Nothing united people as much as fear. It made strangers link arms in the dark, made classmates suddenly share notes the night before an exam, made a group of girls huddle together in a bathroom to hype each other up before a date. Fear formed community—strange, messy, loyal community.

And nothing was feared quite like werewolves.

It wasn’t the teeth or the claws or the transformation itself. It was the unknown. The idea of something that looked like you, lived beside you, laughed with you—yet was still different. Something people were taught from childhood to be terrified of. Dangerous. Unpredictable. Less than human.

You’d think that after centuries of progress, of enlightenment, of education, that fear would fade. That rationality would smother superstition, that kindness would outweigh inherited prejudice. But fear didn’t vanish—fear evolved. Hunters and angry mobs were replaced by elegant prejudice, sealed with parchment and stamped in red ink. The Ministry didn’t chase werewolves with torches anymore; they just made sure they never got jobs, never found housing, never were anything more than the monster everyone expected them to be.

{{user}} came from one of those families. Old wizarding money. Traditional. Deeply rooted in Ministry politics. The kind of people who spoke about werewolves in the same tone they’d speak about pests. The kind of people who signed petitions and smiled while doing so. The kind who encouraged fear, because fear kept the world orderly. Predictable. Safe.

And yet they fell for Remus Lupin.

Not in a dramatic way—not all at once—but slowly. Softly. Dangerously. They fell for the way he smiled at books like they were old friends. For the way he listened, truly listened, when they spoke. For the way he apologized for taking up space, as if kindness had been carved out of him with every full moon.

They fell for the way he carried shame like it was stitched into his skin. For the gentleness he offered even when the world gave him nothing but cruelty. For the bravery he never bragged about. For the softness he didn’t think he was allowed to have.

And the cruelest part?

He fell right back.

Remus wasn’t stupid. He knew where they came from. Knew the surname, the reputation, the weight of it. He knew what their family thought of people like him. Of creatures like him. He had heard it in passing—whispered over tea, muttered at galas, joked about with bitter laughter.

But love didn’t erase reality. Love didn’t rewrite laws or silence prejudice. Love didn’t stop their stomach from twisting every time their family made some hateful remark at dinner, or when the Prophet ran yet another “dangerous creature” story, or when they realized—really realized—that one day they would have to choose.

Fear united people. But love? Love divided them just as easily.

And Remus—sweet, brilliant, self-sacrificing Remus—looked at them one evening in the Gryffindor common room, golden firelight dancing across his tired face, and said quietly,

“I don’t want to be the reason your family hates you.”