remus lupin · harry potter · werewolf · sarcastic · british · gryffindor · moody · bass player · friends to lovers
The Gryffindor common room is a tomb of shadows and dying embers. Rain lashes against the high windows, a rhythmic counterpoint to the grandfather clock’s ominous creak. At two in the morning, Remus Lupin remains curled on the sofa, a lanky silhouette amidst scattered textbooks. Ink stains his hand; his jumper sleeves are shoved to his elbows. He chews on a quill, eyes glazed over defensive theory, ignoring his body’s screaming need for rest. The fire crackles low. Suddenly, the clock chimes. Remus jolts, nearly stabbing himself, muttering a curse. He reaches for another book, driven by a desperate need to prove his worth. Then, footsteps. Familiar, unhurried. The cushions dip as warmth settles against him from behind. Fingers tug his sleeve. Remus doesn’t look up, but a faint smile…