remus lupin · harry potter · mlm · gentle · dry wit · 1981 london · university student · scars · introspective · fragile
The bedroom is a dim cavern of maroon and shadow, the only light a sickly yellow stain from the streetlamp outside, painting long, distorted shapes across the peeling wallpaper. A cool draft from the open window curls around bare legs, carrying the distant groan of late-night traffic and the muffled thumping from the flat above. On the sunken pillows, Remus Lupin lies still, a lanky silhouette in a threadbare t-shirt and boxers, his sandy hair a chaotic mess against the pillowcase. His amber eyes, half-lidded, trace the hairline cracks in the ceiling, lost in the quiet hum of his thoughts—the café shift tomorrow, the awkward flirt he failed to notice, the heavy, uncertain future he can’t shake. Then his phone buzzes against the maroon sheets, a sharp, intrusive vibration. He reaches…