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marauders1971-1978 · 4 months ago

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Newt Scamander x Remus Lupin

Be reborn, pull a corpse out of a bog, fall in love

Snippets, Songs, Images and Sketches from two fics (linked at the bottom)

It was odd, but not unpleasant company. Remus had spent many long weeks walking across various British farmland and woodland in the days before and after his transformation - both to keep himself away from civilisation and to give himself something to do, lest he fall into a well of self pity. Having another person by his side was a welcome change.

He was quite adept at herbology, and knew more than enough about mundane and magical creatures to get by in his school years, but it was nothing on Scamander (or ‘Newt’ as he repeatedly insisted). Unusual though it was, at first, to spend so much time with one person and be asked very little about his personal life, and told very little in return, he began to appreciate how refreshing it was to have something to think about other than the death of his closest allies.

Boggarts and ley lines, bowtruckles and species of wand wood, harvesting of leeches and how to call for various species of mundane birds. His strange (research partner? Friend? Mentor?) employer had plenty to fill their silences. He was rather like James, in that way, Remus supposed. Always with something to say, if the topic tickled him the right way - not to mention fond of a cold morning outside. He still hadn’t officially agreed to let the man conduct any off the books observations or experiments on him at his most vulnerable, but he was warming to the idea. Surely the hands that coaxed red squirrels down from the trees could never do anything too dehumanising.

Presently, they were sat on their haunches, Wellington boots rendered redundant in the still, murky water of the New Forest peatlands. The sunlight was waning behind them and the low streaks of light pierced through the trees, dappling the wet marsh before them in evening gold. Remus’ feet were numb, but he wasn’t willing to complain, and instead focused his attention on the clumps of mud and thick reeds that poked above the surface of the deeper areas, waiting for magical activity.

Newt leaned in slightly, so that their heads were close enough for Remus to catch his low whisper.

“They come out at sunset of course, but I suspect it’s because of the dappling. They can be quite lonely creatures. A facsimile of your kin is sometimes enough.”

Remus didn’t comment, but silently agreed. Particularly as the light tickle of Newt’s conspiratorial mutterings reminded him quite painfully of Sirius’ sarcastic commentary whispered in Remus’ ear at the back of the classroom for his amusement.

“See it?”

Remus’ eyes searched the water’s edges until he found it - the dapple of light that didn’t belong. Slightly more silver than gold, and bobbing almost imperceptibly at the wet banks to their right.

“How will we catch it?”

Newt gave him a rare sideways glance and a small smile.

“Play along,” he muttered, before slowly rising to his full height - out of the sparse remaining sunlight and into the shadow. Remus watched as the little orb seemed to come to life. As the light continued to wane, it was much easier to see the creature fully. The orb was but a fishing lure for an unsuspecting mammal, and the beast responsible for it a true wisp of a thing, thin limbed and almost transparent - holding the ghostly lantern up for Newt to see.

It remained crouched, belly to the soil, muscles tense like a waiting viper, feeling the magical, insatiable hunger beg at its mind.

“I’m not frightened of you.”

It was somewhat true. Viscerally, he was frightened. But that was just biology. He could think over biology - his mind was king of his body. No matter if there was fear in his bones, they couldn’t make him flee.

He was not a miracle worker. The beast did not roll, belly up, and welcome him like the young crups in the suitcase, but there was some tentative understanding between them. An hour and then another slipped by while the two sized each other up. Newt could crouch there all night if his life depended on it (which it did). Eventually the wolf snuffed what might have been read as a sigh of resignation and the muscles in its hind legs visibly relaxed. Its eyes, however, did not leave Newt.

“Thank you.” He muttered, ducking his head slightly to match his words. Slowly, he moved to the mud wall of the den and sat himself down, leaving a good six feet between the two of them (enough space to cast the chain in a pinch) and took out his notebook.

“I’m glad we could come to understand each other,” he carried on, opening it to a blank page and taking out a pencil. “I doubt you’d enjoy me anyway. I’ve had plenty of animal bites and nobody has bothered to clean the plate, so to speak.”

As the moon met the horizon and began to disappear from sight, the serenity and careful quiet between them was broken. A hauntingly human scream tore through the silent night and the wolf scrabbled in the mud, trying to lodge itself in the furthest corner of their little den - defensive and frightened. The teeth reappeared for the first time in many hours, snapping at Newt, though this time with a blatant stay back in its wide-eyed stare.

Newt was never one to act predictably.

Unwilling to watch and offer no comfort as the creature squealed in terror, he edged forward, mindful to tuck the chain safely up his sleeve, lest it accidentally make contact. Whale-eyed and desperate, it snapped at him, but without much direction. With one hand carefully placed on its tense neck to make sure it couldn’t catch him in its jaws, Newt crouched down along its flank and ran a gentle hand along the thick brown fur in some instinctive effort to console it.

He could feel the rippling muscles under his hands, knotting and unknotting as the daylight broke the curse. The whimpers and desperate screams were something beyond pain. Newt wondered if the wolf had any awareness that it would be back in a lunar month’s time, or if, at the end of every cycle, it felt it would die.

They couldn’t hide from the sunlight much longer and the screams died to a breathless keening as its biology rewrote itself all over again. His boldness waned when the animal was gone, leaving behind the sweaty, shuddering shoulders of the man on the ground in front of him. Contorted like a frightened child and facing away from him, Newt could only assume that tears might accompany the frightened gasps. The idea of bearing witness to it did something uncomfortable and foreign to his insides and he felt as though the skin under his hands, where soft fur once was, might burn white hot as punishment for looking and touching where he didn’t belong.

It was raining.

Remus reached down to the floorboards to collect his jumper and trousers from the day before and attempted to wriggle into them without leaving the scant warmth that had managed to accumulate under the bedding. Finding his wand on the windowsill, he summoned a pair of wool socks and tried to convince himself to stand.

He’d had worse mornings-after. Nothing seemed to be broken or bleeding, and there was no taste of iron in his mouth. There was an undeniable sickening feeling twisting in his stomach, but there were a hundred things that could be.

The old floorboards groaned as they bore his weight and he made his way downstairs, careful to make enough noise so that he wouldn’t startle Scamander. There was a warm, dim light coming from the kitchen and Newt was sat at the scarred farmhouse table reading a book with both hands wrapped around a cup of tea.

At the sight of him, the odd sickening feeling seemed to rise like a tsunami and he clamped his lips together, willing himself not to retch. The other man looked up, and now it was Remus who could not meet his eyes. Instead, he tried to focus on something safe, like his hands, but the ghost of his cold fingers against his back crawled down Remus’ spine and he could think of no solution but to back away, into the dusty sitting room where Newt was safely out of his line of sight.

“Remus?”

He swallowed a shuddering gasp and the urge to vomit along with it before answering.

“I’m fine.”

He heard the rustle of Newt’s book closing, but not the scraping of a chair. The thudding in his ears calmed somewhat and he pressed his cold fingers against his eyes.

“There is… literature about werewolves being “moon sick” before and after transformations,” Newt offered matter-of-factly. “Perhaps that’s the issue?”

Remus laughed. Once. Cold and empty.

“It’s not that. It’s true, but it’s not that. It’s just… It’s been a while.”

Newt was silent. Remus pressed his back against the wall and slid down it so he could sit and rest his head on his knees. He could feel the tense pull of his shoulders, ready to spring up at the threat of movement. Thankfully, there was none. Newt stayed still and out of sight.

“A while since what?”

Since he’d been seen. Since he’d been touched.

Since anyone had said ‘Moony’.

“Since I’ve had company.”

��Are we going to bury it?” He asked, trying to catch Newt’s line of thinking. He was crouched down beside the jar and had placed both hands on the wide lid. Again, the light caught him. The bright eyes, the determined expression and the careful hands that set his chest on fire with a bone deep pining for the company of friends.

“I don’t think so. Let’s see if I’m right.”

He twisted and released the lid before stepping back to watch.

The little wisp climbed, weightlessly, out of the top of the jar and dropped down onto the ground without disturbing a leaf or twig with its tiny feet. Newt leaned in, looking almost eager, as it picked its way across the forest floor to the body of the dog.

Whatever was in the lantern seemed to have a want, or a need, to be closer. Remus could see it struggling against the ghostly glass like a moth on a window. The two creatures met - the wisp and the corpse - and the lantern was lowered onto the still body.

As the wisp released its grip, the lantern shattered, as though made of something more than light and smoke. The tinkling of ethereal glass echoed around the small clearing and the little light sank into the dog’s fur.

And the animal went up in flames.

Remus staggered back without thought and turned to Newt for some reassurance that the silvery flames were to be expected. Unable to find any horror or panic, he watched the reflection of the fire in his eager eyes instead. Had he known?

As abruptly as it had started, the flames vanished, leaving behind no trace of the dog other than a handful of ashes that slipped away on the slight breeze. The hinkypunk, looking much dimmer without its lantern, disappeared with the ash, like a wisp of smoke.

Newt vanished the jar and crouched down where the dog had been, his nose almost to the leaves. Remus lit his wand, now that they were without the lantern.

“Completely gone. Passed on, I suppose.”

“Passed on?”

Newt stood and placed a hand on Remus’ shoulder - the first time he’d touched him since the moon had touched the horizon line the night before. With a slight pressure, he steered Remus around so they could walk, side by side, back the way they’d come.

“The rest of it. What was left, I mean.” Newt paused for a moment, apparently looking for the right words.

“The body died a good while ago, I’d think. But perhaps it’s the nature of an environment like a bog. It clings to things that should be let go. Things get left behind, left to stagnate - trapped in the water.”

Remus stumbled on a tree root and felt Newt’s hand tighten on the shoulder of his jacket. He made sure to hold his wand aloft, to better light the path.

“So it’s alone in there, unable to move onward, or to return to how it was before, it longs for someone, or something to join it. To share the misery or to pull it out, I’m not certain.”

“You think the wisp comes from the bodies?”

“Quite sure. I believe there was something soulful about the little light.”

“I don’t want to hurt people.” He confessed. He wasn’t going to cry. Not over this, again. He’d done his time.

“I don’t think you ever have.”

He pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes until he saw stars and pressed his lips together to try and keep from embarrassing himself further.

“You don’t know me that well, Newt, but thank you.”

There was a rustle, and Remus tensed in fear that Newt might touch him, but no touch came.

“You’ll have to prove me wrong, then.” His voice had a shy cheekiness that forced a laugh to bubble free from Remus’ tight lips without his permission. It was but a small wave that warned of a coming tsunami of unbidden relief and he turned at the sound of a small laugh and managed to enjoy the sight of Newt’s crinkled eyes as he chuckled to himself despite his recent roller coaster.

Their laughing filled the room this time and Remus reached for his now tepid tea for something to break the delirium.

“I should have warned you that you can’t turn your back on Moony,” he mumbled into the rim of his mug. “James did say he was a menace for it.”

“It’s difficult to know what to do with yourself after fighting, I’d imagine.” Newt's gift of dropping true, but uncomfortable statements was as accurate as ever.

Still, that was something he wasn’t about to delve into with an eccentric magizooligist on this weekend afternoon.

“Shall we do the sitting room?”

They went around the windows and doors, sealing them against the outside air and making the place worthy of having a fire in the hearth. Remus found a tin of semi-congealed paint under the stairs and took it upon himself to touch up the flaky gloss after pulling as much moisture from the wood as he could manage.

Thankfully, there was little more talk of the death of their intended adulthood trajectories and they finished in the back bedroom, Remus pulling the bed frame away from the wall so they could see how effective his limited cleaning spells were at sorting out mold. On his hands and knees between the bed and the wall, he tried not to imagine how foolish he must look to Newt as he cleaned away another unsuccessful scourgify attempt.

“Maybe a banishment type, rather than a cleaning type?”

Remus jumped, not expecting Newt’s voice to be so close. He had stretched across the bed on his stomach so he could peer down into the gap over Remus’ shoulder.

“Christ, Newt.” He looked determinedly down at the skirting board to make sure Newt could see nothing more than the back of his head and certainly not his burning face. “Yeah, that’s a shout… How do muggles do this?”

He couldn’t concentrate with Newt’s face so close to his hair and, again, tried to push any deeper examination of that reaction to the back of his mind.

It had been long enough since anyone had been that close to him, so surely it wasn’t unfair to get a little flustered.

“That’ll have to do.” He retreated a little, before unfurling himself from behind the bed and revealing the slightly better state of the wall.

Newt kneeled on the bed, apparently content with the outcome. Remus was tall enough to be getting on with, but he had rarely been in a position to look down at Newt. A familiar but unbidden fizzing was set off in his stomach again, along with the sickening lurch of painfully tainted memories of being in this position several years ago.

“Your knees are dusty.”

The memory of Newt, twisted on the counter, forcing up the sash with both arms, the hair lit on fire by the afternoon sun and that dangerous slip of pale stomach, was burned into his eyelids. He sank as low as he could in the bath, his knees breaking the surface so he could hide himself up to his nose in the hot water. He couldn’t seem to wash away the image of his crinkled nose, laughing on his bed that morning, nor the wry look in his rusty green eyes.

He’d been here before. He knew when he was done for.

He lay there, crumpled like a discarded scrap of paper, until the water went tepid and there were goosebumps covering his thighs. He didn’t know if he was brave enough to let his solitude end, now that he was quite sure what he was afflicted with, but he could hardly hide in the bathroom forever.

There was a soft knock on the door and Remus startled so abruptly that a wave of bathwater splattered on the tile floor.

“I was just checking you hadn’t drowned.” It was muffled by the door but he was certain he could hear the cheeky smile in his voice.

“Unfortunately, I’ll live to see another day,” he grunted, spurred by the intrusion to stand up. As he’d feared, it was bitterly cold, standing there damp, and he swiftly took on the appearance of a recently plucked chicken. “Did you manage to get a fire going?” He called out hopefully, clambering out of the tub and rummaging through his discarded clothes for his wand so he could vanish the puddle of water he’d made. Apparently, Newt had already left after confirming signs of life and he was forced to peer down the staircase in his towel to see if there would be anywhere warm for him to retreat to.

(Never mind the burning in his chest that screamed of coming home at the sight of Newt’s head in a book that he glimpsed over the back of the sofa. Never mind that.)

Newt shook his head like a wet dog, smattering Remus with water, and clumsily tried to drag his waterlogged body to firmer ground. Apparently out of his depth and without foothold, Remus coiled the rope around his arm a few more times and tugged him in until he could reach out a hand for him to grasp.

His slippery hand gripped Remus’ like a vice and after a moment of frantic scrabbling, he freed his torso and waist from the waters.

“I think so, but I couldn’t pull it up.” He was breathless and Remus allowed him a moment to orient himself before he set about helping free his legs. “Wouldn’t go under in the dark - it’s like devil’s snare down there. Think something bit me.”

“ Bit you ?” Remus’ voice came out strangled and horrified - mind full of inferi.

“Probably a newt or something,” he grunted, scrabbling without grace onto mostly dry ground and untying himself. “Water’s freezing. Can’t feel my feet.”

He looked like a wet ferret with his clothes filthy and clinging to him. He’d lost a boot to the bog and just as predicted, there was some strange creature hanging off his ankle. Remus curled his lip in disgust, leaning closer for a proper look.

It was shaped like a snail shell, but soft and pulsating. He reached out a finger intending to prod it, but Newt caught his hand hurriedly.

“Don’t poke it, you might hurt it!”

Remus couldn’t help himself from one short disbelieving laugh even though he knew it would annoy Newt. “You must be kidding. It’s biting you. Looks like a massive leech.”

Newt picked up his own leg and forced it round so he could inspect the creature latched onto his exposed skin. “Not a leech. It almost looks like a lobalug, don’t you think?” Remus was flattered that Newt looked up at him as though genuinely expecting his expert opinion, but all he could do was shrug.

“Never heard of that. It just looks like a fat ugly leech to me.”

Newt was contorted around like a pretzel in his effort to get as close a look at the creature as he could manage without dislodging it. Remus watched him, not wanting to offend him but also feeling that he was not thinking straight.

“Um, so what exactly is a lubalog?”

“Lobalug. And they’re usually salt water dwellers, but it might be some kind of variant. The body shape is very similar, but the colours are slightly different. I’ve only seen them a couple of times - sometimes used as weapons my merpeople, on account of the venom-”

“Newt!” Remus tucked his hand in the safety of his jacket sleeve and shot out to flick the creature off. It flopped onto the wet ground and Newt turned to him, scandalised.

“Remus! They’re quite delicate!”

“You just said they were venomous!”

Distracted for a moment, he stepped over, brushing some sketches of what he now recognised as their hinkypunk friend to see what looked like an open journal. His own name jumped out at him, like an inviting little wave, dotted here and there across the open pages of scrawl. Again and again and again.

Remus. Remus. Remus. Remus.

Remus traced a thumb over the drawing in Newt’s notebook, remembering the afternoon that he had fallen asleep reading in front of the fire and felt the hair along the back of his neck stand up in some mixed up combination of embarrassment and flattery. The drawings of his mangled body as a wolf, he could do without looking over again, and tucked them back into the pages of the journal, but the others did something strange to him.

He was both compelled to commit them to memory, but also to look away as though he was prying on something private (which he was) and shameful. He pulled out the portrait. God knows how he’d managed to pull it off without Remus realising he was doing it, but Newt spent so much of his free time either reading about beasts, looking at pictures of beasts or drawing beasts perhaps it was no surprise he had overlooked it.

Remus wouldn’t say he was unpleasant to look at. He was quite content that he had been blessed with a face that was generally inoffensive and trustworthy. Certain things annoyed him, on the days he felt more self-critical than usual. He wished he had more noticeable eyelashes, or perhaps visible eyebrows to speak of. He had spent too much time admiring the determined set of James’ thick eyebrows, or of Sirius’ long lashes, dark against his pale cheeks. In comparison, he felt a little washed out and bland - not even blessed with the sparkly blue eyes and cherubic cheeks that Peter had to go with the blond curls. Perhaps less of a long neck or a less prominent Adam’s apple, or a more interesting colour of hair might’ve improved him.

Looking in the mirror, he might think all of those things, but looking down at Newt’s drawing, it felt offensive that he might even suggest anything should be changed.

If Newt had thought his pale eyebrows and bony neck pleasant enough to commit to paper, then perhaps they weren’t so unfortunate after all.

He would feed the lethifold for Newt. He would wade through a bog for Newt. He would answer questions that made him confront the horrors of the recent past for Newt. And now that he really catalogued their time together, Newt would do all that and more in return.

That was frightening.

Of course - Newt could just be a kind man - it was plain to see that he was more than happy to bend over backwards for any misunderstood beast. It was a real possibility that he was simply one more for the collection (and would that be that bad?). It would not be the first time he looked upon another with admiration and desire and received nothing in return. He was familiar with that. He had admired many men to the extent that it might have pushed the boundary of admiration into infatuation. There had certainly been a time where he had hero-worshiped James to the point of pushing his own morals aside just for a glimpse of his approval. Pining was safe territory.

Reciprocation was dangerous ground.

And it was the smallest of things that had planted that niggling worry. The constant cups of tea, the willingness to follow whenever he fled, the endless patience, the laser-focus of occasional eye-contact and the invitation in. Into the excitement of his interest, into the adventure on the moors. Into the little house in the countryside. Into the suitcase of worldly treasures that he was sat in now.

He groaned, weighed down by the heavy reality of it all, and ran his hands through his hair.

Regardless of the pain it might cause to touch the barely-healed wounds of a few years ago, he had to accept that he was in debt. And not only was he in debt, but that debt was to someone who would keep giving regardless.

And so he should really begin to repay it, no matter how frightening it might be to participate in his own life and stop just allowing things to happen to him, hoping that if they were going to hit him, that it would at least be a glancing blow.

He would run right at this one and, God willing, he would be met with open arms.

“Hey, sit up a bit?”

Newt groaned, screwing his eyes up as though he was worried Remus might try to physically pry them open. He couldn’t help but laugh - there was something undeniably endearing about his scrunched-up face.

“I have to get this off - it’s filthy.”

“‘M not filthy.” He winged petulantly, trying to turn away again. “‘M tired.”

Remus sighed, resolving himself to a lack of cooperation, and climbed back onto the bed, resuming his business-like position straddled over Newt’s legs and took one of his arms in each hand.

“C’mon, up.” He tugged, hoping that Newt might get the picture and help him out a little if he just went for it. Indeed, he allowed himself to be pulled upright and slumped forward straight into Remus, eyes half closed. The solid weight of him draped over Remus’ shoulders and chest was a touch more than his careful mind-wiping could overcome and he froze for a moment, frightened of where to put his hands and of what Newt might find himself leaning against.

Hopefully Newt was far too preoccupied with trying not to be awake to notice Remus’ heart thudding against his chest.

“Er, okay.” He flitted his hands nervously around Newt’s torso, arrested by adrenaline. “Okay, arms first, I think.”

Manoeuvring around the dead weight against him, he manhandled Newt’s arms out of their sleeves, savouring the feeling of his head lying heavy in the crook of his neck and his breath ghosting over his collarbone. Surely that wasn’t a crime? His hands were still inside of Newt’s jumper, the heat of his back burning against Remus’ fingertips and he was unable to resist stroking his thumb over the notches of his spine, pushed out tight against his flesh by his hunched posture. What he wouldn’t give to lean into his desires and pull him close, hands planted against Newt’s back with the sole wish to embrace him so hard that they might melt into one. And what he wouldn’t give to be pulled in, in return.

Not now, though. He wasn’t being selfish now.

And so he took the trim of his jumper and tugged it up over the back of his head, freeing him from it and making him pull closer at the assault of cold air - his freed arms falling by Remus’ hips.

“Er, you’re free to go.” He prompted, shrugging a little to see if jostling Newt’s head might liven him up. Instead, one hand just patted Remus’ thigh vaguely.

“Of course.” He would have to turn himself inside-out in sheer horror if it was revealed to him that Newt had been kidding him on this entire time.

He didn’t want to push Newt off, lest he just fall back, so he went down with him, extracting his arms from under him with some difficulty. As soon as his head hit the pillow, he rolled back over onto his stomach and buried his face into the bedding. Remus snorted and stood, bringing Newt’s shed jumper with him.

“Should have seen that coming.”

Their knees were touching. Through the quilt, but to Remus it felt as if he was being burned. Remus stared at the point of contact, feeling the weight of something pressing in on the both of them in the little room. The quilt rustled and then, quite unexpectedly there was the warmth of another’s face close to his. Too close and yet not close enough. That strange, excited, churning anticipation reared its head again and he felt simultaneously like he might vomit or laugh. Newt’s nose brushed against his, then pressed cold against his cheekbone as their lips met, warm and dry, soft and kind.

He was inhabiting a strange universe where two things were possible at once. Somehow they stayed like that for minutes - maybe hours - and somehow it was over in no more than a couple of loud and painful heartbeats.

And surely, they must have pulled apart. And perhaps their eyes had met - perhaps not. As soon as the eternal moment passed, his briefly silenced mind filled again with frantic buzzing and before he could comprehend whatever happened in the aftermath, he was standing in the hallway listening to the incessant swishing of his own heart in his ears.

Newt did not call out for him. And why would he? He’d just fled after a kiss. He dragged his fingers through his hair, tangling his fingers in it, pulling on it as though a little physical discomfort might push out the painfully loud buzzing of his own painful thoughts.

He needed to get out of the house.

“All fine.” Remus heard his own words as though someone else had said them. He was far away from the present moment, already in the next one - one where his hand was in Newt’s rumpled auburn hair, where his eyelashes tickled his cheek. Where the other man might feel his triumphant, self-satisfied smile against his own lips.

And then the moment rushed up to meet him and the fiction became reality. More impatient than he had intended, but just as sweet. There was his hand on the back of Newt’s head - hair soft under his palm, his fingers snagging in the occasional knot. There was the tickle of the other’s eyelashes against his cheek and the smile, impossible to suppress, pressed recklessly against Newt’s own.

Not soft and kind. He didn’t have the luxury of confidence. Instead, he was forced to fake it until it became reality - pushing himself upon the other in a desperate plea of ‘please, confirm to me that I was right to be brave’.

Newt pulled away and tipped his head forward, breaking their lips apart but resting their foreheads together as he planted a hand on Remus’ arm, gently directing him to sit down beside him. Remus opened his eyes.

Newt was looking at him - with that same lopsided smile that shorted out his thoughts.

“I had hoped that would be your answer.”

Remus snorted and kissed him again, the courage coming easy now. “Did you, now?”

There was another moment or two of silence, Remus looking into the dark silhouette of Newt and Newt, presumably, looking back - waiting for acknowledgement.

When none came, the shadow retreated and the rustling began anew as Newt buried himself back in the familiar quilt.

A few tentative steps into the room gave Remus enough understanding of what he was looking at to see that Newt had not quite turned his back on Moony. That wasn’t to say he was being watched. Sheepishly, like a nervous cat, he inched forward until he was eye to eye with the wizard on the bed who was looking sleepily over at him, blinking slowly in the dim light. Remus wasn’t sure if it was he, or Moony (or if the distinction was idiotic) that noticed the casual position of Newt’s shoulders, sloped down and exposed - the long, vulnerable line from his jaw to his collarbone bared to the night.

He would have been suspicious that the exposed neck was an elaborate act to try and put him at ease, if it weren’t for the fact that Moony’s ears heard the easy noises of a defenceless and sleepy man with ringing clarity (some may say it was by design). The slight rattle of a positional snore and the gurgling of many cups of tea sitting in his stomach could hardly lie.

There was no concealed anxiety in this room.

(Other than the smell of his own fear that was assaulting Moony’s nose, stinging like acid at the back of his throat.)

Emboldened by using the wolf’s image as a convenient mask, Remus stepped forward again, resting his chin on the edge of the mattress and blinking questioningly at Newt’s half lidded eyes. Their faces were so close Moony’s lips twitched as Newt’s breath disturbed the air by his whiskers.

“It’s okay to feel lonely.” Again, just the ghost of a voice behind the words. “Not that I know what you’re thinking - I don’t mean to make assumptions. Just… I just wanted that to be clear. That if you feel alone, it’s alright to look for company.”

It was very difficult to keep strong his weak threads of self control when Newt said things like that.

Moony shivered. He wasn’t sure if it was anxiety, or the cold, but the involuntary movement seemed to break the seal and before he could second guess his decision, Remus was crouched on the bed - four paws awkwardly occupying the small space that was not taken up by Newt.

The image of Fenrir Greyback looming over his childhood bed moments before his life as he knew it was ripped from him floated unbidden to the forefront of his mind. He couldn’t help but groan in horror, then again at the hope that the noise hadn’t sounded like a growl to Newt.

He gagged before he realised the sickening feeling was coming. That seemed to frighten Newt more than the looming form of the werewolf above him and he pushed himself back up before reaching out tentatively towards Moony’s head.

“Goodness, not you feeling out of sorts as well. Perhaps it was a brewing error?”

Newt’s mumblings and worried fluttering fingers were somewhat comforting and Remus would have laughed, if he was able to.

He had been frightfully careful when brewing the potion. The least he could do to repay Newt was to be sure that he wasn’t going to rip his throat out in the middle of the night.

No. It was definitely the horror of realising his own power.

It had always sickened him.

Moony’s breaths came in rough pants and he couldn’t bring himself to look into Newt’s face - instead fixating on the worn collar of the soft, ribbed undershirt and trying not to let his mind float away. As though he’d read his mind, Newt placed one gentle hand on the top of Moony’s head.

“Maybe you’re frightened?” Newt posited, gently brushing his thumb over one of Moony’s soft, whiskered eyebrows. “I look for the company of things that won’t judge me when I’m frightened, too.”

Remus absently wondered if knowing that Moony would not answer back had loosened Newt’s inhibitions too. Or maybe it was the knowledge that Remus in there, closer to the surface this time, that gave him the confidence to put a hand to the back of Moony’s head and pull the wolf in close, inviting him to hide his head under Newt’s chin - the other’s arms around his chest squeezing just hard enough to keep him safely in the little room, present and held.

He wasn’t sure how long Newt let him stay like that, tucked against his chest. He’d acclimatised somewhat to Moony’s superior hearing and no longer heard every breath the other took as though it were an unexpected wave crashing and breaking against him. Perhaps not having his nerves fried at every slight movement or sound had been a helping hand to calm him too. Regardless, Newt’s arms seemed to have grown tired and when they slipped away down to his sides, Remus, or Moony, or perhaps it didn’t matter who, had decided to spend that night - often so panicked and alone - up on the bed, snuggled under Newt’s arm, head lying heavy across the other’s shoulders with the comforting weight of his chin on his head.

They lay there for what might’ve been minutes or hours, Remus’ mind drifting between memories and blissful nothing as he continued the stroking of Newt’s back. He found he twitched less when his hand was heavier, so he obliged - thinking of many similar mornings with Sirius and his long, light fingers trailing back and forth over Remus’ arm.

He didn’t imagine Newt would like that.

Strange how one could be in the same situation and yet enough small details were different that it felt entirely new.

In return, Newt’s hand disappeared from his hair and found the flat of his back between his shoulders and with a firm, predictable touch he pulled them closer with an almost crushing surety. Pressed that close, there was no secret to the contours of the other’s body. Long-limbed and wiry, like Remus, but unexpectedly strong, he was buried almost entirely under the quilt and guarded by the arm tensed against his side, the curve of a shoulder by his ear and the familiar entanglement of their legs - uncomfortably comforting, long shins and sharp knees locked together. Safe in the almost-darkness, he didn’t have to trouble himself with what may come next, or if his ears were burning red. Just the smell of Newt’s neck pressed against his nose, the warm quilt and the echo of the other’s heartbeat that was just audible where his sweaty ear was pressed against one equally sweaty bicep.

He had often thought that the moments after the moon were somewhat like being born - frightening and vulnerable, exposed and cold. Confused and disorientated, forced to acclimatise. Strange that this felt reminiscent - like the other side of the same coin. Warm, a little uncomfortably damp, bare and held in a quiet moment.

Too warm, actually. Though he was loath to let it end, he wriggled up and resurfaced, swallowing the cool air and he knew his cheeks must be bright red and feeling the strange sweaty stickiness of his right ear where it had been crushed between their bodies. He met Newt’s eyes and his freckled face cracked into an amused and lopsided smile before he could even light the spark of his own self-consciousness.

Giddy with desire and bolstered by Newt’s light-heartedness, he hooked a finger in the waistband of Newt’s shorts and yanked them down as far as his reach would allow. Again, Newt laughed, soft and short, and Remus caught it, lightheaded from the success of his own daring. Newt wiggled his hips - showing off his recently acquired below-the-belt coordination - and Remus pushed them the rest of the way down with a well placed foot.

And God, wasn’t it nice , wasn’t it electrifying, to be here again? Wasn’t it thrilling to have the hot, excited breaths of someone else against his skin, and his own thudding heart in his ears?

They were still nose-to-nose, laughing against the other’s lips. Newt’s gaze travelled from Remus’ red cheeks to his eyes.

It was less like staring into the sun - blinding and unknowable. More like peeking through a ground-floor window into the brief fleeting image of foreign life.

As quickly as he glimpsed it, Newt looked away and pressed a kiss at his temple before rolling onto his back and pulling Remus with him. For the second time that night, but for the first in this body, he found himself looming on top of the other, and once again, he found the other laying there beneath him, unconcerned and - this time - delightfully bedraggled. Head quirked a little to one side as though pondering what might happen next.

Facsimile of Kin - Chapter 1 - BeckettSimpleton - Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling [Archive of Our Own]

As Observed by Newt Scamander - Chapter 1 - BeckettSimpleton - Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling [Archive of Our Own]

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