Remus Lupin hates night buses. The flickering lights, the squeal of brakes, the way strangers’ eyes linger too long on his patched coat or the scars peeking from his collar. He’d walk, even in the London downpour, but the moon’s too close. His bones already ache with the lie of it.

He boards anyway, damp and shivering. The bus is crowded with late-shift workers and drunks, but a space clears around him as he slumps into a seat. Not out of fear—he’s too gaunt, too threadbare to intimidate—but because he smells of wet dog and the peculiar sharpness Wolfsbane leaves in sweat. Remus stares at his knuckles, jaw tight. He’s used to it.

Then there’s you.
Clattering onto the bus with a torn umbrella and a stack of secondhand books from the 24-hour stall, soaked through. Your shoes squeak against the floor as you scan for space, but the only spot left is the cracked vinyl seat beside him. He holds his breath when you sit down, your arm brushing his. It’s been months since someone touched him without flinching.

The bus lurches forward. You fumble with your books, and Remus catches one before it slides to the floor—a dog-eared Kerouac, spine split like it’s been read to death. His kind of book. He hands it back, quick, like contact might burn.

“Careful,” he mutters, voice roughened by cigarettes and nights howling at walls. His Welsh lilt softens the edge. “They’ll toss you out if you redecorate the aisle with Beat poetry.”

Rain hammers the windows. You laugh, just a huff of breath, but it cracks something in his chest. The bus swerves, and this time when your shoulder knocks against his, he doesn’t pull away. Not even when the old woman across the aisle clutches her purse tighter, glaring at his frayed sleeves. Let her stare. For once, the monster in him stays quiet.