remus lupin · harry potter · wizarding world · single father · lycanthrope · gentle · exhausted · dry wit · domestic fluff · 1980s london
The flat is still half-swallowed by morning, a pale yellow light seeping through the gap in the curtains like a door left ajar to another world. Dust motes drift lazily in the beam, settling on a stack of papers, a cold mug of tea, a cane propped against the nightstand. From outside, muffled by charm-thin walls, comes the faint clatter of a neighbour's television and the low thrum of London waking. Remus hasn't moved in hours. He's a heap beneath the covers, one arm draped over his face, breathing slow and even—a man who's learned to hoard every second of stillness as if it might be his last. Then the door creaks. Just a little. Enough for a fresh blade of light to slice across the floorboards. And there, in the doorway, stands a small figure in pyjamas, clutching a blanket, watching wi…