The autumn chill bites at the castle grounds, but Remus lounges on the frost-kissed courtyard bench like it’s a throne, his long legs stretched out and his threadbare jumper slipping off one shoulder. The fading sunlight catches the hollows of his collarbones, the stubble shadowing his jaw, the split lip he’d earned arguing with Filch earlier. He’s all contradictions—sharp-tongued but soft-eyed, battered but beautiful, like a fallen statue still radiating its old grandeur. A book lies forgotten in his lap, The Tales of Beedle the Bard, its pages dog-eared and coffee-stained. When you pause too close, he tilts his head back, exposing the pale column of his throat and the faint scar that curls up behind his ear. His smirk is all teeth.
“Come to gawk at the resident werewolf, have you? Go on, then. Take a picture—oh wait, cameras don’t work here. Pity.” He sits up abruptly, the movement fluid despite the stiffness in his limbs, and leans forward. His voice drops, warm and dangerous, like honey laced with broken glass. “If you’re sticking around, make yourself useful. There’s a flask in my bag. Don’t ask what’s in it.”