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The night smelled of burnt sugar and cold air—the sharp, metallic chill of late October that turned every breath into a curl of white smoke.
Remus Lupin pulled his jacket tighter as he and his friends, James Potter and Peter Pettigrew, joined the slow-moving queue outside the Fright Night Festival gates. Behind them, car headlights cut through the fog like restless ghosts. Ahead, the crowd hummed with anticipation—laughter, chatter, the occasional nervous squeal as distant screams from the attractions drifted over the loudspeakers.
They were, predictably, late. James had spent twenty minutes arguing with a parking attendant about whether “overflow” meant free, and Peter had doubled back to the car to fetch his wristband. Now the line coiled halfway around the entrance arch, and Remus couldn’t help smiling. For all the chaos, it felt right to be here.
“Ten quid says you chicken out before the second maze,” James said, bumping his shoulder.
Remus shot him a dry look. “Ten quid says you run screaming before I do.”
“Please,” James replied, grinning, “I thrive in chaos.”
Peter gave a short laugh that steamed in the air. “You screamed last year when the guy in the burlap mask looked at you funny.”
“That was a strategic scream,” James insisted.
Their bickering blended into the noise around them—familiar, easy, grounding. The kind of rhythm that made even the eerie setting feel comfortable.
Up ahead, the massive archway loomed, draped in fake cobwebs and orange string-lights. Carved pumpkins grinned down from either side. A recorded voice boomed from hidden speakers:
“Welcome, foolish mortals… step into your nightmares!”
James threw his arms wide like a showman. “Finally. My kind of theatre.”
A scare actor dressed as a reaper swept past, dragging a foam scythe across the ground. “No refunds if you don’t make it out alive,” the reaper rasped.
Peter chuckled weakly. “That’s reassuring.”
They scanned their wristbands and stepped through. Instantly, the night seemed to tilt.
Inside, colour and chaos erupted: carnival bulbs blinking through fog, music pounding somewhere beneath the chatter, the air thick with the scent of caramel and fried dough. People darted and screamed, laughter breaking through in startled bursts. The mechanical snarl of a chainsaw revved in the distance.
James already had his phone out, recording. “And here we have Remus Lupin, local cryptid enthusiast and professional coward—”
Remus swatted the back of the phone. “Do you ever stop narrating?”
“Not when there’s content,” James said cheerfully.
Peter hunched deeper into his coat. “Let’s find food before we start. I’m starving.”
“Food?” James looked scandalised. “Before we’ve been traumatised? Amateur move.”
Remus smiled faintly. “He’s got a point—the adrenaline makes the hot dogs taste better.”
They wandered deeper into the fairgrounds, following paths lined with flickering pumpkins. Above them, strings of lights formed glowing bats and ghosts, swaying slightly in the breeze. Remus loved that—the way it all looked just convincing enough to blur the line between stage and reality.
He tried not to analyse why he liked these places so much. There was safety in rehearsed fear. You screamed, you laughed, the lights came up, and everything was fine again. Real life didn’t come with exit signs.
A scarecrow actor stumbled across their path, letting out a low groan. Peter yelped and ducked behind Remus, which only encouraged the scarecrow to follow him for several steps until James’s laughter broke the tension.
“Not funny!” Peter hissed.
“It’s a little funny,” Remus admitted, smiling.
They passed a defunct Ferris wheel glowing sickly green under floodlights. A girl in zombie makeup leaned against one of the supports, scrolling on her phone—one of those absurd, dreamlike sights that made the whole festival feel suspended between horror and comedy.
Somewhere nearby, the music shifted: a low, thrumming bassline pulsing beneath shrill carnival notes.
“Alright,” James said, clapping his hands together. “Warm-up’s over. Maze time.”
Peter groaned. “Can’t we start with something that doesn’t try to kill us?”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
The first maze towered at the end of the midway—a hulking structure of black panels lit with blood-red strobes. Screams bled from its narrow entrance. A crooked sign above the doorway read:
ASYLUM: NO ONE ESCAPES.
Peter stopped dead. “Nope. Nope. I’ll be over by the candy stall.”
“You’re coming,” James said, grabbing his sleeve. “We’re not letting you bail on the first one.”
Remus smirked. “Scared already?”
“I’m not scared,” Peter muttered. “I’m practicing self-preservation.”
The queue wound between posts wrapped in fake barbed wire. Every few minutes, an actor in a bloodstained uniform would stumble from the exit shrieking, and the entire line would recoil. Fog thickened around their feet, curling over the path like smoke.
James looked delighted. “Exactly the level of commitment I was hoping for.”
Remus tilted his head back, watching the red light flicker on the maze walls. The air hummed with tension, a rhythm of heartbeat and bass. He told himself the weight in his stomach was just nerves.
Peter nudged him. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Just plotting my escape route.”
James turned to them with a wicked grin. “So, who’s leading the way?”
“Not it,” Peter said immediately.
Remus hesitated half a beat too long.
“Remus it is!” James declared triumphantly.
Before Remus could object, a staff member waved them forward.
The noise hit first: distorted screams, metal scraping, the throb of strobes. The narrow hallway ahead gleamed with fake rust and peeling paint. A crooked EXIT sign flickered somewhere inside.
James gestured grandly. “After you, fearless leader.”
Remus sighed. “Remind me why I’m friends with you again?”
“Because no one else would put up with you,” James said.
The door creaked open. Cold air spilled out, tasting faintly of smoke and something chemical. The light flashed once, twice—and then they stepped inside.
The door slammed behind them with a metallic clang that swallowed every trace of the fairground’s music.
Instant darkness.
Then a strobe light flashed, white and violent, and the hallway snapped into view—narrow, grime-streaked, lined with flickering bulbs that hummed like trapped insects. The smell was a mix of latex, fog fluid, and something sweetly rotten.
Peter muttered something that sounded suspiciously like a prayer.
“Keep moving,” James whispered, voice almost reverent. He was grinning in the half-light, loving every second.
Remus took a cautious step forward. The floorboards creaked beneath his boots. Painted handprints streaked the walls; somewhere up ahead, a woman screamed—a sound too real to be just a recording.
They turned a corner and nearly collided with a man in a torn hospital gown. His skin was grey under the lights, eyes wide and wet. He lurched toward them, rattling chains that weren’t actually metal but still made Peter yelp and stumble backward into James.
James laughed, even as the “patient” shrieked inches from his face. “Ten out of ten performance, mate!” he said, clapping the actor on the shoulder before dragging his friends onward.
Remus wasn’t laughing. His pulse was hammering, but not from fear alone. He could feel every breath of the maze—the heat from hidden vents, the pulse of bass under the floor, the faint smell of makeup and sweat from the actors who’d been doing this for hours. It felt alive.
A door burst open to their right; a nurse with blood-smeared lips stumbled out, whispering, “You shouldn’t be here…” Her eyes locked on Remus’s, glassy and pleading, and for a second he forgot it was a performance. Then the strobe hit again, and she was gone, replaced by another hallway that seemed to stretch forever.
James whooped. “Best one yet!”
Peter clung to his sleeve. “I hate this, I hate this, I hate this—”
“Only two more rooms,” Remus said, though he had no idea if that was true. His voice came out steadier than he felt.
They pushed through a swinging door into what looked like a treatment ward. Rusted beds, sheets hanging from the ceiling, a recorded heartbeat pulsing through the speakers. Figures twitched beneath the covers.
Remus led the way between them, trying not to flinch when one of the sheets suddenly flew upward and a figure lunged, shrieking.
Peter swore loudly. James doubled over laughing.
“Strategic movement!” Remus snapped, trying to keep his dignity as his friends wheezed.
The exit sign flickered at the end of the corridor. The three of them half-ran toward it, burst through the door, and stumbled back into the open air, gasping.
The noise of the festival rushed back in—music, laughter, the smell of popcorn and smoke. For a moment they just stood there, catching their breath, grinning like idiots.
“That—was—amazing,” James panted, bent double with laughter. “The nurse nearly had me.”
Peter groaned. “I think I sprained something screaming.”
Remus laughed softly, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. “Worth it.”
Fog drifted across the ground, curling around their ankles. The maze loomed behind them, black and pulsing with red light. The sound of new screams leaked from its doorway, and the three friends exchanged a look that was equal parts exhilaration and disbelief.
James clapped a hand on Remus’s shoulder. “Alright, Mr Fearless, where to next? We’ve got at least five more of these things before midnight.”
Remus shrugged, smiling. “Dealer’s choice.”
They wandered down a side path lit with jack-o’-lanterns, their carved faces flickering in the wind. Between the stalls, scare actors roamed—ghosts, ghouls, the occasional clown—each blending into the crowd until they decided to strike.
Remus couldn’t help watching them. There was an artistry to it: the timing, the body language, the way they danced on the edge between performance and menace. Every shriek from the crowd was part of the choreography.
He caught himself smiling.
“What?” James asked.
“Just… they’re good at what they do,” Remus said.
Peter shuddered. “Too good.”
They bought hot chocolates from a stand draped in plastic bats and stood by a barrel fire, hands wrapped around the steaming cups. Somewhere nearby, a chainsaw roared and a girl screamed theatrically. James toasted his paper cup toward the noise. “To seasonal trauma!”
Remus laughed, feeling the warmth seep through his fingers. His heart was still racing from the maze, but in a pleasant way now.
He glanced toward the crowd again. Fog rolled thick through the midway, blurring faces into silhouettes. For a heartbeat, he thought he saw a shape standing perfectly still amid the movement—a figure taller than the rest, head tilted slightly as if watching. But then the fog shifted and it was gone.
Probably just another actor, he told himself. There were dozens out tonight.
Peter was talking about trying the Ferris wheel; James was plotting their next maze. Remus half-listened, half-drifted, caught up in the surreal beauty of it all. The lights. The laughter. The chill in the air.
Somewhere deep in the park, a bell tolled once—part of an attraction soundtrack, maybe—but it echoed like a warning.
Remus shivered and pulled his jacket tighter.
He didn’t know why, but he had the strange sense that something in the night had noticed him.
By the time they stumbled out of their third maze, Peter was swearing that he’d developed a permanent stress twitch.
“Three down,” James announced, checking his phone like a commander reviewing his victory report. “Two to go. I say we finish with The Carnival of Shadows. It’s the big one this year.”
Peter looked horrified. “The clown one? Absolutely not.”
“Come on, Pete,” James grinned, looping an arm around his shoulder. “Face your fears. It’s therapy. Expensive, neon-lit therapy.”
Remus chuckled, sipping what was left of his hot chocolate. The sweetness had gone cold, leaving only the faint taste of cocoa and smoke. “Let’s walk first,” he said. “I need a break before I get chased by another guy with a chainsaw.”
They wandered toward the festival’s central square, where music spilled from every direction. The night had thickened; fog rolled low and heavy now, swallowing the ground to their knees. Lights flashed in every shade of red and purple, glinting off the glimmering paint of carnival rides.
Food stalls lined the square, each one glowing like a tiny universe. The air was a cocktail of sugar, grease, and something burnt. Children with painted faces darted between clusters of adults; couples huddled close, laughing into shared cups of mulled cider.
Remus felt the edge of adrenaline finally start to fade. The noise became something else—less chaos, more pulse.
“Alright,” James said, clapping his hands. “Snack time. Then we go die laughing.”
Peter groaned. “I’ll die eating instead.”
They split up between stalls—James in search of something deep-fried and dangerous, Peter chasing the scent of caramel. Remus lingered behind, drawn by the atmosphere. The fog here was thicker than anywhere else, tinted red and gold by the lanterns.
A scare actor burst suddenly from behind a popcorn cart—an executioner type, hooded, swinging a foam axe. A group of teenagers screamed and scattered, laughing breathlessly. The actor straightened and gave Remus a nod before stalking off into the mist.
Remus smiled faintly. He admired their commitment.
Then he saw him.
The crowd parted just long enough for Remus to catch sight of the clown.
He was tall, striking even from a distance. His costume was simple: black and white, streaked with red in places that suggested something darker than makeup. His face was painted white with exaggerated black eyes and a blood-red grin that looked hand-drawn, uneven, unsettling. His dark curls, wild and untamed, had been sprayed with streaks of pale grey, but still glinted blue-black beneath the lights.
He wasn’t performing, not exactly—just standing near a booth, head tilted, scanning the crowd. There was something about him, a stillness that didn’t belong in all this noise.
Remus’s breath hitched before he knew why.
The clown’s eyes—blue, shockingly bright even under the paint—flicked toward him. And for a moment, their gazes locked.
It should have been nothing, just another scare actor sizing up a potential victim. But it wasn’t. The moment stretched. The clown’s grin didn’t move, but his eyes softened, curious.
Remus felt his pulse jump.
He wasn’t sure what possessed him—maybe the buzz of adrenaline still humming in his veins, maybe the flicker of boldness that came from being lost in a night that wasn’t real—but he smiled.
And then, with an almost ridiculous flourish, he blew the clown a kiss.
The reaction was immediate. The clown froze, caught mid-motion like someone had hit pause. Then, very slowly, he lifted his hand to his painted lips, blew a kiss back across the fog, and winked.
Remus, suppressing a laugh, reached up, caught the invisible kiss, and pretended to eat it.
A few people nearby noticed and laughed softly. The clown didn’t break character, but his smirk shifted—less sinister now, more human. Like he hadn’t expected anyone to play along.
He stood there, one eyebrow raised, watching Remus as if trying to figure him out. Then, with a theatrical spin, he turned and vanished into the crowd.
Remus blinked. “…Well.”
James appeared at his side, holding two corn dogs. “What did I miss?”
“Nothing,” Remus said, maybe a bit too quickly. “Just—performance art.”
James frowned, following his gaze into the fog. “You mean that clown? He’s intense. Looks like he’d eat someone’s soul for fun.”
Remus took the corn dog and smiled faintly. “Yeah. Something like that.”
They found Peter again by a cider stand, and the three of them drifted toward the edge of the square where the lights dimmed and the next maze loomed—a carnival tent painted in grotesque black-and-white stripes.
The sign above it read:
CARNIVAL OF SHADOWS – ENTER IF YOU DARE
The clown’s domain.
James practically vibrated with excitement. “The grand finale!”
Peter muttered, “The grand mistake.”
Remus hesitated, glancing once over his shoulder toward the food stalls. He didn’t see the clown, but the air felt charged, like static before lightning.
“Ready?” James asked.
Remus nodded. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”
⸻
The interior of the tent was pure chaos—flashing lights, warped carnival music, mirrors distorting their reflections into grotesque parodies. Actors darted in and out of the shadows, laughing, lunging, vanishing.
Remus kept moving, adrenaline steadying him now. Every flash of light revealed another figure in greasepaint, every laugh another heartbeat too close.
At one point, he turned a corner and came face-to-face with a clown mask hanging from the ceiling. He startled—and then laughed softly under his breath.
But as he turned away, he swore he felt eyes on him again.
Through a break in the fog, at the far end of the hall, he glimpsed him—the same clown from before, standing perfectly still, one hand resting on the pole of a striped tent curtain.
Their eyes met again.
For a split second, the world went quiet.
Then the clown tilted his head, that wicked smile curling across his painted lips. He stepped back into the fog and disappeared.
“Remus?” James’s voice broke the moment. “You coming?”
He blinked, forcing a breath. “Yeah. Right behind you.”
But as they moved through the rest of the maze, laughter echoing around them, Remus couldn’t shake the feeling that someone—something—was following him. Not in a frightening way, but in a way that made his pulse beat faster, his skin hum.
When they finally stepped out into the cool night again, the air felt different. Sharper. Quieter.
James whooped. Peter groaned. Remus just smiled faintly, eyes scanning the crowd.
And there he was.
Across the square, by the flickering pumpkin lights, stood the clown. Not scaring anyone now. Just watching.
When Remus met his gaze, the clown gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. Then, with a quick motion, he mimed pulling a phone from his pocket, tapping a number, and held up one painted finger.
Remus laughed softly under his breath.
“Yeah,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone. “One more.”
The fairground was starting to close down when they finally wandered back toward the main square. The air felt different now — softer somehow, the bite of the night fading under the low hum of generators winding down.
Stalls were shuttering, their lights dimming one by one. A few last actors drifted through the fog, their performances slower, less for the crowd now than for themselves. Somewhere behind the funhouse, a group of staffers laughed as they peeled off latex masks, voices human again.
Remus, James, and Peter sat on a low wooden fence, the paper cups of cider long emptied and forgotten at their feet. James was still talking animatedly, recounting his favorite jump scares like war stories, while Peter stared at the ground, the faint glaze of exhaustion over his face.
Remus listened, smiling faintly, but his attention kept wandering. He could still feel the music under his skin, the pulse of the night vibrating faintly through him like an echo that hadn’t quite let go.
He caught himself glancing toward the maze again — the maze — the Carnival of Shadows, its striped tent deflated now, lights flickering out. For a second, he thought he saw a figure standing near the entrance, tall and still. But when he blinked, it was just the shadows.
“Alright,” James said, stretching. “That’s me done. If I don’t get food that isn’t deep-fried or haunted, I’ll die.”
Peter groaned in agreement. “Home. Now.”
Remus smiled, pushing himself up from the fence. “Yeah. Let’s go before the fog eats us alive.”
They walked back through the fairground one last time, the air quieter now, the laughter fading into pockets of silence. The last bursts of light from the Ferris wheel rippled across the mist, painting the path ahead in soft gold.
On the way out, Remus caught a glimpse of the staff board, those familiar silver blue eyes looking back at him. He glanced down to the name underneath ~Sirius Black~
Remus smiled and jogged to catch up with his friends.
When they reached the car, James fumbled with his keys and dropped them twice. “Shut up,” he said before anyone could comment, which of course made Peter laugh until he hiccupped.
Remus climbed into the passenger seat, resting his head against the cool window as they pulled away. The festival lights shrank behind them, swallowed by fog and distance.
The road stretched out empty ahead, lit only by the low beams of the car and the occasional streetlamp. James hummed tunelessly under his breath, Peter dozed off again, and Remus let the rhythm of the drive lull him.
But his thoughts refused to quiet.
The image of the clown kept replaying behind his eyelids — the smudged paint, the flash of silver blue eyes, the quiet, deliberate smile that felt nothing like a performance.
He told himself it was just curiosity, just the strange intimacy of the night — the kind of fleeting connection that only exists in places built from fog and lights. But when he finally drifted to sleep, long after they’d dropped Peter off and James’s car idled outside his flat, the memory followed him into his dreams.
He woke late the next morning to sunlight bleeding through the curtains, his head fuzzy but his pulse still quick whenever he thought about that grin.
He showered, dressed, and grabbed his coat, telling himself he just needed coffee — not closure, not meaning, just caffeine and air. The city felt brighter than it should, the noise too sharp after the muffled chaos of last night.
He ducked into a small café on the corner near his flat — one of those cozy, plant-filled places that smelled like roasted beans and vanilla. The bell over the door chimed as he stepped inside.
The line was short. A barista hummed behind the counter. Remus ordered his usual and moved to wait, still half-lost in thought.
Then he froze.
A smooth, low, faintly amused voice drifted from the other end of the counter. “You look less scared in daylight.”
Remus turned.
There he was.
No paint this time. No costume. Just the same dark curls, now washed clean, falling loose around his shoulders. Tattoos peeked from beneath the cuff of a leather jacket, black ink against pale skin. And those eyes — unmistakable even without the makeup — blue, bright, alive.
The clown.
He was leaning against the counter, a to-go cup in one hand, that same teasing smirk curving his lips.
For a heartbeat, neither of them spoke. Then Sirius tilted his head, a spark of recognition dancing in his eyes.
“So,” he said, voice warm with mischief, “you’re the one who tried to eat my kiss.”
Remus blushed then blinked, trying to catch up with reality. “You—uh—you work fast,” he said, his voice softer than he meant it to be.
Sirius smiled, slow and deliberate. “You think I just let people get away with stealing kisses from fifty feet away?”
Remus’s laugh came out quiet, almost disbelieving. “Technically, I ate it.”
“Ah,” Sirius said, tapping a finger against his coffee cup. “Worse crime, then.”
The barista called Remus’s order. He turned to grab his cup, heart thudding, and when he turned back, Sirius was still watching him — that same unnervingly calm gaze he’d worn even through the fog and chaos of the night before.
Without the makeup, Sirius looked younger than he’d seemed at the festival, but still sharp around the edges. His jaw was shadowed with stubble; his tattoos caught the light when he moved. The traces of eyeliner smudged beneath his eyes made him look like he hadn’t quite stepped out of character.
“You were good,” Remus said finally, gesturing with his cup. “Last night. Scared the life out of people.”
“Was that before or after you decided to flirt with the monsters?” Sirius countered.
Remus bit back a smile. “Depends. Were you supposed to be flirting back?”
“Not in the job description,” Sirius said, leaning one elbow on the counter. “But I make exceptions for the brave ones.”
The way he said it — low, teasing, but not cruel — made something warm coil in Remus’s stomach. He took a sip of his coffee to hide it.
“So,” Sirius went on, eyes glinting. “What’s your name, mystery boy who eats invisible kisses?”
“Remus,” he said, trying not to sound flustered. “Remus Lupin.”
Sirius tilted his head, tasting the name like it was something worth remembering. “Remus,” he repeated softly. “I like that.”
Remus tried to play it off, though his heart was hammering. “And you’re Sirius,” he said, not even meaning it as a question.
Sirius raised an eyebrow. “How’d you guess?”
“I looked at the staff board near the entrance last night,” Remus said. “You were on the list for the Carnival of Shadows.”
Sirius chuckled, shaking his head. “So you were looking for me, then?”
“Maybe I was just curious who the terrifying clown was,” Remus replied, smiling into his coffee.
“Mm. Flattery and plausible deniability. You’re dangerous.”
They stepped aside as another customer came in. The morning light spilled through the window, painting gold into Sirius’s hair, softening the sharpness of his features. The sight made something inside Remus go quiet — that rare kind of quiet that felt like the world holding its breath.
“So,” Sirius said finally, lifting his cup. “Do you always flirt with people in face paint, or was last night special?”
Remus laughed, a soft, honest sound. “It was the atmosphere. The fog. The adrenaline. I’m not usually that bold.”
“That’s a shame,” Sirius said. “It suits you.”
Remus glanced down, a faint flush rising to his cheeks. “You’re not so scary without the paint.”
“That’s because I only bite when I’m working,” Sirius said with a grin that made it very unclear whether he was joking.
Remus met his gaze again. “So what are you doing now that you’re off work?”
Sirius sipped his coffee, thoughtful. “Trying to stay awake. I worked until three, crashed for a few hours, and figured caffeine might stop me from turning into a zombie.”
Remus smiled. “You’d make a convincing one.”
“Please. I’d be a glamorous zombie.”
There was a beat — quiet, comfortable, unexpected. The kind that lingers when two people realize they’ve slipped into something easy without meaning to.
Sirius looked at him then — really looked — and his voice dropped just slightly. “You want to sit?”
Remus hesitated, then nodded. They found a small table near the window, the café half-empty now. Outside, the morning bustle blurred by, but inside, it felt oddly still.
They talked — at first about the festival, about how long Sirius had been working there (“Three years,” he said, “best job I’ve ever had that involves fake blood and screaming teenagers”), and then about smaller things. Music. Coffee orders. Cities they both hated commuting through.
At some point, Remus realized an hour had passed.
He didn’t want to leave.
Sirius looked equally reluctant to move. He traced the rim of his cup with one ringed finger and said, quietly, “You know, I half expected you to just vanish into the crowd last night.”
Remus smiled. “I almost did.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No,” Remus said. “Guess I wasn’t supposed to.”
Sirius’s grin softened — not the teasing one this time, but something gentler, more genuine. “You’re right. You weren’t.”
Outside, sunlight spilled over the café sign. Inside, for the first time since the night before, Remus felt something steady beneath the leftover rush of fear and adrenaline.
It wasn’t just attraction; it was recognition — the strange, quiet certainty that this wasn’t an ending. It was the start of something that would keep tugging at both of them long after the fog and lights were gone.
The café had begun to fill again, but their corner stayed quiet — tucked behind a shelf of succulents and crooked framed photos. The hum of conversation faded into the background, a soft soundtrack to the slow rhythm that had settled between them.
Sirius leaned back in his chair, one boot hooked over the other, studying Remus the way someone might study a painting they couldn’t quite name. “You don’t strike me as a haunted-house type,” he said. “More the ‘stay home and read something gothic by candlelight’ variety.”
Remus smirked over his cup. “You’re not far off. My friends had to bribe me with food and emotional blackmail to get me there.”
“Tragic,” Sirius said. “Forced into the arms of evil clowns against your will.”
“Some of them were quite persuasive,” Remus shot back.
Sirius’s grin turned wicked. “You mean me.”
Remus laughed, the sound catching him off guard. “You’re very sure of yourself.”
“I have to be. It’s hard work being terrifyingly charming.”
“Half right.”
Sirius gasped in mock offense. “Half?”
Remus shrugged, feigning thoughtfulness. “You were terrifying. The charming part’s still up for review.”
Sirius placed a hand dramatically over his heart. “Brutal. You wound me.”
“Occupational hazard,” Remus said, hiding a smile behind another sip of coffee.
For a while, they simply sat there, the morning light shifting across the table. Every so often, Sirius’s knee brushed Remus’s under the table — light, accidental, but each touch sent a quiet spark up Remus’s spine.
“So what do you do when you’re not emotionally scarring festival-goers?” Remus asked.
Sirius chuckled. “At the moment? Freelance photography. Mostly gigs and local shows. The festival’s just for fun — pays the bills and lets me scare obnoxious teenagers.”
“Therapeutic,” Remus said.
“Very. You?”
“Graduate student. Literature.”
Sirius raised an eyebrow. “That explains the vocabulary. And the eyes.”
Remus blinked. “The eyes?”
“You’ve got that look — like you’ve been reading stories you’d rather live in.”
Remus couldn’t help smiling. “Is that your line for everyone who eats your imaginary kisses?”
“Only the ones who make me wish they weren’t imaginary.”
That earned Sirius a quiet laugh and a pink flush creeping up the back of Remus’s neck.
Outside, sunlight spilled across the pavement, catching on Sirius’s rings. He toyed with one absent-mindedly, twisting it around his finger while he watched Remus with that same curious, mischievous focus.
Finally, Sirius said, “I’m off tomorrow night. No fog machines, no screaming crowds. Just me and an unreasonable amount of free time.” He hesitated just enough to make it a question. “Think you could help me fill it?”
Remus pretended to think, swirling the last sip of his coffee. “Depends. Will there be jump scares involved?”
“Only if you ask nicely.”
Remus looked up, meeting Sirius’s grin, and felt that same electric pulse he’d felt the night before — the one that made the world tilt slightly. “Alright,” he said. “I suppose I can risk it.”
Sirius grinned wider, sliding his phone across the table. “Then I’ll need your number, Professor Gothic.”
Remus took the phone, fingers brushing Sirius’s for a fraction too long as he typed it in. “There. Try not to misuse it.”
“Oh, I make no promises,” Sirius said, pocketing it. “But I’ll text you later — maybe once I’m done washing the last of that paint out of my hair.”
Remus raised an eyebrow. “I still can’t believe you sleep in that stuff.”
“I don’t. I just forget where the mirror is by three a.m.”
They stood, reluctantly, when the next rush of customers filled the café. Outside, the air had warmed, the city bright and ordinary — but Remus felt anything but ordinary.
Sirius walked beside him toward the corner where their paths would split, hands in his jacket pockets, the easy swagger still there but softened.
When they stopped, neither moved away at first.
“So,” Sirius said, voice dropping just a little, “was it the clown thing that did it for you?”
Remus smiled. “Maybe it was the eyes.”
“Good answer,” Sirius said, stepping back with a grin that managed to be both smug and sincere. “I’ll text you.”
“I’ll hold you to it.”
Sirius gave him a small, almost old-fashioned salute, then turned down the street, dark curls catching the light as he disappeared into the morning crowd.
Remus stood there a moment longer, the ghost of a laugh still on his lips, the weight of the night before finally settling into something that felt real.
When his phone buzzed a few minutes later, he didn’t have to check who it was.
The message read:
~
Unknown Number: “Still terrifying. Less makeup this time.”
Remus grinned and typed back:
Remus: “You’re still half-charming. We’ll work on it.”
The reply came almost instantly.
Unknown Number: “Tomorrow, then?”
Remus looked up at the sky — pale blue, cloudless — and smiled.
Remus: “Tomorrow.”
~