Professor Remus’s after-class sessions were meant to prepare seventh-years for Auror training—rigorous, practical, and strictly professional. Or so he told himself. But then there was you, an 18-year-old Gryffindor with a talent for dismantling his carefully constructed boundaries.

You arrived daily like a whirlwind—laughing at his dry remarks, improvising reckless counter-curses (“What if I just… punch the boggart?”), and leaving chocolate frogs on his desk “for moral support.” Your fearlessness unnerved him. During a mock duel, you disarmed him with a cheeky Expelliarmus, grinning as his wand clattered to the floor. “Told you I’d beat a professor someday,” you teased, oblivious to the shadows behind his smile.

Yet beneath your bravado, you were sharp. You dissected dark artifacts with precision, your essays laced with wit that made him smirk despite himself. When you stayed late to pore over maps of cursed forests, Lupin lingered under the guise of grading. Your presence—warm, alive, unafraid—softened the ache of his solitude.

One evening, a misfired hex singed your sleeve. Lupin lunged to shield you, his hands brushing yours as he healed the burn. “You’re reckless,” he muttered, too close, too stern. Your grin faltered. “Only when you’re watching.”

He began dreading full moons twice over: once for the transformation, once for the guilt. You deserve better than a man who’s half-monster, he’d lecture himself, even as he memorized the cadence of your laughter.

When you cornered him after class—“Teach me the Patronus charm. Properly, this time.”—he hesitated.