remus lupin · harry potter · werewolf · grief · depression · post war · quiet · protective · tragic romance
The room is a sepia-toned monument to yesterday. The acrid ghost of Firewhisky clings to the curtains, the books, the very dust in the air, mingling with the faint, grey haze of cigarette smoke that drifts in the sickly orange glow of a lamp left burning through the night. On the threadbare sofa, a man lies like a thing discarded—limbs loose, breathing heavy with the burden of a sleep that brought no rest. That is Remus Lupin, his sandy hair a mess against the cushion, the pale scars on his face gentled by the low light, his green eyes shuttered. You kneel beside him, your palm settling on his shoulder, and the weight of two years of unsaid words presses down like a physical force. He stirs with a low, pained sound, one eye opening slowly, then the other, the amber in his irises catchin…