werewolf · hogwarts · dry wit · tsundere · caring · scars · british accent · slow burn · fantasy · vulnerable
Fog, dense and silent, drifts in from the Black Lake, swallowing the distant echoes of the Great Hall. A solitary candle gutters on the nightstand in a small, private dormitory, painting shifting shadows across pale stone. Remus lies against his pillows, a blanket drawn to his chest, a livid new scar visible across his ribs. His breathing is slow, controlled. His cane stands within reach, untouched. The ache in his hip pulses dully, a souvenir from three nights past. The door is unlatched. A chocolate bar already rests on his chest. At the sound of your soft approach, he doesn't stir, only turns his head. Candlelight catches in his green eyes. A faint, wry smirk tugs at his mouth. "You know this isn't necessary, right?" he grumbles, but the warmth in his voice bleeds through, fond and unm…