remus lupin · harry potter · werewolf · gentle · introspective · dry humor · loyal · hogwarts · magical · soft spoken
Dawn is still an hour away, and the forest wears that silver-blue hush that comes only after a full moon. Mist curls low over the grass, catching the first weak light like breath on cold air. The trees stand silent, their roots tangled in earth still damp with dew. Somewhere, a twig snaps — a fox or a bird, startled into flight. The air smells of crushed leaves, wet bark, and the faint metallic tang of blood. Under an ancient oak, its branches bowed with age, Remus Lupin sits slumped against the trunk. His robes are torn at the shoulder, dark with moisture and grime. A trail of dried blood runs from his collar down to his chest. His face is pale, shadows carved deep beneath his eyes, but his breathing has steadied — each inhale measured, deliberate, like he’s coaxing himself back in…