got-the-cheese-touch - Tumblr blog

got-the-cheese-touch · 14 days ago

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holy fuck 😭

Unbearable, Desperate, and Holy

remus lupin x fem!reader

synopsis: remus has always believed he’s destined to break what he loves. but you never give up on him, patiently waiting through every silence and every shadow. slowly, he begins to see that even the most guarded hearts can find peace when they’re no longer fighting alone.

—or, in which remus is desperately, irrevocably in love with you.

warnings: emotional vulnerability, self-worth issues, chronic pain mentions, soft angst, heavy yearning, remus pov centric. ft remus being in love and convinced he doesn’t deserve it.

w/c: 3.6k

a/n: based on this request!!! this was a little chaotic and messy to write, so sorry anon :(

masterlist

Remus Lupin always thought he took up too much space in the wrong ways. Not loud or large or looming—but in the way dust clings to the windowsill long after the window has been opened.

He believed himself to be made of things left behind: claw marks in soft wood, dreams forgotten on pillows, the distant echo of someone closing a door too softly to be angry.

He didn’t trust joy when it came, didn’t reach for it with open palms—only half-closed ones, calloused and cautious, like someone expecting to be burnt for touching too long. There is a kind of sorrow in him that doesn’t cry out but seeps, that settles into his bones like a draft through old stone, quiet and cold and constant.

You notice it most in the mornings, when he sits on the edge of the bed as though he’s apologizing to the sunrise for waking up again.

When he’s low, he forgets how to carry his own name. He becomes a silence instead, all sharp edges muted beneath the weight of memory and moonlight. His shoulders hunch as if he’s always expecting the next wound, and you know—it’s not because he’s weak, but because he’s survived so much. He’s learned how to brace for pain like it’s weather.

There are days when he walks like he’s walking through fog, distant, unreachable, tethered to something far away. On those days, you learn to speak softly, not because he’s fragile, but because the world has never been gentle with him, and it is a gift to offer what it never gave.

There is a rhythm to being with him, one that requires stillness and patience and the kind of listening most people never bother to do. The full moon casts long shadows in your shared life, but even longer silences. He tries to shield you from them, tries to sleep elsewhere, speak less, touch nothing.

He thinks if he makes himself smaller, if he disappears just enough, you won’t feel the darkness inching in behind him. But you do.

At first, you think it’s you. That maybe you said something wrong or left the light on too long or held his hand too tightly that morning when he was already somewhere else. That maybe this time, this year, this particular stretch of days—bitter with memories and cold with something more than weather—has worn too thin between you.

He’s always quieter when the seasons turn, when autumn collapses into that sullen, skeletal hush before winter begins, but this silence feels different. Less like absence, more like exile.

He doesn’t just withdraw. He vanishes. Not with dramatic exits or cruel words, but with doors left slightly ajar and eyes that don’t meet yours for more than a moment. He forgets things. Misses dinners. Doesn’t respond to notes. When you speak, you feel like a ghost tapping against a window—never quite loud enough to be let in.

It isn’t only you, you realize. Sirius stops by one evening, his hair wind-blown and his mouth lined with worry, and tries to coax something out of Remus with his usual half-mocking, half-loving bravado.

Even Sirius—who wears loyalty like a second skin, whose mischief is a language all its own—gets nothing more than a brittle remark and the echo of a slammed door. You catch the way he flinches, not from fear, but from something quieter and sharper: the pain of watching something once solid begin to fracture.

“He’s not himself,” Sirius mutters, his jaw tight, like that’s meant to be enough. But you know better. He is himself.

This is exactly what he does—he recedes. He withdraws like tide from shore, leaving behind the wreckage of everything he doesn't know how to say.

He doesn't break loudly; he disappears in pieces so small you almost miss the moment they go. And the worst part is, you see it. You’ve always seen him, even when he tries so hard not to be seen.

You see the way he grips the inside of his sleeve when he’s afraid of his own hands. You see how he tries to breathe evenly when his body betrays him and the full moon crawls closer, quiet and cruel.

You see how he smiles with only half his mouth when he's pretending. You see every fractured corner of him and still—still—your heart stutters when he walks into the room.

Still, you think his voice sounds like a poem.

Still, you’d memorize the map of his sorrow just to know which part of him aches the most.

You don’t want to fix him. You don’t even want to save him. You just want to stay close enough that he remembers what it feels like to be touched gently, to be wanted without expectation or fear.

And maybe that’s your flaw—this quiet hunger of yours.

Not for the parts of him that are whole, but for the ones that aren't. For the soft ruin he tries to hide, for the way he breaks without sound and still, somehow, gathers the strength to offer you the pieces.

You need him the way lungs need air—not in some sweeping, cinematic way, but in the aching stillness between heartbeats. In the way your fingers ache when he’s too far away. In the way your chest feels hollow without the steady rise and fall of his beside you.

You are not whole without him either, and maybe that’s why it hurts—because you don't know how to ask him to stay when staying is the thing he fears most. But even now, even here, even in the silence he’s built around himself like armor, you would still crawl through the dark just to sit at his feet..

And so this is how you find yourself wandering the halls after hours, trailing fingertips against the chill stone walls as if they’ll speak back to you.

The night is folded quiet around the castle, stitched with the kind of stillness that seems to hold something in its lungs. You don’t know why your feet bring you here, not in language anyway—but your heart has always known his hiding places. The places he goes when he thinks he doesn’t deserve to be found.

He’s in the back corner of the library, where the dust settles like snow on forgotten pages and the lamps burn low enough to turn everything sepia.

He sits with his shoulders slightly curled inwards, like he’s folding in on himself, like he thinks maybe he can disappear into the book in front of him if he turns one more page.

You stand at a distance for a moment, drinking him in—the long stretch of his spine bent toward something invisible, the soft brown of his hair touched gold by the lamp above him.

He looks like a boy carved out of dusk and silence, like something you could hold in your hands and still lose. And there’s something inside you—an ache so deep it doesn’t have a name—that can’t bear to watch him slip further away.

So you go to him.

Your skirt brushes against the chair, your hand resting lightly on your lap, your fingers brushing the hem of your sleeve as if it anchors you to this moment. You don’t look at him, but you feel the way the air shifts—how his shoulders tense, then hesitate, then ease, like he’s trying not to hope and failing quietly at it.

He doesn’t move. But after a long silence, his voice comes low, grainy with sleep deprivation. “Shouldn’t you be asleep?”

You don’t look at him yet. Just offer a small smile to the table between you. “Could say the same to you, Remmy,”

He exhales, slow and tight, like his ribs haven’t expanded properly in days. “I couldn’t.” His eyes are on the book again, though you’re almost certain he hasn’t seen a single word.

You nod, “Me neither.”

He still doesn’t look at you, but his fingers pause on the page. “You don’t have to stay, you know?”

You turn toward him then, just a little. Enough that he could feel it if he wanted to. “I know, Rem,”

A heartbeat passes between you like a held breath.

“I haven’t… I’m not good company,” he says. It’s said like fact, like something he’s recited to himself often enough that he’s started to believe it.

You don’t answer right away. Instead, you look at him—really look at him.

The curve of his nose, the faint circles under his eyes, the way his hands twitch with things he won’t say. You look at the boy who builds cages around himself and calls it kindness. You look at him like he hung the constellations.

“I’m not here for company,” you say, and it’s true.

You’re here for him. For the boy who forgets he’s allowed to be held. For the boy who thinks silence is safer than softness. For the boy who doesn’t know what it’s like to be seen and not turned away.

He blinks slowly, his expression unreadable.

“I don’t want to hurt you.” His voice barely carries.

You watch the shadows move over his face like clouds across the moon. “You’re not.”

He tenses again, then lowers his head. “Not yet.”

And oh—how much he believes that. How deeply it’s carved into him, like an old wound that never quite healed.

You’ve always known there was something inside Remus Lupin that had been twisted into believing pain was his only inheritance. That someone, somewhere—whether by words or absence—made him believe that hurting was the price of being alive. That being needed was the only way he was allowed to exist.

What a cruel inheritance it is, to grow up thinking that breaking is a prerequisite to belonging. That love must be earned through silence and suffering.

You want to reach inside that place and rewrite the story. But for now, all you have is this moment, and the way he keeps his distance like it’s an apology.

So instead, you reach out, barely brushing the sleeve of his jumper. “I don't think you're capable of hurting me, Remus. Even so, I think you would be the first would I would welcome,”

He breathes like it hurts.

The library has long since fallen into hush, shelves turned to shadows, the faint golden lamps burning low like evening stars. Somewhere far off, a grandfather clock stirs, humming the hour gently to itself.

Remus exhales slowly, tension ebbing from his frame like the tide drawing back from the shore.

He turns his head, just slightly, just enough to look at you, and you see the faintest softening in the lines of his face. His hands are loose now, resting on the open book between you both, though he hasn’t turned a page in what must’ve been an hour.

You don’t speak again. You just let the silence rest there, not as something to be broken, but as something shared.

After a while, his voice brushes against the quiet, low and husky and no longer strained. “It’s late.”

You nod, rising slowly. He gathers his things with the gentle, practiced care of someone used to hiding when he’s hurting.

You watch him shift his weight, just slightly, and there it is—a flicker of a wince, the subtle press of his hand to his hip. That old, stubborn ache, the kind that lingers long after the moon has gone. He tries to hide it, like he always does, swallowing it down like it's just another part of him that shouldn’t be seen.

But before he can say a word, you step forward and quietly take three of the heavier books from his arms. He glances at you, almost sheepish. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” you say, and you mean it.

So you walk beside him, quiet again, the weight of his books in your arms, the weight of unspoken things hanging just slightly lighter in the air now.

The sky outside is indigo and plum, the moon tucked away behind lazy clouds. The castle has gone drowsy—only a few lit windows flicker in the distance, like small beacons.

You cross the cobbled path near the courtyard, where the grass glows silver in the low light, and as you step into the open, the moment shifts.

And then— A low, deliberate sound breaks the silence. You both stop.

There, perched just beyond the hedgerow, is a cat. Or something shaped like one.

Sleek as poured ink. Eyes like molten coin. It steps forward without fear, emerging from the path that leads—oddly—toward the Slytherin dormitory.

You tilt your head, intrigued. “Where did you come from?”

The cat makes no sound this time. Just watches you with the unnerving patience of something ancient.

You crouch, arms out like instinct. “C’mere, lovely.”

It hesitates. Blinks slowly. Then steps forward as if it had always meant to. With deliberate grace, it presses its body into your hands, and your face breaks open like a dawn.

“Oh my God, look at you,” you breathe, cradling the creature with reverence. “You’re gorgeous.”

And you are glowing—full of some private joy that seems to spill out into the night.

Remus watches you from just beyond reach.

And something inside him folds in on itself.

You hold the cat against your chest like it’s something holy, like it might purr a spell from your ribs. And he stares—not at the cat—but at you. The way your face softens. The way your hands move. The way your smile is a whole sunrise pressed into one expression.

He loves you.

He loves you so much it terrifies him.

It’s not new, this feeling. It’s been creeping into him for months—slow and sure like ivy around stone—but right now, watching you croon at this creature like it's the only thing that’s ever existed, he feels it all at once. Like a star collapsing inside his chest.

You’re too lovely for him. Too good. You glow even when you’re tired, even when you’re angry. You love with the kind of heart that bends toward ruin and still reaches for more. He doesn’t understand it—how you can look at someone like him and see something worth staying for.

He used to think his curse was what would keep people away. Now he realizes—it’s the wanting that frightens him more. The unbearable ache of being loved so gently it might undo him.

You press your cheek to the cat’s head, grinning. “It’s purring like mad.”

He doesn’t trust his voice, so he nods.

And you glance back. “You okay?”

He nods again. But something in his expression must shift, because your eyes soften even further, if even possible.

“I don’t know how something this lovely just wandered up to me,” you say absently, kissing the cat’s head.

He does. Of course he does.

Because the world is always giving you beautiful things. Because you're the kind of person who notices, who loves first, who stays.

The cat lifts its head suddenly, silver eyes locking onto his.

It looks at him too long.

And for a single heartbeat, Remus swears it knows him.

He blinks, and the moment’s gone. The cat stretches luxuriously in your arms, curling into you like it belongs.

You turn your face toward him again, and your smile—lit by nothing but starlight—undoes him entirely.

Eventually, the cat begins to shift.

It lifts its head from the cradle of your arms and stretches, slow and serpentine. Then, without ceremony or gratitude, it slips from your grasp and lands with a quiet thud on the grass. You watch as it pads off, vanishing once more toward the shadowed path that brushes the edge of the Slytherin dormitories.

You straighten slowly. Your arms feel colder without it.

“A shame,” you murmur. “I liked it.”

Remus doesn’t speak.

He watches you instead. Watches the soft, almost childish pout of your lips. The way your arms fold loosely over your chest. The way your eyes linger in the direction the cat left, as if willing it back with sheer want alone.

He should say something.

Should offer comfort, a joke, or even a distraction.

But all he can think is how beautiful it is that you felt that so deeply—something so small, so fleeting. You love like it matters and you mourn even the briefest magic.

He’s never met anyone like you.

You glance at him, eyes still wistful. “We should go.”

You bend down, gather the books again with care, and without needing to be asked, fall into step beside him. He walks slowly, careful of his hip, and you match him without making it feel like a mercy.

The grass fades to stone beneath your feet. The castle looms closer, golden in the glow of scattered sconces. A wind curls around your ankles like a whisper.

“Do you ever feel like…” you begin, then falter.

He glances down. “Like what?”

You pause, then smile faintly. “Like if you look at something too long, you’ll start loving it.”

His breath catches.

You’re still looking straight ahead. Not at him, or at anything.

“I think that happens to me a lot,” you add softly. “Maybe too much.”

And he knows—knows without needing to ask—that you’re not just talking about the cat.

Remus clears his throat. “You don’t—” he swallows. “You don’t love things too easily. You just... see them clearer than the rest of us.”

You glance at him again. And this time, the look in your eyes is sharper. But he can’t hold your gaze.

Because loving you feels like standing at the edge of something infinite—and part of him still thinks he’ll be asked to jump to prove he’s worthy.

There are some things he’s never told you. Things like how his worst fear isn’t the full moon—it’s this. You. Your gentleness, your trust, your stupid, stubborn, beautiful belief in him.

Because someone once taught Remus Lupin that to be wanted was a debt. That love came with strings. That to be chosen meant to owe something back—and he’s terrified he doesn’t have enough to give.

Terrified that one day, you’ll see the wolf before the boy.

That you’ll flinch.

That you’ll leave.

But you never do.

You're walking beside him still, arms full of books that should've been his burden, his to carry. Your fingers brush his once—lightly, accidentally—and he feels it in his ribs.

You don’t know this, but he's been learning to breathe slower around you. Like if he’s not careful, his chest might crack open under the weight of what he feels.

You're both quiet for a long moment. Then you speak again, voice softer than parchment turning.

“Do you ever wonder if we’re just circling something we’re too afraid to name?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. His hand flexes at his side.

“Sometimes I wonder if I am.”

You both stop at the landing where the staircases begin to split—one path to Gryffindor, one to your dormitory down the corridor.

You shift the books in your arms.

He finally looks at you, the corner of his mouth twitching like he might say something this time.

Instead, he asks quietly, “Would it ruin it? If we didn’t keep pretending?”

“I don’t know,” you say. “But I think not saying anything hurts more than the risk of saying ever could.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” He whispers.

" ’Course I am, Remmy” you chuckle. And that sound unravels feelings in his chest.

Remus looks at you and something in him stirs, fragile and vast and frightening in its depth.

It doesn’t come all at once, not like a storm or a flare of lightning. It creeps in slow, seeps through the cracks he didn’t know he’d left open, pools in the hollows of him like moonlight in an empty corridor.

There you are, standing with your arms wrapped around a stack of his books like you’ve always done it, like the weight of them is familiar, and you’re smiling at nothing in particular, soft and full, the ghost of a cat’s purr still caught somewhere in your chest.

Your hair is tousled from the wind, your sleeves ink-smudged, and Remus thinks it might be the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

There’s something unbearable about it.

He reaches for you then, and it isn’t steady. It’s desperate, like his hand has a mind of its own, like some part of him is reaching through time and memory and every ache he’s ever felt just to touch this moment and keep it.

His fingers brush your wrist—not to stop you, not to ask anything, just to anchor himself to the now, to the real, to you. Like if he doesn’t, he’ll dissolve.

You tilt your head toward him, the lamplight in your eyes. Your smile doesn’t falter or shy away.

“Goodnight, Remus.”

He swallows, and it feels like his whole heart is caught in the back of his throat.

“Goodnight, dove.” he says.

And he watches you go—books pressed to your chest, footfalls soft against the stone. The night swallows you gently, like it knows what it’s holding. The scent of parchment and something warm lingers behind, delicate as breath, and Remus stays rooted to the spot, as if moving would undo it all.

For so long, he’s believed love was something earned only through suffering. That tenderness was conditional, a fragile thread easily snapped by the truth of what he was. That to be wanted meant to be useful, to be worthy meant to be silent, and to be loved—if such a thing was ever possible—meant hiding the parts of himself that had teeth.

He thought that pain was stitched into his name like an heirloom, something passed down quietly, without ceremony. Not a gift. Not a lesson. Just a weight.

But you—you looked at him like none of that mattered. You stayed. You listened. You touched his wrist like it wasn’t something dangerous. You carried his books like they weren’t heavy. You looked at him like he wasn’t something to be fixed. Like he could simply be. And now you’re gone, and the silence you leave behind doesn’t feel like absence—it feels like a held breath.

The ache in him is no longer sharp, no longer a wound fresh and bleeding. It has softened, folded into something quieter yet far more relentless—a slow tide of warmth and weight that settles beneath his ribs and hums beneath his skin like it was always meant to be there, waiting for its moment to rise.

He thinks of all the nights spent cloaked in shadow, the endless hours when he was convinced the only way to keep those he loved safe was to disappear, to push away, to become a ghost in his own life.

But now, walking through the quiet corridors, each step steadier than the last despite the lingering aches that remind him of every harsh moon that passed, he feels something new stirring—a fierce tenderness that coexists with the scars and the solitude.

It is a love born not from storm or fury, but from the smallest, most sacred moments; a touch, a presence, a look that does not demand perfection but simply asks to be there.

He watches you leave, the way you carried the books, the soft brush of your fingers over the worn spines, and his heart aches with a desperate yearning—he wants to worship everything you touched, to trace the paths your hands have traveled, to claim even the weight of those volumes as holy because they were yours.

The air still holds the faint scent of old paper and quiet evenings spent near you, and he craves it like a lifeline, as if being near any part of you could pull him back from the shadows he’s long haunted.

There is no grand revelation, no thunderous cry, just the quiet certainty of something holy and unbearably real—this aching, desperate love that has claimed him wholly and will not let go.

It is unbearable, desperate, and holy love.

He reaches out one last time, fingers trembling as if you were still there, brushing against the empty air where your wrist had been—not to hold, not to ask, but to linger, to remember, to claim this fragile moment before it slips away.

And as he turns, heart thrumming fiercely, a quiet storm of longing and hope that will carry him through every lonely night to come, he walks back to his dorm, carrying you with him still.

#your pen is blessed by Shakespeare

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got-the-cheese-touch · 1 month ago

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More Than a Name - chapter one

Harry Potter x Sirius Black's Daughter!Reader

slowburn harry potter x reader

summary: The father you never knew but always feel makes his presence known. (indirectly)

a/n: chapter one. AAAAH i'm nervous. it's not as long as i would've liked but i didn't wanna drag it out for too long. (please reblog and like and leave a little comment! they make my day) no use of y/n

trigger warnings: nothing really except maybe poor grammar. lmk if there is something I missed. (reader does use she/her pronouns)

ty to @thecutestgrotto for the dividers <3

The Hogwarts Express rolled down the tracks with a satisfying chug, a low hum filling the silence of the train compartment. Next to you lay Remus, sleeping under his trenchcoat. His peaceful form was in stark contrast to your own. You buzzed with excitement. Your third year at Hogwarts. Hopefully, it would be less eventful than the other years (mostly for Remus’s sake. You were sure that if he received another owl telling him that you fought the Dark Lord once more he’d get a heart attack).

When you learned that Remus was going to be teaching Defense against the Dark Arts you were relieved. Nothing could hurt you when Moony was around, of that you were sure. If Voldemort even tried to touch you or Harry, Remus could stop him. Your Remus could do anything.

“Seriously, how is he still asleep?” you thought as you watched his chest rise and fall peacefully. Although, you supposed it was good that he was getting some rest. Recently, he was on edge. He’d pace around, reading the newspaper and shaking his head. He closed the papers and tossed it into the fireplace before you could see what exactly was on the headline; only catching a glimpse of a crazed smile as the page burned down. You had asked what it was and he simply gave you a kiss on the forehead.

“Oh, it’s nothing, mate.” He’d say, giving you a smile that’s too tense to be real. He picked up other odd habits too- cracking his knuckles, smoking a bit more than usual. One morning, you came out of your room to find him asleep on a chair outside of your door. He slept there all night, keeping watch.

What he was protecting you from- you had no idea.

But the strangest behavior of all happened one morning when you two were out for a walk. Remus needed to pick up his Wolfsbane and was hesitant to leave you alone at home. He also insisted on holding your hand the entire walk there which you didn’t mind, of course, but his grip would tighten at any startling noise. As you walked past a cafe you smiled and pointed.

“Look, it’s a dog!” You smiled and laughed at the sight- the dog looked out of place in the cute cafe. Remus’s head immediately turned and he stepped in front of you, protective. Remus’s eyes searched frantically for the animal like it was about to pounce on the two of you.

His shoulders visibly relaxed when he realized that you were pointing to a small fluffy dog resting inside its owner’s purse. He exhaled shakily and tugged you along, walking a bit quicker than before and muttering something under his breath.

You figured that Remus’s new job would be good for him. He’d be closer to you, he’d be closer to help for his lycanthropy, and he’d be away from whatever news headlines were troubling him so much.

In your daydreams you almost missed the three familiar figures walking past your train compartment: Hermione, Harry, and Ron. You slide open the door, creeping out quietly so as to not wake Remus. A whole summer without seeing your friends was torture. Harry was your first friend at Hogwarts- you liked that he was just as new to everything as you; he liked that you had tons of stories about his parents. Hermione had intimidated you at first. With her quick wit and effortless smarts. Those feelings quickly dissipated after she stood up for you when a group of Ravenclaws stole one of your letters to home. Your cheeks burned when they mocked your letter to Remus but seeing their hair immediately grow down to their feet thanks to a hex from the young witch cheered you up.

Once you stepped into the train’s hall you called out to your friends with a smile.

“Hey guys,” You call out to them “I’ve got a compartment. Be quiet, though. My dad’s sleeping.” You smiled at the sight of their surprised faces. Hermione ran to you with an excited call of your name, crashing into you with a tight hug.

“Oh, I missed you this summer! I would’ve written so much more but I was just so busy reading. I’ve been trying to get ahead. I mean, with the schedule I have for this year I’m gonna be in two places at once.” You shook your head with a smile. Of course she was studying over the summer. She was the biggest overachiever you knew.

You were pulled from your embrace with her when Ron bumped her out of the way.

“You’d think she’s been gone from war, Hermione. Can you not strangle her before we get the chance to say hello?” You smile and let out a laugh, amused at the bickering. You brought him in for a friendly hug and you patted his back. Ron was a good guy. You wouldn’t say he’s your best friend but the shared trauma of exploding monster chess pieces has a way of bringing people together. “I see you haven’t taken off this jacket of yours.” He says, tugging on the sleeve of your- well, Sirius’s- leather jacket.

“And I see you’ve gotten some more freckles.” You tease back with a smirk. He pushes you off with a groan and a poorly concealed smile.

“Merlin, not even two minutes into the year and I’m sick of you.” He snickers and steps into the compartment, training behind Hermione. You finally turn your gaze to Harry and two things quickly come to mind. The first is that he’s gotten tall. The second is that you hadn’t even noticed how much you really missed him until this moment.

He wore a simple t-shirt and jeans, his wand tucked into his pocket. He wore the same wire framed glasses over the same pretty green eyes.

“Okay, easy. It’s just Harry for Merlin’s sake. Not Gilderoy Lockhart.” You thought as you stepped up to him with a grin. He quickly pulled you into a hug and took a deep breath.

Harry’s summer sucked (naturally). Staying with the Dursleys was torture. Not only did it mean that he was away from school. The months spent in that cupboard was a prison sentence. His warden? Vernon Dursley.

That meant that he couldn’t take visits to see his friends, he couldn’t study for the upcoming year. He couldn’t even write letters either.

But whatever troubles he had developed over the summer, he had quickly forgotten after seeing your smirk.

“Missed you loads.” He says, his shoulders relaxing. You smiled. You didn’t need to say you missed him; you were sure he could tell. He had a weird way of reading your mind. You wondered if it was the same way with James and Sirius.

Harry was a friend that you could tell anything to. He’d been with you through thick and thin and you could say that he was, without a doubt, your best friend. He’s a partner in crime, a confidant, someone to lean on.

It would be natural to wonder how you two could get along so well. It may seem shocking that the fact that your father is accused of brutally murdering his parents isn’t a setback in your relationship. Perhaps it would be an issue if Harry knew that unfortunate detail about your life’s history.

To save you from ridicule, Dumbledore and Remus both decided it would be best to enroll you in Hogwarts under Remus’s name. As far as anyone was concerned, you were a Lupin. You didn’t mind. It’s not like you knew your real dad. Remus was your father in every sense of the word other than blood.

But Harry would probably mind. Did it make you a bad person not to tell him? Maybe.

But have you felt guilty about this every time he asks you to tell him some of Remus’s stories about The Marauders? Absolutely.

You shove these thoughts to the back of your mind as you release him from the hug with a smile.

“Sap.” You say before climbing into the compartment.

You slide in next to Remus who is still, somehow, sleeping over the noise of Hermionie and Ron’s arguing. You quiet them with a look and a nod towards Remus’s figure, covered in his coat. Hermione turns to you, her expression suddenly serious.

“Have you been reading the papers?” She asks, her tone anxious. You shake your head.

Remus had been hoarding the Daily Prophet for some reason. He hadn’t let you read the papers in ages. Another one of his odd habits recently.

“I get them sent by owls. You ought to start staying up to date on this kind of thing. Especially considering the relevance it has.” Hermione huffs. She quickly pulls a folded up newspaper from her bag and holds it out to you. “We need to be concerned for Harry.”

You’re about to quip “When do we not?” until you flip over the pages to see the headline and your blood runs cold.

His name. Your father’s name printed clearly on the front page.

You stared down at his photo, the image moving as he snarled and thrashed at the camera. He looked angry and tired and sick and evil. His eyes were filled with intensity that made the hair on your arms stick up.

It was like looking in a mirror. A sick and twisted mirror, sure, but still. The resemblance was uncanny. His eyes, his smile, his nose. Down to the sharpness of his canines. Thank Merlin that your friends were too occupied in the situation that they didn’t notice your state or your resemblance to the man.

In your shock, you only catch the tail end of their conversation.

“...The man’s a murderous, raving lunatic.” Ron deadpans. His sarcasm isn’t able to hide the pure worry he has for Harry. A strange part of you feels protective. He is your dad. You don’t feel the need to cut in with his defense: the fact that he hadn’t had a motivation or even a trial. Remus didn’t hate Sirius and neither did you. None of this would be helpful to point out. You look up from the photo at Harry.

“It’ll be okay. Dumbledore won’t let anyone get to you, yeah?” You say, trying to be reassuring. You’re not sure if it’s for Harry or for yourself. Before anyone can cut in with their worries, the train screeches to a sudden halt.

Rain pelts against the window as the Hogwarts Express jostles. You look at Remus who is miraculously still sleeping.

“Why are we stopping?” You hear Hermione question. You shake your head, about to express your confusion before the lights of the train shut off. The newspaper in your lap is forgotten as you stand up to investigate. Before you can get to the door though, a lurch of the train sends you back to your seat. “Bloody hell” Ron gasps and you turn your head. The window has frosted up and you watch in confusion as the bottle of water on the floor freezes up. Your grip tightens on Sirius’s leather jacket, hugging the warm leather closer against you.

A shadowy figure approaches from outside the compartment. It was ghostly and its presence filled you with dread. Suddenly you were four years old back in evil foster homes. You could only stare in fear and silence as it opened the door to your compartment.

“Get Remus, Wake him up.” Your mind shouted as the creature stared at all of you. You felt like it saw right into your soul. You sat frozen.

The ghost looked towards Harry and you gasped as it drew close to him and inhaled deeply. Like he was sucking out Harry’s soul.

When you finally found your voice, you turned to Remus’s sleeping figure helplessly and you shook him awake.

“Dad, please wake up! Moony help!” You said to him as Harry slipped out of consciousness, his weight slipping onto you as the shadowy figure continued its assault.

Remus quickly jolted awake at the sound of you and stood up with his wand. A burst of light filled the compartment, driving away the creature. Once it had fled, Harry slumped down. Remus sees the copy of the newspaper on the floor and he picks it up quickly, folding up Sirius’s angry stare and tucking it into his back pocket. Remus looked at you before he even noticed Harry’s state.

He starts rambling. His hands fly to the sides of your face, holding you worriedly. “Oh, mate, I’m sorry, are you okay. Merlin- Fuck, I’ll explain it all later. I should’ve told you. I had no clue the dementors would even be here. Dumbledore assured me that they’d be far away. Oh, Lovely- if it got its hands on you it would’ve-”

“Dad.” You cut him off, “Harry.” You nod towards the boy who’s passed out. Hermionie and Ron simply stare helplessly.

“Oh! Yes, yes.” Remus mutters, moving to check on Harry now that he’s realized that you are okay.

“Not even at school yet and we’ve already gotten into some kind of trouble.” Ron mutters. He is quickly silenced by a swift kick to the shins, given by Hermionie.

Minutes feel like hours as you wait for Harry to wake up. When he does stir, he sits up and looks around, confused. Remus pulls a bar of chocolate from his cloak pocket.

“Here. Eat.” Remus murmurs comfortingly. Harry takes it, his expression unsure. He looks at me and I give him a reassuring nod. “It’s alright. It’s chocolate.” Remus says, encouraging Harry to eat.

“What- what was that?” Harry asks shakily, adjusting his glasses.

“A dementor. One of the guards of Azkaban.” Remus sits back in his chair. His gaze is heavy as he stares at Harry. “He’s gone now. He’s looking for the traitor Sirius Black.” Your friends don’t catch the way Remus’s jaw ticks and his shoulders tense at the name. They don’t notice how Remus’s eyes flick to yours for a moment or how you avert your gaze. They don’t notice the sadness in Remus’s eyes remembering his companion as though he was a murderer. You do. You notice everything about Remus.

He stands and sets the rest of the chocolate bar in Harry’s lap before kissing you on top of your head.

“If you’ll excuse me,” he starts as he opens the compartment door “I need to have a word with the driver.” He takes one more glance at all of you, his gaze landing on Harry. “Eat. You’ll feel better.” With that, he slips out and the door shuts with a click, leaving the four of you in silence.

So much for an uneventful school year.

After the dust had settled and everyone had gone to bed, you found yourself in Dumbledore’s office, standing stuck to the floor next to Professor McGonagall. Her arms are crossed and her eyes are filled with concern as she talks with Dumbledore. Across the room, Remus is pacing back and forth, dragging his hands through his hair. The whole display didn't feel real. Maybe it wasn’t.

You were dreaming. A nightmare. Soon you’d wake up at home, tucked safely in your bed. Harry wasn’t attacked by a dementor. Your dad hadn’t escaped jail.

You shivered at the thought.

You knew he wouldn't hurt you. You were sure of that. But all those years locked away for wrongful imprisonment would probably make a guy want to settle some grudges.

You were numb. Remus was livid.

“What happens if they realize that she’s his daughter? Huh? Those dementors won’t think twice about killing her. They’ll sense his blood and give her the kiss before she can even pull out her wand.” Remus said angrily. He was smoking a cigarette. In fact, he was almost through a pack.

Severus Snape stares at him coldly from across the room. Logically, you knew that Snape was trustworthy. Dumbledore wouldn’t be so loyal to him if he was truly evil. But there was something deep within you that told you Snape was no good. The way he walks, the tone of his voice, the condescending way he stares at you sends your blood boiling. Apparently he had a big feud with The Marauders when they were young. Even if it wasn’t in your DNA to hate Snape, you still would loathe the man for how he treated others. He looked away when muggle-borns were being bullied. He praised Draco malfoy, the prince prick of all pricks. Snape never passed up the chance to take points from houses other than Slytherin and he’s rumoured to be a death eater.

Nothing is worse, though, than how he treats Moony.

Your Moony. The one who makes you toast and dries your tears. The one who saved you, who took you in. Somehow Snape is able to bully your kind hearted, gentle, loving Remus. In the time that they’ve been in the same room, Snape has already mocked Remus’s lycanthropy, made snide comments about your upbringing (as if the fact that Remus wasn’t rich made your life with him any less happy), and he went so far as to insinuate that Remus was a traitor due to his loyalty to Sirius.

Severus Snape was a dick.

“The dementors are instructed to stay far away, in the unlikely case that it becomes an issue-” Says Snape, his voice nasally and irritating.

“Unlikely? A dementor has already attacked a student. Harry could’ve been seriously injured. Or worse!” Remus takes a deep inhale of the cigarette. He moves to stand at your side. “Call them off, Professor. Call them off or we’re leaving.” He looks to Dumbledore, his brow set in a determined stare, stubbornly making a point. Dumbledore sighs and shakes his head patiently.

“Remus, we just can’t do that. It’s standard protocol.” You hear Remus huff next to you, agitated. Dumbledore continues “I will speak to Harry about the encounter and I’ll talk to the ministry about the ordeal but we won’t call off the dementors. I’m truly sorry but there is nothing I can do.” He looks genuine. You give him a small smile and he gives you one back, a glint in his eye as he leaves. Snape trails after him next, giving Remus a snide look.

Professor McGonagall remains with the two of you, turning towards the still fuming Remus.

“Minnie, I mean what I said. I will leave and she’s coming with me. I promised that I’d keep her safe and I will not let her stay so close to those fucking things.” Remus starts pacing again, muttering angrily as Professor McGonagall tries to calm him down.

“Remus, listen to me, leaving will do nothing but harm. What happens if people think you are in cahoots with Black? Here, Albus will protect you both. Who will protect you if you are at home?” Her voice is sharp but not unkind. She looks at him with a motherly sort of fierceness.

“If anyone tries anything, I’ll be the one in Azkaban.” Remus says, lighting another cigarette.

As the two of them bicker back and forth, your gaze drifts to the window. The moon is bright and clear, almost full. That was probably another reason for Remus’s mood. He always got territorial and antsy when the full moon was closer. When you first moved in with him, the full moon nearing meant he would get distant. He was so scared that he would hurt you somehow. Once he became more sure of his place in your life, his pre-moon behavior changed. He would become fiercely protective. You supposed it was the natural instinct to protect enhanced by the wolf.

Once McGonagall is able to calm Remus down (and confiscate his cigarettes) she sends the two of you out, ordering you back to the dorms and Remus to the professor’s quarters. It was funny seeing her scold him, it was like he was a teen again. He might be much taller than the old woman, but she still put him in his place quickly.

“She should know better than that. I obviously have more packs than that.” Remus says, trying to lighten the mood as he walks you back to the Gryffindor common room. You simply stare ahead angrily. He looks at you and taps you on the head. “Lovely, don’t be mad. C’mon I don’t smoke that much.” No response. Remus sighs. “I want to keep you safe, kid. I can’t let anything happen to you. Seriously.” You stop and look up at him, upset.

“Sirius Black is out of Azkaban and you didn’t think to tell me? You didn’t think I needed to know?” You spit out. Remus recoils at the anger in your voice. “I’m not six anymore. You should have told me.”

“I should have.” Remus nods, stopping in his tracks. “You’re right about that. But when I found out, the only thing I could think to do is protect you, mate. I will always defend Sirius. You know that.” His voice is unsteady as she stares at you. “But Azkaban changes people. Who knows what he’s like now.” You look down, unable to hold his gaze any longer. He pulls you into him, hugging you. “And I didn’t even think. I just needed you safe, mate.”

When you arrived at the common room safely, Remus took a glance around before giving you a kiss goodnight. Harry, Hermionie, and Ron were sitting on the couch by the fire, talking quietly. Their conversation stops when they notice you. Remus gives them all a smile and a nod.

“Goodnight Ron, Hermione. Goodnight Harry.” He says before turning and leaving. When you face the group again, they’re all pulling you down to sit.

“What was that about? Where were you?” Asks Hermione, her head tilted curiously. What were you supposed to say?

“Me? Oh, just preparing for the oncoming dementor attack I’ll get because of the fact that my dad escaped from prison. Yeah, my dad is Sirius Black, sorry I’ve been lying to you all about that. And sorry about your mum and dad Harry.”

You figured that that wouldn’t go over well so instead you give Hermionie the most convincing smile you can muster.

“Just helping my dad settle in, no need to worry.” That seemed to have calmed her and she continues talking to Ron about the classes she’s enrolled in this year. You feel Harry’s unwavering gaze on your profile. You turn to look at him. “What?” You ask, hoping he doesn’t see right through you.

“That’s your dad, huh?” He says nodding towards the portrait hole Remus had just left. You swallow thickly and nod. “You look nothing alike.” You blink, unsure of what to say to that so you simply shrug.

Leaning back against the couch, something catches your eye. It’s small enough to be overlooked but you caught the little carving written into the side of the side table:

“Sirius was here”

As your friends chatted away about the upcoming year, you stared at the little carving. A small act of teenage rebellion, nothing meaningful. It stuck with you though. Sirius was here.

Sirius was everywhere.

He’s Remus’s sigh after a laugh, he’s the frustration in professors’ voices when they correct you, he’s the stubborn furrow in your brow that forms when you’re being defiant. He is there when you’re upset at the world. He’s there when you look at photos, or listen to music. He was there when you snuck one of Remus’s cigarettes one night over the summer. He’s in the common room- his name written on random surfaces or Prophet headlines.

He’s inescapable. He follows you around wherever you go, whether you like it or not.

He’s the mangy black dog with shaggy fur and wild eyes that’s found a hiding place in the shrieking shack.

notes: IF IT'S BAD IM SORRY. i'm not exaggerating when i say that i get so nervous posting this. please give me validation y'all i live for it. (some of your comments have me giggling and kicking my feet) also im so sorry that it took so long to post this chapter. i was going through it.

THANK YOU FOR READING THIS FAR ILYSM!!!!

taglist, comment to be added <3 : @mmmunson @reesespeesees @starmaniii @deathmybride

(if you reblog, i'll give you my firstborn rumplestiltskin style)

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