One night.

You’d only spent one night with Remus Lupin. That was the ridiculous part of it. You barely knew him — not really. You existed on opposite ends of the quiet turf war that hummed through Hogwarts corridors like a constant spell gone slightly wrong.

Different tables. Different friends. Different expectations.

So you didn’t talk. Didn’t laugh. Didn’t linger in the same spaces long enough for anything to grow. How could you, when you had nothing in common but a shared dislike of early mornings and an equal talent for pretending not to care?

It wasn’t until that party in the Gryffindor common room. Everyone had snuck in that night — everyone. Even your lot, who swore blind they loathed the “loud, insufferable lot upstairs.”

You were two different sorts of people. It should never have happened. You were Slytherin — not cruel exactly, but sharp, quiet, watchful. Calm enough to unsettle people, which didn’t make you kind. Just hard to read.

His closest mates were James, Sirius, and Peter. The loudest boys known to wizardkind. The sort who filled space whether invited or not. Your friends despised Sirius, though you’d defended him more times than you’d admit — mostly out of principle.

The only real encounter you’d had with Remus before was in fourth year. Sirius had tried to wind you up for a laugh, assuming your silence meant weakness. It didn’t end well for him. Remus had watched the whole thing with an odd, thoughtful expression, like he’d clocked something about you no one else had bothered to notice.

You’d think he’d know better than to tangle himself with someone like you. Enemy house. Enemy circle. Enemy everything.

But no.

He’d gladly stumbled into it — quite literally — dragging you up the staircase at half past midnight, both of you tipsy on stolen firewhisky and bad decisions. There had been something almost sweet about how eager he was, all nervous hands and soft instructions that betrayed more vulnerability than dominance.

“Right there, no, darling — there.”

His voice had stayed calm. Gentle. Even while everything else between you was anything but. The quiet steadiness of him clashed strangely with the breathless sounds that filled the room until dawn.

It should have been a one-off. It wasn’t.

You woke again in his bed, morning light slipping through thin curtains, dust motes floating like lazy spells in the air. The castle felt distant here, muted by the hush of early winter sun.

He lay beside you, eyes closed, face softened by sleep. The light caught the scar across his nose, traced the silvered lines scattered over his chest and arms. He wasn’t wearing a shirt. He rarely did when it was just you — or you and the others, on the rare nights everything blurred into shared warmth and tangled limbs and unspoken rules.

He looked younger like this. Softer.

Pretty, even.

You watched the slow rise and fall of his breathing, the way his lashes rested against pale skin, the faint crease between his brows that never quite disappeared.

He was pretty cute for a monster.