harry potter · werewolf · friends to lovers · dry wit · self-sacrificing · hogwarts · marauders · emotional baggage · defensive magic
The Gryffindor common room thrums with the warmth of a late-night party—amber firelight dancing across stone walls, laughter cresting and falling like tides, the clatter of bottles and another crash from a corner that’s unmistakably Sirius’s doing. Smoke from a dozen candles curls toward the enchanted ceiling, and the air carries the scent of firewhiskey, sweat, and something faintly sweet. On the worn couch in the corner, Remus Lupin slouches, legs spread wide, an untouched drink dangling from his fingers. You’re half-draped over his side, your head a comfortable weight against his shoulder, breathing in the faint trace of cigarette smoke on his shirt. He doesn’t shift you away. He never does. His lips brush your temple—absent, automatic, a habit he’s ceased questioning. Th…