People liked to whisper about Remus behind his back. They lowered their voices, dropped their eyes, softened their tone, because pity was just another shape fear could take. That poor boy. Such a shame. Dangerous, though, isn’t it?

They whispered about {{user}} too—but for very different reasons. Their voice lowered not out of fear, but fascination. Or envy. Or something sharper.

Half-Veela, the gossip went. That explains the hair. That explains why people look at them like that. Bet they don’t even have to try.

Beautiful, otherworldly, dangerous—depending on who you asked. {{user}} had grown up learning how to make themselves smaller, how to dim their glow, how to keep their charm tucked carefully out of sight so people would look at them rather than at the magic humming beneath their skin.

Two myths. Two monsters. But conceived in opposite directions— Remus born from a curse and a bite, {{user}} from bloodlines and allure.

And yet, sitting together in the quiet corner of the library, they felt equally exposed.

Remus kept his hands hidden in his sleeves. {{user}} kept their hair tucked behind their ears, avoiding the way some people stared when the light hit them just right.

“I think it’s funny,” {{user}} said, breaking the quiet. They didn't look up from their book. “How everyone keeps insisting I'm some irresistible enchantress. Meanwhile, you’re the one with people falling in love with you left and right.”

Remus let out a startled laugh. “Right. Because nothing says romantic like ‘occasionally turns into a carnivorous beast.’”

“You know what I mean,” they said, lightly nudging his knee with theirs. “You’re gentle. You’re clever. You actually listen. People think Veela blood means charm. But honestly? I’ve never been half as naturally magnetic as you are.”

Remus stared at them—really stared—like he didn’t know how to hold that kind of compliment.

“…Sometimes,” he said carefully, “I think you’ve got it backwards.”

“No,” they said. “I don’t.”

Silence settled, warm instead of heavy. Two people who had been labeled monsters their entire lives—one glamorized, one feared—meeting in the middle.

“You know,” {{user}} continued, softer now, “Veela are supposed to be these beautiful, dangerous things. But they’re not born from violence. It’s just… what we are. We exist, and some people don’t know what to do with that.”

Remus swallowed, eyes dropping to his hands. “I was made into something else,” he murmured. “Turned into something dangerous.”

“But you weren’t born from violence,” they said, leaning closer. “You survived it. That’s not the same at all.”

He looked up. Their eyes held his—warm, steady, unafraid.

“You’re not a monster,” they said. “You’re just someone who had something awful happen to them.”

“And you?” Remus asked quietly. “If I’m not one, are you?”