Title: Reunion
Author: Evandar
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: T
Genre: Fluff, Romance
Pairing: Sirius/Remus
Warnings: Slytherin!Sirius, Mutual Pining, Pre-Relationship Fluff
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and I am making no profit from this story.
Summary: They'd been friends in school: the cocky Slytherin and the shy Gryffindor, and for twenty years Remus has kept the notes they passed as proof. An unexpected reunion in Flourish and Blotts, however, could prove to be the start of a new chapter.
AN: For![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
finalsoul, written as a gift for ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
small_gifts 2017.
Here on AO3
He’s never forgotten Black. He can still remember the curve of his smile and the dimple in his left cheek; the wild tangle of his black curls and the way that his hair smelled of rosemary and jasmine. The notes they slipped to each other in Potions class remain preserved in the pinewood box Remus’ wand had come in, brittle with age. Sometimes, when he was abroad, he’d take them out and read them again – half-forgotten jokes and invitations scrawled in faded ink.
Want to go to Sluggy’s Yule party with me?
Sorry, I have plans.
Plans. Plans. Endless plans. Remus has spent years dreaming of what might have happened if he’d been a bit braver: if he’d earned the red and gold of his Gryffindor tie and said yes to the handsome Slytherin with the posh drawl and kind grey eyes. He’s spent years dreaming of the alternate universes where he was never bitten, where he was just a bit bolder; of the kisses and touches that might have been.
He hasn’t looked at the notes since his return to England. After twenty years away, keeping them has started to feel a little foolish. And they’re so fragile now that he’s become terrified of the day they’ll crumble at his touch and he’ll lose the last remains of the happiest moments of his life.
…
He hasn’t seen Black since his arrival back in the country. He’s heard of him, of course: he reads the Prophet so he’s seen the articles about Black’s work in the Wizengamot. Creature Rights seem to be a high priority – they’re the reason why Remus has a job now, in Flourish and Blotts, with Wolfsbane potion provided for him on a monthly basis. He likes to think that maybe, just maybe, Black figured it out: that Remus might have been his motivation for following his father into politics and taking up the Black family seat, but it’s as wild a fantasy as all of the others.
Their friendship and flirtations came to nothing, and Remus knows deep-down that they were never really close. Not when he kept Black at arm’s length at all costs.
Besides, following his father into politics was something Black had been born to do. He’d practically been taught to read from crusty old legislation - or so he’d said.
“And who knows,” he’d said, skipping a stone out over the lake. His pale eyes had been shining in the late-autumn sun, and Remus had been so enchanted with him that he’d barely even thought to listen. “Maybe I’ll actually do something good with it.” And Black had laughed, then, as a tentacle had risen from the water to snatch his stone down into the depths.
He got his wish – Remus thinks so, at least. Working in the shop isn’t perfect by a long-shot, but he can no longer be fired because of his “furry problem”. That in turn means he has a steady income: he keeps his head down and his manners in check and works as hard as he can so he can’t be fired for any other reason, and so – despite all the flaws of working in retail – his life is improving.
He can afford better clothes. He can afford to order a takeaway on the days after the full moon when the transformation leaves him so weak he can barely stand. He can afford to spend his days off doing things he enjoys: researching and writing and sending out careful queries to publishers. He has a life, thanks to Black.
It’s a life that’s currently occupied by the student rush. Stacks (and cages) of books need restocking almost constantly; Ravenclaws and their harried parents chatter about the suggested section on the reading lists while Slytherins bury their noses in books that they almost certainly shouldn’t; tiny new first-years clutch their first spell books to their chests with wide-eyed awe. The noise and the crush of people is incredible, and Remus has had to take to spending his breaks outside the back of the shop so that he can stare into the sky and breathe long enough to make the claustrophobic tightness in his lungs go away. It’s fast-paced and exhilarating; glorious.
What makes it better is that no-one seems to recognise him. Not even James Potter, his old dorm-mate, when he arrived with three children clamouring around him. He’d given Remus an odd look when he’d rung up their purchases – set texts for years five, two and one; the oldest boy already grimacing at his impending workload – but he hadn’t said anything. Understandable: Remus had spent most of his Hogwarts career trying desperately to remain under the radar. He hadn’t been close to either of the boys in his dorm, and while Potter and Pettigrew had been terrorising the rest of the school and calling themselves “The Marauders”, Remus had been nestled in the dustiest corners of the library or basking in the warmth of Black’s smiles by the lake.
Or, he reminds himself, tearing his own fur out in agony in the Shrieking Shack.
…
He’s carefully retrieving a copy of The Monster Book of Monsters when it happens. He’s holding the door to the cage in one gloved hand (“it’s silver, I’m afraid,” Mr Flourish had said when he’d started, “but honestly, you’d have wanted to wear gloves for dealing with that lot anyway. We all do.”) and a stick with the other. It is, by this point in the season, a practised manoeuvre to smack the attacking books away before leaping in just long enough to grab one of the ones that try to be sneaky and then slamming the door shut. He hasn’t been bitten in weeks, and once they’d figured out that stroking the books makes them docile… It’s become habit to pass that advice on to the customers.
He’s just managed to catch a book making a beeline for his shoelaces when he hears a soft voice drawl “knew you would have made an excellent Beater, Lupin”. The book takes advantage, of course, and Remus has to bite back a curse as its unnaturally sharp pages clamp down on his fingers.
They don’t cut through the gloves – dragonhide is stronger than paper – but still. Five hundred pages and a wicked temper do not make for a comfortable experience. His eyes water. His customer, once he’s managed to close the cage and prise his hand free, looks like she’s sincerely regretting her life-choices even after Remus shows her how to stroke the spine and make the blasted book purr.
“May I help you?” he asks, turning to face the voice only for his heart to slam up against his ribcage and his throat to close up.
Black. It’s Black. Of course it’s Black. He’d only suggested the Beater thing a million times in their third year – he’d claimed to be desperate for decent competition and he’d only dropped it when Remus had made up a lie about suffering from vertigo. (Werewolves still can’t play professional or team sports. He hasn’t managed to overturn that one yet.) He’d bemoaned it a couple of times in Remus’ earshot afterwards; had grumbled about “those mad bloody Prewitts” after they’d made the Gryffindor team, but not much.
But… “You remember that?” Remus asks before he can stop himself.
Black grins. It’s the same smile as ever – complete with the dimple Remus had obsessed over. “Of course,” he says. He says something else, but Remus doesn’t catch it: he’s too busy drinking in the sight of him. Black’s hair is longer now, and he wears it tied back; there’s silver strands beginning to gather at his temples and there are lines at the corners of his eyes. He’s as breath-taking as he ever was and Remus has to bite his tongue to stop himself for saying something ridiculous like “I love you” or “can you make it so werewolves can get married next, because yes please” or –
A young boy peeks up at him from Black’s side. They have the same wild black curls, the same eyes; the boy is first-year tiny – even tinier, really, since he seems to have inherited Black’s slender frame – and he’s adorable. And there. And Remus’ mind goes blank.
Of course. Of. Fucking. Course. Stupid. StupidstupidstupidstupidSTUPID! Black, a pureblood, the heir of an Ancient and Noble family – he’d probably been married off the summer after they’d graduated. He’d never said anything about a girl or an arranged marriage or anything, but then, he’d never really spoken much about his home-life at all.
He closes his eyes briefly. When he opens them again, Black is looking at him in concern and his son has the exact same worried look on his face and Remus has to force himself not to laugh.
“You’re here for the first-year texts?” he asks. He aims the question at the boy, who nods and suddenly looks excited again. “Would you like some help finding them all?”
He manages to make it through. He learns that the boy is called Solaris and that he’s going to be a Slytherin like his father (though Black murmurs “Ravenclaw tendencies” like it’s some kind of joke and purchases several books that aren’t on the reading list as well). He makes it through and bids them a polite farewell – wishes Solaris luck starting school – and then finds Mr Flourish to tell him that he’s taking his break.
He barely hears the “yes, go on while you can” before he heads for the back door.
…
The rest of the week passes in a blur. Students and parents come and go; stockpiles are near obliterated; his colleagues laugh and smile and joke with their customers, but manic desperation lingers in their eyes. Remus doesn’t take any more bites from The Monster Book of Monsters even though every time he so much as looks at the cage he hears Black murmuring about how he should have been a Beater and remembers just how much of an idiot he is.
Black has a son. Black has a wife. Black is a school-boy crush from twenty years ago, the only real friend Remus has ever had, and he has never been anything more.
Knowing that doesn’t stop him from taking out those ancient scraps of parchment again and spreading them out on his coffee table. He reads them every night, studies the familiar swoops of their letters and the rough lines of their doodles. Black had always had a bit of an artistic streak. A cruel streak, too – “The Marauders” had once made the mistake of targeting Black’s younger brother in a prank; they hadn’t done so again. And while Black had never explained what he did, he’d doodled a pair of eyes hovering in a churchyard on one of their notes. Remus brushes his fingertips over the fragile sketch and snorts at his own stupidity.
Cruel. It’s cruel to himself to linger over Black like this, but he doesn’t know how to move on.
He spends the rest of rush sleeping on his sofa, the notes within reach. When it finally ends, he cracks open a bottle of wine and reads them all through – sorts them into order of age as best as he can and slips them back into their pinewood box.
…
He doesn’t expect Black to come back, but he does. In the absence of students, Flourish and Blotts is almost echoingly quiet, and Remus spends his days stocking shelves and tidying. His colleagues have retreated into a similar state of calm, and the smiles and jokes they share amongst themselves are more calm and genuine. It’s just as well: the full moon is approaching and Remus can feel its power itching under his skin.
He’s restocking the Defence section when Black appears. He’s dressed in the purple robes of the Wizengamot under a black cloak, and long strands of his hair have come free of their tie and wind-tangled around his face.
“I hoped you would be in today,” he says quietly.
Remus glances at him only briefly before returning to the books. The collected works of Gilderoy Lockhart are as irritating to sort as they are to read. He grips Voyages with Vampires with more strength than strictly necessary.
“I’m in most days,” he replies. “How did the Sorting go?”
Even out of the corner of his eye, he can see Black’s smile. “Sol made Slytherin, of course,” he says. “His parents are delighted.”
Remus blinks. “They are?”
Black hums. “Even more so since I’d put money on him for Ravenclaw.” He laughs suddenly: a rough burst of amusement that sounds more like a bark than anything else. “Seems like I’ve paid for my brother’s second honeymoon.” He doesn’t seem very upset at the idea, and Remus finds himself smiling even as his heart begins to pound in his chest.
“Solaris is…your nephew,” he says.
“The oldest of them,” Black confirms. “I’ve got four. Reggie decided to shoulder that particular responsibility after I made it clear it wasn’t going to be me carrying on the Ancient and Noble line, etcetera, and he took to it a bit eagerly.” He grins. “I just happened to be the convenient escort for the day.”
“Oh,” Remus says. In lieu of having anything more helpful to say, he shoves the Lockhart book into its correct place and scoops up another. He glances at the cover - Magical Me - and sighs, putting it down to be resorted into Autobiography. (They don’t, unfortunately, have a section for Unforgiveable Nonsense.) The silence between them stretches on, and Remus aches for something to say even as he wracks his brain and fails to find anything.
In all of the alternate worlds he’s imagined over the years, talking to Black is as easy as it was in school. Never has it been more apparent that he’s spent the last twenty years in some kind of fantasy.
“Look,” Black says after a while. “Feel free to tell me if, ah, I’m barking up the wrong tree, but – I, well, I don’t know if you ever noticed, but I was mad for you. In school. And, ah, I was hoping that, ah, you’d like to get a drink. Or go for dinner. Or…something. Catch up a bit. Um.”
Remus feels his jaw drop. It’s completely ineloquent – completely at odds from anything he’s ever imagined that Black would say to him. He was always so smooth in school and he’s remained so in Remus’ memory and his fantasies. But – But that Black isn’t the one standing in front of him, looking at him with hope and just a touch of nervousness. This Black is real and so very, very here and Remus…
“I finish at four,” he says. “Um. If – if you, if that’s okay.”
Black’s wide smile is the most brilliant he’s ever seen. It’s infectious too, because Remus finds himself grinning back. It makes his cheeks ache and he must look like a right idiot, but it doesn’t stop Black from leaning in and pressing a swift kiss to the corner of his mouth. It’s so quick that Remus half thinks he must have imagined it, but the soft pressure of Black’s lips and the light scrape of his stubble linger against his jaw.
“At four, then,” Black says. He sounds a little breathless.
“Um, four,” Remus agrees. “Yes.”
He’s going to be thoroughly useless for the rest of the day, he realises as he watches Black leave. Utterly, hopelessly, useless. But, he thinks as Black turns back for the third time – smiling over his shoulder as he catches Remus’ eye – he definitely isn’t going to be the only one.
Author: Evandar
Fandom: Harry Potter
Rating: T
Genre: Fluff, Romance
Pairing: Sirius/Remus
Warnings: Slytherin!Sirius, Mutual Pining, Pre-Relationship Fluff
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and I am making no profit from this story.
Summary: They'd been friends in school: the cocky Slytherin and the shy Gryffindor, and for twenty years Remus has kept the notes they passed as proof. An unexpected reunion in Flourish and Blotts, however, could prove to be the start of a new chapter.
AN: For
finalsoul, written as a gift for small_gifts 2017.Here on AO3
He’s never forgotten Black. He can still remember the curve of his smile and the dimple in his left cheek; the wild tangle of his black curls and the way that his hair smelled of rosemary and jasmine. The notes they slipped to each other in Potions class remain preserved in the pinewood box Remus’ wand had come in, brittle with age. Sometimes, when he was abroad, he’d take them out and read them again – half-forgotten jokes and invitations scrawled in faded ink.
Want to go to Sluggy’s Yule party with me?
Sorry, I have plans.
Plans. Plans. Endless plans. Remus has spent years dreaming of what might have happened if he’d been a bit braver: if he’d earned the red and gold of his Gryffindor tie and said yes to the handsome Slytherin with the posh drawl and kind grey eyes. He’s spent years dreaming of the alternate universes where he was never bitten, where he was just a bit bolder; of the kisses and touches that might have been.
He hasn’t looked at the notes since his return to England. After twenty years away, keeping them has started to feel a little foolish. And they’re so fragile now that he’s become terrified of the day they’ll crumble at his touch and he’ll lose the last remains of the happiest moments of his life.
…
He hasn’t seen Black since his arrival back in the country. He’s heard of him, of course: he reads the Prophet so he’s seen the articles about Black’s work in the Wizengamot. Creature Rights seem to be a high priority – they’re the reason why Remus has a job now, in Flourish and Blotts, with Wolfsbane potion provided for him on a monthly basis. He likes to think that maybe, just maybe, Black figured it out: that Remus might have been his motivation for following his father into politics and taking up the Black family seat, but it’s as wild a fantasy as all of the others.
Their friendship and flirtations came to nothing, and Remus knows deep-down that they were never really close. Not when he kept Black at arm’s length at all costs.
Besides, following his father into politics was something Black had been born to do. He’d practically been taught to read from crusty old legislation - or so he’d said.
“And who knows,” he’d said, skipping a stone out over the lake. His pale eyes had been shining in the late-autumn sun, and Remus had been so enchanted with him that he’d barely even thought to listen. “Maybe I’ll actually do something good with it.” And Black had laughed, then, as a tentacle had risen from the water to snatch his stone down into the depths.
He got his wish – Remus thinks so, at least. Working in the shop isn’t perfect by a long-shot, but he can no longer be fired because of his “furry problem”. That in turn means he has a steady income: he keeps his head down and his manners in check and works as hard as he can so he can’t be fired for any other reason, and so – despite all the flaws of working in retail – his life is improving.
He can afford better clothes. He can afford to order a takeaway on the days after the full moon when the transformation leaves him so weak he can barely stand. He can afford to spend his days off doing things he enjoys: researching and writing and sending out careful queries to publishers. He has a life, thanks to Black.
It’s a life that’s currently occupied by the student rush. Stacks (and cages) of books need restocking almost constantly; Ravenclaws and their harried parents chatter about the suggested section on the reading lists while Slytherins bury their noses in books that they almost certainly shouldn’t; tiny new first-years clutch their first spell books to their chests with wide-eyed awe. The noise and the crush of people is incredible, and Remus has had to take to spending his breaks outside the back of the shop so that he can stare into the sky and breathe long enough to make the claustrophobic tightness in his lungs go away. It’s fast-paced and exhilarating; glorious.
What makes it better is that no-one seems to recognise him. Not even James Potter, his old dorm-mate, when he arrived with three children clamouring around him. He’d given Remus an odd look when he’d rung up their purchases – set texts for years five, two and one; the oldest boy already grimacing at his impending workload – but he hadn’t said anything. Understandable: Remus had spent most of his Hogwarts career trying desperately to remain under the radar. He hadn’t been close to either of the boys in his dorm, and while Potter and Pettigrew had been terrorising the rest of the school and calling themselves “The Marauders”, Remus had been nestled in the dustiest corners of the library or basking in the warmth of Black’s smiles by the lake.
Or, he reminds himself, tearing his own fur out in agony in the Shrieking Shack.
…
He’s carefully retrieving a copy of The Monster Book of Monsters when it happens. He’s holding the door to the cage in one gloved hand (“it’s silver, I’m afraid,” Mr Flourish had said when he’d started, “but honestly, you’d have wanted to wear gloves for dealing with that lot anyway. We all do.”) and a stick with the other. It is, by this point in the season, a practised manoeuvre to smack the attacking books away before leaping in just long enough to grab one of the ones that try to be sneaky and then slamming the door shut. He hasn’t been bitten in weeks, and once they’d figured out that stroking the books makes them docile… It’s become habit to pass that advice on to the customers.
He’s just managed to catch a book making a beeline for his shoelaces when he hears a soft voice drawl “knew you would have made an excellent Beater, Lupin”. The book takes advantage, of course, and Remus has to bite back a curse as its unnaturally sharp pages clamp down on his fingers.
They don’t cut through the gloves – dragonhide is stronger than paper – but still. Five hundred pages and a wicked temper do not make for a comfortable experience. His eyes water. His customer, once he’s managed to close the cage and prise his hand free, looks like she’s sincerely regretting her life-choices even after Remus shows her how to stroke the spine and make the blasted book purr.
“May I help you?” he asks, turning to face the voice only for his heart to slam up against his ribcage and his throat to close up.
Black. It’s Black. Of course it’s Black. He’d only suggested the Beater thing a million times in their third year – he’d claimed to be desperate for decent competition and he’d only dropped it when Remus had made up a lie about suffering from vertigo. (Werewolves still can’t play professional or team sports. He hasn’t managed to overturn that one yet.) He’d bemoaned it a couple of times in Remus’ earshot afterwards; had grumbled about “those mad bloody Prewitts” after they’d made the Gryffindor team, but not much.
But… “You remember that?” Remus asks before he can stop himself.
Black grins. It’s the same smile as ever – complete with the dimple Remus had obsessed over. “Of course,” he says. He says something else, but Remus doesn’t catch it: he’s too busy drinking in the sight of him. Black’s hair is longer now, and he wears it tied back; there’s silver strands beginning to gather at his temples and there are lines at the corners of his eyes. He’s as breath-taking as he ever was and Remus has to bite his tongue to stop himself for saying something ridiculous like “I love you” or “can you make it so werewolves can get married next, because yes please” or –
A young boy peeks up at him from Black’s side. They have the same wild black curls, the same eyes; the boy is first-year tiny – even tinier, really, since he seems to have inherited Black’s slender frame – and he’s adorable. And there. And Remus’ mind goes blank.
Of course. Of. Fucking. Course. Stupid. StupidstupidstupidstupidSTUPID! Black, a pureblood, the heir of an Ancient and Noble family – he’d probably been married off the summer after they’d graduated. He’d never said anything about a girl or an arranged marriage or anything, but then, he’d never really spoken much about his home-life at all.
He closes his eyes briefly. When he opens them again, Black is looking at him in concern and his son has the exact same worried look on his face and Remus has to force himself not to laugh.
“You’re here for the first-year texts?” he asks. He aims the question at the boy, who nods and suddenly looks excited again. “Would you like some help finding them all?”
He manages to make it through. He learns that the boy is called Solaris and that he’s going to be a Slytherin like his father (though Black murmurs “Ravenclaw tendencies” like it’s some kind of joke and purchases several books that aren’t on the reading list as well). He makes it through and bids them a polite farewell – wishes Solaris luck starting school – and then finds Mr Flourish to tell him that he’s taking his break.
He barely hears the “yes, go on while you can” before he heads for the back door.
…
The rest of the week passes in a blur. Students and parents come and go; stockpiles are near obliterated; his colleagues laugh and smile and joke with their customers, but manic desperation lingers in their eyes. Remus doesn’t take any more bites from The Monster Book of Monsters even though every time he so much as looks at the cage he hears Black murmuring about how he should have been a Beater and remembers just how much of an idiot he is.
Black has a son. Black has a wife. Black is a school-boy crush from twenty years ago, the only real friend Remus has ever had, and he has never been anything more.
Knowing that doesn’t stop him from taking out those ancient scraps of parchment again and spreading them out on his coffee table. He reads them every night, studies the familiar swoops of their letters and the rough lines of their doodles. Black had always had a bit of an artistic streak. A cruel streak, too – “The Marauders” had once made the mistake of targeting Black’s younger brother in a prank; they hadn’t done so again. And while Black had never explained what he did, he’d doodled a pair of eyes hovering in a churchyard on one of their notes. Remus brushes his fingertips over the fragile sketch and snorts at his own stupidity.
Cruel. It’s cruel to himself to linger over Black like this, but he doesn’t know how to move on.
He spends the rest of rush sleeping on his sofa, the notes within reach. When it finally ends, he cracks open a bottle of wine and reads them all through – sorts them into order of age as best as he can and slips them back into their pinewood box.
…
He doesn’t expect Black to come back, but he does. In the absence of students, Flourish and Blotts is almost echoingly quiet, and Remus spends his days stocking shelves and tidying. His colleagues have retreated into a similar state of calm, and the smiles and jokes they share amongst themselves are more calm and genuine. It’s just as well: the full moon is approaching and Remus can feel its power itching under his skin.
He’s restocking the Defence section when Black appears. He’s dressed in the purple robes of the Wizengamot under a black cloak, and long strands of his hair have come free of their tie and wind-tangled around his face.
“I hoped you would be in today,” he says quietly.
Remus glances at him only briefly before returning to the books. The collected works of Gilderoy Lockhart are as irritating to sort as they are to read. He grips Voyages with Vampires with more strength than strictly necessary.
“I’m in most days,” he replies. “How did the Sorting go?”
Even out of the corner of his eye, he can see Black’s smile. “Sol made Slytherin, of course,” he says. “His parents are delighted.”
Remus blinks. “They are?”
Black hums. “Even more so since I’d put money on him for Ravenclaw.” He laughs suddenly: a rough burst of amusement that sounds more like a bark than anything else. “Seems like I’ve paid for my brother’s second honeymoon.” He doesn’t seem very upset at the idea, and Remus finds himself smiling even as his heart begins to pound in his chest.
“Solaris is…your nephew,” he says.
“The oldest of them,” Black confirms. “I’ve got four. Reggie decided to shoulder that particular responsibility after I made it clear it wasn’t going to be me carrying on the Ancient and Noble line, etcetera, and he took to it a bit eagerly.” He grins. “I just happened to be the convenient escort for the day.”
“Oh,” Remus says. In lieu of having anything more helpful to say, he shoves the Lockhart book into its correct place and scoops up another. He glances at the cover - Magical Me - and sighs, putting it down to be resorted into Autobiography. (They don’t, unfortunately, have a section for Unforgiveable Nonsense.) The silence between them stretches on, and Remus aches for something to say even as he wracks his brain and fails to find anything.
In all of the alternate worlds he’s imagined over the years, talking to Black is as easy as it was in school. Never has it been more apparent that he’s spent the last twenty years in some kind of fantasy.
“Look,” Black says after a while. “Feel free to tell me if, ah, I’m barking up the wrong tree, but – I, well, I don’t know if you ever noticed, but I was mad for you. In school. And, ah, I was hoping that, ah, you’d like to get a drink. Or go for dinner. Or…something. Catch up a bit. Um.”
Remus feels his jaw drop. It’s completely ineloquent – completely at odds from anything he’s ever imagined that Black would say to him. He was always so smooth in school and he’s remained so in Remus’ memory and his fantasies. But – But that Black isn’t the one standing in front of him, looking at him with hope and just a touch of nervousness. This Black is real and so very, very here and Remus…
“I finish at four,” he says. “Um. If – if you, if that’s okay.”
Black’s wide smile is the most brilliant he’s ever seen. It’s infectious too, because Remus finds himself grinning back. It makes his cheeks ache and he must look like a right idiot, but it doesn’t stop Black from leaning in and pressing a swift kiss to the corner of his mouth. It’s so quick that Remus half thinks he must have imagined it, but the soft pressure of Black’s lips and the light scrape of his stubble linger against his jaw.
“At four, then,” Black says. He sounds a little breathless.
“Um, four,” Remus agrees. “Yes.”
He’s going to be thoroughly useless for the rest of the day, he realises as he watches Black leave. Utterly, hopelessly, useless. But, he thinks as Black turns back for the third time – smiling over his shoulder as he catches Remus’ eye – he definitely isn’t going to be the only one.
