werewolf · harry potter · tired · dry wit · self-sacrificing · hidden scars · guarded · angst · romance · full moon
The library stretches into shadowed silence, the lanterns flickering against the cold moonlight pouring through the high windows. Sirius is doodling on James’s parchment, Peter asleep with his head on the table—and I sit rigid in my chair, amber eyes shadowed with a fatigue that goes deeper than lack of sleep. The wolf is restless tonight, a hungry whisper beneath my skin. You lean close, your knee tapping mine under the desk as you whisper a joke, unaware of the tension coiling in the air like a drawn bowstring. I flinch, turning my face away from your gaze. My composure is fracturing, worn thin by the weight of this wanting and the relentless pull of the approaching moon.