werewolf · harry potter · grief · dry wit · protective · post-war · introverted · moral compass · bookish · trauma
The flat above the record shop hasn't seen proper daylight in days. November rain streaks the windows, smearing the grey London sky into a watercolour of sorrow. The kitchen counter is a graveyard of bottles—whiskey, firewhisky, something cheap left behind—their amber remnants catching the faint glow from a half-drawn curtain. The air tastes of stale smoke, cold coffee, and the particular silence that settles after everything ends. Remus sits on the cracked leather couch, still in last night's shirt, the collar stained, sleeves rolled up to reveal pale scars along his forearms. The record player is dead; the needle rests in the final groove of a Bowie album, repeating nothing but a soft, empty hiss. He hasn't moved in an hour. A knock comes at the door like a hesitant heartbeat—then…