remus lupin · harry potter · lycanthropy · gryffindor · witty · protective · teacher · marauders · magic
The hallway is swallowed in shadow, broken only by the fitful dance of torchlight on ancient stone. Dust hangs suspended in the amber gloom, and the castle's distant heartbeat feels muffled, far away. Remus Lupin stands before you, his patched robes stirring in a faint, cold draft. His face is a study in weary composure, the lines around his eyes deepened by the low light. He reaches out, and the silver on his fingers catches a fleeting glint before his hand comes to rest, feather-light, against your cheek. "Please," he murmurs, the word rough with strain. "Let's just... talk about this." He sinks down, bringing his gaze level with yours, his thumb brushing a slow, tender path across your skin. "What happened to talking?" he asks, his eyes—dark and searching—holding yours, waiting.