#the flat

— ☽ ☀︎ —

The enchanted boats can only accommodate two students each, now that you’re all grown significantly taller. You and Remus hold hands as your boat glides magically across the water, looking back longingly at the castle shrinking behind you while Hagrid leads the fleet towards the Hogsmeade Station shore. 

Behind you, James and Sirius have charmed their separate boats to stick side-by-side — James and Lily in one, Sirius and Peter in the other. Sirius is trying to rock the boats to send Peter overboard, but Lily threatens to hex him into the lake, so now he’s just splashing Pettigrew in the face as a final little goodbye prank. 

You rest your head on Remus’s shoulder. He leans his head gently against yours. You’re trying not to cry, but your eyes sting, and your throat is tight. He kisses your hair. You nuzzle closer. Two hot tears break free and streak down your cheeks.

You’re leaving the same way you arrived: together.

It’s all too much.

Everything feels like too much.

And you’re not ready for any of it.

— ☽ ☀︎ —

“You alright, dovey?”

“Yeah. No.”

“You’re crying again. You’ve been breaking my heart all morning, love. I can hardly take it.”

“Sorry. I just… Can’t believe it’s over. Is it weird that I don’t want it to be over?” 

“No, not weird. There are parts of it I didn’t want to end, either.” 

“Yeah? Like what?”

“Great house-elf food and service.” You both laugh. 

“Learning new and exciting magic almost every day. Seeing my favourite people every day.” 

He tucks your hair behind your ear. “Especially you.” 

You cry harder.

“No, no, no… Sorry, dovey. I didn’t mean to upset you even more.”

“I’m already upset. Just thinking about not seeing you every day and whenever I like, which is, all the time.” 

His hand tightens in yours. You feel a slight shiver vibrate through his torso.

“We’ll figure it out,” he murmurs, soft like honey. “We always do.”

“Promise?”

 You already have your wand out. Even at eighteen, this is still very much your thing.

“You know it.”

“🪄Un. 🪄Dau. 🪄Tri.” 

You two cross wands and count together, in Welsh, because since you heard him do it like this, you never wanted to do it in English again. 

And with that, you go back to snuggling in as close as you can, eyes glued to the turrets and towers bathed in golden light. 

Two hippogriffs soar low over the lake, talons skimming the surface in a mesmerising ripple. You let out a delighted whoop, and Remus chuckles beside you. You could swear even the giant squid gives a languid wave, one long tentacle lifting above the water, as if saying goodbye to the boys who’ve caused it the most trouble in school history.

End of an era, indeed. The Marauders’ Era.

Hogwarts won’t be the same after Moony, Padfoot, Prongs, and Wormtail. Seven years of danger, barely-managed mischief, infuriating brilliance, and legendary mayhem — the kind that can never be replicated. Not ever.

The boats dock one by one. With bone-crushing, snotty hugs from a weepy Hagrid, you and your friends walk the winding path to the station, where the imposing red locomotive awaits. The last train ride home from the castle that made you who you are.

You find your trunks waiting on the platform and claim a compartment large enough for six: the four Marauders and their two favourite girls.

♥️🐺♥️   ☽ ☀︎   ♥️🐺♥️   ☽ ☀︎  ♥️🐺♥️

The nine-hour train ride back to London passes in a strange sort of daydream, too quick for your taste. You spend most of it curled up beside Remus, your head on his shoulder, fingers tangled in his jumper, eyes heavy with tears that come and go in waves. He rubs gentle circles into your back when he feels you tremble with silent sobs, carding his fingers softly through your hair, always knowing exactly when to hold you tighter and when to just let you feel it.

The others banter and bicker and laugh. Sirius challenges James to an exhausting number of Exploding Snap matches. Peter munches on Chocolate Frogs like he'll never see them again. Lily reads her current novel and later a muggle magazine, talking to you at times and rolling her eyes fondly at the boys’ shenanigans.

At some point, the food trolley arrives and they buy the lot, of course, and you watch through a haze as your favourite people pass around cauldron cakes and pumpkin pasties.

Between short naps and shared glances, whispered conversations and staring wistfully out the window at rolling hills and misty towns, you all complain about sore bums while secretly dreading the moment when you'll have to change out of your Hogwarts robes and get off for the very last time.

You avoid talking about the future. You’re not ready. And neither, it seems, is Remus. Once the train reaches Peterborough, he becomes quiet like you, his thumb tracing idle patterns against your arm.

Remus is going back to Wales. 

His mum Hope has been undergoing treatment for ovarian cancer, and he hopes to help her during her last difficult stretch of chemotherapy. His dad also needs his help with some semi-urgent repairs and renovations around the cottage. He’ll be doing all the cooking, the cleaning, and the mending — not that he minds. He wants to do it. For them.

You’re headed back to London, to a summer flat in Camden with Lily, Marlene, and Dorcas, where you’ll start an intensive magical healing placement at St. Mungo’s. No holidays, no lie-ins. You’ve got just about seven weeks to finish your magical healing certification before muggle med school starts at Oxford in September. You're following in your muggle mother’s footsteps. She’s a respected surgeon, blazing her way through a field that only recently stopped calling women “nurses” by default. Your parents aren’t thrilled about your no-rest summer schedule, but they understand. Hard work runs in the family.

Your muggle dad comes from several generations of construction, engineering, and architectural work, his family having built three centuries worth of hard-earned wealth and a solid legacy by being involved in such London landmark projects as Buckingham Palace, Claridge Hotel, and, more recently, the renovations at St. Thomas Hospital that began in the late 50s and concluded in 1966. Your dad met your mum there, a fresh-faced medical intern, when a scaffolding mishap earned him a few stitches and a hospital crush. The rest, as they say, was very charming, very swift, and very scandalous — at least according to your nan.

But it’s your muggle mum’s family tree that explains you: Magical blood, faint but stubborn, trickled down from a long line of half-bloods and squibs who worked as apothecaries, midwives, mediwizards and medics long before they were called doctors. Her father, your beloved granddad, was a squib who became a top surgeon and saved many lives during the Second Great Muggle War of the twentieth century. His father before him was a half-blood apothecary. So when you were born in 1960 — magic having skipped two whole generations (and your thoroughly unmagical albeit brilliant older brother) — your mum was delighted, and your dad was completely, utterly bewildered.

You were raised on your mum's surgical textbooks and later, spellbooks. Reading Gray's Anatomy from age four for fun, playing with surgical mini-models and toy wands. So no, it’s not exactly surprising that you want to change the world of magical healing. That you want to bring muggle science, technology, and magical healing together. And that you want to break ground and break through in the one field no one’s bothered to properly study: Lycanthropy.

Needless to say, you’ve had your future mapped out for years.

Remus has not.

Not anymore.

Not since the slow, humiliating parade of rejection letters started, one after another, all arriving within months of each other. Letters that praised his scores, his brilliance, his potential… before explaining, with that false British contrition, that his condition made him “ineligible.” That they had “most sincere regrets.” That “at this time,” they were unable to offer him a place. Dutifully attaching the Decree For Fucking Up The Lives Of Filthy Werewolves, or whatever the hell it’s called, as if he needed a reminder of what it says.

It didn't matter how well he performed at Hogwarts. Or that his professors and headmaster adore him. Or that he’s already twice the wizard most people will ever become.

None of it matters… because he’s a werewolf.

And the wizarding world has made it abundantly clear: he is not welcome.

It’s been a sobering year. A quiet, lonely one. And though he’s tried to smile through it, you’ve noticed the change. The new weight of defeat pulling him down. The way he doesn't speak about the future anymore. Not in specifics. Not with hope.

Did you two forget your promise to each other?

Remus certainly hasn’t.

But he could never follow through — not now, not ever. Not when he has nothing to offer. Not when the idea of affording a home, even sharing one with you, feels laughable. Childish. Naïve.

He’s grateful, in a way, that you haven’t brought it up in years. It means he doesn’t have to break your heart. Or his. It means he can pretend you’ve both forgotten.

It means he can bury the memory of that silly cross-wands thing. The one he should never have done. Not with you. 

Not when you deserve the whole world and best life possible, and all he’s got is a broken one ahead of him.

♥️🐺♥️   ☽ ☀︎   ♥️🐺♥️   ☽ ☀︎  ♥️🐺♥️

At King’s Cross, the platform is as noisy as ever: steam is billowing out the train, squeaking trunks and caged pets are everywhere, mixed with human squeals of welcome and loud sobs of final goodbyes. 

James is an absolute wreck: eyes red, nose running, blubbering openly between Lily’s and Sirius's shoulders while they pat his back distractedly. Sirius masks his own ache with dry sarcasm and bad ideas, loudly suggesting they all get matching tattoos that say “Marauders 4ever”, while Peter frantically tries to organise a weekly group pub night at the Leaky. “We’ll lose touch otherwise,” he insists, voice cracking as he hugs everyone twice. 

He'll be the first one to stop writing or showing up, too busy with his career prospects and personal ambitions.

Amidst it all, you find yourself still wrapped around Remus like he might vanish if you let go. His mum’s too ill to be here, and his dad stayed behind to take care of her, so he’s heading home alone, his trunk reducio’d and already inside his rucksack slung low on his shoulder, muscles achy and tense despite his small, brave smile he puts up for you.

“You sure you can't come for dinner? Stay over until tomorrow at least?”

“Can't, love. They're waiting for me. Write to me?” he murmurs, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear. 

“Every bloody day if you want,” you whisper back, your fingers clinging to the soft wool of his jumper. 

“Good,” he says, voice nearly breaking. “Because I already miss you.”

You bury yourself into his chest one more time, like you want to fuse yourself in him.

“I'll phone you tomorrow, if my home phone's fixed, alright?” He says against your hair.

“Alright.”

“I gotta go, dovey.” 

“Right.” You don't let go. He gently extricates himself with a soft chuckle.

You watch him disappear into the crowd, your heart aching in the hollow space he leaves behind. Then you pull on a warm smile for your waiting family. Your dad greets you with flowers and your favourite sweets; your mum kisses both your cheeks. Your brother Andrew rolls his eyes, calls you a know-it-all, then slings your trunk into the boot of the car with a quiet, “Missed you, brat.” 

You spend a delightful Sunday at home wrapped in delicious roast dinners, soft linen sheets, and nostalgic older-brother teasing, before Monday morning arrives (all too soon), and the scent of Dittany, magical disinfectant, and the weight of everything you’re about to become hits you full-on.

♥️🐺♥️   ☽ ☀︎   ♥️🐺♥️   ☽ ☀︎  ♥️🐺♥️

July goes by in a blur and drags on at the same time.

You and Remus go from being joined at the hip to long-distance owls twice a week or so, both too busy being thrown head-first into adulthood to breathe. You squeeze in the odd phone call when you can both manage to be by the phone for more than half an hour. Like now.

You stand in a cramped phone booth during your rushed lunch break, sandwich in one hand, receiver in the other, bag of crisps and can of coke with a straw floating discreetly in front of your mouth.

“Sorry for my manners, but I’ll be speaking with my mouth full. Trying to inhale my sandwich and crisps while we’re talking.”

“Y/N.”

“I know! I promise I’m eating. Real food. The girls are worse than you, they won’t leave me alone.”

“Good. I’m glad. Nutrition is important.”

“Pot, kettle. Don’t even pretend you’re nutrition-conscious all of a sudden. How’s your mum?” 

“She’s getting much better. Chemo’s nearly finished. The doctors say she’s responded as well as they could’ve hoped. So… yeah. That’s what we want to hear.”

“That’s fantastic, Rem. I’m so sorry I haven’t been able to visit.”

“It’s alright, love. Your mum’s been by a few times and she's been brilliant. Poppy’s been a great help too, and the NHS lot we’ve seen have been top-notch.”

“How’s the reno and all that?”

“Almost done as well. Again, we got loads of magical and muggle help. Dumbledore knows some good magi-builders who owe him some favours, and again, your family stepped in too. I just know that was your doing, wasn't it? Nosey.”

“Least I can do since I'm being a shitty friend this summer.”

“Shut up, you’re not. Anyway, your dad and Andrew gave us great ideas to solve foundation and structural problems and helped loads.” 

“I heard. I’m really chuffed about that. My brother liked you, by the way.”

“Huh. didn’t seem like it. but I can’t complain, he was great and seemed alright with helping out. It's embarrassing, really.”

“Shouldn’t be, Rem. You know how much my parents love yours. And you. See? It’s not just me, silly.”

There’s a dramatic pause on the other side. You hope you didn’t come on too strong. You’re about to diffuse it with some daft jokey insult when he speaks again, softer.

“I miss you.”

Your heart lurches. 

“Miss you too, Rem. So much.” 

“It’s weird and depressing to be seeing your whole family come by, except you.”

“I know. I’m really sorry I haven’t been there.” 

“No dove, it's not a guilt thing. I know how impossibly busy you are. I just… realise more and more how utterly spoiled we were back at Hogwarts, you know?”

“I know. Not seeing each other every day feels wrong, doesn’t it?”

“It really does.”

You hear the profound melancholy in his voice, even more than usual. Bone-deep and soul-tired. Almost as bad as yours.

“How are you, Remus? Really?”

“Well… Knackered? Worried? Keeping busy? You know…”

“Hm. Nothing new then.”

“How are you?”

“Everything you just said, basically. I reckon we’ll both need a holiday to recover from this summer holiday.”

“Ha, yeah.”

Remus hears the final straw-slurp of your beverage and a soft burp that makes him laugh fondly. He almost doesn’t want to ask, but the heavy silence forces his hand.

“How’s, uh… flat hunting?”

“Slow. Haven’t had much time to go see the places dad suggested. Hopefully I’ll be able to find something soon. Maybe still in this decade.”

“Aren’t you enjoying living with the girls? They’d let you stay as long as you need, wouldn't they?”

“No, they’re great, yeah. But Lily’s moving in with James at the end of summer, and Marlene and Dorcas… well, they’re properly serious now, and they deserve their privacy. I don’t want to third-wheel them, you know? So I’d like to be out of there by mid-August. Before uni starts, for sure. I just don’t know when I’ll be able to sort it.”

“Well, don’t kill yourself trying to do everything at once, please. I sort of still want you around. I almost forgot what your ugly mug looks like by the way.”

“Rude. Maybe we can get coffee next weekend?”

“Maybe I am forgetting you. Since when do you drink coffee?”

“You know what I mean, you berk. You get your stinking coffee, I get my chai or whatever I fancy. On you by the way, for that cheek alone.”

“You wouldn’t exploit your poor destitute best friend, would you?”

“Teaches you a lesson. Full Tea service I say.”

“Rude. Who’s being cheeky now?”

“Shit. I’m sorry, I have to run. Owl you later?”

“Yeah, sounds good.” He already misses your voice. 

“Please give your mum my love and congratulations.”

“Will do.” 

“Love you, Rem.”

A pause. “Love you too, Y/N.”

“Please take care of yourself. I’ll see you soon.”

“Right back at you. Bye.”

You hear the deepest sigh before his line disconnects. You want to cry. You want to apparate straight to him. You need to run a whole block from the phone booth to the magical hospital and up to the first floor where your impatient Advanced Healing instructor is probably already waiting – impatiently.

Did you two forget your promise to each other?

You certainly haven't.

You've got plans. Plans that are delicate and need to be executed just right — to successfully lure, convince, manipulate, and absolutely coerce your werewolf boy to say yes. Whatever it takes. You’re just so busy, so tired at the moment.  And this needs to be done right.

♥️🐺♥️   ☽ ☀︎   ♥️🐺♥️   ☽ ☀︎  ♥️🐺♥️

Three weeks later, Remus gets an owl.

He is elbow-deep in a chipped sink full of dinner's washing-up when he hears the familiar tapping at the kitchen window. He turns, half-expecting it to be nothing, and there she is: Florence, your red owl. Perched and proud as ever, fluffing her reddish-brown feathers impatiently. His heart drums like it always does when he sees her. 

He wipes his hands on a tea towel, trying not to smile like an idiot as he opens the window and unties the roll of parchment from her leg.

“Hi, Flo. That for me, baby?” 

Florence hops to the kitchen table next to him, and looks down at the parchment as if reading along.

Dear Remus, Surprise. I’m still alive. And I need your help. This coming Saturday, if you can. I finally got a free day to go look at two properties dad, Andrew and I narrowed it down to. And I cannot do this without you by my side. Please say you’re available to spend a tedious day with me inspecting floor plans and plumbing? I need your snarky remarks and hopefully that so-coveted Lupin seal of approval. Say we meet at nine by that posh eatery in Mayfair? You know, the one with the funny statue. I look forward to seeing you, it’s been too damn long.  — Love, Y/N ☀︎ xx

Florence is back at your window three hours later, Remus’s reply tied neatly to her leg.

Hey, Sunshine. So good to hear from you, I’ll hang the funeral suit back up then. Saturday is good. I’ll be happy to dress down all the ridiculous and snooty places you picked with my superior tastes, if that’s what you want. Yes, it's been too damn long, so I know I’ll enjoy every minute of it. Your bloody owl is pecking my hand to bits, impatient little thing. Just like her owner… See you soon, dove. Can't wait.  — Love, Remus ☽ xxx

“Flo, baby,” you speak to your owl like she'll answer you, “did you peck Rem's hand until he finished the response? Did you make my love bleed?”

Florence lifts her head proudly, as if rolling her eyes at the obviously brilliant aggressive tactics of persuasion.

“Good girl.” you scratch her little head and spoil her with all her favourite treats.

Then you hold the parchment up to your nose, breathing in for any trace of his scent, your fingers tracing the loops of his signature and the three kissy x’s at the bottom. Your cheeks hurt from all the smiling.

Only three more days.

♥️🐺♥️   ☽ ☀︎   ♥️🐺♥️   ☽ ☀︎  ♥️🐺♥️

You wait anxiously outside the red-brick corner restaurant, eyes flicking between the two possible directions Remus might appear from. It’s another gorgeous late-July morning, and Mayfair is already humming with life: posh residents walking their glossy dogs, smartly dressed couples with paper shopping bags from Fortnum’s or Liberty, and the quiet clatter of cutlery drifting out of fancy cafés. 

When you finally spot your beloved best friend walking down the semi-busy sidewalk towards you, weaving his elegant, lanky and tall frame smoothly through the people milling about, you become hypnotised. He looks like a movie star from an indie darling, walking in slow motion with his hands in his pockets, with all the effortless swag and oblivious magnetic charm that disarms you every time. He’s dressed in dark wash jeans and a T-shirt, his casual and modest style, but he looks like he belongs in a magazine.

You feel a twinge deep in your spine — the ache of how fucking long it’s been since you’ve seen him, touched him, heard his voice and smelled his hair and skin. 

When he spots you a few metres out, his smile is as cool and soft as clotted cream, his green eyes sparkling in the morning sun. 

“Remus.”

“Hi, dovey.” 

His well-worn ‘Let It Be’ black tee smells like blue fabric softener and him. It’s so soft and warm against your face. Your arms. Your fingers. You don’t know how long you stand there holding each other in a hungry, intimate embrace. You don’t care. People can go around and learn to mind their business. It’s been too damn long. This long-distance thing needs to end. 

You feel his hands caressing your shoulder blades over your floral sundress. Then your nape. His lips softly resting on your hairline. You want to tilt your head up and find them with your own. It’s a sweet agony you know all too well. 

Remus cradles your face with his gentle hands and moves it toward his. It almost looks like he will… 

Kiss you. 

Which he does. 

On your left cheekbone. 

“I missed your face. You look like a cute zombie.” He runs his thumbs over the puffy, dark shadows under your eyes. “Wait, lemme introduce you. Sun, this is Y/N, you probably don’t remember her.”

“Fuck off, be nice to me. I’m gonna make you feel so good when I’m the best healer in the world.” 

“Mmm. Looking forward to that.”

“Missed you too by the way, you prat.” 

He kisses your nose. You want to scream. 

“So, what’s the plan, bossy girl?”

I haven’t had breakfast yet. So, let’s pick a café around here. Then we’ll go to the first property which is not very far, a beautiful Victorian with a garden and everything, a few blocks that way. We’ll take our time there, it has five floors, I think. 

“Godric…”

“I know. After lunch we can head to the second one, near Potters Fields Park. You know it?”

“Think so. Tower Bridge area, yeah?”

“Exactly.”

“James would love that address for you.”

“I know, right?” You grin. “Then we’ll compare the two and hopefully I’ll decide today.”

“Sounds like a full day.”

“You still up for it?”

“I’m all yours. Whatever you want.”

You arch a brow. “Be careful what you promise me, Lupin, I might just take you up on it.” 

You two get so flirty when you miss each other like this, it’s delicious torture. 

— ☽ ☀︎ —

The townhouse in Mayfair is absolutely obscene. What is your dad thinking? Remus knows exactly what. That his precious princess deserves the very best of the very best, full stop. Remus would do no different, if he could. You deserve everything in his eyes, too.

Five floors, not counting the basement. A symmetrical red-brick beauty tucked between similarly ostentatious neighbours, with perfectly pretentiously trimmed hedges and a door knocker that looks like pure gold — and probably is, Remus thinks. 

“Oh good,” he whispers, touching the knocker, “Wouldn't want to soil my precious silky hands on this disgraceful rare mahogany, or teak, or whatever colonial nonsense this bloody door is made of.”

You elbow him in the ribs while snorting a laugh and fumbling with the key. Since this property was built by your father's company, you have exclusive first-access to whatever you want to see, with no need for an agent to trail after you with all that annoying commentary and nosey questions. And you and Remus can be yourselves and make informed decisions — or just verbally shit on everything you see with abandon.

First stop: the kitchen. Down one flight of grand stone steps from the dining area, you’re greeted by brushed brass hardware, Italian marble counters, and a double Aga range that looks like it’s never seen a splatter. A nearby laundry room gleams like a showroom, washer and dryer matching the cupboards and work surfaces flawlessly.

“Are you planning to host the Minister for brunch or something?” he mutters, leaning on the counter and pretending to inspect the knobs. 

“Depends. Muggle or magical?”

“Does it matter? I’d be afraid to butter toast in here, I feel like the gold cutlery would malfunction under my pleb technique, and the neighbors would clutch their pearls, sensing it somehow...”

This is exactly the kind of asinine commentary you were hoping for, you think fondly while sniggering.

“You can be my ghoul in the attic, if you like.”

“Deal.”

Down on the lower ground level you find a wine cellar, a billiards room, and a glossy den, all leading to a private garage through sleek sliding glass. Remus takes it all in with his arms crossed.

“So, here’s the scenario in my head: A burglar breaks in, right? Just a dumb muggle burglar with a dumb muggle knife or something. You can just apparate to the wine cellar, pour yourself a vintage port, petrify him to oblivion and sneak out through the garage into your Aston Martin or Rolls Royce or Batmobile to dispose of the body. Brilliant.”

“That’s scarily thought-out.”

“What else would this ridiculous setup be good for?”

You shoot him a look, but he’s grinning. You squeeze his bicep possessively. You have missed this. 

Back upstairs, the ground floor is more of the same: a palatial living room, bespoke bookshelves, powder rooms and wardrobes with enough storage space to contain a house-elf family of four. The garden out back is pristine, like a magazine spread. The brochure throws around words like “entertaining potential” and “heritage charm.”

The first floor houses the primary suite. It’s bigger than your current flat. The en-suite alone is positively ludicrous. A bathtub for two (or five), wide as a hot tub and perfectly centered under a skylight. A massive walk-in rain shower. Double vanity with beautifully lit mirrors and more marble surfaces than Michelangelo's entire portfolio, just because someone threw enough pounds at it.

Remus whistles. “This en-suite is bigger than my entire cottage.”

“Right? I wouldn't mind that tub though. I miss the Prefect’s bath so much.”

You glance at the mirror and catch him watching you with an open, aching look on his face before he notices your eyes and blinks it away, turning instead to inspect the overpriced taps as if it’s the most fascinating thing in the room. 

You don’t call him out on any of it. Not yet. You don’t dare ask what he’s really thinking, when he becomes quiet for a moment. You watch him run his hand over the smooth stone countertop like he’s studying the texture for later piss-taking.

“Do you reckon,” he says, carefully, “you’re planning to have six children, then? To fill in all these bedrooms?” He jokes, even though he doesn't want to think about you, happy and pregnant by someone else. 

You laugh, embarrassed. “Oh shut up. It’s just space. Future-proofing, as they say?”

“Right. For the family you haven’t made yet. Or maybe just a space to fit all your shoes and hats and tiaras and Crown Jewels...”

You look at him, brows raised. “Jealous?”

He shrugs. “I don’t even own five pairs of socks worthy to go in here. And, yes, mad jealous.”

The most painful truths are always hidden behind the cheekiest jokes.

The top floor holds even more bedrooms, balconies overlooking the garden, a sunroom, and finally, a rooftop terrace with a view of Hyde Park in the distance. You lean against the railing, breath catching. 

Remus doesn’t speak. He just stands a few feet back, hands in his pockets, watching you like he’s trying to memorise something he doesn’t think he’ll ever get to keep.

You catch the weight in his silence. You’ve been catching everything, every layered comment, every sideways look. He doesn’t realise how tuned in you are.

— ☽ ☀︎ —

“Well,” you exhale back on the street, trying to break the tension. “That was exhausting. And an education.”

“Right,” he says dryly. “How your half lives.”

“Hells, even I felt a bit dirty in there.”

You end up at a little park nearby, sitting shoulder to shoulder on a wooden bench by a pond where some adolescent ducks swim placidly. A sandwich from the posh café in hand, you pick off bits of shredded lettuce and feed the ducks, who waddle over like greedy little buggers.

Remus offers his pickle to one particularly aggressive mallard, who snatches it from his fingers with what could only be described as violent gratitude. Remus jumps and squeals in fright, hitting his bottle of Cresta ice-cream soda, which spills half of its contents on his jeans. “Ah, bollocks!” You are laughing out loud so hard, the duckies waddle away and back to the water.

“I needed this,” you say when you finally manage to stop laughing. “Not the duckies. You. To be clear.”

He nudges your knee with his. “I’m glad.” 

“You make flat-hunting tolerable.” You say, laying your head on his shoulder.

“You make life tolerable. Don't let it go to your head, though.”

“Too late.” 

You want to feed him lettuce. And hold him in your arms for eternity.

♥️🐺♥️   ☽ ☀︎   ♥️🐺♥️   ☽ ☀︎  ♥️🐺♥️

The second place is also posh, but it feels more inviting, despite it being all lofty glass walls. A high-rise penthouse with polished dark wooden floors and shaggy carpets overlooking the Thames — and incidentally a perfect distance from Remus’s two jobs: the Library and the muggle primary school he will work as an English and Maths supply teacher come September. Just a ten-minute walk from both. 

‘What a lucky coincidence,’ he thinks.

‘Maybe I can stay over on cold or rainy nights,’ he thinks.

“Chef's kitchen… Chef's kiss.” Remus quips, looking around the modern, open-plan gourmet kitchen. There are ample marble worktops by the beautiful stove/oven unit and the large farmhouse white sink. A matching marble island and perfectly concealed refrigerator-freezer combo completes the look. 

“Do you like it? You don't think it's too much?”

“Depends how much entertaining you’re planning to do, love. Looks cracking for having people round, you could feed an army in here. Still smaller than Potter Manor, mind you. Or your lot’s place. Or the Mayfair monstrosity.”

He notices a smaller, intimate breakfast nook by the large glass wall in the corner between the kitchen and the dining area. Perfect for an intimate breakfast for two. The views of the sunrise must be breathtaking. The table is set for afternoon tea at the moment, it looks like.

“You got all the proper crockery and everything, I see,” Remus remarks, touching the fine black and white porcelain.

“I know, mad posh. Mum's to blame, actually. She helps dad dress these places up in her free time.”

“Merlin’s… When does she have free time?”

“Dunno… It’s her hobby, she loves it. She’ll probably– no, definitely try to butt in the decor when I finally choose a place. Speaking of, what do you think?”

“What do you think?”

“Nope. I know what I prefer. I want to hear from you.”

“You like this one, don’t you?”

“Remus.”

“All right, all right. Totally unbiased opinion. Well… This may shock you, but I like this one, even though it doesn’t have a back garden or real dirt and grass to step on.”

“Really? Wow. How come?”

“For one, the location is great, for you and— well, the location is great. And so are the views. I know how important that is to you. The moon looks beautiful from up here. Again, important to you… The sunset was spectacular earlier. You’re probably never going to see the sunrise if you can help it, but…”

You slap him on the shoulder.

“Ow! Just stating the facts, sleepyhead. But, seriously. A modern home like this will give you fewer headaches with heating, plumbing, and electricity. It’s spacious and open, so you can invite everyone over and even have sleepovers, or raging parties if you want. No stairs to inconvenience you or myself when I visit— sorry, not relevant to the equation, scratch that.”

He blushes at his slip-of-the-tongue. Your eyes glint with a spark of hope. 

“But, anyway— overall, this is a very good location with easy access by apparition, muggle transport, or even if you fancy flying your broom from the roof terrace. 

“Oh, bloody hell. Sirius will definitely want to park his bike there, won't he?”

“Oh, you can count on that. But yeah, It feels nice and peaceful since you’re very high up, and it still feels cozy and home-like, even though it’s modern and glassy and steely. 

“The Lupin verdict then?”

“Brace yourself.”

A dramatic pause. A mischievous wink.

“I sincerely like it.”

Your jaw drops and your lips smile at the same time.

“You sincerely like it. Sincerely.”

“That’s what I said.”

“You really, really like it.”

“Yeah. I really, really like it.”

You look up into his eyes. Take a deep mouth breath. Nod once.

“You like it enough to… call it your home too?” 

“I like— hang on. What?” 

“You like this place enough to live here. With me. To enjoy living here with me.” 

“Y/N.”

“Don’t Y/N me. Please. Hear me out, and know this: I’m not taking no for an answer.”

Remus’s eyes are as big as you’ve ever seen them.

“This is for us, Rem. For you and me. I'm not just flat-hunting, I’m looking for our new home. And if you really like this one… then this is it.”

You're breathless and full of adrenaline.

Remus is not moving, You’re not sure he’s breathing.

“What, you really think I forgot?” 

You lower your voice.

“Cross our wands three times, we said. Nothing will keep us apart.”

A pause, a deep, shuddering breath.

“This place is perfect, because it’s perfect for you and me. Together. That study? All those magnificent bookshelves? That’s for you. No stairs — well, besides the one going to the terrace — that’s for you. Two beautiful, spacious en-suites with bathtubs large enough for you to float in. Weightless. Perfect for pre- and post-moon soaks. A gourmet-level open kitchen so you can cook to your heart’s desire and my enjoyment. Heating, cooling, and hot water that will never let us down in winter. A grand fireplace to floo to and from. Beautiful, quiet spaces for reading and writing your future best-selling books. Near your library job. Near the primary school you’ll be teaching at, come Autumn.”

“Y/N. No…”

“No, Remus! Don't say no! Don’t you dare go back on your promise to me!” 

“This is not what I promised to you. And I can’t… I can’t give you what I promised…”

You grab his hands. Your voice cracks under the weight of your need for him to get it.

“So what? I can. My dad can, all right? So what? I don’t care whose name is on the deed. Where the money comes from. It doesn’t matter! Sorry for being petulant but this is what I want! You and me. Like you promised!”

Your voice quivers into a half-whisper.

“You’re my home, Remus. No place will ever be a home without you.”

You knew you would be dealing with this: the head shakes, the painful looks, the stubborn resistance to anything that looks like undeserved charity in his eyes. 

“I can’t accept this. It’s too much. Your family… They’ve already—”

“Don’t. Don’t make it a pride thing. Don’t make it about pity or whatever bollocks you think this is. Because it's not!”

You are prepared to beg. There’s not an ounce of pride involved in this negotiation at all.

“My filthy-rich dad wants to give me a ridiculous graduation present, alright? I haven’t earned this place either. But I want it. I want it because I want you in it. With me.”

“Your parents couldn’t possibly be alright with a freeloading flatmate...”

“Don’t call yourself that ever again. That's not true and you know it, Remus. And not only they’re okay with this, and so is my sarcastic arse of a brother by the way, they picked these bloody places with you and me in mind. I told you, they love you too. Please get that through your gorgeous, thick, daft head.”

Time to employ the big guns: Puppy eyes. Ticking orders like an exasperated sergeant.

“Please say yes. Please, Remus. Say yes, and hug me already, and let’s crack open that bottle of champagne over there, and get absolutely sloshed, and sleep on the carpet, by the fire, on our first night. In our home. 

The pièce de résistance: the puppiest puppy eyes ever puppied. Put Padfoot to shame.

“Please, Rem. Just say yes. Make our dream come true, yeah? Come on. For me?” 

Remus looks at you, his eyes brimming with tears like yours. 

Then he grabs you by the waist and hoists you in a rib-cracking embrace which elicits a giggly yelp from you, his head buried on your shoulder. You can feel his silent sobs. His heated torso pressing into you. His galloping heartbeats. 

A joy starts bubbling inside your stomach. Your eleven-year-old dream is about to come true. 

Remus sets you down. Looks you deep in the eyes for a few seconds.

“You’re the most stubborn, bossy, wonderful friend I could ever ask for.” 

He wipes your tears with his thumbs, and you do the same for him. His voice turns soft like a caress.

“I love you.” 

You melt. And now you can't breathe.

He kisses your forehead. Your cheeks. 

Looks up and around at the high ceilings. At the beautiful marble and glass staircase to the roof terrace. Everything you deserve. 

Then he looks back at your beautiful, flushed, elated face. Memorising every freckle. Every millisecond of you.

He smiles sadly.

“I’m so sorry.” 

And with that, he bolts up the stairs to the roof. 

You're frozen in place. The shock of what he just said and did leaves you paralysed for about ten seconds, long enough for him to make it up the stairs.

You can’t move, you can’t believe—

“What…? Remus?… Remus!” 

You finally stumble after him, feet barely catching on the slick floors.

“Please! Remus!” 

But by the time you burst through the terrace doors—

💥CRACK!💥

He's gone. Apparated away.

“Remus… no…”

The waning crescent moon looks beautiful up in the sky. You just cannot appreciate it with your eyes full of tears and your heart in pieces.

♥️🐺♥️🐺♥️🐺♥️🐺♥️🐺♥️🐺♥️🐺♥️🐺♥️🐺♥️

PART 2

A/N:

Florence the owl is named after Florence Nightingale, trailblazer in the world of medicine, as the founder of modern nursing in the 1860’s.

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