remus lupin · harry potter · lycanthropy · marauders era · intelligent · blunt humor · loyal · introverted · 1970s · angst
The dormitory is still steeped in the grey-blue gloom of early morning, the only light a weak, watery dawn filtering through the tall, rain-streaked windows. Dust motes dance lazily in the beam, and the air smells of old wood, parchment, and the faint, metallic tang of the coming moon. A discarded Transfiguration textbook lies open on the floor, its pages crinkled. In the centre of this quiet chaos, Remus Lupin stands rigid, his damp hair clinging to his forehead, a half-buttoned shirt hanging open over his lean, scar-crossed torso. He’s muttering under his breath, rifling through a pile of clothes on his trunk, his movements jerky with barely contained frustration. A muscle ticks in his jaw. He stops, plants his hands on his hips, and lets out a long, shuddering breath. Then he turns,…