Chapter Text

✧ ☾ Chapter One ✧ ☾

It was a crisp, early morning of mid-winter; outside, a heavy frost had blanketed the grass in a layer of frost that glistened as Remus’ eyes gazed tiredly and unblinkingly through the safety of the window. The kitchen window of the farm cottage faced towards the East, where the sun hung low in the sky, painting the horizon in soft shimmers of pale blue, warm orange, and rosy pink. 

His finger was absentmindedly tracing circles above his steaming cup of Yorkshire tea, wandlessly moving the teaspoon to stir the mug’s bronze-coloured contents as effortlessly and intrinsically as breathing. 

Remus hated winter for three specific reasons.

Firstly, at this time of year, the cold was gruesomely bitter and unforgiving in the valley of North Wales where he lived. Without fail, the chill always crept through his jackets and seeped down into his bones, seizing up his already shoddy knees and hip until walking became even more painful and slow than it already was. Getting out of bed became more challenging, the full moons bringing an elongated recovery period, and Remus’ patience wore thin. 

Secondly, most days brought miserable and murky clouds that shielded the sun from view. Remus’ skin always turned pasty, like a washed-out oil painting, or a destitute Victorian child dying of the plague—probably a combination of the two because that’s just how unlucky he was. The jagged scars that mapped the planes of his body became more prominent and recognisable, making his face look even more ghastly and disfigured. 

Remus found it harder now to hide from the prying eyes of the locals and the gossiping whispers that snarled around him whenever he walked the streets of the local market town. He knew what they saw, and heard what they speculated about that strange family that lived in the valleys as far away from the town as possible. 

His mother always told him to ignore them—“they’re just bitter old bats, cariad.”—but Remus’ resilience didn’t come from his capability to simply ignore being perceived.  

And, thirdly, the Welsh winter always ravaged the grass quality for the flock to graze upon, and Remus—younger, fitter, and above all, healthier than his ageing parents—was handed the responsibility to deliver the bags of pellets to the flock to keep their weight on during the winter.

“A sheep ain’t worth nothin’ if there ain’t meat on its bones, son.” His father would say it every single year without fail. Remus could almost hear him.

Remus really fucking hated hauling the bags of feed onto and off of the Quad Bike. The bags were hefty and difficult to carry, the string often testing his patience when it didn’t tear the bags, and he’d left his pocketknife at the barn. He’d forgotten it more times than he’d like to confess, and the lesson was still yet to sink in. 

The combination of his shoddy joints, his distaste for his reflection in the bathroom mirror, and lifting bags of animal food daily, Remus really, really hated, despised, loathed winter with a personal vendetta. He was practically counting down the days until the season shifted and the days grew longer, the weather warmer, and the sheep could graze undisturbed with full bellies on the hills. 

They still had to get through the wet part of winter, though, which somehow, Remus dreaded even more, but that was future Remus’ problem to deal with. 

Current Remus problems concerned the coming full moon. The all-too-familiar ache was settling in his hip like a persistent, dull jabbing sensation that always worsened as the full moon grew closer. It was almost as if his bones knew what the coming days would bring, and fate decided to elongate the torture for nothing more than… shits and giggles, he supposed. Because the universe could do what it wanted. 

Letting out a disgruntled sigh, Remus lowered his hand to the counter he was leaning his hip against, and the teaspoon stopped suddenly mid-twirl. Tea sloshed over the side in a small tidal wave, and Remus finally tore his eyes away from the frosty scenery outside the window to assess the mess he’d made. 

A soft tut sounded from behind him, and a sheet of kitchen towel was presented to Remus. “What’s on your mind, cariad?” his mother asked softly as Remus accepted the towel and wiped up the spilt tea with remorse for the wastage of a perfect brew. 

Remus hummed nonchalantly in response and turned to face his mother. “Nothin’... Just the coming moon is all,” he replied with a one-shouldered shrug. Another sigh escaped his lips, and his mother stared at him with a knowing look on her face. 

Hope Lupin was a short woman with cordial, honey-brown eyes and long blond hair that she’d tied back to keep away from her face. She was a kind, compassionate and loving woman. Remus often wondered how someone like Hope had been given such a shitty set of cards in life by having a son like Remus. 

He often wondered how he himself had been handed such unfortunate cards to be forced to live a cursed life, but he chose to keep these thoughts to himself. He hated to see his mother upset; even more so when he was the blame. 

Although born a Muggle, Hope seemed to always know what Remus was thinking or feeling before he even did. If she were a witch, Remus bet she’d be a skilled Legilimens (he’d read about them in a book on mind protection some years ago). It unnerved him a little bit just how well his mother knew him—specifically when he was lying, such as now. 

When the room was engulfed with silence, Remus took a large gulp from his tea in deflection, ignoring the way it scorched his throat as it went down. He avoided his mother’s eye, knowing that if he glanced at her, he’d crack immediately, and he’d rather keep his disdain for the day to himself, if only for a little longer. 

“What would you like for breakfast, cariad?” Hope asked after the silence stretched on for an uncomfortable amount of time, and Remus suppressed the sigh of relief that the subject was being dropped for now. “Eggs on toast?” she asked.

Remus nodded and took a seat at the table. A soft kiss was pressed to the top of his head as his mother passed him, her hands fluffing his hair up more than it already was, and she made an offhand remark about it needing to be cut soon. Remus hummed in response, knowing full well he wasn’t walking down into the village to visit the local barber anytime soon.  

Not until he was practically dragged by the clip of his ear, anyway. 

☽ ✧ ☾

At twenty-one, Remus didn’t particularly remember the night he was bitten; it was a predominantly blurry snapshot of memories which made for an uncompleted story that felt more like a bad dream than reality. 

Velvety summer breeze filtering into the bedroom from an open window (when did he open the window?), creaking floorboards beneath feet encroaching nearer (his parents never crept), golden, luminous wolf-like eyes, tapered teeth and foul breath (were monsters under the bed real after all?).  

Remus did, however, remember the feeling—the memory etched into his brain, resurfacing during his dreams like a never-ending nightmare he couldn’t escape. Pointed teeth ripped into the downy, porcelain flesh; the sensation was like he was being torn into two, never to be whole again. The sinking feeling in the depth of his stomach at the glowing, bestial eyes that lacked any humanity behind its ferocious excitement; the strangled, fearsome noise that tore from Remus’ mouth, quickly followed by the sounds of his mother’s screams as she raced into the bedroom; the fever that encompassed his body for days, leaving him in defenceless agony, sickened as his mother wept tears of despair into his little chest. 

He remembered travelling around Europe with his parents, desperately seeking a cure to fix what couldn’t be mended—anything that would flush this disease from their four-year-old son’s body. 

There was no cure. 

Hopelessness and devastation became a prominent state of being in the Lupin household following that night, only worsening after the first full moon that followed. Remus didn’t remember his first turn—he didn’t even know it was possible to turn at that age, and he doubted he was no larger than a cub despite having a bite that carried a death sentence. 

That’s what it was, lycanthropy; a death sentence. 

Remus never blamed his parents—not for the constant moving around to hide their secret from prying eyes and nosey neighbours. Not for the overbearing loneliness that made up his childhood like a central feature, where he was prohibited from playing with any of the other children for fear of what might happen. Not for the day that his parents wrote back to Dumbledore to decline Remus’ place at Hogwarts as they ‘favoured homeschooling’ because the risks were too high, too severe, and his parents too afraid someone might notice their son’s condition and… Remus didn’t want to think what would happen if someone did happen to find out. 

And Remus certainly did not—not anymore, at least—blame his father, even if it was he who caused all of this with his careless accusations and bigotry. 

Remus knew Lyall held that guilt heavily and close to his heart like a cone of shame. He knew Lyall shouldered the responsibility alone and bore the consequences of his actions until it suffocated him into despair—not that anyone had paid the price for antagonising Greyback as Remus had.  

For a time, Remus was angry. It was overcoming how furious he was at his father the day Lyall had brokenly confessed his sins, declaring that everything Remus had suffered was because of him. He insulted Greyback, knowing what he was, he didn’t consider the repercussions, and he didn’t think to protect his family on the night of a full moon because he didn’t think someone as immoral as Greyback would do such a thing to a child.

Soulless, evil, deserving nothing but death.

His father’s words often rattled around Remus’ head, burning into his memory until he shook in white-hot anger that had the blood pulsing in his veins like molten lava. The fulls were somehow more destructive following his father’s admission—Remus was bitter, so the wolf was, too, and he punished Remus for it.

The following morning, Remus roused to excruciating pain in his face; the wolf had carved its claws across its face, forever disfiguring the skin no matter how many healing spells his father cast as Remus’ head lay motionlessly in his weeping mother’s lap. He was fortunate not to have been blinded. At least the wolf had some compassion within its black, rotten soul. 

Remus was only thirteen. 

He forgave his father quickly after that, and Lyall spent every day making it up to him, atoning for his mistakes. 

After the farm had been tended to, they’d spend hours learning the spectacles of magic. Lyall taught Remus everything about casting wandlessly knowing that he’d never experience the opulence of stepping into Ollivanders to get a wand. His letter to Dumbledore wasn’t a lie; Lyall would—and did, still does—homeschool his son. Everything Remus knew about magic, he’d learnt from his father, and together they figured out how Remus could do magic undetected and without a wand. 

At twenty-one, he’d almost forgotten why he was ever angry at his father. Their wounds were ghastly and scarred, but they were healing together. 

Still. As appreciative as he was that his parents’ love never dwindled after his curse hit and that they did everything to give him a normal life, a part of Remus still yearned to have attended that magical school, Hogwarts, which he read so much about in the books his father got from Diagon Alley.

The chance to have learnt it all alongside his peers, to make friends with other children, to experience something as simple as going to a school—uniforms, classes, homework… It exhilarated him. 

He’d learnt about Hogwarts Houses and spent an embarrassingly long time daydreaming about what House he might have been sorted into. 

Was he fearless and brave like you would have to be to be in Gryffindor?

Or was he patient and loyal like a Hufflepuff?

Or perhaps he was as cunning and ambitious as a Slytherin?

No… Remus knew he’d likely have been sorted into Ravenclaw. He might not be brave, patient, or cunning, but Remus knew that his adoration and curiosity for learning would have landed him in Ravenclaw, just like his Pa. 

Meanwhile, his peers excelled in their magic, graduating from Hogwarts and entering the real magical world with boundless prospects of cool jobs they could do, Remus stayed at home with his parents and tended to the farm without any objections. 

This was safer; for him and everyone else. 

☽ ✧ ☾

“Next full’s comin’ soon,” Lyall uttered with a grunt as he lifted another bag of pellets and deposited them onto the back of the Quad Bike, a four-wheeler that the Lupins always used to transfer the heavy pellet bags up to where their sheep were.

Lyall had stepped in to help Remus upon stumbling across him struggling with the stacks of feed. Remus appreciated the help, even if it left him feeling slightly guilty for the strenuous activity being pushed onto his Pa. 

Remus nodded his head and hummed casually as he grabbed the bale twine to secure the bags in place for the journey. “Might need to increase the wards,” he stated tensely. “I think I’m going to break the Shack’s door off its hinges one of these days.”

The Shack was an old, cobbled building that once served as a barn for the flock (though that was back in the twenties, mind you). As Remus grew, the empty third bedroom of their cottage was rendered useless; the wolf was quickly getting powerful, fiercer, and bigger, and although Lyall’s wards could hold him, Remus agreed with his parents that the bedroom was becoming too risky. The wolf would eventually tear its way out one way or another, and Remus couldn’t bear the thought of what might happen if the wolf did get out…

It was Lyall who had suggested the Shack would be a more suitable confinement. 

Remus was only ten at the time. It was a decision he was too young to have to understand. Located a few miles away from the farm and into the valley, the Shack was a safe enough distance away that even if Remus broke out, the wolf would hopefully be more interested in running the hills than making its way home. 

Wishful thinking, Remus thought bitterly to himself. 

Unwilling to take any risks, Lyall would escort Remus to the Shack and cast wards up in place to keep the wolf locked inside as best they could. But the wolf was angry, desolate and frantic. Frantic for something, but every time morning rolled around, Remus couldn’t remember much. All he knew was that it was getting worse the longer he ignored it. 

Lyall clapped Remus on the shoulder gently. “It’ll be alright, son,” he responded in earnest. Remus appreciated his father’s attempt to appear confident, but it did little to ease the anxiety that was creeping up the back of Remus’ neck at the mere thought. 

“I was thinking that maybe it would be better if I went deeper into the valley,” Remus continued, glancing over to study his father’s confused expression. There wasn’t anywhere else to go, really, but he couldn’t shake off the feeling that he was still too close to people. “I don’t want the locals to talk more than they already are, Pa.”

Lyall shook his head and spun on his feet to turn and face Remus, a stony expression making its way onto his face before he quickly schooled his expression. Remus knew that look… He was in for a Lyall-style rant. Fuck. 

“You ignore them, Remus. They dunno what they’re talkin’ about—they don’t know nothin’ .”

Remus’ fingers fiddled absentmindedly with the fraying fabric of his tweed jacket. It had definitely seen better days—the elbows were patched back together, a pocket was missing off the front, and the arms weren't quite long enough anymore—but he couldn’t bring himself to part with it. 

“They think the valley’s haunted, Pa.” 

Contrary to popular belief of the locals, Remus wasn’t stupid. His hip might be busted, his knee might be only partially functional on a good day, and he was pretty sure he was going to need glasses before his next birthday, but his ears worked perfectly well as a matter of fact. Possibly a little too well thanks to the wolf that enhanced his hearing to that of something supernatural—or, as the Ministry liked to classify it, an XXXXX beast. 

The point being was that Remus heard the whispers in the streets as he walked to the market, he felt the eyes fixated on him, taking him apart piece by piece to fuel their gossip. He knew he was known as Loony Lupin to just about anyone who wasn’t his parents. He certainly knew everyone had their reservations about the Lupin family that lived on the farm in the hills, where every now and again you’d hear screaming and howling because the silencing charms were not strong enough to muffle the sound. 

Ghosts, apparently, and Remus wasn’t sure if that was better or worse than the truth. 

“Let ‘em believe what they want to.” Lyall used the last piece of bail twine to secure the bags before whistling to the dog, Freddie, to come. 

Freddie was a Merle-grey border collie who had been in the Lupin family for the last six years. He was Remus’ only friend—which he realised was incredibly pathetic that his only friend was a fluffy, four-legged animal, but he wasn’t exactly in the market for criticising his friendship options. Or lack thereof. 

The dog came bounding over excitedly and sniffed Remus’ hand curiously before jumping on top of the stacked animal feed on the back of the Quad. He lay down, tongue hanging from his mouth as he eyed Remus expectantly. 

“Let them rumour that this place is haunted. Every town has its ghost stories. Ours ain’t any different,” Lyall continued. 

“I thought you didn’t want to draw any attention to us,” Remus replied as he swung his leg over the Quad and sat down. His wooden cane was tucked away for safekeeping, but he knew it wouldn’t be much use once they were on the unsteady terrain on the hills. “‘Cause of the ‘Ministry of Morons.’”

Remus didn’t know much about the Ministry of Magic—he didn’t know much about magic and Wizarding Britain at all, other than the spells his father taught him, and what he’d read in books. Remus had overheard his father telling his mother about the discrimination that werewolves faced on more than one occasion (usually following his mother's gentle comments that perhaps Remus might be able to visit Diagon Alley. The idea quickly shut down as Lyall explained the risks that the wrong heads might be turned and questions raised), and a part of Remus was glad to be kept away from it all. He’d read books about his kind and realised just how much people hated werewolves. Hated him.

Though a part of him wished he didn’t live in the shadows like a scared cub, Remus knew the Wizarding World would chew him up and toss him out on his arse the second they sniffed out he was different. 

So the shadows are where he stays.  

Lyall’s lips twitched up into a small smile at the moniker. “I don’t want you worryin’ about that, son,” he replied, and just like that, the conversation topic came to a close. 

Knowing well enough then to push his Pa, Remus fired up the Quad. He took off out of the farm, up the dirt track, and into the fields without looking back. 

Though it was bitterly cold and the ground was rockhard, the flock were still located around the hills to graze freely, uncaring of the winter conditions. Only until the rain started to pour relentlessly, until the ground turned slippery and boggy with mud, would the flock return to the fields closer to the farm for their safety. 

The trip up the valley was always his favourite. The wind nipped at his flushed cheeks, tousled his hair even curlier, and sent a chill down his bones, but it was the closest he’d get to the feeling of freedom. 

The flock were located on the peak of the east side of the valley; dotted around the hills in soft splodges of white, like patches of cotton adorning the fields. Remus pulled to a stop at the bottom of the peak to unbolt the gate to drive the Quad inside, where the troughs waited to be filled. 

As Remus cut off the engine and jumped off the Quad, cane momentarily in hand, a threatening growl tugged from Freddie, his lips peeled upwards and eyes trained on the woodland on the far side of the hill. 

“It’s probably just a fox,” Remus muttered to the dog as he petted its fluffy head, drawing the dog’s attention away from the trees. 

The flock hadn’t paid either of them any attention at the noisy entrance, and Remus shook his head at Freddie (who growled once more, his hackles raising) as he secured the gate back in place. Freddie jumped off the Quad as Remus whistled him to get to the work rounding the flock down the hill. He didn’t need to utter the command specifically; the dog bolted off up the hills like lightning, little paws thumping on the frozen ground, and veered around the right side of the sheep to gain their attention. Remus whistled again as the flock began to be herded towards him, and he made a start by opening the bags of feed. 

Upon the hills, the temperature had plummeted. The breeze was biting, and the exposed flesh of Remus’ hands and cheeks tingled from numbness. He pulled his jacket up higher in a feeble attempt to shield himself, but to no avail. His breath came out in soft clouds that evaporated almost instantly in front of his face, and Remus’ hands trembled as he propped his cane against the Quad and got to work.  

“Bollocks,” he grumbled under his breath as he blew hot air onto his hands. While he might have remembered his pocket knife on this occasion, he’d left his gloves down at the farm, of-fucking-course. 

As he worked, Remus couldn’t help but let his mind wander back to the upcoming full moon. His father had recently gotten a book from the library in Diagon Alley, which explored the different types of wards that were most effective in different situations. Remus sucked at casting wards; without a wand, he found it difficult to cast anything that required a certain level of precision, such as securing the Shack as a safe space to turn. His wards were sloppy and frail, which frustrated him more than he wanted to admit out loud to his father. 

Lyall had also gotten him another book focusing on transfiguration, and Remus had spent an embarrassing amount of time learning how to transfigure a hamster into a teacup. He’d managed it… sort of, anyway. It was always the tail that mysteriously remained, and the cup always had a fuzzy feel to it that didn’t seem right. 

Remus wished so desperately that he could experience the marvels of Diagon Alley library. From what his father had told him, it was huge; vast shelves of books spanning five floors. A restricted section where books were illegal to be taken; they were simply there to be read within the walls of the library because they were so rare. God, he would kill to know what it felt like to hold a book so rare that there was only one in existence.  

The sound of a twig snapping in the distance pulled Remus from his thoughts, his head whipping up towards the woodland where the sound echoed from. There was nothing there, except the leafless trees, browning shrubs, and the sounds of birds singing. 

Remus returned his attention back to his work, but a nagging feeling settled in his stomach that something was there, watching him. 

I’m paranoid. It’s the moon; the wolf’s on edge, that’s all it is. 

By the time he had filled up the troughs, Freddie had heard the flock down the hill where they began to scoff down their food happily. A quick headcount—then a second to double check himself—concluded forty-three sheep, just as it should be. Remus sent a silent prayer to whoever was looking out for him that he didn’t have to drive up the hill to find any stragglers—sheep had a knack for getting themselves stuck, loose, or rolling onto their backs with their stupid little feet pointing upwards like a declaration of stupidity that Remus had to sort out. He’d never understand how sheep made it to adulthood; their brains were the size of a peanut. 

While the flock finished their pellets, occasionally bleating and eyeing Remus curiously, he turned to face the locked gate. He rolled his shoulders to relax them before his arm outstretched, finger pointing at the lock. 

A beat of concentrated silence passed before he uttered the spell, “Alohomora.”

The lock slid off, and the gate swung open with unprecedented force. It slammed back against the fence, the sound echoing across the valley like a gunshot, and Remus winced as he walked over to inspect the damage. 

“Bollocks,” he cursed again, picking up the lock that had snapped, rendering it useless. At least the gate would still close, but he’d need to ask his Pa for a new lock. 

Making his way back to the Quad, Remus backed it out of the field with Freddie hot on his tail. The gate was closed once again, this time manually and without the help of magic. 

“Good boy,” he remarked, chuckling softly as the dog jumped back onto the bike and pressed his nuzzle into Remus’ bicep demandingly. He pocketed the broken lock and reached down to pet the dog's head in praise for a job well done. “What would I do without you, eh?”

Freddie simply gazed up at him, pupils dilated to big, black orbs that ate away at the blue irises, as Remus stroked his fur gently. He’d always preferred dogs to people—they didn’t judge him or expect anything from him. Dogs liked being around him (Remus prayed that was because they could sense he was a trustworthy person, and not because they could smell the canine on him). 

As Remus pulled his hand away, intending to head back to the farm, something behind Freddie, tucked away behind the tree line, caught his eye and made Remus falter. He wasn’t sure what it was that made him pause, but there was a sudden shift in the air that he couldn’t explain. 

It was a feeling—something tugging at the depths of his stomach, screaming at him that something was there. 

Remus wiped his trembling hands on the front of his jeans to brush off the sheen of sweat. The back of his neck pricked like a ghost had run its icy fingers across his skin tauntingly, but he knew that wasn’t it—ghosts didn’t exist, and if they did, they certainly didn’t haunt these specific hills. 

A frown settled on his face as he picked up his cane and stepped around the Quad, edging closer towards the woodland in hopes of getting a better look. Remus’ eyes squinted in an attempt to see whatever it was—if it was anything other than a fragment of his overactive, paranoid imagination.

Maybe I’m going crazy now, too, he thought to himself gravely. I’m seeing shit that’s not even there. 

Shaking his head as if that would cure himself, Remus took a step back and pinched the bridge of his nose to clear his thoughts. But, as he half-turned his back to the woodland, Freddie suddenly lurched up and growled. 

Remus glanced back toward the woodland. 

There was definitely something there, hidden behind the safety of the shrubs and trees. Remus could see it now; eyes were watching him—studying him—the creature low to the ground as if it were ready to pounce. It was too far away for Remus to be able to make out exactly what it was, but the hairs on the back of his neck raised once more, and Remus took another tentative step back towards the safety of Freddie and the Quad. 

He might have gotten an adequate grasp on wandless magic, but his father hadn’t taught Remus all that much about defensive spells. In retrospect, maybe that wasn’t a smart move. 

Remus wasn’t sure exactly what called for him to retreat; he couldn’t explain it, other than something wasn’t right. 

The air thrummed with waves of electricity. Remus’ body pulsed with it as the feeling washed over him, wrapping around his body and igniting a feeling of warmth. He could no longer feel the bitter coldness of the wind, his fingers shook, but for a different reason this time. Sweat beaded along his forehead and the back of his neck, the blood coursed through his veins so quickly he could almost feel it, his breath coming out shakily. 

He’d never encountered anything like it before, the feeling completely new and startling. Remus felt glued in place, his hand gripping his cane tightly. His eyes—wide, bewildered, scared—locked onto the unfamiliar silvery-grey orbs hidden behind the shrub. 

Had it unknowingly moved closer? When had he noticed the colour of its eyes? What was it? 

Suddenly finding the ability to move once more, Remus pressed his fingers into his eyes and rubbed harshly until he saw stars. His arm fell back to his side limply. 

The eyes had vanished almost as quickly as they materialised—the shrub now vacant of any kind of life—as was the mysterious sensation that had just passed over him. Remus baulked at the shrub as if it somehow held all the answers to the million questions whirling around in his head.   

“...I’m officially losing it…” Remus whispered to himself in disbelief as he stepped back to the Quad and swung his leg over. Freddie was still standing in the same position as before, his lips pulled back to display his teeth, eyes trained on the woodland unblinking. It unnerved Remus, but at least whatever it was he saw, Freddie was in silent agreement that it was real.

Unless, of course, Freddie was also losing the plot. Maybe he was senile already. Maybe I’m going senile, Remus thought to himself. Fucking hell. His life was truly the gift that kept on giving. 

It was a joke, and he was the punchline. 

Shaking his head for the millionth time in disbelief, Remus jammed the keys into the ignition and turned. The Quad roared to life once more, and he and Freddie were gunning it back down the hill and to the farm track without so much as glancing back.  

But, no matter the distance that he put between himself and the hills, Remus couldn’t shake off the feeling of those silver eyes watching him.

Chapter Text

✧ ☾ Chapter Two ✧ ☾

The week that followed the strange, indescribable incident in the valley was just as plain and ordinary as Remus suspected it to be. It passed in a dreary blur of bitter cold rides on the Quad Bike to check the herd morning and night, afternoons helping his mother in the garden as she fussed over her flowers and vegetable patch, ensuring they made it through winter, and every remaining free moment practising his wandless magic. 

It was typical—monotonous, predictable, ordinary. 

Just how Remus liked it. 

Much to Remus’ delight, there were no further sightings of silvery grey eyes lurking behind bushes, or the feeling that something was constantly watching him. It was to the point that Remus almost felt as if he’d concocted the whole ordeal—some sudden onset of pre-moon paranoia, or something—but that idea brought a different set of emotions to the surface that often led him to think he was losing his marbles at the young age of twenty-one. 

Yet nothing could shake the feeling that had encapsulated him that afternoon. The electrified thrum that had sparked around him, making Remus feel the most alive he’d ever felt. Goosebumps flushing his skin, his blood bumping, chest tight. What was that?

Even thinking about it now, Remus shivered as he recounted the sensation. 

Book after book left Remus with more questions than answers, and no notable texts alluded to anything momentous. By the time Remus had combed through every available book in the cottage, it was four days later, and he was running on barely any sleep, energy drinks, and Haribo’s. 

If only I could visit Diagon Alley’s library, he thought to himself tiredly. 

Desperate, and potentially a little delirious from the lack of sleep, Remus even approached his father on the subject, seeing as Lyall was a bit of an expert on the topic of Non-Human Spirituous Apparition. From what Remus knew, his father had joined the Ministry as a fresh-faced eighteen-year-old, employed within the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures (ironically, ha!) but relinquished his position shortly after Remus’ attack. 

Although Remus didn’t know all the facts—his parents were notorious for keeping him sheltered like some sick, defenceless child—he had pieced together a coherent sequence of events from the few facts he’d discovered over the years. Such as: the department lead (a batty old wizard who was in dire need of retiring) had refused to take the threat of Greyback seriously without any tangible proof of Lyall's accusations. And: refusing to out his son, Lyall had quit on the spot, gathered his things in a flurry, and stormed out. 

Or, the story went along that sort of line, anyway. 

So, Remus supposed his father might know a thing or two about a magical creature that might prey on Welsh valleys where a certain male werewolf just so happened to live, right? 

“Are you sleepin’ enough, son?” Lyall had asked, concern weaving into his eyes as he raised the back of his hand to Remus’ forehead. “Moon’s gettin’ to you.”

Brilliant. 

So, Lyall also landed on a similar conclusion, it would seem. Unsurprisingly, Remus didn’t feel put at ease, which only had his mother’s scepticism growing stronger that something was troubling him; and, like a hound on the scent of a fox, she wasn’t letting it go. 

The more Remus thought about it—and he was thinking about it so regularly that it bordered on almost obsessive—there was really no other explanation; he was either losing it or something magical had occurred that day. Remus couldn’t decide which idea was more terrifying to entertain, but a part of him decided that at least if he was suddenly hallucinating, there were pills he could take for that. If it were somehow magic-related… Well, it wouldn’t end well, Remus knew that much. 

☽ ✧ ☾

The morning of the full moon saw Remus stiff and achy. His joints were hot and seized, a sharp pain throbbing persistently in his hip, and an irritating tingle in the tips of his fingers. Like pins and needles that wouldn’t shift no matter how much he wiggled the appendage, and he felt bitterly exhausted, not even two minutes after rousing. 

Remus took a further ten minutes to get himself up and out of bed. He dressed slowly, body moving sluggishly, fingers refusing to cooperate as he buttoned his green and white checkered shirt that was somewhere between clean and definitely needing to be washed soon. He couldn’t care less as he sat on the edge of his bed with a wince and tugged his cardigan over his head, eyes half drooped, and mind elsewhere. 

By the time he’d hobbled downstairs—half leaning on his cane, weight shifting between his feet as he tried to ascertain which particular standing position was the least uncomfortable—his mother was already pottering around the kitchen, cleaning up after breakfast while humming. 

Hope looked over her shoulder, soft eyes filled with knowing, as Remus slumped down in a heap on the chair ungracefully. A plate appeared wordlessly under his nose, covered by a charm that his father had cast to keep his breakfast warm for when Remus eventually got up. 

“Eat, cariad,” his mother instructed, pressing a kiss to his forehead before she was tootling off to finish cleaning the counter. 

Eggs on toast with a sprinkle of chives and black pepper, and a side of brown sauce. A chocolate frog also slid across the table, and Remus couldn’t help but beam as he tucked into his breakfast. 

In the middle of the table was a folded copy of The Daily Prophet. Remus could just about make out a clipping of a black and white moving photograph, the accompanying words too small to decipher, except for the blaringly bold title of the front page. 

Auror Black’s Remarkable Arrests—How Britain’s Best Dog Infiltrated the Illegal Crup Trading Ring. 

Remus frowned and reached across the table for the newspaper, his interest piqued, but his father quickly scooped it up and took a seat across from him. Unfurling the paper, his eyes skimming across the front page, Lyall let out a scoff with obvious disdain, as if the words on the page meant something greater to him. 

“Poncy prat,” Lyall groused, eyebrows knitted together and eyes flaming as they read across the front page where Remus assumed a photo of Black was printed. “ Britain's Best Dog—more like Bones’ lap puppy.” Another scoff, though this one mocking. 

Remus’ lips quirked up at his father. “Who is she?” he asked curiously as he shoved another loaded fork of eggs and toast into his mouth, eyes trained on his father, eager to snap up any information that might be provided. 

Lyall always was the most conversational when in a funk, and Remus could bet money (all eighty-three pounds he currently had saved up) his father was about to drop some Ministry lore. 

“Amelia Bones heads the DMLE,” his father grunted. Clearly, he wasn’t a fan of her. “Big ‘ole boots to fill, that one. The department is in shambles, last I ‘eard, after ‘ole Barty found himself relegated.”

“What did he do, then?” Remus probed. 

Lyall shrugged. “The Quibbler,” he grimaced, “posted an article a year or two ago, talkin’ about Barty’s unsavoury and repeated use of a certain Unforgivable, and against his own son!” Lyall’s face scrunched up further in revulsion. “He was discreetly cast down to head the International Magical Cooperation department, and that was that.”

Hope tutted as she folded a tea towel roughly. “Well, serves him right, doesn’t it?” she muttered fiercely. “A head of Law Enforcement hurting children, using illegal spells… Oh, how awful.”

Remus had read about Unforgivables once or twice before. The torture curse, the controlling curse, and worst of all, the killing curse. He couldn’t imagine ever using such vile magic against another person, let alone a child. 

“What happened to him? The kid, I mean,” Remus asked. 

Lyall sat back in his chair, brooding. “Dunno,” he replied nonchalantly. “He left home at eighteen after he exposed his ‘ole man and—uh—well—think he’s married some fella now,” Lyall concluded gruffly. “Works in some grungy Muggle tattoo shop now, or so I’ve ‘eard.” 

Remus’ lips pulled into his mouth, suppressing a laugh at his father’s disapproving look. If there was one thing Lyall Lupin hated, that was tattoos. Naturally, Remus got a small tattoo on his hip at eighteen, something that his father had sighed and shook his head at, muttering under his breath. There was a hint of a smile underneath it all, no matter how much Lyall still denied it. 

Shoving his finished plate to the side, Remus rubbed a hand over his aching knee. “So, this Bones lady heads the DMLE, and this… Auror—uh—Black is her second in command?” he asked, mentally trying to piece this puzzle together. 

Lyall folded the paper once more and reached across to toss it in the bin. “Black’s just an Auror,” he stated factually. “A brown-nosin’, sucker-up, yes-man who’s got a nasty ‘abit of stickin’ his nose where it don’t belong!” Lyall seethed, his voice gradually growing in volume and a balled fist thumping onto the table, his eyes wild. 

“Lyall,” Hope warned, her hands on her hips as she glared at him. 

His father pulled his hand back, eyes flashing with shame at the outburst. “He’s no good, son. Men like him… His family—” he spat, looking away, “—blood supremacists who think they’re better than the rest of us.” He shook his head and stood up, brushing his hands on his faded brown trousers. “You’ll tend to the valley this mornin’, boy, then time to rest up for tonight.”

Remus nodded his head automatically, his tongue suddenly feeling heavy in his mouth. He didn’t trust his voice to speak.

Oh, how he’d heard the stories about how wizarding Britain was polluted with those who hated Muggles. Hated those who married them; those who had children with them. 

People like his father. People like Remus. 

To think he was a half-blooded werewolf, there really was no winning for someone like him. 

☽ ✧ ☾

Freddie was more than eager to hop onto the back of the Quad and make the trek up the valley. Lyall had helped load the sacks of feed for the sheep and muttered a quick goodbye before Remus had taken off up the uneven track. The wind was biting at his cheeks, making him flush, his hair tousled by the winter breeze, the air thick with earthy moisture. As Remus looked up, the sky was a battling shade of grey, white and black, the clouds blending together in soft rumbles as a storm began brewing. 

Excellent. At the very least, if the storm stayed until morning, the sounds of the Wolf shouldn’t be carried by the wind to the ears of the villagers. As if they needed anything more to gossip about. 

The sheep were already down from the hills and huddled together where the ground flattened out. Remus made quick work to scatter their food along the troughs, checking their water station was filled enough, and that the fence lines were still intact. 

Every sheep was accounted for by the time the rain started. Soft sprays fell from the sky at first, before the globs of rain turned thick and fast, the sky bleeding into a murkier shade of angry grey. The once solid ground quickly turned slippery as the water cascaded down the hills like a small river, and Remus swore under his breath as he pulled his jacket hood up higher and hobbled back over to the Quad, Freddie hot on his heels. 

There was no time to practice magic today—not that Remus particularly felt up for it in his current state, but he always quite enjoyed the thrill of practising somewhere outside and away from his father’s eyes. 

With a flick of his wrist, the gate slammed shut behind him, the lock (which his father had since replaced) sliding in place. Freddie was already on the back of the Quad, his body tucked up tight, his ears folded back.

“Shit,” Remus shouted as his foot suddenly strumbled out from under him and he went careening to the ground. He landed with an ungraceful thump; pain exploded from his hip, which took the brunt of his fall, spots dancing in his vision as his hand cradled the wounded area, a soft whimper falling off his lips. 

Taking a deep breath, Remus gripped the handle of the Quad and heaved himself up, his leg bent at the knee to keep the weight off it momentarily. His jeans were sodden with mud and water, sticking to his skin icily and uncomfortably, but Remus couldn’t bring himself to care all that much as he leant against the side of the Quad to steady himself. Breathing heavily through his nose, his eyes squeezed shut, Remus willed the pain to ease off just enough to make the trip home and take some pain relief. Not that it would help all that much. The closer it got to the moon rising, the more the Wolf began to lurk under his skin, scratching in anticipation to get out. 

Freddie, who had previously been quietly observing Remus’ struggle, jumped up, his hackles raising. A threatening growl emitted from his mouth, where his lips pulled back to expose his sharp teeth. 

Remus’ head whipped up, eyes searching in front of him. Unlike last time, Remus knew what he was looking for and, almost immediately, his eyes met with silvery-grey. Those animalistic orbs were hidden behind a shrub, low to the ground, but identical to the ones plaguing his thoughts.  

The tingle of magic was weaker this time, but unmistakably there, like the subtle scent of rain before it fell. The hairs on Remus’ arms stood up, his breath catching in his throat as his eyes locked with those behind the shrub, anxiously waiting to see if it would reveal itself. 

I am not crazy. I am not crazy. I am not fucking crazy! 

Chanting the words like a mantra in his head, Remus took a tentative step closer, the pain in his hip temporarily ignored. He shielded a hand over his eyes to keep the rain away as he tried to get a better look at whatever was lurking thirty feet away. He didn’t dare blink in case it vanished. No, if it moved, Remus wanted to see it—he wanted to know that this was real. 

Remus couldn’t see much between the heaviness of the rain, but Remus could have sworn he saw a tuft of black fur and twitching ears pointed upwards, facing towards him as if listening to his every move.

The sudden sound of the gate reopening, its rusty hinges squeaking from the movement, stole Remus’ attention. The lock hadn’t slid in place properly— fucking hell, I know the full’s tonight, but my magic is slacking! —and several sheep seized the opportunity of escape and pegged it through the gap. 

Freddie was already leaping off the back of the Quad and bounding after them as Remus quickly limped back over, shouting commands over the clap of thunder and hammering rain. By the time the sheep were back on the correct side of the fence line, the gate closed and lock secured—and checked three times for peace of mind—whatever had been tucked behind the shrubs had long gone. 

Remus grabbed his forgotten cane that was sitting in the wet mud (he cursed as he picked it up and wiped the mess off with his sleeve), and wandered over to investigate. The spot was undoubtedly vacant. 

In fact, the only proof that was left behind was the outline of paw prints in the softening soil. At the very least, Remus knew he wasn’t going crazy. 

☽ ✧ ☾

The full moon came and went as it always did. 

His mother’s eyes brimmed with tears that she refused to shed until after Remus left. The soft kiss she placed on his forehead as she hugged him tightly, as if it would be their last. The soft, reassuring squeeze to his bicep as she says, “I’ll see you in the morning, cariad.”

The silent drive up to the Shack, his father behind the wheel and Remus slumped in the passenger side. Sweat was licking at his forehead, a tremor in his hands, an ache behind his eyes. The Wolf scratched incessantly beneath the surface, worsening as the lull of the moon called closer. 

The cobblestoned building was draughty and damp, the air thick with the earthy and musty smell of mildew, wet wood and old hay. The scent lingered in every corner, and as Remus stepped closer into the room, he could pick up the metallic, sour stench of aged metal—his shackles lay in a heap on the floor, tauntingly. 

“Well, then,” Lyall muttered as he hooked up the old camping light in the corner of the room so Remus wouldn’t be left in the dark—for now, anyway. They’d have to turn it out later to avoid any unwanted visitors. 

Remus wrapped his arms around himself as he stood stiffly in the middle of the room. He only had ten minutes, fifteen if he was lucky. Lyall was unwilling to waste a second; he moved around the room in a stiff familiarity, his eyes downcast and expression tired as he picked up the shackles, untangling them. 

Above, the thunder rolled once more. Lightning flashed down, illuminating the sky outside. Flecks of light crept in behind the boarded-up windows, and Remus squeezed his eyes shut, anxiety setting into his bones. 

This was always the worst part—the humiliating ritual of being chained up, knowing what was to come (pain, screaming, losing control) and knowing there was nothing he could do to stop it. 

“It’s time, son.”

Remus nodded his head with a sniffle—he refused to cry in front of his father—and unbuttoned his shirt. His trousers, socks, and shoes came next until he stood in the middle of the room in just his pants. 

Lyall was considerate as he placed the metal cuffs around Remus’ wrists and ankles, then slid the chains around his torso. When it came to the cuff around his neck, Remus held his breath, eyes squeezed shut tighter. 

“You’d best go, Pa,” he mumbled as his father's hands lingered on Remus’ shoulders with a gentle squeeze. “You don’t want to be here when… Well, when I’m no longer me.”

Lyall nodded his head, pinching Remus’ cheek. “I’ll be back in the mornin’, son,” he replied gravely, his voice thick with gloom. 

By the time Lyall had warded the door and had left, the sound of his truck fading into the distance, Remus had minutes until the first of his bones began cracking and twisting, his body deforming and changing until skin became fur, and his mind no longer his own. 

When the sun began to rise, Remus remembered nothing of the night before as he came back to himself in a crumpled heap. His shoulder was dislocated, his ankle broken, and a fresh set of bloody slices across his body. The remaining hint of the Wolf's loneliness evaporated into the air, the longing for a friend—a pack—drifting away with each tired blink of his eyes. 

His head was tucked in his mother’s lap, her weeping silent, as his father cast healing spells over him. The room was thick with the unspoken words that Remus was once again lucky to see the sunrise. 

But as Remus felt his consciousness slipping away from him, his last thought was, am I really that lucky, though? 

☽ ✧ ☾

The following two days saw Remus tucked up in bed, recovering. 

His ankle and shoulder were still sore and inflamed, but the potions his father had purchased discreetly from Diagon Alley a few days before were working wonders. 

By the third day of bed rest, Hope Lupin was dragging Remus from his bed against his protests, insisting he accompany her to the farmers' market in the village. Knowing better than to decline, Remus dressed in a pair of jeans, an old faded Fleetwood Mac tee, and his favourite knitted jumper that his mother had made. It was a forest green colour with fluffy sheep on it. 

The weather was crisp and dry, the sun peaking out from behind the clouds as they drove down the winding county lanes to the heart of the village. Stalls were already propped up inside the market building, rows of vegetables, cheeses, and jams stretched as far as Remus could see, the floor filled with patrons in pursuit of fresh produce and gossip. 

Eyes followed him around, and the soft mutterings of "Loony Lupin" floated around the entrance hall as they walked past. As much as Remus tried to shrink into himself, he couldn’t escape the feeling of being put in the spotlight, like a monkey in a zoo. The eyes hungrily scrutinising his every move, waiting on bated breath for him to put a foot out of line so they can natter, natter, natter. 

“That odd boy from the valley—”

“—Look at his scars—”

“—Such an odd family, those Lupins.”

Remus tried to shut it out, their insufferable spew of remarks. It felt inescapable. Consuming. Neverending. 

His mother stopped first at the Greendales’, who sold homemade, freshly baked bread and scones. Then it was the Carter's and their eggs—rows of different shades of brown eggs, and Remus helped pick out a dozen for them to take home. 

The Crocker’s sold honey, the Plowman’s sold cheeses and chutneys. The Barlow’s had a stand of venison, which Remus eyed for a moment, the Wolf in him interested, before deciding it was too expensive compared to steak. 

The Harris’ were one of Remus’ favourites—the family predominantly sold flowers in beautifully displayed bouquets and potted marigolds and the like in a shining display of vibrant colours, even this time of the year. But, more than anything, Remus enjoyed their small selection of crochet items that their daughter made. From little cows and sheep, to bumble bees and butterflies, to octopuses, Remus delighted in seeing what the creative little girl had whipped up this week. 

“Hullo, Hope. Remus,” Mrs Harris greeted them when she saw the pair walking over to her stall. Mrs Harris was a small, plump woman with frizzy brown hair that was always tied away from her face in a bun. She had a kind smile and warm eyes that never lingered too long on the scars on Remus’ face. 

Unlike some people. 

As Mrs Harris and his mother delved into conversation about the storm from the other night—Mrs Harris worried for the sheep in the valley, while Hope feared for Mrs Harris’ flowers in weather like that—Remus glanced around at the brightly-colored crochet animals. 

“Oh, but did you hear that awful noise?” Mrs Harris was saying, hand hovering over her mouth, her eyes big and fearful. “That-that howling! Oh, Hope, I fear the hills are haunted… Wales doesn’t have wolves, does it?!” 

Remus’ back went rigid, his head downcast, as his ears pricked up at Mrs Harris’ words. He’d thought the sound of the rain and thunder had blocked out the howls and cries of the Wolf as it tried to break free from its restraints. 

Apparently not. 

Hope’s smile was strained as she listened to Mrs Harris’ spew of words, but Remus tuned her out. 

As Remus inspected the animals in front of him, he couldn’t help but notice the murmuring around him had shifted. At first, he thought the villagers were also discussing the strangely abnormal noises from a few nights ago, but as he focused his hearing, Remus realised it was something else that had caught the villagers’ attention. 

“Did you see it?!”

“Yes—it was massive!”

“Black fur—”

“—It was like a dog, only bigger—”

“—A beast, I tell you—”

“—I swear, Maureen, it growled at me and Mr Kitten like it wanted to eat us—”

“—It was just roaming around. I saw it headed up to the valley—”

“—An omen of death, that…”

Remus swallowed around the lump in his throat, thoughts running around his mind a million times a minute. 

It wasn’t just him who had glimpsed the thing up on the hills. In fact, it would seem a lot of people had caught sight of some part of it heading somewhere or another, and the rumours were spreading around the market like wildfire. Some dubbed the sighting ludicrous— “You’re just seeing things, Martin. Blimey, there ain’t no wild dogs around here!”— while others stood their ground, defending the brief flashes of black fur, paws, and canine teeth. 

But Remus had seen it, too. Twice, actually. Grey eyes and black fur… It had to be the same creature, he was sure of it. And, to make matters worse, it—whatever it was—had to be some kind of magical creature for it was true that no wild dogs were roaming around in North Wales, and even if there were, no dog was that large. 

But then a magical creature that Muggles could also see… Remus filed that information away for later when he resumed his research. 

While at least the confirmation that he wasn’t hallucinating brought Remus some sense of consolation, the mere idea that something wizardry had found his little hole in the wall town was… disconcerting, to say the least. 

All too soon, the stories began bleeding into conspiracies of how it must be related to the howling sounds that can sometimes be heard across the valley. 

The buzz around the room quickly changed again—how has so much happened so quickly in this bloody town?! These old bats are ecstatic!— and Remus frowned as he picked out different words, attempting to decipher it all. 

“—Saw him too. Yes, yes. Very odd looking boy—”

“—He was speaking to George just yesterday! Asking about hiking spots up the valley—”

“—I heard he was staying at Annebelle’s and Frank’s B&B. Checked in for quite some time—”

“Very mysterious, I tell you. First, this wild beast, and now this delinquent running around, smoking cigarettes… The county’s gone to the dogs!” 

“I saw him in the Spar yesterday. He’s kinda cute, Grandma, with that rockstar look to him…” 

Remus suddenly stopped in his tracks. He hadn’t even realised he was walking, until he pulled out his thoughts and realised he was following the sounds of the villagers swapping sightings and reports of what they’d seen. Remus let out a huff and turned back on his heel and—bumped into someone. 

A wave of long, black hair was all that Remus noticed before his hand was diving forwards to catch the person whom he’d accidentally knocked to the ground. 

“Uh… my bad,” he mumbled intelligently, arm steadying the stranger around their waist. A scent of cedarwood and cigarettes breached Remus’ nose, a fighting urge to lean in and—

The person—man, Remus noted—was suddenly glancing up at him. He stood a head shorter than Remus (yet still taller than most people, at least six feet, if not six-one), his cheekbones strikingly sharp, his jaw chiselled, skin milky white and porcelain. A straight nose that curved up slightly at the end, full pink lips that looked soft, a perfect cupid's bow, and slightly parted. Black hair framing his face, cascading down past his shoulders in silky waves, and Remus dared to run his fingers through it. His eyebrows were slightly raised as he looked up at Remus and—thick lashes framed grey eyes that were wide in surprise and oddly familiar, but Remus couldn’t pinpoint exactly where. 

He was ethereal, and Remus was enchanted, completely stuck, rooted in place, breath leaving his lungs in an embarrassing whoosh. 

He was dressed in a pair of lethally tight black jeans held up by a thick belt with metal stars woven into the leather; a scuffed, worn pair of Dr Martens with purple laces on his feet, a faded Bowie shirt, and a black leather jacket. Jewellery adorned his body—around his neck, wrists, fingers. There was a septum piercing, a lip piercing (a vertical labret, Remus thought to himself), and enough holes in his ears to make airport security have a fit. Nails painted black, chipping untidily but in a way that looked so natural, like it was a part of The Look. 

Oh, Remus thought wistfully. Well then. 

The man cleared his throat softly, and Remus leapt back, red blossoming across his cheeks. He hadn't realised he was still holding onto the man for absolutely no reason other than being stuck in his own mesmerised reverie.  

How fucking embarrassing.

Head tilted slightly to the side like a pup, a small, playful smirk on his lips, the man studied Remus curiously. His eyes travelled quickly down his frame, glancing at his cane but not lingering, then jumping back up to his face like…like looking up at someone wasn’t something this man was used to. 

“You’re very tall,” the stranger mused in interest. His voice was rich like honey, with effortless elegance, his syllables rolling off his tongue with the faintest hint of a French accent. 

Remus wanted to melt on the spot—wanted to know what his name would sound like from the man. 

Oh, so not a good thought!

Now stood apart—a foot between them which felt all too big yet too small simultaneously, it had Remus’ head spinning—it was more apparent something was different about the man. Not just the way he spoke (no one spoke so posh around here), or the way he dressed (he was gaining stares from the other patrons and farmers—“I say, is that a goth?”—“I think it’s called punk, Grandpa.”—“It’s him, from the B&B, Marjorie!”), or the fact that he was still gazing at Remus with an interested glint in his eye as if trying to figure out a particularly difficult riddle. 

He was a wizard, Remus realised with a crashing sense of dread. 

The foot of distance between them had Remus realising he missed it before. The crackle of energy pulsing between them, the tingling sweet scent of magic, the thrum flying up Remus’ arms. 

A wizard this far in North Wales? What did he want? What had brought him here?

As if sensing the sudden apprehension, the man took a step forward, his lips parting, words on the tip of his tongue. He didn’t voice them, though—he didn’t have the chance. Remus spun on his heels and pushed through the crowd, back to Mrs Harris’ stall, but his mother was gone. 

Pulse racing, his ears filled with static, Remus glanced around the market for a familiar blond head on a petite woman. Being six-seven meant he typically towered over people, and in moments like this, it made his life much easier to spot his mother chatting to the Lowe’s as she packed some pies into her wicker basket. 

Rushing over, he grabbed his mother's basket with a muted smile. “What did you get?” he asked, voice strained, but he felt his anxiety easing, having her by his side. 

“Steak and kidney, and then chicken, leek, and mushroom for your Pa,” she replied, turning to him. She must have picked up his change of tone as her eyes softened. “Everything okay, cariad?”

Remus nodded his head but said, “Just my hip. Still hurts.”

Hope nodded and said goodbye to Mr Lowe before gently taking Remus’ elbow and leading the way to the front doors. Remus let out a sigh of relief as the crowd began to thin, the air no longer stuffy, as he put the basket on the backseat and slid into the passenger side. 

His mother didn’t ask any further questions as she started up the engine and backed out of the parking space. Remus was grateful. He didn’t even know what he would say; “Sorry, mum. I saw a hot wizard and panicked because maybe he would be able to instantly tell I had a furry little secret and would tell people. Did I mention he was a wizard? And hot?” It didn’t really roll off the tongue smoothly, did it?

Furthermore, Remus did not want to worry his parents. His mother was one thing—she’d always endorsed that perhaps meeting other wizards wouldn’t be so harmful, would it? But his father… His father would panic and fret. He’d likely scour the valleys until he found the mysterious wizard wandering the most random of places in all of Wales. He’d probably demand to know why the man was here, what he wanted, and when he was leaving. 

It would draw attention to them. To Remus. 

But what if he’s here for me? To finally put me in Azkaban? 

No. Remus instantly shut that thought down. That wasn’t likely. How would anyone know what he was? How would they have found him so easily, if they did? Why didn’t the man say something or do something if that were the case? 

Remus shook his head. No, the wizard was young, probably the same age as Remus himself. Likely just a tourist in need of some country air, or something. There was absolutely nothing about that wizard that oozed authority—not that Remus had ever met an Auror before, but he would hazard a guess they didn’t wear skinny jeans and leather jackets. They had a uniform code to adhere to, and that wizard looked more like he was going to a gig or… something. 

Decidedly not a bad wizard, then. 

Oh, and Remus had just run away from him like an absolute tool, hadn’t he? 

Sinking down in his chair, a headache already forming behind his eyes, Remus watched the patrons chatting outside the market, their bags filled with goods. As they passed the front doors, his eyes instantly hooked on those familiar grey ones. The man was already observing him, leaning against the wall, a cigarette between his lips, one leg crossed over the other. 

Their eye contact didn’t break until the truck rounded the corner, and the market fell out of sight. 

I’m never leaving the house again, Remus decided with an embarrassed huff.