowing Muggle magazines from Professor Burbage, and scribbling notes in a separate, beat-up notebook that he didn’t even show to James.

What really got him was the photography unit. It started with an old camera Professor Burbage brought in—bulky, with a leather strap and a clunky shutter click that Remus became immediately obsessed with. The idea that Muggles could freeze a moment, capture it forever, without any magic at all, felt like something out of fantasy.

“It's like a Pensieve,” he told James that night, eyes lit up and fingers still smudged with ink from taking too many notes, “but more deliberate. It’s a choice. You pick the moment. The angle. What gets remembered.”

James just blinked at him from the bed, lying flat on his back with his arms tucked behind his head.

“But they don’t even move,” he said. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Remus grinned and rolled over onto his side to face him. “That’s the point. It’s a still life. It makes you look closer.”

James huffed. “I look plenty close. Like right now, I’m looking at you. Closely. Admiringly. Thoroughly.”

Remus kicked him lightly. “Git.”

James just grinned.

By the time spring rolled around, Remus had commandeered half of the empty classroom next to Burbage’s office and turned it into a makeshift darkroom. It smelled strongly of vinegar and magic—the odd combination of Muggle chemistry and the wizarding world’s enhancement spells used to make the photographs move, just barely. A twitch of a smile, the flick of someone turning their head—it wasn’t like wizarding photos, not exactly. More subtle. Like the moment itself was holding its breath.

James hated it.

Well—not hated. He didn’t get it. It was boring. Tedious. You had to wait for things to dry, measure solutions just right, mess around with temperature and lighting. It was the exact opposite of Quidditch, of flying, of movement.

But Remus liked it.

So James leaned against the doorway and watched him from time to time, arms crossed over his chest, sometimes sneaking sips from a bottle of pumpkin fizz he wasn’t technically supposed to have.

“You look like a vampire,” he said once, watching Remus adjust the developing tray under a dim red light.

Remus didn’t look up. “Because I’m so pale?”

“No,” James said. “Because you’re hunched over all secretive-like, and you live in the dark, and you smell like chemicals.”

“Romantic,” Remus murmured, smiling faintly as he pulled a photo from the solution with a pair of tongs.

James stepped closer.

It was a picture of the lake, taken early one morning. The sky was still pinkish with sunrise, and the water shimmered, still as glass. In the photograph, the ripples moved ever so slightly, disturbed by something beneath the surface. A soft breeze stirred the reeds on the edge.

“Didn’t know you were an artist,” James said.

“I’m not.” Remus hung it on a line to dry. “I just like... I like the way a moment gets to live longer, this way. You can see things you didn’t notice before.”

James was looking at him now instead of the photograph. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I know what you mean.”

Remus glanced over and paused. James had that look again. The one where he tilted his head like he was thinking about saying something but wasn’t sure if it was smart to say it out loud.

So Remus beat him to it.

“Do you want to try?” he asked.

James blinked. “Photography?”

Remus nodded. “You don’t have to. I just thought maybe—”

“No, yeah,” James said quickly. “If you’ll show me. I want to try.”

The thing was—James was bad at it.

He didn’t take his time. He forgot to focus. He’d snap three shots in a row, one crooked, one blurry, one of his thumb. He got Developing Solution on his jumper and somehow managed to track photo paper through the castle because he forgot it stuck to your shoes.

But Remus didn’t care. Because James sat next to him on the floor while they waited for prints to dry. Because James would fall asleep against his shoulder some days after practice, mumbling things like “you smell like vinegar and books” into his neck. Because James kept showing up, even when he didn’t get it, even when he didn’t find it fun.

And then, one Saturday morning, Remus found a photograph tucked into his textbook.

It was crooked. Slightly too dark. But it was Remus, standing by the window, eyes squinted against the sunlight, biting the edge of his thumb without realizing. And in the moving photo, just barely—he smiled.

The caption on the back read, in James’ messy scrawl: the moment I knew.

James didn’t say anything when Remus found him at breakfast and slid into the seat next to him. He just looked up, hopeful. Quiet.

Remus leaned in, whispered in his ear, “I like still moments too, you know. Especially the ones with you in them.”

James flushed red all the way to his ears.

He never stopped being terrible at photography. But he became Remus’ favorite subject. And Remus’ favorite moment to remember was always the next one—because James was there. Even in the quiet. Even in the stillness. Especially then.

“Yeah, but it sounds more romantic when I say it.”

Remus rolled his eyes, but James swore he saw the ghost of a smile tug at his lips. Progress.

“So, what’s the excuse this time?” Remus asked, placing the bouquet in a vase.

James feigned offense. “Excuse? I come here to support local businesses.”

“You come here to flirt.”

“Two things can be true at once.”

Remus shook his head, but he didn’t protest. If James wanted to spend his time throwing bad pick-up lines his way, who was he to stop him? Besides, it was… nice. Annoying, but nice.

Today, however, James didn’t launch into another pun about roses or lilies. Instead, he reached into his pocket and placed a single red tulip on the counter. “For you,” he said, and for the first time, he sounded serious.

Remus blinked. “You’re actually giving me a flower? That’s new.”

James scratched the back of his neck. “Well, yeah. A red tulip means ‘declaration of love.’ Thought you might appreciate a flower that speaks for itself instead of me making a fool of myself trying to be smooth.”

Remus stared at the tulip, his fingers ghosting over the petals. It was simple, delicate, and—somehow—exactly what he needed to hear.

He looked up at James, who was watching him nervously. With a small, amused smile, Remus finally admitted, “You know, you might actually have won me over with that one.”

James grinned. “Does this mean I can finally take you out to dinner?”

Remus chuckled. “It means you can ask me properly, and we’ll see.”

James, the ever-determined romantic, straightened up and held out his hand dramatically. “Remus Lupin, would you do me the honor of going on a date with me?”

Remus took the tulip and tucked it into a nearby vase before turning back to James, his smile a little softer this time. “Yeah, James. I think I would.”

“Bloody traitors,” James muttered, pulling his glasses off and wiping them on the hem of his shirt. Remus leaned against the wall of their dormitory, cheeks flushed, lips kiss-bruised, and looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“Again?” Remus asked, clearly trying not to laugh and failing miserably.

James scowled. “Remus. I’m trying to have a romantic moment with my boyfriend, and instead I look like I’ve steam-cleaned my eyeballs.”

“You’re the one who insists on keeping them on while kissing,” Remus pointed out, arms crossed.

“I like seeing your face!” James protested. “You’ve got this look, right? When I kiss you. Your cheeks go all pink, and your nose scrunches, and your eyelashes flutter and it’s—” he threw his hands up, “—boom. I’m in love. And then fog! I miss the whole show!”

Remus raised a brow, but his ears were turning pink now too. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re unfairly attractive, so it’s not my fault,” James grumbled, putting his glasses back on, now streaked and smudged from the failed shirt-cleaning attempt. “If I’m going to fall in love with you over and over again, I’d like to at least see it.”

Remus was quiet for a moment. Then he stepped forward and kissed James’ cheek, soft and deliberate. “I think I can help with that.”

James blinked. “Help with… what, my tragically foggy romance?”

“You’ll see.”

James did not see.

Not until three days later when Remus dropped a small glass vial into his hand. The liquid inside shimmered with a faint gold hue.

“Oculus Potion,” Remus said, far too smug. “Temporary corrective vision. Six hours. No glasses. No fog.”

James stared at the vial like it was a holy artifact. “You brewed me eye juice because I complained about not seeing your pretty face?”

Remus flushed, but didn’t deny it. “You were insufferable.”

James looked from the potion to Remus and then back again. “You love me.”

“I mean—yes—but also, I’d like you to shut up about foggy glasses.”

James grinned like the sun had risen just for him. “I love you too, you genius little potion nerd.”

They tried it that night.

James downed the potion, blinked a few times—and the world came into sharp, perfect focus. No glasses. No blur. Just Remus.

And when he leaned in to kiss him, he saw it.

The way Remus’ lashes fluttered. The precise moment color bloomed across his cheeks. The little twitch of a smile that ghosted over his lips as they kissed deeper, slower, sweeter.

“Oh, wow,” James whispered, pulling back just enough to look at him, really look at him. “This is the best day of my life.”

Remus laughed, hands tugging James closer by the collar. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re stunning,” James replied, already moving to kiss down his jaw. “And I’ve got six whole hours to take advantage of this. We’re doing this right.”

By the end of the week, James had begged for more potion five separate times.

“I made you one bottle,” Remus said, trying to hide the fact that he was already brewing more.

“I need it,” James groaned, flopping dramatically onto Remus’ bed. “I’ve missed years of cute kissing faces! I’ve got catching up to do!”

“You are the most dramatic person I’ve ever met,” Remus muttered, even as he handed over another vial.

James popped the cork like it was champagne. “And you, darling Moony, are the most thoughtful boyfriend in the world.”

Remus rolled his eyes. “One day you’re going to go blind from overuse and it’ll be your own fault.”

“I’d die seeing you perfectly,” James said solemnly. “Worth it.”

And as he kissed Remus again—clearly, fully, adoringly—he knew two things:

One: He’d never stop being amazed by how Remus looked when he was kissed.

Two: He was never wearing foggy glasses again.