Hey, Remus! (Between The Pages Of Our Worlds)

NOTE: Let's lighten up the mood a little... But not in the beginning of the chapter. Alright, don't say I didn't warn you. :P


Days passed in a strange, aching blur. The weight of everything they had lost settled over Grimmauld Place like dust—heavy, clinging, impossible to shake off. There were moments of forced normalcy—tea brewed in the mornings, whispered conversations over candlelit maps, plans drawn in hushed urgency—but the war had carved itself into the walls, into the very air they breathed. And now, a new problem loomed, cruel and unrelenting. No Wolfsbane Potion.
Dumbledore was gone, and Snape—well, had been brewing the potion since the Order reunited, but now... Now there was no one. And without Wolfsbane, there was no softening the transformation, no keeping Remus's mind intact when the wolf took over.
Maria pressed her knuckles against the worn wooden surface of the kitchen table, staring at the parchment in front of her. Ink smudged where she had gripped the quill too tightly, the edges of the page wrinkled from how often she had traced the same words over and over.
Dumbledore was gone.
Snape—gone.
The Wolfsbane Potion—gone.
The knowledge settled in her stomach like a stone. Maria had scoured every possible option. They couldn't brew it themselves—not without access to the complex ingredients, not without months of training. Buying it was out of the question. Even if they could afford it, which they couldn't, they were in the middle of a war. It wouldn't be safe. And even if safety weren't an issue, Wolfsbane Potion wasn't exactly easy to find. So that left them here.
Maria stood outside the basement door, hands pressed against the cool wood, listening. A familiar lump formed in her throat. The reinforced locks were secure. She had checked and double-checked the enchantments, running her hands along the old hinges, whispering incantations into the gaps between the door and the frame, just in case. But it didn't make her feel any better. Remus was inside. Alone. And she hated it. Her fingers curled against the door, nails digging into the wood.
"I don't like this." She spoke through the door, though she wasn't sure if he was listening.
For a long moment, there was nothing. Then, finally, his voice—quieter than usual.
"I know."
His voice was softer than usual, like it had been dragged through exhaustion and resignation both.
Maria let her forehead rest against the door.
"I could stay here. Just outside. Talk to you."
A pause. Longer this time. Then, she heard him:
"Mary." His tone was gentle but unyielding. "No."
Her jaw tightened.
"You hate this as much as I do."
"That doesn't matter."
But it did. It mattered more than anything. And yet, she knew arguing wouldn't get her anywhere. Not tonight. So she didn't move. She wasn't leaving him.

The night stretched endlessly in the cold, candlelit corridor.
Maria sat with her back against the basement door, knees pulled to her chest, fingers curled into the fabric of her sleeves. The silence was heavy at first—unnerving in its stillness. But she knew it wouldn't last.
It never did.
A slow, restless pacing began on the other side of the door. She could hear it—soft footsteps against stone, a body shifting, the occasional drag of fabric against the wall as Remus leaned back, waiting. Bracing.
Then came the first sharp inhale.
Maria squeezed her eyes shut.
She knew what was coming next.
At first, it was quiet. A low, shuddering exhale. The kind that sounded almost normal, if not for the tension laced beneath it. Then, a muffled groan—one of discomfort rather than pain. A beat of silence followed, as if Remus was holding his breath, hoping—for what, she didn't know.
But hope had no place here.
The next sound shattered the quiet.
A sharp, ragged gasp—cut off so suddenly that Maria knew he had clenched his jaw, refusing to make a sound. But it didn't matter. She could hear the way his breathing hitched, the way his hands scraped against the floor as his fingers curled into fists. The first wave of pain always came fast, brutal, unrelenting. Maria pressed a hand against the door.
"I'm here." She knew he couldn't understand her—not like this. But she said it anyway.
Then came the real agony. The crack of bones shifting, realigning. The sharp intake of breath, choked into something between a snarl and a strangled gasp. The sickening pop of a joint snapping into a new position. Maria dug her nails into her sleeves, curling inward. She hated this.
A growl ripped through the air, reverberating against the door. She flinched but didn't move away. The pacing had turned frantic now, uneven, restless. Claws scraped against the stone floor, against the wooden walls, against—A new sound. Maria's heart stopped. A sharp, unmistakable drag of nails over skin.
"No—Remus." She shifted forward, pressing both palms against the door. "Don't."
But the wolf didn't understand words. It only knew pain. The scratching continued, rougher this time. A heavy thud followed—the sound of a body slamming against the walls, over and over. Maria clenched her jaw, swallowing the rising lump in her throat. She couldn't do anything. She couldn't stop it, couldn't fix it. All she could do was listen. So she did the only thing she could think of. She started talking.
"Did I ever tell you about the broom closet?" Her voice was barely above a whisper, but steady. "The one in the hospital wing? It was tiny—barely enough space for a person to stand—but I used to hide in there sometimes. Madam Pomfrey never knew. Or maybe she did, and she just let me have it."
There was no response. Only the steady thump of a restless, caged animal.
Maria swallowed.
"Fred and George are going to regret hiring me, you know. I plan on making their lives a living hell. I'm thinking something explosive. Maybe something that changes their hair color permanently. I'll let you decide—green or blue?"
Nothing. She curled her arms around her knees.
"When this is over," she murmured, "when this war is over, we're leaving. Somewhere warm. No basements. No curses. No war. Just us."
The thrashing slowed. Not much, but just enough. Maria took a shaky breath. She didn't know if he was listening. If any part of him, any small fragment of the man she loved, was still there. But she wasn't going to stop. So she did the only thing she could. She sang.
Soft and slow, barely more than a whisper. Not because she thought it would reach him, but because she needed it. She sang lullabies—old, half-forgotten melodies her mother used to hum when she was small. Songs about home. About roads that always led back to the people you loved. About stars that would never leave the sky.
Somewhere in the middle of the night, the wolf stopped thrashing. Maria didn't stop singing. She stayed.
She fell asleep against the door at some point. She she didn't meant to. She never did. But exhaustion always won in the end. The candle beside her had burned low, melted wax pooling onto the cold stone floor. Her eyes snapped open. For a moment, she didn't move. She listened. The basement was silent now. No more scraping claws, no more restless pacing. Just stillness. Then, a quiet, ragged inhale.
Maria exhaled sharply, pushing herself up. Her legs were stiff from sitting in the same position for too long, but she didn't care. She reached for her wand, flicking it once. The heavy locks on the door unlatched with a deep clunk, and she didn't wait for the last one to fall into place before pushing it open.
The smell hit her first. The thick, sharp scent of sweat, stone, and dried blood—too much of it. It made her stomach turn. The basement was dimly lit, just enough for her to see the dark streaks along the stone floor. Deep scratches marred the walls, a new set layered over the old ones, fresh gouges where claws had raked the surface raw. And then, in the farthest corner, curled up like a broken thing—
"Remus."
He flinched at the sound of her voice. Maria crossed the room quickly, sinking to her knees beside him. He was trembling. Not the light shivers of cold, but deep, violent tremors that ran through his entire body. His skin was clammy with sweat, his breathing uneven. His hands—bruised and cut—were curled in toward himself, as if he could make himself smaller, disappear into the floor. Maria reached for him. He flinched again.
"I—" His voice cracked. His throat was raw, ruined from growling, snarling, screaming.
Maria swallowed past the lump in her throat.
"Hey," she murmured, keeping her voice steady. Gentle. "It's over."
He shook his head, just barely.
"No."
Maria's chest ached. She didn't push him, didn't try to make him move. She just sat there, giving him time. Eventually, the silence broke.
"Did I hurt you?" His voice was barely above a whisper, but the fear in it was deafening.
Maria exhaled softly, reaching out again—this time slower, giving him a chance to move away. He didn't. Her fingers brushed over his temple, pushing damp strands of hair from his face.
"You didn't hurt me," she said.
His breathing hitched.
"I—" He swallowed hard. "I could have."
"No, you couldn't. I was outside the basement."
He let out a slow, shaky breath, pressing his forehead into her touch. Maria traced her thumb gently over his cheek.
"Let's get you upstairs," she whispered.
He didn't argue. He never did, not after a night like this. Maria helped him sit up slowly, carefully, mindful of the way his body ached. He winced as she slipped an arm under his, hauling him to his feet. He was much taller than her, but he leaned into her now, letting her take as much of his weight as she could manage. One step. Then another. His legs barely held him. By the time they made it up the stairs, Maria's heart ached—not from the strain, but from the quiet, broken way he clung to her. Like he wasn't sure he deserved it.
By the time Maria got Remus settled into bed, made sure he was warm enough, and double-checked that he had actually fallen asleep, the exhaustion hit her like a rogue Bludger. Still, she didn't let herself rest. Instead, she dragged herself to the kitchen, determined to make something edible. Something nutritious. Something Remus would have to eat, even if she had to spoon-feed him like a toddler. It was a good plan. In theory. The problem? Maria was an abysmal cook. But that never stopped her before.
She rummaged through the cabinets, muttering under her breath.
"Okay, eggs. Can't possibly mess those up."
Twenty minutes later, the kitchen smelled vaguely of burned regret. Maria frowned down at the sad, overcooked lump of scrambled eggs on the plate. She poked it with her wand, considering.
"Maybe if I...?"
She tried to reshape it, but instead, the eggs made an ominous squelch noise. Oh, dear.
"Do I want to know what you're doing?"
Maria jumped, nearly knocking over a jar of tea leaves. Remus stood in the doorway, looking about as exhausted as she expected. His hair was an absolute mess, and he was wrapped in an old cardigan that was at least two sizes too big, the sleeves pulled down over his hands. He actually looked quite adorable, but she wisely kept that observation to herself.
"You're supposed to be in bed," she said, crossing her arms.
He gave her a pointed look.
"And you're supposed to be competent in the kitchen. Yet, here we are."
Maria gasped, clutching her chest.
"Remus John Lupin. I slaved over this meal for you."
Remus arched an eyebrow at the blackened remains of whatever was on the plate.
"Oh, shut up and eat it."
He sighed, rubbing his temples as he sat down.
"If I die from this, just know that I'm haunting you."
"Please," Mary scoffed. "You'd haunt me anyway. Just to be dramatic."
Remus hummed as if considering it.
"That does sound like me."
She plopped the plate in front of him and watched expectantly. Remus hesitated.
"Lupin," she warned.
He picked up his fork, speared the saddest-looking piece of egg, and—very hesitantly—took a bite. A pause. Maria leaned in.
"Well?"
His face was unreadable for a moment, then—very slowly—he nodded. "It's... not entirely inedible."
Maria grinned.
"Ha! Victory."
"I said not entirely—"
"Shh, don't ruin this for me."
He shook his head, a small, amused smile tugging at his lips as he continued eating. Slowly. Cautiously. Like he was bracing himself for the next bite. Maria leaned her elbow on the table, resting her chin in her hand. "
You know, you could just admit that you're touched by my unwavering devotion."
Remus huffed.
"Oh, yes. Nothing says 'devotion' like a near-death experience via breakfast."
Maria grinned.
"You're adorable, Wolfie."
Remus froze mid-sip of his tea. Slowly, he lowered the cup, staring at her with narrowed eyes.
"Did you just call me Wolfie?"
Maria's grin widened.
"Mmm-hmm."
He let out a dramatic sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"Merlin help me."
"Oh, don't pretend you hate it," she teased. "I can see it. You want to be mad, but deep down, you think it's sweet."
He huffed, shaking his head.
"I think it's insufferable."
"And yet—" she leaned forward, tapping his nose "—you're smiling."
Remus schooled his expression immediately, clearing his throat.
"No, I'm not."
Maria gasped dramatically.
"Oh, my mistake! You must just be baring your teeth in a very friendly way."
That did it. He let out a reluctant chuckle, rubbing a hand over his face.
"You are an absolute menace."
She beamed.
"And yet, you love me anyway."
He sighed, shaking his head—but there was no denying the warmth in his tired eyes.
"Yes. I do. But just to make things clear, I am not adorable. I'm very manly."
She hummed, clearly unimpressed.
"Mmm. You are manly. But you're also adorable."
He sighed dramatically, though there was a hint of a smirk now.
"I really regret letting you live with me."
Maria beamed, giving his hand a final squeeze before pushing the plate in front of him.