#poly!moonkiller

Pairing: poly!Moonkiller x vamp!Reader

Summary: You never knew Barty's absence could be so frigid and hollow, yet you're left to pick up what he shattered after betraying your trust. Yet still, it seems that the culprit behind it all—Remus Lupin, as usual—still manages to worm his way into your defenses when he catches you off guard and vulnerable.

Warnings: MENTIONS OF VIOLENCE AND MURDER!! (->The murder itself isn't too descriptive but the aftermath is so read with caution!! It starts at “He’s unrecognisable” and ends at “[…] like the poacher at the clearing.”), angst, sort of depressive episode, not proofread if you read this on the 25th

Content: so much angst, Reader crashes the fuck out, Remus being actually nice for once?? A lot of confusion on Readers end, big sister Lily ftw, weird tension between Reader and Remus

WC: 8.23k

AN: this chapter would've been soooo much longer if I didn't get sick of it and decide to keep the rest for the next one lmao ANYWAYS INTERACTION IS GREATLY APPRECIATED

Disclaimer: English is not my first language! All mistakes are my own!! I do not and never will use AI for my writing, this work is completely my own

Taglist: @starrystormwritings @whimsical-mistakes @hellokitty-girl666 @lettertovera @bubblegumcat229 @daydreamandforget @justyesbecauseyeswhynot

s.masterlist | Act i | Act ii | Act iii |Act iv | Act v

Barty’s betrayal isn't smooth and calculated, no. It doesn't creep up on you like the shadows after the sun sets, nor does it watch you hungrily like a predator waiting to sink its claws into prey.

It comes unexpectedly, sudden and harsh, like a bombshell dropped with no warning. In hindsight, you still don't know which one you would've preferred; slow and meticulous torture or sudden and sharp searing pain?

You’ve only been a sixth year student for three weeks now, sitting cross-legged on his bed in his otherwise empty dorm when it all unravels.

You being in his empty dorm room–courtesy of his demand for privacy turned into obsessive magical research that expanded his original dorm into giving him and his three roommates separate rooms–is not as weird as it might sound on paper. Sure, you very much aren't allowed up in the Ravenclaw boys dormitory, but at a certain point the both of you did master the art of sneaking in out of each other's rooms without being caught.

You hadn't seen him much today—or all week really—only ever managing to steal glimpses of him when he rounded corners and sprinted down corridors. If you were a madder person, you might have thought he was avoiding you, but that can't be. Barty never avoided you, the thought so ridiculous you immediately discarded it. Besides, you didn't give him any reason to avoid you—as far you were concerned at least.

So, in an un-vampire fashion you decide to let yourself into his dorm without invitation, opting to browse through all the books he bought from the Muggle bookshop in your village but hasn't gotten to read yet while you wait for him to return.

You don't know where he is, but he has to come back at some point, especially with that looming Ancient Runes essay he complained about the first week of school. While Barty is reckless and incredibly unconcerned with his academic career, grumbling and huffing about the point of all the assignments, he still hands in neatly polished essays that earn him an Outstanding every time.

You're lost between the pages of some horror novel he brought with him when your ears pick up the unmistakable rhythm of his steps down in the common room. Sometimes, you suppose, having enhanced senses isn't all too bad. By now you're somewhat an expert at blending out the jarring sensory landscape around you, yet you somehow fine tuned yourself to always pick out Barty's presence wherever you go.

His steps are heavy, dragging on the floor in that way that foretells the story of heavy burdens the day left on his shoulders. Quickly, you put the book away, slipping a bookmark that has both of your fingerprints in the shape of a heart painted on it. A slight smile graces your features at the memory of making the bookmark a few summers ago, when the both of you were haunted by boredom and in dire need of something to do. Your mother had suggested arts and crafts, and because you'd gone to the bookstore just days prior, you decided to make bookmarks for your haul. The matching bookmarks were a little trinket that stuck around, a momentum that captures the essence of your friendship; two unique prints intertwined in one heart.

You can hear him drag himself up the stairs and wait patiently for him to arrive, fumbling with his wand before he unlocks the door.

He doesn't see you at first, his gaze cast to the ground, so you clear your throat to catch his attention. His head snaps up, wand pointed up immediately as his entire body grows rigid with alarm.

The whole thing makes you giggle, but it dies down as soon as you hear his heart rate picking up at the sight of you. He relaxes, just a fraction, but the tension in his muscles and face remains, even if he pretends otherwise.

Your eyebrows furrow, examining his expression closer as he tries—and very much fails—to plaster on a grin.

“Fangs! Fancy seein’ you ‘round here,” he calls out, but his voice is strained, betraying the casualness he tries to emit.

It's strange seeing Barty pretend around you, because it never happens, not when you both are alone at least.

Immediately, all alarms go off in your head as you revisit every single thing you know about him. Did something happen? Did he get a letter from his father and didn't tell you? Did you miss some sort of event? Was he mad at you?

A million questions pop in your mind, all at lightning speed, but you come up empty when you try to answer them.

He shifts his weight from one leg to the other, eyes darting across the room in a clear effort to avoid your scrutinizing gaze.

“Where have you been?” You ask, leaning against the headboard of his bed with crossed arms. You ask the question lightly, no accusation in your tone at all, but he still flinches—like someone caught red handed committing a crime.

He paces around the room, loosening his tie and stripping the layers of clothing off his body. His movements are jerky, as if he’s trying to remember how undressing works, and pointedly turns his back when he answers your question.

“Was with Evan,” he replies, “He’s been having those weird dreams again, more than ever lately so I’ve been tryin’ to help him figure out what they mean. You wouldn't believe how many divination and dream interpretation books we had to comb through!”

His voice fades into the background when a heavy and borderline ugly thought settles over you.

Barty is lying to you.

Barty, your best friend and other half, is lying to you.

It's not like he doesn't lie—because let's face it, Barty is no saint. He lies, he steals, he wrecks and manipulates like he might die if he doesn't.

That's not the point, it doesn't matter that he does those things because he's never done them to you. He lies to other people, he lies to his father, sometimes to his friends. He lies to the Professors all the time, occasionally to your parents when they ask how he feels.

But lying to you? He's never done that, ever.

Maybe that's why he's so out of his element—it's unnatural for him to try and lie to the one person he spills his every thought to.

“Stop,” your voice sounds distant, like it's not fully yours and he freezes. Slowly, he turns around, and even without heightened senses you could've heard the way he gulps loudly.

“I asked Evan where you are today,” you state plainly, voice and expression void of emotion. You can see the panic slowly seizing him, creeping up in his pretty hazel eyes that are blown wide like frenzied animal’s.

“He said he has no clue where you've been hiding out.”

The silence that follows is heavy, filled with tension so thick you could've pierced it with your fangs. You continue watching him, he continues to avoid your eyes like they'll set him on fire any second.

Then, all of a sudden, his entire body goes slack with defeat. He pulls the shirt he's been holding in his hand this entire time over his head, trudges to the bed and settles beside you. The mattress dips underneath his weight, the wooden frame squeaks and fills the silence momentarily.

You want to reach out, hold his hand and coax him into telling you what's going on, but you can't. It's almost like there's something holding you back, instinct perhaps that warns you of what's about to transpire.

Naturally, you ignore it.

You've never held back from comforting Barty, so why wouldn't you go against your very own survival base to hold him? You would break and bend any rule as long as it meant he'll be okay. He accepts the hand you stretch out to caress his face, leaning into the touch like it might be the only thing keeping him grounded.

“There’s somethin’ I haven’t told ya, Fangs,” he mumbles, his voice tense and quiet.

You wait, racking your brain for what he might have hidden. His behaviour has been going on for about a week now; avoiding you everywhere, making excuses to not see you, running off as soon as you approach.

Then, it hits you square in the face—the welcome party he attended last week Friday.

It is tradition, a bit of good fun to welcome back everyone into a new school year. Usually, the attendees are fifth to seventh years, and after going last year and experiencing just how packed inter-house parties could get, you made the decision to not attend again. Too many people, too much going on for your brain to handle, and so much temptation that might cause an unwanted slip up.

Barty on the other hand was more than eager to go, the promise of abundant alcohol and entertainment pulling him like a moth to the flames. He disappeared that night, bidding you goodbye with the promise to tell you all about it the next day at breakfast—provided he didn’t skip it in favour of sleeping in and nursing the impending hangover.

That however, never happened, now that you think about it. The next day, he was nowhere to be found, no matter where you searched for him. And after that? He avoided you religiously, like being in the same room as you might set him ablaze. Something must have happened there, you conclude belatedly, and press your hand closer to his face, slowly coaxing him into spilling whatever weighs on his consciousness. He draws a shuddering breath, and without as much as looking up, he speaks three words that tilt your world upside down.

“Lupin kissed me.”

The silence is deafening, pressing heavily on your lungs like it’s trying to squeeze every last bit of air out of them. Maybe you heard him wrong, maybe he doesn’t mean Remus Lupin but someone else with the same last name.

You blink, rapidly like maybe that’ll change the scenery and you’ll find yourself somewhere completely different.

“What?” Your voice is strained, barely a whisper and it finally moves him to look at you. All your hopes of this being a misunderstanding are thwarted by the sheer guilt on his face, clearly proving your fears.

”Remus,” he croaks, the name sounding so foreign ins his mouth, “We were tipsy, fought at the party, then we just kept goin’ back and forth with insults and banter and- Fangs I swear to Merlin I don't know what happened, he was suddenly so close, all I could smell and hear and feel and when he kissed me-“ he chokes, the last part stuck in his throat. He looks to the side, like the sight of you alone might bring the unshed tears to spill. “When he kissed me, I didn’t push back, I just kissed him back because it was so good.”

It must be a joke, you think. A very elaborate, very shitty joke he made up to mess with you. That’s the only explanation you have for your best friend kissing the guy that has been actively and relentlessly making your life hell for the past five, going on six, years.

The laugh that bubbles up in your chest escapes your mouth, and it shakes your entire body until you're clutching your stomach, tears pooling in the corners of your eyes.

Finally, the laughter dies down and you wipe your tears, the thought of him actually kissing Remus Lupin oh so ridiculous. “Man, you almost had me there B,” you giggle, leaning against the headboard as you stare at him with amusement.

“What’s actually going on? And don’t make jokes again, that was not funny,” you muse, the smile on your face faltering when he turns to look at you, shaking his head gently.

He says your name, gentle yet firm, and it sounds almost as foreign as Lupin’s first name coming from his lips. “It’s not a joke,” he whispers, his voice fragile and quiet. You search his face for any of the signs that scream he’s lying, but there's no twitch in the corners of his lips, no quivering ears and only guilt and sincerity in his eyes.

He tries to reach out, but you recoil, violent and unexpected. Hurt flashes across his face, but you can’t bring yourself to care, not when the betrayal sits deep in your bones.

”No,” you mutter, over and over again like it might change the fact that the closest person to you just took your heart and gutted you from the inside out. The entire room spins, and suddenly everything is too hot, the walls closing in like they might cave in any second. Barty looks like he might actually start crying, and when you look at the mirror hanging across his bed, you catch a glimpse of your expression. Hurt, disgust, betrayal and anger coat your features, emotions Barty knows too well, but not from you. No, never you, until now.

You jump up, your eyes darting to the door and storm to it, ignoring his shouts and pleas for you to wait. There’s no point in running after someone with supernatural speed and strength, because by the time Barty stumbles out of the Ravenclaw tower to chase you, you’re already halfway across the castle.

The tears burn hot in your eyes, but you refuse to cry, not now at least. Somewhere in the recesses of your mind, you know you can’t return to your own dorm because that’s the first place he’ll go looking for you. Quite frankly, you aren’t sure if you can handle seeing him right now, the burn of what he has done and kept hidden for an entire week much too great for you to think about hearing him out.

”He kissed me”

“I just kissed him back”

“It was so good”

His words haunt you, halling off the walls as you run across the dark and abandoned corridors. They cling to you, like soot after a fire, and it makes you want to turn back to seek him and keep running all the same time. Where do you go now, when the one person you seek comfort from is the perpetrator of your pain?

Like a lost animal, you keep roaming the castle, running in circles until you crash into someone. For a moment, you think Barty might have found you, but you’re mistaken.

”Oh goodness, what’s going on?” Streaks of red fill your vision, and the smell of magnolia and jasmine surrounds you like a soothing balm. Lily grabs your shoulders, her voice filled with worry and concern for you as she stares at your tear streaked eyes. You realized you must’ve ended up on the patrol route of the Head Girl and Head Boy, yet your senses were too numbed and overtaken by emotions to register their approach. James Potter stands off to the side, expression torn between concern and caution as he observes the situation.

You try to answer, try to muster up some explanation as to why you’re out so far past curfew, but all that comes out are hiccups and silent sobs.

Lily doesn’t ask, only embraces you tightly and offers warmth and comfort that barely holds your crumbling walls together.

That night, you don’t sleep in your own dorm, and not in that of your Slytherins friends. Instead, Lily takes you back to her dorm, the girls welcoming you with open arms and sisterly concern. They don’t push you to talk, merely allow you to rest and give you space to breathe. Mary suggests pushing all four beds together, and somehow the entire ordeal turns into some sort of sleepover party that you barely take note of. Your mind is blank, void of any and all thoughts, only filled with the ugly feeling of having your trust shattered by the one you love the most.

Sleep doesn’t come to you that night, instead you replay every single moment of your conversation, of the last week he avoided you. It won’t stop plaguing you, and by the time you get ready for breakfast, the bags under your eyes tell a story of their own. Like your body is on autopilot, you make your way to the Slytherin table, greeting the small group of your friends with a curt nod. Regulus sips on a mug of dark coffee, constantly fiddling with a bracelet you don’t remember seeing on him before, but at least he acknowledges your presence unlike Evan. The other boy is completely distracted, eyes wandering across the hall as if in search of someone specific. He startles when you sit beside him, briefly acknowledging you with a nod before he goes back to surveying the entire room. Dorcas and Pandora join your group a little later, the both of them intently staring with questions written across their faces—ones you don’t bother answering.

You feel him the moment he walks into the Great Hall, your heart speeding up when his gaze settles on you. Barty is quick to stride to the table, your name on his lips before he even reaches you. You can’t take it, grabbing your bag and fleeing in a flash, not giving him or anyone else the chance to ask, much less comment on your behaviour.

It’s the same routine for the next two weeks, where you barely get through the motions of the day, avoiding Barty to the best of your abilities, sticking close to your girls. There’s no lack of trying on his end, finding any and all opportunities to talk to you, but you shut him down every single time. It takes one hurt look, the words stuck in his throat, and he’s left looking at you as you turn on your heel and leave him.

It’s strange, not having Barty close anymore. You never noticed how cold the world feels without him, so quiet and muted. He was the burst of color and noise that made everything brighter, more fun, more bearable. But in his absence, you’re left with ashes and gray nothing to soothe yourself with.

You barely eat, speak or move, a ghost of your former boisterous and mischievous self. Were it not for the efforts of Lily and the other girls, you might have gone under the pressure of carrying the weight of the loss all on your own.

The whole thing makes rounds at Hogwarts of course, because why would people not gossip about you? Rita Skeeter in particular seems to chase the gossip like a bloodhound, cornering you in the library or in empty classrooms to get the scoop on your fallout. You try to ignore her, push her away or flat out insult her in hopes of having her leaving you alone, but it’s all for naught. Day after day, she publishes outrageous articles and comments in the Hogwarts Daily, filled with such absurd claims, it takes your entire strength to keep Marlene and Mary from ambushing her at breakfast.

You ignore the whispers and looks that follow you, choosing to keep to yourself especially as the full moon draws near. What little strength you already had slowly vanishes, replaced by sluggish lethargy and a gnawing hunger that turns logic and reason into primal force. You nurse packets of blood throughout the day, ones your parents packed for emergencies, but they don’t quell the thirst for violence, for hurt and rebuttal.

Each time your eyes stray from the ground, finding one of the gossipy students in the crowds, all you can think about is sinking your teeth into their neck, ripping them apart like a ragdoll, hearing the bones crack under the sheer force of your strength.

It scares you, the kind of monster you seem to be turning into without Barty to keep your humanity tethered, but it’s not like you can go looking for him now, can you? By the end of the first week, he had given up on invading your surroundings, instead pulling away to give you the space to make peace with the distance.

The full moon comes and goes, and for once you’re grateful your parents are too busy to accompany you on your hunt. There’s no doubt they would have picked up on the change in your disposition. They would have probed and asked until you broke, and how on earth were you supposed to explain what happened to them? They barely knew about the feud with Lupin, because if your father—or god forbid your mother—ever caught wind of all the things he said and did to you, there’s no doubt he would not return to Hogwarts alive.

Even after you return, the scent of iron still clinging to your clothes, the restlessness does not leave. It’s almost like a second puberty—all you can think about is letting your strength run free, to bask in the look of fear your prey have in their eyes when you crush their necks and bones.

It comes to a breaking point one night, when you sneak out from the Valkyries' dorm and follow the instincts that draw you into the Forbidden Forest. It’s not often that you go there, but tonight there’s something inexplicably alluring about the mystique that calls for you, like a siren that sings sailors to their doom at sea.

You wander around, expertly avoiding prying eyes as you go from wandering on foot to flying in your bat form. There’s something freeing about flying under the moonlight, soaring without the weight of pain that shackles you in your human form.

You lose all sense of time when you finally settle down on some patchy moss-covered rocks by the shore of a small lake. It’s in the middle of some clearing, hidden away by the trees and bushes surrounding it, yet the moonlight filters beautifully through the foliage, casting glowing shadows and lights on the ripples of water. More than once, you can make out glowing eyes that watch you from underneath the water—some marine creatures drawn to your supernatural scent. You pay them no mind, instead dipping your legs into the water and letting the forest work its magic on your worn down nerves. There’s a sense of serenity in the air that almost fools you into forgetting about all that awaits back at the castle, about your true nature that gnaws on your insides and tries to come out each passing day.

You can almost believe you’re a normal human girl taking a stroll in the forest at night, not burdened by the weight of friendship or predatory instincts.

Almost.

The magic breaks when you hear a twig breaking, followed by a string of curses from a gruff and low voice you cannot recognise. Immediately, you get up, eyes roaming the clearing for any hiding spots or escape routes. A man emerges from the shadows, clearly a stranger from the heavy gear he has on his person. His face is covered in a mask made of bones, belts slung across his waist and legs filled with gadgets and vials you’ve never seen. He smells of blood and sweat, the blood tinged with the familiar sense of magic and it finally dawns on you as you recall the lessons of Magical History and Care For Magical Creatures.

He must be a poacher, one of the people that hunt magical creatures for their skin, bones or other features that sell for good money on the black market. You remember hazily how Professor Hedgings said they occasionally sneak into the Forbidden Forest, the most skilled members of these groups bypassing and disabling the wards and safety measures for a limited amount of time while they hunt for creatures.

You calculate your chances of facing someone thrice your size, even if you have the advantages of being a vampire on your side. The man radiates bloodlust and madness from his eyes alone, and you do not want to start a fight here, still on school grounds. You take a step back, cautious and careful so you can disappear into the bushes and transform, but the universe really has it out for you. You slip on some of the moss, the sound of your fall immediately catching the attention of the poacher. His face pulls into a grimace at the sight of you, his hand instantly on his wand as he casts a spell that immobilises you.

For the first time in your life, deathly fear grips your heart as you watch the man step closer, his stride calculated and light—almost like a wild cat ready to pounce. Your brain blanks, trying to think of a protective spell is impossible under his sharp gaze.

”What do we have here?” He drawls, his voice grating like metal on a chalkboard. He circles you, eyes taking your helpless form from every angle until he stands above you, towering and dark.

Almost in slow motion, he reaches for a knife on his belt, toying with it as the blade glints dangerously under the moonlight. He’s smirking, all teeth and danger, clearly having the upper hand and no thought of letting you leave this clearing in one piece.

Then, it happens.

It’s a small mistake on his end, just a tiny cut on his hand as he twirls the blade around, but it’s fatale enough when one faces a vampire fuelled by the will to survive.

You black out as soon as the scent of warm fresh human blood fills your nostrils, the monster inside of you that has been caged for far too long finally breaking out of its prison.

When you return to your senses again, you find yourself in the very same clearing, hands and clothes drenched in blood that is not your own. With shaking legs, you walk over to the little lake, staring at the reflection of someone you do not recognise. Your eyes are red, glowing and dark, still filled with primal rage. Blood coats your face, your head and every inch of you. The taste lingers in your mouth, the taste of your first human prey. You turn around, a scream stuck in your throat at the sight of what must be the poacher.

He’s unrecognisable, limbs twisted at unnatural angles, clothes slashed to pieces and flesh hanging off in clots. His face is frozen in an expression filled with fear, eyes empty and corpse drained.

It hits you then, that this must be your doing. Your first kill, the first human to die at your hands. You stare, from your hands to the macabre sight of his cooling corpse, and you fall backwards when you back away.

It’s all over now, you think. As soon as they find him, they will come for you and you will end up in Azkaban for murder, or worse yet, chained in the dungeons of the Ministry as they keep you for experimental purposes. It’s what happens to rogue vampires, your father had once explained bitterly.

You scramble to your feet, running and leaving the clearing behind as the forest slowly closes in on you. It’s dark and loud, there are eyes watching you and every step you take, distant whispers that remind you of what you just did. Your head is loud, too loud, and your heart is beating out of your chest like it wants to escape and leave you to bleed out on the forest floor like the poacher in the clearing.

Your clothes are caught on a stray branch that pulls you back, sending you flying down a hill that you didn’t notice in the dark. You roll down, gravel and sharp branches cutting through your bloodied skin and by the time you land at the foot of the hill, your body aches all over with adrenaline and incoming pain. Your ankle throbs, sharp pain shooting through your entire body when you try to stand up, so you give up and stay seated on the floor, out of breath and out of will to move. The sound of wolves howling in the distance carries through the wind, and you’re sure you won’t leave the forest tonight, not alive at least.

An eerie sense of peace fills you, now that you finally fed the monster and gave in to its demands for violence. There is no more fear, no more resentment or hate, just peace that numbs your entire body. You close your eyes, listening to the sound of the forest and feeling a presence at the edge of your subconscious close in on you, one that alarms you. You have no strength left to pay it any mind though, only opening your eyes for a fraction when someone breaks through the thick bushes, panting and huffing.

In the darkness, you could not have possibly seen his face, or made out his figure, yet his smell gives him away. Dazed and confused, you prop yourself on your aching and bleeding arms, eyes staring up at the second towering figure of the night.

”Lupin?” You call out, voice hoarse and almost too quiet for him to hear. He does though, eyes snapping to yours as soon as it reaches his ears and his amber eyes go wide. He’s tripping over himself to get to you, crouching beside you and cursing as his hands hover near your arms.

“What the fuck did you do?” He asks incredulously, surveying the extent of your injuries. The entire sequence of events is strange, something out of a bad dream perhaps, and you begin to giggle at how surreal this all feels.

“It’s okay,” you beam, clearly high on whatever adrenaline is left in your body, “the blood is mostly not mine, no biggie!”

To his credit, Remus doesn’t falter, only narrows his eyes and stares off into the distance before shaking his head, muttering something about taking care of it later, instantly scooping you up in his arms with a small puff. You’re confused, to say the least, arms automatically wrapping around his neck as he adjusts your position.

He doesn’t say anything, only tightens his hold and quickly exits the forest, eyes glancing at your face every so often to make sure you’re awake. As soon as you’re in his arms, all strength leaves your body, not even able to protest or tell him to put you down.

He carries you all the way back to the castle, rushing through the winding halls until you arrive at the hospital wing where he kicks the door open, shouting for the matron of the ward with urgency and familiarity that tells the tale of years of care and closure.

Madame Pomfrey grumbles when she first emerges from her office, clearly preoccupied with something that is interrupted by Remus’ frantic yelling. Her entire demeanour changes the moment she sees you in his arms, all scratched up and bloodied. She’s in work mode immediately, dishing out commands and muttering to herself as Remus sets you down on one of the beds closest to the entrance. With steady and warm hands, she begins to inspect every injury and cut on you, her wand working tirelessly to clean you up and to bring all the different potions and balms she needs to her.

The treatment might have lasted a few minutes or hours, your sense of time completely shut down during the process. By the end of it, she rid you of your torn clothes and gave you some of the spare, ill fitting clothing in the infirmary. Your cuts are all nicely bandaged and treated, and when she makes you swallow five different potions, you don’t have the heart to remind her that as a vampire, you heal much faster than a regular human, and all you need is probably some blood.

Still, you allow the quiet thrumming of the potions to fill your body, slowly but surely breathing life back into you. The haze settles, and now that you can think clearer, you realize the sheer impact of what happened tonight. You can barely bring yourself to think about the man in the forest, but still, you have to tell someone about it.

So, when Poppy quietly asks what happened, you confess everything to her, from start to finish, your eyes avoiding her face. The situation feels familiar, the dynamic of someone admitting a harrowing truth to another and unable to look them in the face haunting you with such aching pain, but still. You push through, and by the end of your report, she’s grown still. When you dare to steal a glance at her, you’re surprised to see an expression filled with understanding and worry. She gives you a tight lipped smile, bends forward and pats your head similar to the way your mother always does when you tell her about your problems.

“Don’t worry dear,” she says warmly, but the determination in her eyes is everything but gentle, “I’ll make sure you won’t get in trouble, so just focus on getting better, yes?”

You nod, a little dopey from the medicine and watch as she disappears through the doors of the ward, leaving you all alone. The only noise that fills the silence is your breathing, and somehow, in the absence of all sensations, you miss Barty more than ever. You miss his stupid jokes, his warm hands, his steady arms, his engulfing hugs, and more than ever you miss his voice and presence. If he were here, you’re sure he would’ve given you a lecture about self preservation and not taking him on your adventures outside the castle before pulling you into a bone crushing hug.

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, but you furiously wipe them away, refusing to cry about him more than you already have. You want to blame someone for this whole thing, and the best possible choice for that is of course—as per usual—Remus Lupin. If he wasn’t out to get you, so intent on ruining your life for no reason at all, things would be far different now.

The universe—clearly still on a trip to drive you into more ruin than you're already in—decides that this is the perfect time for Lupin to come into the infirmary, his steps gentle as he approaches your bed. He looks around, presumably to look for Poppy but she’s not around. You watch him closely, observing his disheveled appearance, like he just ran across the castle and back. He pulls out something from his pocket, some sort of paper that you can’t really decipher and curses when he sees the content—or at least you assume it’s the content that makes him curse, maybe he’s just gone mad—before stowing it away.

There’s awkward silence stretching between the both of you, and for once you don’t know what to say to him. It’s not like you can insult him as you usually do, not when he practically saved your life tonight. You clear your throat, writhing under his watchful eyes and attempt some sort of small talk. “Poppy isn’t here, by the way,” you note lamely, as if he hadn’t noticed himself. Still, he coughs and makes a sound of understanding, fiddling with the bag you just notice in his hand before he sighs.

He steps closer to your bed, and you almost expect him to start yet another fight with you, but he merely sets the bag down, rummaging through it before pulling out articles of clothing you recognise as your own.

Your eyebrows shoot up, suspicion clear on your face when he awkwardly scrambles to try and explain why he has a bag filled with your clothes.

“I asked Lily,” he says, scratching the back of his neck as you examine what he’d brought for you. “Figured there’s nothing comfortable for you to wear here, and since you’re basically moved in with the girls I thought they might have some of your clothes.”

The gesture leaves you stunned, to say the least. It’s incredibly thoughtful, and a complete 180 from the Lupin you usually interact with. Hell, you didn’t even think him capable of extending such kindness to you. It warms your heart, but you quickly remember that this was still the guy who’s actively tried to ruin your life on multiple occasions.

“Thank you,” you mutter, grasping the fabric of the blue ravenclaw sweater he brought. The sweater is one you stole from Barty, his scent still faintly clinging to it, and the comfort it brings is almost instant. You’re about to pull the shirt Poppy gave you over your head when your arms protest with an instant ache, causing you to hiss and drop them. The potions haven’t fully set in yet, and you give up on the notion of changing, despite how much you crave it.

Lupin, smarter than you give him credit for, deciphers the situation and clears his throat, voice low as he reaches out gently. “I can help you,” he murmurs, fingers brushing against the hem of your shirt. When you make no effort to move away from his touch, he takes it as a sign to go on. Tentatively, softer than you ever thought is possible for someone like him, he pulls your shirt over your head, making sure to not accidentally graze the cuts on your arms that are slowly healing. It feels awkward, and maybe a little bit wrong for you to be half naked in front of the guy who readily slammed you into a wall two or so years ago.

With unexpected gentleness, he guides your limbs into the holes of the sweater, carefully putting it on and helping you tug it into place until the fabric is warm and snug against your body. You want to thank him, almost, but the words don’t come so easily over your lips again. Instead, you stare pointedly at your blanket, unable to really look into his face. You fear that if you do, he might begin to read you like an open book, the way you’ve watched him read every room and situation like a polyglot proficient in ancient tongues long forgotten.

You do, however, call out to him when he retreats, mumbling something under his breath that is impossible to decipher, even for you.

”Wait!” You blurt out, unsure what you even want him to wait for. “Sit down?” You whisper, quieter this time and with less momentum, a little fragile, a little unsure, but still inviting nonetheless.

He turns around, eyes wide for a split second, like maybe he’s questioning if your injuries messed with your head, before he relents and makes himself comfortable on the bed. He sits cross-legged, knees close enough to your own that they might brush if one of you moves just a fraction, and the proximity nearly steals your breath in one swift gust.

You force yourself to not think too hard about how close he’s sitting, or how he smells like chocolate, library, and some sort of musky cologne that you swear you smelled on Sirius Black before. If you allow yourself to think about it, you’ll be left with the realisation that this is the first time the both of you have spent in a room, alone, so close without a fight. You don’t know what to do with this information, or the tingle in your hands, or his warmth that seeps into your skin through the thin material of the blanket, so you squash it down into the darkest corners of your mind.

Lupin, to his credit, tries to act indifferent to the whole situation, but clearly fails. His hands are twitching awkwardly beside him in an attempt to find the best place to put them without touching you directly. Finally, he settles on propping his chain against one of them—which in retrospect really isn’t good for your heart. Now he’s staring at you, directly and with quiet focus, like you’re the most interesting thing in the whole room.

He’s never looked at you this way, with curiosity and a little bit of awe swirling in those golden pools of amber, and it’s enough to drive you a tiny bit mad. You want to say something clever, maybe a witty remark to bring back the comforting back and forth rhythm the both of you share, but nothing leaves your lips.

Instead, he makes the first move, leaning forward like he might share his biggest secret with you, but instead he stares pointedly at the Ravenclaw emblem sewn into the dark blue sweater.

”That Crouch’s sweater?” He asks, like the answer isn’t already clear. Half the school knows you wear Barty’s clothes, proudly displaying your bond, just like he walks around wearing items of yours.

You haven’t been wearing his clothes lately though, and he hasn’t worn anything of yours in the weeks you spent apart. His question is like a spear piercing through your heart, reminding you why you ended up here in the first place.

If it weren’t for him making your life hell, if it weren’t for him kissing Barty, if it weren’t for the distance clouding your judgment, then maybe you would be curled up in Barty’s bed now, low conversation flowing under the dim light of candles and cheap enchanted fairly lights.

Still, you nod, not trusting your voice to stay steady if you were to answer him verbally. He seems to understand, and the sod smirks. Like, actually smirks, lips curling and features turning all sharp and predatory underneath the the glow of the moonlight that filters through the windows.

“It suits you well,” he drawls, eyes racking over your form with amusement and something you can’t really name. “Would suit you better if the two of you weren’t tragically moping apart,” he adds afterwards, casually like it’s an afterthought, but you’ve had so many verbal sparring sessions with him you can smell the coaxing strategy a mile away. “What’s up with that anyway? Aren’t you usually bound at the hip or something?” He cocks his head, messy hair falling over his eyes like a confused puppy, and something stutters in your chest. Maybe you’re getting sick, or maybe the overdoses on human blood is finally driving you to the edge, because Remus Lupin looks nearly cute like that.

You huff indigently and cross your arms in protest, like it might be a physical and emotional barrier to whatever witchcraft he's performing on you right now.

“And what, pray tell, is it to you,?”, you throw back, with far less venom than you would usually use. He chuckles at that, sound smooth and honeyed, a little bit like he keeps it for special occasions, and nods at the underlying question you pose.

Are you being nosy right now, Lupin?

“Hard to not be curious when it’s all anyone can talk about,” he remarks, “Plus, you haven’t picked a fight in like three weeks, figured that must be why.”

It’s hard to refute the argument because, well, it is true. You can’t quite find it in yourself to argue with him or think about murder plots without Barty at your side, and without energy to even get through the day, getting even with Lupin is the last thing on your mind.

”Who’s fucking fault do you think that is, you twat?” You mumble, propping yourself more upright against the pillows despite the aching in your back. Lupin notices, because of course he notices everything with those sharp eyes that never leave you out of sight, and he quietly accios two pillows from the cot next to yours, scooting closer until he can put them behind your back for you.

Your breath hitches when his arms come up to your sides, caging you in while he pushes you gently to adjust the pillows neatly. He's so close to you now—closer than he has ever been in the past five years. His hair tickles your neck when he tilts his head to get a better look at the pillows, the sound of his breath so loud in the silence between you it sends your brain into a short circuit.

He returns to his original place, like the whole ordeal is no big deal at all, but the quickened pace of his heartbeat tells you that he is not as unaffected by your presence as he likes to pretend. It’s a small victory, but one you take in stride anyway.

”It hardly can be my fault,” he quips back, “I don’t even talk to you, let alone that mad dog of yours.”

”Oh you don’t talk alright, you just push your tongue down his throat.”

He blinks, slowly, too slowly actually, his face mirroring your own disbelief at what you just said. You didn’t mean to say that out loud, or to sound so bitter about it—it just happened. His face slowly pulls into a smirk, like a light bulb just went off and he laughs—actually laughs—full on doubled over, voice echoing back from the walls. You sit there, stewing in indignation until he calms down, fixing you with an overly amused smile you oh so desperately want to wipe off his face.

For a moment, your eyes flicker down to his lips and you suddenly understand why Barty had let Remus kiss him at that party. They look, truth to be told, soft and inviting, especially under the silver moonlight.

It’s just a moment of weakness, but when your eyes snap up, he looks as startled as you feel, like he’d been caught staring at something he shouldn’t covet. A strange sort of anticipation settles between the both of you, unnamed and inherently terrifying when it’s with the person you spent so much time hating.

This time, it’s you who tries to make the first move in clearing the air, not one to let him overshadow you even in something as petty as that. “Did you do it to get back at me?” You demand to know, like his affairs are your god given right to inquire about. You suppose they are, when they involve the person you love.

He’s taken aback by the brazen question, mulling it over more carefully than you thought he would. When he answers, you half expect a snarky response, but are left surprised by the vulnerability in his words.

“No,” he says, slow and careful, like the words might break him if he says them too loud. “I wouldn’t want to hurt you—not like that at least—and most definitely not by taking advantage of him too.”

Another question lingers on your lips, ready to be fired, but he answers it before you can even voice it out loud.

“It wasn’t a mistake,” he cuts off, voice firm and so deliberate, it’s hard to think he’s lying. After a few beats of silence, he adds on, a little quieter this time.

“I enjoyed it, and I didn’t do it because I wanted to hurt him, I simply wanted to kiss him in that moment with no strings attached.”

The rawness and honesty dripping from his voice, evident in his expression and body language, almost make you breathless. It truly is marvellous, how he shuts down every worry and doubt you had over this ordeal, for your best friend's well being, with all the poise of a man who knows what he wants.

There is nothing left for you to ask or say, and for once, you allow Remus Lupin the pleasure of shocking you into positive silence. The git enjoys it too, a small smile on his lips that stretches the scar across his lip a little, the skin nearly glowing in the dark. His eyes dart down, just for a second, gleaming with something that reminds you of the way Barty looks at you when the lights are low. You wonder if that’s how he looked at Barty before he kissed him, wonder if he might be thinking about kissing you too just to see if best friends kiss the same.

When he looks up, he's clearly mortified, and so are you when your thoughts finally— actually—set in.

What in the world were you thinking, about Lupin no less?

He eyes the door, pushing himself off the bed with a little too much force and grabs the bag he brought your clothes in, shouldering the strap without as much as looking into your direction. For a moment, he reminds you of a clumsy baby deer trying to escape a hunter—and again, the thought of him being almost adorable crosses your mind.

When he stretches up to his full height, nervously patting down his clothes, he avoids your gaze, but stills in his movements and looks at your sweater instead.

“You should talk to him,” he comments softly, “You both are miserable in the distance, at least hear each other out, yeah?”

If tonight's events weren't already strange on their own, then Remus Lupin giving you friendship advice most definitely would’ve taken the crown. Alas, far weirder things have transpired, so you simply nod and watch as he makes his way to the door.

“I still don’t like you,” you call out after him, the need to clarify intense as the magic of your shared moment slowly withers.

He stops in his tracks, turning around to cast a lingering glance to you, something between amusement and understanding.

“Still don’t like you either, Bat.”

RIGHT!!!! Like i don’t care who wins, but if it isn’t the one i want to win I’ll be upset.

And like the lorreeee…

he would be all like Sirius in this seer!reader fic by @ellecdc but like so much more withdrawn and like so worried about what’ll happen you know? Because the baby has his silver eyes (that’s what I think) and he in just kinda sets in that he’s a father and what if he can’t do this what if he’s like Orion and Walburga he would’ve been ok if it was Remus’s baby because it couldn’t inherit his fuck upedness (which isn’t true at all and upedness is a new word and it is pronounced as upp-edd-ness no weirdness) anyway, I think Remus and reader would try and comfort him, but he was just withdrawing into himself and so they call in Sirius and Sirius just sits him down and tells him it’s ok to be worried, he went through a lot of rough shit as a kid, but even though it was hard Reggie has grown and he knows what is wrong and what is right and that he is going to be the best father ever because he has two amazing partners and an awesome brother who will be an epic uncle (and an even better godfather, (tho Sirius probably said dogfather).

Pairing: poly!Moonkiller x vamp!Reader

Summary: texts with your boyfriends werewolf!Remus and Barty

AN: pls take this as I continue to work on Act iv of this series sobs

Warnings: mentions of blood, mildly suggestive jokes

Content: Werwolf!Remus, Vampire!Reader, modern AU of sorts, implied living together, period stuff, just shenanigans, Remus calls reader atta girl at some point, reader implies she'll sit on Barty, possessive Moonkiller if you squint

s.masterlist

Taglist: @starrystormwritings @whimsical-mistakes @eneywey @hellokitty-girl666 @lettertovera @bubblegumcat229 @majesticallyzo @revesephemeres

Pairing: poly!Moonkiller x vamp!Reader

Summary: An apology, a stunt in the Great Hall and academic stress are your final closing notes before you get to enjoy three long weeks at home with your family—sans Barty, for once. Just when you think this Yule break couldn't possibly get any worse, you find out your parents are buddying up to the Lupins, and now you're stuck with their son—who happens to have never quite left your mind, especially those lips of his. Maybe you'll do something about that, huh?

Warnings: violence, mentions of blood (if you don't know this by know idk what to tell you bro she's a vampire), makeout session (from 'What happens next is a blur to you' to 'Just when you feel your instincts' if you wanna skip)

Content: BartyFangs make up yay! The Valkyries and Barty get along, some ranomd NPC dude slanders werewolves, you do not stand for that bcs only you get to discriminate another minority, RemusBat enemies to maybe friends to oh shit we kissed, so much tension between you and Remus it's ridiculous, your parents are low-key besties, also your parents are great and powerful and I low-key wanna marry the mum, vampire things, near full moon shenanigans, Hope Lupin is cockblocking you bcs the universe (me) said so, Remus Lupin low-key proposes to you

WC: 11.1k (I'm so sorry this one's long)

AN: this took me nearly half a year to write...I hope the wait was worth it and with this I officially welcome you back to another installment of Bloody Hell! Shout-out to my wife @revesephemeres for beta reading this <33

Disclaimer: English is not my first language, all mistakes you see are my own! I never have and never will use AI for my writing, this work is entirely of my own creative doing.

Taglist: @starrystormwritings @whimsical-mistakes @hellokitty-girl666 @lettertovera @bubblegumcat229 @daydreamandforget @justyesbecauseyeswhynot @loonyladystardust @majesticallyzo @curtain-crawlerr @dakotali @rubyinthebooks @usedrosaries

s.masterlist | Act i | Act ii | Act iii | Act iv | Act v

The infirmary is almost peaceful in the morning. Almost.

The only thing keeping it from being a truly picturesque example of calmness is the repeated slamming of the poor door—hoards of students rushing in and out even at these early hours. Somehow, the experience brings you new found appreciation for the ward matron’s work.

After her initial check up on you once you roused from sleep—and a friendly reminder that you really only need some blood in measures to make a swift and full recovery— she busies herself with the incoming students, dedicating time to hear each of them out and help them with their aches. From migraines to broken bones, colds and period cramps, she takes the time to make sure everyone is well taken care of before they leave the ward or stay to rest.

It keeps you from going back to sleep, and instead of dozing off or busying yourself with something to cure your boredom, you find yourself trapped replaying the events of the night. Now that it's over, the realisation sticks to you like grime after a house fire. It haunts you, deep and aching, much like the image of the corpse you left behind. You’ve taken a life—a man now on your consciousness for the rest of your undead life. You don’t know what’s scarier—the fact that he’s your first kill, or that small voice that whispers he won’t be your last.

Even though you blacked out throughout the ordeal, the feeling of bones cracking and shattering beneath your touch echoes in the hollows of your mind. Like a shadow at the edge of your vision—only barely perceived, flickering into nothing when you try to grasp it.

The realisation sits heavy in your gut, makes bile rise to your throat and within seconds you find yourself retching your soul out into the bucket Madam Pomfrey had the foresight to give you when you awoke this morning. When the last bit of blood-tinged broth leaves your mouth, you wipe it off your mouth with the sleeve of your sweater and curl into the bed with a whimper. The lights are too bright, your brain is a jumble of thoughts and all you really want right now is a hug—preferably from your parents, but you wouldn’t complain about a friend coming in to help you. For a moment, your mind flashes to Lupin’s appearance in the ward yesterday, and a part of you wonders if he’d feel enough pity in his too tall body to give you a hug if he were to see you like this.

The thought isn’t even granted enough time to disintegrate from your mind—the door to the infirmary is slammed open with such force you’re sure the sound resounds all the way into Hogsmeade. A small groan escapes your lips at how the loudness worsens your headache, especially with your already heightened senses so hypersensitive and in recovery from the blood overconsumption last night. You assume that whoever entered so dramatically might have a real emergency, like a bleeding beheaded student or something of similar calibre. Instead of hearing someone call out to Madam Pomfrey, you’re surprised with the frantic shouts of your name and thundering steps that rush to your side. In an instant, Barty materialises at the foot of your bed, his face etched with worry and fear.

You blink, trying to figure out if hallucinating is a normal side effect of whatever the hell you got going on at the moment, but you find the–admittedly very real looking–Barty hallucination to blink back at you. Your name is uttered with tenderness that makes your entire being ache, hallucination be damned. His eyes examine every inch of you, from the state of your face to the sweater you wear with the bloody sleeves. You can hear his heartbeat, irregular and jumpy like he can't quite decide whether to relax upon seeing you or feel anxious about your state.

“I heard from Lily,” he mutters, eyes stuck on the blood staining your sleeves.

Deafening silence fills the room, static whirring around you that pushes everything else into the background. For a moment, you are back to being the only people in the world—in your own little bubble where nothing else matters. Yet the tension prevails, his hands twitching by his side like he's trying to stop himself from reaching out to you.

“Fangs,” he whispers softly, oh so reverently. The name comes out a little clumsy, a little rough at the edges because it hasn't been said in a while, yet with the same fiery passion and affection solely reserved to be yours. It's all that you need to break, your eyes filling with tears when you open your arms in an invitation for a hug. It takes him all but a second to register the cue—but as soon as he does, he's rounding the bed to be by your side and sinking onto the mattress to embrace you.

His arms wrap around you with the sort of tightness that one reserves for reunions between war-torn lovers perhaps, or the force with which you try to keep someone who's falling apart together. He's half kneeling on the bed, half standing and bending at the hip in a way that couldn't possibly be comfortable at all, but you reckon he doesn't care right now. Not if the way his face dives into the juncture of your neck is something to go by, or the shuddering inhale of your scent—like he's finally home and can't believe it.

The strain of half sitting, half laying while your arms encircle his neck is torture—at least with your aches and pain right now, so you don't waste time in pulling him into the limited space of your infirmary bed. It's a tight fit, but you manage to make it work because that seems to be the motto of your friendship of sorts: make it work no matter the circumstances, events and odds.

His weight atop yours is comforting, steady and heavy in all the ways that anchor you into reality, keeping your mind from drifting into the murky darkness of the maze that is your own thoughts. And his scent? A mixture of half faded cigarette smoke, the moisture clinging to the air of the Slytherin common room mixed with the cologne you gifted him two years ago for his birthday. It's familiar, yet strangely different from what you're used to. Perhaps it's the time spent apart—or the distance that claws itself between you—but you find yourself relearning the ways he fits against you, the way his hair tickles the expanse of your neck when he's all nuzzled against you. It's a little nostalgic, a little bit like a knife gutting you from the inside, but more than anything—it's exciting to know there's always space for you to get to know Barty all over again no matter how bad things get between you.

You don't know how long you spend wrapped in each other like that—minutes, hours or an eternity feel all the same with Barty. Still, tension hangs heavy over you, all the words still unspoken filtering through the way you both keep silent. Perhaps it'll fester, you briefly think to yourself, and you both will never talk about this to preserve what little peace you've restored between you. Really, you'd prefer ignoring what happened all together, go back to being best friends and act like the last few weeks were just a really bad dream.

Very clearly however, Barty is allergic to leaving things as they are. He props himself up, twisting limbs and moving blankets out of the way until he's sat on the bed, one leg dangling down the edge while he picks at the frayed ends of his trousers. You manage to sit up and lean against the wall—with minimal pain mind you, a hurray to vampire insta-healing genetics—to face him.

Everything in you screams to avoid this conversation, and honestly? You can come up with excuses for days—months even—to avoid this. But deep down, you know you can’t avoid this forever—not if you want your best friend and other half back.

So, instead of running away like you actually want, you pull the sleeves of your—technically Barty’s, but who's counting?—sweater and fumble with them before making eye contact with Barty.

He's already staring at you, lips parted like he wants to say something but can't quite get the words to make sense yet. For a fraction of a second, he flinches when you look at him, almost like he's expecting you to yell at him or turn your face up in disgust at the sight of him. You take a deep breath, deciding that this couldn't get much more awkward and try to break the silence.

“Look, I'm sorry-”

“Fangs I’m sorry-”

You stare at each other for a moment, blinking surprised. Perhaps it's the absurdity of the moment, or the fact that you're still oh so in sync despite the distance between you. You don't know what exactly makes this moment funny, but the both of you burst into laughter at the same time without meaning to. That of course only further fuels your laughing fit, rendering you unable to breathe for an entire five minutes before you finally get your act together.

You watch Barty wipe the remnants of his tears before his eyes settle on you, this time with a lot less guilt and anxiety in them. It suits him, you think to yourself—pools of hazel gleaming in the serene sunlight that filters through the windows, no longer burdened by blame and what ifs. You reckon your eyes are the same now, a weight silently lifted off both of your shoulders after you realized you can still laugh together like before.

He looks like he's about to say something, but you finally gather enough courage to beat him to it.

“Look B, I’m sorry for freaking out and ignoring you for so long,” the words are a little shaky, a little clumsy like you haven't really thought about what to say yet. It's not rehearsed, unlike your usual demeanor, but full of error and all that awkwardness that Barty has come to dearly love about you.

With almost an incredulous offense, Barty prepares to launch into a counter argument. His attempts however are silenced, no thanks to the pillow in the next cot over you quickly hex to throw at his face. Pointedly, you glare at him and continue with your words.

“Sure, I was hurt and I honestly still kind of am upset about the whole thing,” you admit, “but I think I probably should've given you a chance after I cooled off so you could explain yourself. I'm sincerely sorry for being this petty and not hearing you out.”

You force yourself to look Barty in the face, despite everything in you screaming at you to run straight out of the infirmary and continue ignoring him. It’s almost comical to see Barty’s face distort at a rapid speed—likely mirroring only a fraction of what’s going on in his head.

Still, despite seeing his face and watching as it settles from guilt and pain into something calmer, it nearly knocks the air out of your lungs when his hand reaches to hold yours. The world stops and spins at high speed at the same moment his fingers intertwine with yours, his thumb drawing soothing patterns across your knuckles that you’ve missed far too much in the last few weeks.

All at once, the warmth of his human body seeps into your cold one. It brings back colors into your vision in waves—colors that had previously dulled into lifeless grays and monotonous chromes.

“Fangs I-“, his voice is raspy, a little hoarse and broken in a way that was never meant to be because of you. It had that distinct lilt, the one that carried nights worth of tears and exhaustion engraved so deeply into his bones he could barely tell where the grief started and where he ended.

But that had always been because someone or something else dragged him down–his father, teachers at school, his own insecurities—but never once were you the cause for that bone deep aching grief he carried like a secret.

The guilt you tried to bury beneath layers of repression and ignorance flared up, setting your entire being aflame within mere seconds. You wanted to apologise and make his grief go away—but how do you fix someone else’s grief when you’re still hurt by what they did?

Instinctively, you squeeze Barty’s hand tighter. His eyes lock into yours, gold and green swirling into a mixture you’ve memorised by heart at this point. Your touch is reassuring rather than forgiving—not quite a ‘It’s okay’ but more of a ‘I got you’, because that’s the one thing that never changes between you, isn't it? No matter what happens, you’ll always have his back, even in moments like these.

Filled by renewed confidence, Barty gathers his bearings and speaks again, this time with much less wavering and only echoes of the previous trembling in his voice.

“What I did was absolutely fucking shit, and for that I owe you so many apologies. It wasn’t just betraying you and hurting you, but keeping secrets from you and hurting you out of my own stupidity and fear? That’s not what our friendship is supposed to be.”

You can see actual tears forming at the corners of his eyes, glistening liquid that threatens to spill over with the way his breath hitches and his voice breaks. Without meaning to, you lean forward and wipe his tears with your free hand gently, giving him an encouraging smile in the process.

A dry laugh bubbles out of his chest, so unlike the laughter you shared only minutes prior. Before you can pull away, he presses his hand over yours, nuzzling his face into your open palm.

“Merlin, I missed this,” he murmurs. Subtly, or at least in an attempt of what he probably thinks is subtlety, he inhales your scent and relaxes beneath your touch.

His eyes flutter shut with relief when he sees that you aren't opposed to the affection and proximity, almost like a man starved and parched finally tasting the sweet taste of salvation.

Silence blankets the both of you, but this time it isn’t tension that weighs heavily on your shoulder. Rather, it’s the weight of all the things left unsaid because there’s a mutual understanding for them, without you needing to actually voice them out loud.

“I’m sorry for everything,” he mutters against your pulse, eyes cracking open to give you a look into the turmoil he usually hides skilfully under armour and walls of detachment.

Anything you might’ve wanted to say dies in your throat, instead you press your wrist closer to his lips, basking in the way his warm breath ghosts over your veins.

“I’m sorry too,” you reply, the I forgive you nonetheless you both think but don’t say out loud hanging in the air.

It’s not what it used to be, not quite yet.

But it is enough to let the tight wound coil in your stomach unravel just a bit.

And perhaps, it’s the perfect start for something excitingly new in all the ways you know matter.

The weeks that follow are a flurry of stress, assignments and trying to stay afloat in the raging storm that is adult life creeping up on your horizons of childhood. Barty and you fall into rhythm again, finding your footing into the dynamic you used to have. It’s a bit strange, you must admit, because the shadows of your fight still cling to the corners and haunt you when you aren’t looking. That doesn't change the fact that you’re actually somewhat happy about it, because this experience showed you the extent of what you and Barty could survive together.

It goes—without saying of course—that your reconciliation caused equal parts relief among your friends and more gossip material among the general student body. And well, if Rita Skita was mysteriously found to break everything she touches and therefore sentenced to endless months of detention, who’s to prove that Barty had any hand in play?

Neither of you mention anything in relation to the preparator of the fight, the one and only Remus Lupin. In fact, it almost seems like you both subconsciously make the effort to avoid him. It isn’t like you don't want to talk about what happened—at the party and the night Remus saved you—but you’d much rather treasure the fragile peace you’ve barely just regained instead of shattering it all over again.

Barty for his part seems to agree with you and goes out of his way to avoid Lupin even in the hallways. No longer do you fight and argue publicly, and no longer does B growl and hex him out of spite. Instead, there’s a different type of tension brewing beneath the surface, threatening to go up in flames should you bring even the tiniest spark near it.

Remus Lupin though? Oh the bastard seems now all too keen on following you, especially when you’re trying to see less of him. All of a sudden, he’s everywhere, following you like a ghost driven by vengeance. You bump into him in hallways, in the library, whenever you leave or enter classrooms and hell, even outside in the courtyard! It’s maddening to be unable to get rid of him, because as soon as the events of that night slip your mind, he’s there again, standing in your line of vision with an infuriating smirk and a condescending remark to go with.

Seeing that stupid handsome face of his brings back memories of the night he saved you in floods. So many questions pop in your mind when you remember the concern he had for you, the panic you could feel in his entire being. Why would he save you, the girl he’s hated since day one? How had he even known you were out there, alone and injured?

So many goddamn questions, yet not a single opportunity for answers in sight.

You’d love to march up right to his face and yell at him. Ask him why he brought you clothes, why he bothered to sit by you and make conversation, answering all your questions when he had no obligation to. Maybe he’d tell you what he was thinking of when he sat on the infirmary bed, why he hasn’t picked a real fight since then.

Unfortunately though, you can’t do that. By doing so, you’ll actually have to admit that he hasn’t left your mind since that night—not really at least. And come on, what is more embarrassing than telling the guy you’ve been feuding with for the past six years that you can’t stop thinking about the way his lips looked?

Yeah, you are definitely not about to do that.

What you do instead is focus on your school work and drag Barty to the library and Great Hall just about every day. It isn’t much of a choice actually—if you don’t throw yourself into your academic work you won’t be able to keep up with the sheer amount of material and assignments your professors throw at you.

More often than not, you’re spending your afternoons at the Great Hall for study hall, either with your Slytherin friends—though Evan’s presence has been more and more scarce as of late, no one knows why—or joining your Gryffindor girls while they lament the woes of being in their final year.

Barty—bless his heart—is all too happy to let you drag him to either table, making quick friends with Marlene and Mary. Though friends might not be the appropriate term to use, you think ‘criminal allies that discuss morbid ways to escape responsibilities’ might actually be more fitting—much to your and Lily’s dismay.

Your evenings and nights are spent at the library, pouring over tomes and scribbling notes, memorising ingredients and spellwork until the words blur together and your hands cramp from writing.

Your day often ends with Barty half dragging you back to his or your own dorm—his is the far better choice honestly—only to crash into the bed together for measly five hours of sleep before you have to wake up again. You curl into his side, enjoying the warmth he offers while he attempts to fuse himself into you even when asleep.

Is it an exhausting routine to keep up with? Absolutely.

Does it help you ignore your little Lupin problem? Oh without a sliver of doubt—hence why you will be continuing it, thank you very much.

On a very particular Friday afternoon however, you find yourself catching the attention of Lupin in ways you’d never done before—whether you know it or not.

That particular day, your Study Hall period had started out just like any other one. You’d dragged Barty by the wrist into the Great Hall, half listening to him as he babbled on about the newest piercing and metamorphosis spells he wanted to try as soon as he was in his dorm, half looking for the girls at the Gryffindor table. When you spot Lily’s bright red hair and Marlene waving from across the room, your face splits into a grin and you weave through the throngs of students entering and leaving.

“Hello there, fellow inmates,” you greet them, plopping down onto the bench. Barty follows suit, taking up the spot next to you and throwing a solemn look into the round.

”Evans,” he quips, his face schooled into an indifferent expression.

Lily meets his stare with a levelled one of her own, replying in the same smooth cadence.

“Crouch.”

Anyone else might have thought the both of them at war with the glacial cold in their tones, but the barely there upturn of Lily’s lips and the twinkle in Barty’s eyes tells an entirely different story. They are cut from the same cloth, those two, and naturally butt heads at every turn.

Simple questions and discussions turn into philosophical debates with the kind of fiery passion people only reserve for treason accusations, and at every opportunity presented they compete with each other to an almost childish degree. It partly warms your heart because they're some of the most important people in your life, and seeing them get along? Priceless.

Sensing that Barty might start some sort of debate with Lily again, you proceed to elbow him in the ribs and begin to spread your materials out on the table, silently threatening him into compliance.

And of course because Barty loves you, he only drastically huffs and does the same, muttering something about bodily harm and tattling to your parents about this treatment.

With a satisfied smile, you turn to your studies and let the noise around you fade into the background.

There’s a lot for you to do, particularly in DADA, and the better part of your first hour in the Great Hall is spent combing through your book to find any kind of information about the topic of your essay. Though you reckon you might actually be able to do it all without source text to go by, considering you’re supposed to write about dark creatures of the night. A little too on the nose? Most definitely, but it isn't like you can actually complain about the topic, or the things that your school book says about your kind and your fellow dark creatures.

In order to avoid suspicion, you’d chosen to write about werewolves. Even if they were the number one natural enemy of vampires—followed closely by human magic folk—you can appreciate the shared struggle between your kinds. Persecution, prejudice and dealing with unnatural changes that you had zero say in. Merlin knows you wouldn’t be able to handle turning into a big, furry monster that mindlessly craved violence every month, so there's a speck of respect somewhere in the crevices of your heart for them.

Which is exactly what leads to you verbally abusing a fellow sixth year who had the misfortune of sitting within earshot of you and Barty while he mouthed off werewolves and their supposed ‘disgusting’ nature.

”Seriosuly, I don’t get why we don't just put these rabid monsters down,” he snarked to his pathetic group of friends who’d mindlessly muttered their agreements. “I mean no one wants to be around werewolves, they’re disgusting and dangerous and should be exterminated once and for all.”

You turn your head slowly into the direction of his voice, eyes narrower with sheer disgust at what you’re hearing. Before anyone can question you, you’re already pushing yourself up from your seat and stalking down the table to pinpoint the idiot who just said that.

When you do find him—a scrawny looking blonde with buglike eyes that stare at you with fear and recognition—you yank him by the collar of his stupid vest.

“Mind saying that again, Mister Know-It-All?” You spit out, anger coursing through your veins. You can hear his heart stuttering his chest, all his blood pumping at high speed to supply his panicking body.

He reeks of fear and helplessness, just like the prey you chase during the full moon. For a moment, you’re back at the clearing, your fangs tearing through the flesh of a grown man twice your size while panic seizes him until the last remnants of life bleed out of him.

The boy—something something Heatherstone, you somewhat recall—squeaks in fear, thrashing against the firm grip you have on his clothes in an attempt to look somewhat in control of the situation.

“It’s true though,” he protests, “Werewolves are a danger to everyone! If we got rid of them then we wouldn’t have to deal with the trouble they bring.”

Something inside of you snaps at his sheer audacity, and before you know it, you’re leaning in dangerously close, eyes no doubt gleaming red by now.

”Listen here you arrogant little shit,” you whisper with so much venom, it’s really no wonder Heatherstone is shaking in your hold.

”Before you decide to open that useless trap of yours to cosplay as pure blooded magic fanatic, I recommend you pick up a book that isn't written by one of your inbred ancestors and actually use that lump inside of your skull that’s supposed to be a brain and think.”

”Do you really believe that anyone out there wants to turn into a monster once a month and be out of control of their body? If there were less wizarding extremists like yourself, perhaps werewolves wouldn’t have to live in recluse and be violent and suspicious to literally everything out of fear they might be killed.”

By now, more than a few people had paused their activities to crane their necks and get a better look at the—albeit one-sided—fight happening. Barty of course had long joined your side, standing at full menacing height with a snarl so horrid it scared off even most professors.

He leans down to join you, an arm casually slung over your shoulder when his lips slowly widen into a grin that reveals his sharp teeth.

“Maybe we should hex him, Fangs,” he chirps, “I know a few spells that’ll have him writhing in unbearable pain every month, see how he likes walking in the shoes he wants to get rid off.”

If Heatherstone wasn't afraid before, he certainly was now, especially at the sight of the cold smile that made its way on your face. Your grip loosens, just a fraction, and your free hand reaches for your wand.

”I quite like that idea Barty,” you reply smoothly, now tilting Greenwood’s chin up with your wand. He lets out a pathetic whimper, his eyes clamped shut in fear and remorse. With controlled force, you push him into the table, revelling in the pained hiss he lets out when he collides against the wooden edge. You straighten up, spine rigid as you tower above him with an air of calculated arrogance.

“Next time I hear you talking like that about anyone—not just werewolves—I’ll make you realize why mere humans don’t have the right to decide who gets to live and die.”

Your voice is firm, the words echoing through the hall with a finality that has everyone holding their breaths for a few beats too long, watching your next move intently.

But there is no next move—just a quiet exit that is dramatic in its own right. Barty follows you, one step behind with squared shoulders and an expression that dares anyone to retaliate against what just happened. No one does, all of them too spellbound by your sudden display of cool rage.

Slowly, chatters revives in the Hall and everyone returns to whatever they were doing, their gazes no longer following you. By the time you return to your place and pack your things to leave, no one is looking your way and watching you and Barty exit through the doors.

No one but a certain starstruck boy, who heard every word you whispered underneath your breath.

A boy whose eyes were glued to the doors long after you left, taking his ability to form any thoughts and words without you.

Time flies, as it always does, and before long you’re back at Platform Nine and Three Quarters, exiting the Hogwarts Express with your luggage and fighting to find your parents in the masses of students and families reunited for the start of the three weeks long Yule Break. The cold air bites through your layers of clothes, though it isn’t actually unpleasant for you as someone who’s undead. With ease, you shoulder your luggage and try to slip through the gaps in the crowds, desperate to find your father or mother amidst the chaos. It proves to be an arduous task, especially with the noise clouding your senses. Spying out to your mother’s faint heartbeat is a challenge, but with intense focus you can approximate her location and follow the noise until you hear someone shout your name.

You don’t even have time to look around for the source of the shout—someone rushes towards you and lifts you into a tight embrace. The smell of parchment and blood surrounds you, coaxing your muscles into relaxing all at once.

“Dad!” Your arms lock around your father’s neck, your feet dangling a few centimetres off the ground.

“Oh, my sweet Blood Drop,” he sighs into the crown of your head, finally relenting and dropping you onto the ground.

“Missed you too, dad,” you reply, still nuzzled into your father's embrace.

In his arms, the rest of the world ceases to exist. There's only warmth and safety seeping into you, shielding you from the noise and chatter of the platform.

It's a challenge to not sink into that warmth, let it lull you to sleep right there and then with the way it eases all of your muscles and tension.

A familiar scent joins soon after, the only motivator for you to break away from your father. Your mother promptly takes his place, pulling you into her chest and beaming brightly at you.

“My darling girl,” she murmurs, her hands on your face to tilt it and inspect it from every angle. You indulge her, because the poor woman has been worried sick about you and her fussing will only worsen if you don’t let her. Once she deems her inspection successful, she pushes you away—only for her to fuss over your clothes, straightening and fixing things that don’t particularly need fixing.

She takes your hand into hers—your father already doing you the favour of taking your luggage from you—and looks around in confusion. “Where’s Barty?” She asks, her eyes scanning over the crowd in hopes of finding the boy.

You shift your weight from one leg to the other awkwardly, pulling both of your parents along to the exit as you try to break the news to them.

“His father wants him home for Christmas,” you mutter bitterly, not without cursing the wretched man out under your breath.

Your father looks unimpressed, a small frown on his face as he shakes his head. “Surprised he remembers he has a son at all,” he joins your muttering, making sure that he speaks quietly enough so only you can hear it—your mother would surely disapprove of his vocal hatred for Crouch Senior.

With that, the topic was closed—the two of them focusing on you instead. With your father’s massive height and your mother’s commanding presence, the crowds part like the Red Sea. People feel them before they see them, the pressure of their mere existence alone enough to make people bend to their will. It takes you no longer than five minutes to find your way to the Floo network with your father ushering your mother to go first.

You watched the green flames swallow her up, transporting her somewhere across the country back to your home. Without needing to look at your father you step in after her, spine rigid in an attempt to imitate her composure. With practiced ease, you go through the motions of flooing—grabbing the powder, calling out the name of your destination clearly and tossing said powder.

Green fills your vision, a pleasant tingling sensation licking at your skin. The world tilts behind your closed eyelids, wobbling and spinning until the ground steadies beneath your feet. When your eyes flutter open, the interior of your home’s living room greets you in that same nostalgic unchanged way it does every time you come home from school. The same pictures decorate the walls and surfaces, the same furniture you’ve grown up with. Plants, candles and different souvenirs from fairies and outings are scattered tastefully across the room—the very same way you left it four months ago.

Your mother is already somewhere inside the cottage you’ve had the pleasure of calling home for the last 16 years. You move through the room with familiarity, the homesickness that's been festering inside you for weeks now finally quelling. Behind you, the sound of the Floo port goes off again, indicating that your father has also joined you. You pick up on his muttering, dragging your bags with him when he takes the stairs to put them in your room. You make a mental note to smother him in affection later for thanks and head straight to the kitchen where your mother has beat you to. She glances up in your direction, a knowing smile on her face when she pushes a tray with a filled wine glass and a bowl filled with dark red spheres. The pleasant smell of blood immediately fills your senses, your body moving before you can realize it.

The blood-filled glass is the first to go in big, greedy gulps. Next are the frozen bloody treats—a mixture between herbs, blood and potions all serve to replenish your energy and health. Your mother watches you devour the snacks—all made and developed by her, mind you—with a fond smile.

”Someone’s been hungry it seems,” she teases, moving on and about through the kitchen while various ingredients and utensils float behind her. The air is thick with magic, but not the industrial kind you know from Hogwarts—no, this one is warm and flows freely through the air, unrestrained and unbound by rules and the clinical precision you study.

“Hungry is an understatement,” a huff comes from the door, where your father leans against the door frame watching the two of you intently. “More like ravenous, eh?”

A sputtered noise of indignation tries to escape your mouth, but it’s barely an attempt considering your mouth is full.

”See? Point for my case,” he says with a pointed look, ducking when your mother sends a hex in his direction.

He has the decency to look guilty when she stares him into the ground, choosing to mutter something about it being a joke before joining her to help with lunch. “Quit bullying you daughter,” she scolds, shoving his side with a spatula.

The entire exchange is of great amusement for you, there’s no denying that. When your mother turns her back, you stare at your father and stick your tongue out at him in mock victory. You can tell he’s about to retaliate when your mother says his name—a single syllable that has him freezing on spot.

”Yes my sweetest darling?”

“Cease bullying a child—our child no less—and make yourself useful this instant.”

You take that as your cue to retreat to your room, giving both of them a quick hug before exiting the kitchen with a promise to set the table later.

You take the stairs two at a time, driven by the blazing urge to finally be in your own space again. When you push the door to your room open—the third floor, on the side that faces the river—you can finally feel the tension bleed out of you.

Everything is just as you left it when you departed for Hogwarts—plushies and trinkets in the same place, throw pillows and blankets arranged neatly on the bed.

For a few moments, you stand in the middle of the room—much larger without Barty to fill it with you. You can see traces of him, even in his absence. One of his leather jackets, still draped across your desk chair, post-its on your dresser filled with his—surprisingly—neat handwriting. Your eyes wander to the pinboard above your desk—the collection of memories you always come back to. A few photographs from childhood—baby pictures Barty liked to coo and swoon over, some from your first village fair and other various precious moments you immortalised in the form of a images. Then there are ones from your time at Hogwarts—mainly with Barty in just about every picture. The first snow, the first time in Hogsmeade, you and your girls at the Black Lake while Barty hangs upside from a tree in the background.

Your favourite pictures though? The family ones—and not just the ones with you and your parents. In more than just a few, your parents, you and Barty are depicted doing various things. Hiking, swimming, going for an outing in some nearby town. It makes you miss him even more than before, the empty space he left aching like a wound that cannot be healed.

With far too much flair and theatrics, you throw yourself onto your bed—not unlike the tragic heroine of a doomed play.

The break may be long, and Barty isn't by your side which sucks—but it won’t be too bad, right?

‘Not so bad’ turns out to be an impossible to reach standard, you lament while you sit in the dining room of the Lupins. Your parents sit beside you at the table, across from them Hope and Lyal Lupin. Across from you? Their wretched, wretched bastard of a son—none other than Remus Lupin.

He’s avoiding your gaze, staring into his plate like Cordon Bleu and salad are the most interesting things he’s ever seen. Your families are getting along like a house on fire, cracking jokes you both aren’t privy of, recalling memories they made during the duration of their short friendship.

Merlin, you should’ve trusted your gut feeling when your father casually mentioned an invitation by this couple across the village.

New friends they made after you left for Hogwarts, your mother had added. Something about them having a son around your age who also happens to be a wizard. Come on, that should’ve been the incriminating piece of evidence that supported the uneasy feeling the mention of those friends brought on.

But what were you supposed to do? You know how hard it is for your parents to make friends in this community—the burden of their identity as vampires posing too much of a risk. And with your mother being a witch turned vampire? She might as well just hand herself over to the Ministry without a fuss.

So them making friends? Close enough for them to be casually invited over for dinner? That was a huge deal you didn't want to ruin for them—even if you could think of a million better ways to spend your evening, none of them including being in the same room as Remus.

Silently, the both of you come to an agreemen—don’t talk, don't look at each other and pretend like everything is fine. And hey, it works great—until Hope Lupin turns her attention to you with that quiet and warm smile you swear you've seen her son give terrified first years during duels.

“So, you also go to Hogwarts dear?” Your heart sinks to your ass when she asks, and if Remus’ heartbeat is anything to go by, he too is absolutely shocked and terrified at the sudden turn of events. The food in your mouth suddenly feels like stones, taking immense effort to actually be swallowed before you nod timidly.

“Uh, yeah I do, though I'm a sixth year,” subtly you try to direct her away from the subject of school, but if she noticed she ignored you completely.

Her eyes light up—part excitement, part delight—and she leans forward to give you more of her attention. “Oh how wonderful, Remus here is a Seventh Year actually!” She sounds so incredibly proud, it takes everything in you to not cringe at the way you nod along like you haven't plotted his death multiple times.

“Oh that's great, I don't think I've ever really seen him around,” from the corner of your eye, you can see him sputtering and downing some water to ease his coughing at the lie that you smoothly dish out.

Lyal–bless his heart–is more concerned about the choking, patting his back and making sure he isn't actually dying.

When he does recover, the adults at the table stare at him expectantly—an unspoken demand for the question that lingers. His gaze lingers on you for a moment too long, the air between you shifting into something filled with tension and boiling bitterness. If he outs your lie now, you'd have to tell your parents the entire truth. And then what? Watch them lose the only friends they made in the last Merlin knows how many years? Deal with them potentially killing someone?

Your heart hammers in your chest, a silent plea in your eyes as you hold his gaze.

“Can't say I've really seen her either,” he finally replies with a shrug, his attention back to his food.

Your relief is instant, allowing you to sag into your chair a little more comfortably. “Maybe we just run in different circles,” you add on, half surprised by the sheer smoothness of your lies.

That is how the rest of the dinner goes—both your parents ask questions regarding school and your personal life, Remus and you evade them skilfully by building off each other's lies.

”You mentioned a duelling club Remus, is it perhaps the same you’re in?” Your father asks at some point.

Though it pains you to lie to him, you pretend to mull it over. “The one with Professor Northwood? I think we are in different groups for that.”

Remus hums noncommittally, a small smile on his scarred face.

“Yeah, I usually hang around the Gryffindors in that course”

You know, you know so well you could bring up the time he nearly killed you during a duel—but you don’t. You like your parents free and not in Azkaban, thank you very much.

Before long, the dinner finally ends and it’s high time for your family to leave. An urgent meeting at the Highland Castle looms on the agenda of the night—as highly esteemed governors, your parents cannot afford to miss out on it.

”Careful Bat,” he remarks, his hand coming up to poke your cheek, “almost sounded like you want me too.”

You want to say something in rebuttal, but the words die on your tongue. The entire situation is all too familiar, except this time he’s close enough for you to drink in all the details of his face.

The scarred tissue around his mouth.

The three large gashes that run diagonally across his face.

The golden swirls in his amber eyes.

The slope of his nose.

The plumpness of his lips.

The way his hair falls in gentle curls over his face.

It knocks the air out of your lungs so hard, you barely notice the shift in his scene—now sweet and floral with want.

All it would take is for him to lean down just a fraction and he could kiss you. His eyes roam your face, memorising and committing every line to memory the same way you’ve done to him. You can tell he’s thinking about it—kissing you right here and then—from the way his eyes drift from your eyes down to your lips and back up.

Is it ridiculous to be in this absurd situation with none other than Remus Lupin? Perhaps.

Is it still thrilling to have his entire attention focused on you like he wouldn’t want anyone else there? Absolutely.

A loud call of your name snaps the two of you back into reality, whatever magic tethering you two into a world of your own suddenly broken.

Your mother and father stand ahead at ny the gate that leads into exit of the Lupins farmland—both impatiently waiting for you to join them With an awkward clearing of your throat you reluctantly step away from your heat source, briskly walking to join your parents and bid the Lupin couple goodbye without once turning to their son.

You’re curled up on the armchair by the fireplace while your parents get ready for their meeting. It’s a bit of a longstanding tradition now, born from the times you used to toddle down the stairs and watch them don their governor attire in a mixture between awe and longing.

Your mother is wearing that black velvet dress you’ve come to adore—deep midnight fabric clinging to her body like shadows, flared wide sleeves that swish and ripple softly with her every move. On her neck is a pretty choker necklace made of pearls and one singular, gorgeous ruby stone that glows softly under the dim lights. From where you sit, it nearly looks like it pulses faintly with a heart beat—alive and heavy with duty and power. She stands in front of the floor length mirror—that has been specifically added to the living room for this very occasion—trying to put on her earrings that match the necklace she wears. Soft magic thrums in the room—raw and powerful, just like your parents.

Your father steps out the shadows, his three piece suit with the various insignia and rubies tailored within an inch of its life to match your mother’s attire. He stands behind her, hands gently prying the earrings out of her grasp to attach them himself while she leans into him.

”You look ravishing, my dear,” he murmurs into her neck, a smile visible on his face where you sit.

”Don’t twaddle,” you warn them in mock disgust at their display of blatant sweetness.

Through the mirror your mother bites back a smile, turning around to fix your father’s kravatte. “She’s right, save the reverence for later and restrain yourself,” she scolds him with affection, letting out a satisfied hum when her work is done.

You follow them out to the balcony where they stand side by side. For a moment, you allow yourself to feel the age old awe at their appearance—dark power and authority wrapped in velvet and steel. They’re all sharp edges and predatory dominance with glinting fangs, sharp nails and red eyes that glow dangerously in the dark of the night. You can imagine them sitting in that meeting room, commanding the masses to silence with their presence alone. It’s surreal to remember in these moments that your parents aren’t just your parents—fun-loving people who fill your every moment with patience and care—but also semi-nobility in the vampiristic society. High governors in the Welsh Highlands with so much power at the tips of their fingers. It gives you a glimpse into a future you could have too—should you choose to abandon the wizarding world and step into your heritage as a vampire.

”You got along quite well with Lupin's boy,” your mother’s voice pulls you out of your musings, her steady smile a familiar sight. Your father hums in agreement, his arm wrapped around her waist in preparation for their departure.

It takes a lot for you to not cry out in defense—your carefully crafted ruse in the back of your mind—and opt to shrug instead. “‘Suppose he ain’t too bad.”

“Good, perhaps you two will also become friends.”

The grimace on your face is thankfully taken as some sort of aversion to people in general, not Lupin specifically.

”Sure,” you add with too much enthusiasm, “we can try if we have the chance!”

With that, your parents bid you their good nights and disappear into a flurry of shadows and smoke—but not before catching your eye with that glint that has your spine tingling with a foreboding sense of doom.

Said doom arrives quickly at your very doorstep the next morning. There’s knocking at your door, which you—in your still sleep-addled state—think may be your parents. Never mind the fact that they can freely enter and exit the house without the need for keys, you still walk all the way down in your sleep-wear—a shirt Barty left at your place forever ago and Batman pyjama bottoms of his that half make you trip in their length.

When you open the door, still messy and rumpled from having just left the comfort of your bed, you’re surprised to see none other than Remus Lupin at your door.

You blink—once, twice—just to make sure you aren’t having a nightmare.

”Hmm, no I’m not doing this,” you mumble, quietly step away and close the door in his very face.

More knocks, this time harsher and insistent, stop you from turning around and going back to sleep.

”Open the bloody door you noodleheaded twat,” he barks through the door—voice torn between disbelief and exasperation.

the door nearly flies off its hinges when you open it again. “What did you just say to me?”

He’s quiet—a surprise really, you didn’t know he’s capable of shutting up—before his face morphs into a shiteating grin.

”Batman, huh? Didn’t peg you as a comic fan.”

It’s only then that you become aware of what you’re wearing—and how shabby you look in comparison to his slacks and dark sweater. Your face flushes with indignity, your choice of response being a pointed glare. ”What do you want?” You ask through gritted teeth.

He shoves a basket into your hands, one filled with various items—some of them warm enough for you to feel it.

”My parents said to give that to you,” he says with a roll of his eyes. “Apparently yours mentioned they won’t be ‘round till noon today—it’s breakfast and lunch.”

It’s a sweet gesture—really, and it would’ve moved you if it didn’t mean his parents were so close to yours they were making their son send you food.

Merlin help you, you might actually see him more often than you’d like this break.

Merlin is clearly a treacherous arse because he does not help you. In fact, his lack of help is so evident you actually see Lupin for nearly every blood day of your break. The Lupins come and go to your home like they nearly live there—much like your family does with theirs. Shared meals, helping out with Yule, Winter and Christmas decorations and even running errands together become part of your daily routine.

Through it all you have to bear Remus and his annoying presence, while also pretending like you haven’t been in a longstanding feud with the boy since your second year.

The two of you fall into some sort of awkward rhythm where you pretend to get to know each other, smiling and wrapping yourself in conversation when your parents are nearby. As soon as they're out of the picture? The sarcasm immediately becomes the language you converse in.

But somewhere between thinly veiled insults and half hearted lies, the tension between you bled into something a little softer. Not friendship, but perhaps a less jagged version of your feud?

Maybe it’s all the time spent together—one runs out of things to insult when you see someone on a daily basis—that has led to you breaching open new topics of conversation. From books to actual discussions about shared literary interests that somehow wandered off into petty school gossip and the few recounted childhood memories—there was a little bit of everything present.

No longer did you fill every moment of silence with venom and anger, but a rather frankenstein’d sense of peace. He allowed you to lounge around his bedroom—a tiny space filled with books, the silliest mugs you’ve ever seen, photographs, sweaters and more books—while you both read in silence. In turn, you allowed him into the library of your home. His face was honestly a comical sight—as soon as you opened the small dark mahogany door at the east side of the second floor, his jaw dropped to the ground.

The room—expanded with the help of intricate magic—nearly put the Hogwarts Library to shame. Tall shelves—floor to ceiling in height—lined every possible bit, filled to the brim with tomes of all kinds. From the entrance, you couldn’t see the end of the room, but you knew by heart it would take at least 15 minutes to walk from one end to the other without magic or getting sidetracked in the various hallways and nooks.

A few lamps and different seating arrangements were elegantly incorporated to give the entire room a polished yet timeless feeling.

”This,” Remus whispered as he spun around to take the entire place in, “is bloody insane. Who has a library like that just casually in their house? Where on earth is the ceiling?”

You couldn’t help but laugh at his positive confusion, simply choosing to take the lead and give him a brief tour of your favorite sections.

“My mother is a genius in practical magic,” you remarked while pointing to yet another hallway that branched off the main room and led somewhere you didn’t concern yourself with. “She built this place for my father for their fifth wedding anniversary—it took her nearly three years to collect all the books and we all have been adding our own over time.”

”Does this genius streak run in the family? Should I start planning a proposal?” His joke—though clearly casual in nature—almost immediately makes heat crawl up your neck. For one terrible moment you pictured it—being married to Remus Lupin and sharing a life with him.

Nope, absolutely not. You will not be going there thank you very much.

After that day, Remus seemed to be drawn to your home library like a moth is to light. He would knock at the door first thing in the morning, smiling sheepishly whenever your parents opened the door and ushered him inside. Most of the time you were still fast asleep then, rudely awakened by him shaking you. Most of the time he’d join you for breakfast, never quite questioning the packets of ‘cranberry juice’ you seemed to consume every morning—blood enchanted to look and smell like juice to anyone who isn’t a nocturnal creature.

Half of your day would be spent in the library, the other half helping his parents with the winter work on their little farmland. It wasn’t much of a farm in the literal sense—a few chickens, three goats to be milked and far too many plants growing everywhere. The task you both were often left with was unfortunately weeding and cleaning the vast yard grounds, despite the icy temperatures.

What little fragile routine you’ve built shatters spectacularly just a few days before Christmas—in the bloody shed out back where his parents kept the gardening tools.

With the full moon approaching rapidly, your temper flared and soured consistently—a little less than usual considering you're keeping up with your body's blood demand, but still noticeable enough for it to be a conscious effort to tame on your end.

And really, you were doing so goddamn well around the Lupin couple too—even if your parents told you you were free to stay home and not interact with people until the full moon passed. But by Merlin, their son was one hell of an infuriating twat. For three days now he's been snapping and jabbing at yours, irritation oozing from him as soon as you enter any room. You'd be lying if you said you didn't nag and fight with him too, but hey, you were just returning what you were given!

So there you stood in the tool shed after three entire days of waging cold war, silence and tension so thick in the air you could've cut it with the garden shears. You're trying to not say anything—something along the lines of if you don't have something nice to say, don't say anything at all. Clearly, Remus does not share that sentiment because he glares at you from the other side of the shed.

“Can you like, not breathe so loud? It's annoying.”

“Alright then, guess I'll just fucking die or something,” you mutter in response, not even bothering to turn around to acknowledge him.

The hairs on your arms suddenly raise, all alarms and instincts going off out of nowhere. Before you know it, something—in this instance, a someone named Remus—is behind you, herding you against the nearest wall.

His eyes are narrowed, fury radiating off of him in waves. The smell of metallic anger is nauseating—but somehow, it doesn't bother you. In fact, it makes something inside you twist and coil. He's all up in your face, his fram—easily over two meters in height—blocks what little light came from the cracked door, shrouding you in a sort of muffled darkness.

“What the fuck is your problem with me?” He barks out, his breath hot against your face. “You've been nothing but a nasty bitch to me since third year and just when I thought you might be somewhat okay, you start acting like an asshole again.”

Many emotions course through you at this very momemt—disbelief the most prominent of them.

“Me? What's wrong with me?” you ask with wide eyes and a laugh that nearly borders on manic. “How about you start explaining why the fuck you'd try to kill a girl half your height and younger than you,” you spit out, finger jabbing him square in the chest.

He hisses at the contact, immediately grabbing your hand and pinning it over your head with strength you didn't assume him capable of.

“Don't pin this on me now, you're the one always picking fights with me and glaring across the room like some obsessed stalker.”

“Like you're any better, why do you always rile me up when you're supposed to be all calm and mature?” Your quip is as fiery as the rage blazing inside of you, dripping in venom and hate.

You try to writhe against his vice-like grip—he matches you in both supernaturally enhanced strength and anger. It should make you suspicious actually—have you question how a boy as lanky and sickly as him could possible completely with pure vampire strength. But you can't focus—not when he's all up in your personal space, snarling and ready to maul as soon as you show your own claws. Definitely not when he's invading all your senses like a parasite—smell, touch, sight, and sound. All that's lacking is for you to taste him—and you think you can from how close he's breathing you in.

”You could also just not engage with me.”

”And deny you the privilege of my attention that you very clearly seek?” A smile, sharp and dangerous curls on your lips. You lean to his face, able to murmur directly into his ear with the way he’s leaning down to your level. “I think not, Remus.”

The sound of his name rolling off your lips is perhaps exactly the thing that undoes his fragile self restraint—the metallic anger now blending with something deep and rich you’re not familiar with.

His mouth is agape, eyes roaming your face like he can’t believe the situation he’s in. It makes you squirm—from what, you don’t want to know yet.

He doesn't say anything for several beats, so you bite the bullet and question him, with much less bravado than you’d want.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Your voice breaks—much to your embarrassment—and is quieter than before. The air shifts around you, thickening with unspoken tension of the kind that has been lingering at the edges of your interactions for far longer than you could count.

”Like what?” A low response that vibrates against your entire body.

The words are at the tip of your tongue, but a part of you knows if you say it out loud—things will change in a way you cannot predict.

”Like you can't decide between fighting me or kissing me senseless.”

Silence stretches, thinning with every second until it snaps.

”Maybe I can’t decide,” he replies quietly, “and maybe I want both.”

That’s all you really need to cross the line—the one you’ve been dancing around ever since that night in the infirmary.

What happens next is a blur to you—suddenly your hands are on his shoulders while his arms keep you upright against the storm of fervent kisses and bites.

His lips crash against yours—not soft or hesitant, but with the force of a man starved gazing upon his last meal. It dizzies you on spot, turning off the rational side of you that screams to let go and stop this nonsense.

You try to gain the upper hand—teeth clashing and tongues entwining so hard you can’t tell where you stop and he starts, but he’s clearly desperate to do the same. With each passing moment, you grow bolder—your hands wander from his shoulders to his neck, tracing along faint scars and bumps you commit to memory.

When he pulls away to regain his breath, you chase his lips desperate.

“Don’t stop now,” you warn, “don’t you dare stop when it’s your fault.”

”Wouldn’t dream of it,” his lips are on you again, this time however on your neck in a way you hadn’t expected. It’s a pleasant sensation—despite the novelty—and you only grow to crave it more when he nibs and suckles on that particularly sensitive spot behind your ear.

A strange sound escapes your throat—half whine, half breathy sigh that spurs the urgency in his move.

“Do that again,” he mumbles against your skin, littering soothing kisses across the skin he just bit.

“Make that noise again f’me.” A small, far too soft kiss that contrasts to what you’ve been doing so far, is placed at the corner of your mouth.

“Please?”

Well, if the Remus Lupin asks you so nicely, who are you to refuse? Especially when he slots his knee between your legs, allowing you to sink your entire weight on him and stop worrying about your wobbly knees.

Just when you feel your instincts—the restraint you’ve trained yourself to display at all tines—begins to slip, the universe decides interference is of need.

A particularly loud noise—at least loud to your keen senses—makes both you and Remus jump apart like deers in headlight.

“Remus darling? Where are you?” His mother’s voice comes from outside the shed—probably somewhere by the front garden—but it’s just as startling as if someone had poured a bucket of ice on top of your head.

The realisation of what you just did—still itched to do—dawns upon you. One look at Remus’ flushed and wide eyed expression tells you he’s having the very same realisation.

“Remus?” Her voice is closer this time, somewhere actually within the backyard and it adds fuel to the fire of your panic.

”I- I should go,” you stammer, eyes wildly searching for an exit that won’t let anyone see you in your disarrayed state. Clothes rumbled, face warm and multiple blooming bruises across the side of your neck.

Anyone with half a brain cell would know what you two were up to in here.

Remus takes a step into your direction, fuelling your panic into something akin to terror—you can’t be here, with him doing anything. You fear his touch, the same touch that got you into this unbelievable mess.

With hurried strides, you nearly trip over your own feet when you beeline towards the back door. He’s planted to the spot, watching dumbfounded as you disappear into the bushes.

You race back home, hiding your supernatural speed be damned.

You just made out with Remus Lupin in the bloody shed of his parents—and worst of all?

You liked it.

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