Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He made dinner, because it seemed like the least he could do.

She sat across the table from him, spinning a bit of potato around her plate aimlessly, eyes lowered in a way that might have been demure if he hadn’t known better. Known her better.

“Is it alright?” he asked quietly, earning him a snort and a quick flash of a smile.

“Food’s great, honestly,” she assured him. “Just… you know. Thinking.”

He hummed in agreement, unable to bring himself to say more. What was there to even say?

I’m sorry they called your number.

I’m sorry they called mine.

(“If it had to be anyone,” Molly said tearfully as she handed him her daughter’s trunk, “at least it’s you.”)

It was meant to be reassuring: an expression of trust in him, to safeguard her youngest child. It made him feel worse, the knowledge of what he was expected to do a millstone around his neck — and Christ was it heavy.

Remus could only imagine how she felt, shackled to him now as she was.

“So, are we going to talk about it?” Ginny asked tiredly. “Or are we going to just sit here pointedly not looking at each other until bedtime?”

“Tempting,” he hedged, biting his lip. “Perhaps start with an airing of grievances?”

“I can work with that.” She sighed. “This fucking sucks.”

(Had she been a decade older — and he a decade younger — he might have cracked a joke at that. As it was, the quip never left the tip of his tongue; he swallowed it down hard, wincing as it went.)

“To put it plainly, yes.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table (his mother would be appalled) and steepled fingers pressed against his lips. “I tried to find a loophole or something for you, but…”

“It’s fine.” She wrinkled her nose. “Well. I mean, this wasn’t exactly how I wanted this all to happen, and certainly not for a few years yet, but…”

Remus buried his face in his hands. “Please don’t say you’re glad it’s me.”

“I’m not.”

“Good.”

“I’m just — I’m angry about this.”

“As am I.”

“I wanted to do more with my life than be someone’s broodmare — no offence.”

“None taken.” Remus dropped his hands, knocking his knuckles against the table lightly. “I prefer men. So.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah. No offence.” He glared down at the table as the silence stretched on for what felt like hours, stewing over the unfairness of it all. Missing Sirius like a lung. Imagining him threatening to storm the Ministry and single-handedly take down the backwards administration that put this plan into action — or at least punch a legislator in the nose.

But Sirius was dead and so was common decency, so here he bloody well was.

(Here they were; he wasn’t alone in this. Not really.)

“Why’d you agree then? I reckon that’s… I dunno, a big problem to have.”

Remus blinked at Ginny slowly, reminded as he did so that she was Molly Weasley’s daughter, and that was a title that came with consequences. “Not at all; I play both sides of the field, as it were.”

Her eyebrows lifted, her lips formed into a small ‘o.’ “That makes sense.”

"Either way." He shrugged. "I didn't fancy letting you go to Azkaban."

Not after Sirius.

"You might have at least thought about it."

"I did."

She nodded. "Good.”

“...You’re awfully blasé about that.”

It was her turn to shrug. “What can I say? I’m practical. Speaking of — how are we doing this? Should I just go and—”

“No.” Remus cleared his throat awkwardly. “I, erm… I just mean we should discuss… expectations. Ground rules. That sort of thing.”

“Oh.” She leaned back in her chair. “Erm… how many sprogs are we aiming for? Just the one, or…?”

Remus grimaced. “... I can’t really afford the fines.”

“Nor can I,” Ginny admitted. “Three it is, then.”

“Sorry.”

She flicked a pea at him, bouncing it off his forehead. “Shut it.”

Remus held his hands up in surrender, then sobered. He was not looking forward to the next part.

“So, erm… I’m going to ask a few questions which might be a bit sensitive, if that’s alright?”

She regarded him shrewdly for a moment. “Alright.”

The next hour passed as what Remus could only describe as the strangest and most uncomfortable job interview of his life — though which side of the desk he was on was anyone's guess.

Ginny was, true to her word, pragmatic about it all, taking even the most probing questions on the chin and getting quite annoyed with him when he would begin nervously beating around the bush — "You can say orgasm, Remus, it's fine!" He supposed that growing up with six older brothers lent her a degree of toughness that he, an only child, had lacked at her age.

And, well, now.

But either way, he felt like he'd gotten a good sense of her level of practical experience — which was to say, very little. And she'd, embarrassingly, gotten a good sense of his — which was to say, quite a lot. (The eighties had been the decade of bad coping mechanisms — sue him.) So, with all the awkward bits out of the way, they were now having a remarkably frank discussion of what their expectations were for each other — for carving out this makeshift life together.

"I don't want to be a stay-at-home mum," Ginny informed him. "I don't give a damn what those musty old farts at the Ministry have to say about it, I will go mad if I have to become my mother."

"I respect that." Remus gave her a small if bitter smile. "I'm probably better off being the one at home anyway. Still can't find a job, let alone hold one down."

(His Order of Merlin went only so far in raising him in the public's esteem, apparently. He couldn't say he was truly surprised.)

"Suppose it's lucky they're at least giving us a stipend to start off with."

"Cheers. We just have to pay back in full if we don't meet the deadline."

She snorted. "No pressure, right?"

He shook his head, laughing quietly if only not to cry. "Anyway. I'm alright as long as I've got time to write. And I'm obviously not going to stand in the way of you going back to school, if that's what you wanted to do.

Ginny was quiet for a moment. Thoughtful. "I don't think I will. I mean, what's the point?" she said sadly. "I'm barred from Quidditch. And I don't need N.E.W.T.s to go into journalism."

"Is that what you want to do?"

"I don't think what I want matters particularly much anymore."

"It does to me." He reached out, offering his hand, and she took it. "And… even though I can't spare you from this entirely, I don't want you to be miserable. So… if there's anything I can do, just — I dunno. Talk to me, alright? I'll do what I can."

Ginny nodded, giving his hand a small squeeze of thanks before clearing her throat. "So. You mentioned ground rules?"

She made no move to release his hand.

Most of the rules were simple enough: doors stay locked on the full. No smoking inside the house. No shellfish (he was allergic.) No cashews (she was allergic.) She could fly anywhere within the property line but not beyond, and not in foul weather conditions — or certain physical conditions, when applicable. The jar light in the bedroom stayed on. No one left without at least leaving a note — “I will never bar you from leaving, just… please let me know when I can expect you back.”

The others were… also simple, but left them both a bit red in the face afterwards. Mostly, he just wanted to make sure she knew that he would never force her. That she always had the option to say no at any point, and he'd respect her. That he expected the same courtesy.

He just wished… well. It didn’t matter what he wished. This is what was.

They finished dinner and cleared it away while they talked, slowly but surely winding their way down to the part of the evening they were most dreading. The last act of the ritual that bound them together. Five years and a lifetime of regret didn’t sound like such a heavy price to pay — only now the bill was due, was watching him with wary brown eyes and Remus felt sick.

Get it together, Lupin, he thought savagely. It was this or her life — you knew and you chose. Deal with it.

Ginny gestured vaguely down the hall. “Where..?”

His stomach twisted violently; he swallowed. “Second door on the left.”

Remus had been working on the house since his dad had passed in '92, but the bedroom had always been his lowest priority; who was he trying to impress? As such, it was still full of mismatched furniture and clashing patterns, something which Ginny seemed to find endearing — or at least familiar, comfortable — so he supposed he could call it a win in the end. But for now, they were left standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, trying not to stare at the bed he’d made that morning, his last alone.

(His mother had made that blanket.)

“I normally take the right side,” he informed her, and she nodded.

“And I sleep on the left, so…” She trailed off, elbowing him lightly. “Look at us, killing this conjugal living thing.”

Remus gave her a wan smile; his left hand was beginning to ache. They were running out of time. “Look—”

“I know.”

"We can do this one of two ways," Remus said softly. "I can keep this clinical, do the bare minimum to fulfil requirements — though it may be… unpleasant. Or…"

"Or?"

He winced. "I could… ease you into it properly, which would, erm… take significantly longer."

"Why, because you'd try to get me off too?"

She was sharp, at least; he’d give her that.

"I—well, yes."

To her credit, she considered this for longer than he'd expected, regarding him with a quiet sort of calculation for what felt like an age.

"I can change my mind at any time?" she clarified, and he nodded.

"Always."

She sucked in a deep breath, letting it out in a puff that lifted her fringe off her forehead, and clapped her hands together. "Right. Well, I might as well get something out of this, yeah?"

Remus did his best to smile, as if what he was going to get wasn't a complex. "Right."

And then Ginny set her jaw, stood up on her toes, and kissed him.

And after only the slightest hesitation — the slightest recoil — he made himself kiss her back.

If he closed his eyes, she could be any woman in the world: some brunette from Dover, perhaps. Mid-thirties. Maybe she liked dogs and doing the crossword. Maybe it was her he was kissing — lips, neck, collar — her sighing in his arms. Her that he was gently leading to his bed.

But it wasn’t.

It was Ginny watching him with wide, dark eyes beneath long lashes the colour of summer wheat. Ginny who unbuttoned her blouse, slipping it over her freckled shoulders to fall to the floor at her feet before reaching up for his.

Stop her.

He couldn’t. Not with the wand held to their heads — to her head, if he did.

Remus was no stranger to doing things that he’d be ashamed of in the light of day, so he gathered up the pieces screaming wrong, wrong and buried them. Forced himself to forget as her hand slipped inside his trousers, clever fingers searching, finding, grasping and — oh God — he could hate himself in the morning.

For now, he needed to focus. One fire at a time.

“I’m going to try a few things,” he said quietly, lifting her chin. “Remember the word?”

Ginny nodded. “Quidditch.”

“Good.”

If he was going to destroy himself, he was going to do it properly.

He kissed her slowly, languidly. Taking his time undressing them both, checking in — “This alright?” “Yes.” His knuckles traced the outline of her ribs as he trailed down to her waist, gripping her hips and drawing her in.

“Don’t be afraid to move,” he murmured in her ear. “Follow what feels good.”

Use me.

She rolled her hips against him — stilted and awkward — and her breath caught in her throat as the friction hit just right, and Remus tried — God but he was trying — to pretend he wasn’t hard as stone between her thighs, his monstrous body reacting in just the way he needed, but didn’t want.

He placed a hand between them, and after the barest pause, she opened her thighs, letting him slip a single finger inside. He moved, and she moved with him, rocking against his palm, a flush rising to her pretty cheeks as he brought her closer, closer, close—

“Hang on,” he rasped, pulling his hand away. Then, more gently. “Are you ready?”

(He wasn’t, but he was so good at pretending.)

She nodded, and backed herself down onto the bed, lying knock-kneed and white-knuckled, the sheets twisting up in her grip. He lay down beside her before either of them had a chance to get a good look at the other, trailing a line of kisses up the curve of her neck, leaving them nose-to-nose.

“Alright?”

“Little nervous.”

“That’s normal,” he assured her. “Would it help if I gave you control?”

The hope in her eyes was all the response Remus needed; he pulled Ginny on top of him, sitting her up so she was straddling him. “There.” He kept his eyes on hers. “Now you can set the pace. I’ll follow your lead.”

Use me.

She nodded. And then hesitated.

“Lift your hips,” he prompted her. She obliged, and he lined himself up. “Deep breath. Relax, and come down slow, alright?”

Ginny closed her eyes as she sank down onto him, and Remus forced himself to keep his breathing even. To let her settle before he unhinged. “Pinches a bit,” she managed breathlessly.

He hummed. “All normal. Try moving a little. Might help.”

In hindsight, this was a poor suggestion as the moment she began shifting her hips, his body abandoned all pretence that this could have ever been a clinical arrangement, a quiet little sigh slipping from his lips quite without his permission. He clapped a hand over his mouth, mortified.

Ginny’s face split into an impish grin; the power was going to her head a bit. “Good?”

There was no use lying. “Mmhmm.”

She pulled his hand away from his face, lacing their fingers together. “No being embarrassed about noises, remember?”

Remus did remember. He was also a bloody hypocrite — the absolute worst. But he nodded anyway, and allowed her to continue making his life a living hell, complete with visions of dancing flames.

He reached down and pressed the pad of his thumb against her, rubbing small circles that had Ginny throwing her head back as she rode him with increasing confidence, encouraging her to buck against him more than bounce, and fuck, he was losing it, losing his head. He was about three seconds from flipping her over, getting her under him so he could fuck her into the mattress properly, anything to keep her making those fucking sounds — but he couldn't. Shouldn't. But then her hips stuttered, and he caught her, kept her moving don’t stop don’t stop and she was shaking her head, frustrated — desperate — so he let himself do it. Rolled her over in one fluid movement, and no sooner did he have her on her back than she began to tighten around him, heels pressing into the small of his back. She was chanting a litany above his head — “come on come on pleasepleaseplease” — and he was swearing into the soft skin of her neck, nipping along her pulse point as she dissolved beneath him, her moans and cries filling the room, and she began to drag him down with her, further and further and further down until— “Oh fuck, oh fuck—!” he came, muffling a wordless shout into her shoulder.

And it was here, in the strange, floaty afterglow, that reality set back in.

Remus looked down at Ginny, watching him with a wide-eyed expression, tinged with a bit of sadness that tore his heart right out of his chest and threw it straight into the sea. Swallowed whole. He pressed a quick, pointlessly chaste kiss to her brow and rolled off of her with a mumbled promise to get her a towel— realising belatedly he probably could have just conjured one, or else magicked her clean of him. But he had to get out of there, to have a tiny breakdown somewhere she couldn’t see, which in this case was standing and quietly dissociating at the sink for a moment while he filled a glass full of water, damp washrag clenched in his fist.

He re-entered the bedroom to see Ginny lying on the bed, still nude, rocking slightly side to side with her knees pulled up tight to her chest. She looked up as he entered, cheeks tinged pink.

“Oh, erm… Mum said I should do this. You know, after.” She shrugged. “She says it helps.”

Remus wondered if that was true, but was hardly about to gainsay an expert opinion when the most he’d ever known about… well… that… was visiting the Potters once between missions, Lily explaining how utterly alien it felt to have something that wasn’t her moving inside her belly, and Look, Remus, see? Feel how weird that is! as she pressed her hand to the place where her son was doing cartwheels or something on the other side of her skin. And she was right: it was fucking weird. But in a sort of lovely way that he hadn’t let himself consider before or since, convinced as he was that it just simply wasn’t in the cards for him.

The memory flickered in his mind, Lily’s face shifting into Ginny’s, and something in him twisted uncomfortably.

He shook the image off and helped her clean up. Waited for her to shower and pretended he didn’t hear her crying. Waited for her to prepare for sleep, and pretended not to care when she climbed into Sirius’ side of the bed. And then he was properly alone, and he didn’t have to pretend anymore, and he could stand in the shower sobbing with scalding hot water beating down on his back as if he could scour himself free of the sin he’d just committed. As if he couldn’t feel the sting of the scratches she’d left on his skin. As if he could stop seeing her moving above him, below him, around him every time he closed his eyes. As if he could forget the sound.

It was hell.

Chapter Text

He still dreamt about it sometimes.

Could picture everyone clear as day, huddled round the wireless and waiting for the news. Grave expressions, anxious eyes. Kingsley’s deep voice, assuring them the odds of being called were low, the slump to his shoulders giving him away. He didn’t believe himself either. The ragged edges of the ticket Remus had been worrying at in his pocket. The cigarette between his lips that at a fierce glare from Molly he’d left unlit.

The crackling white noise as they’d called Ginny’s number—

“F-0-7-4-2, that is F-0-7-4-2. You will be matched with M-0-3-2-4, that is M-0-3-2-4—”

He could feel the sensation of his soul leaving his body, the cigarette falling to the floor because there had to be a mistake. There had to be some sort of mistake.

“If your number was called, you have 72 hours to schedule an appointment with the Ministry Bonds Office—”

He could hear Harry making jokes he didn’t mean about how could be worse, at least it’s not someone like Montague and Remus didn’t know who he’d been trying to console with that. If he’d been trying at all. Because Harry looked like he’d been fucking shot, and Molly was crying, and Ginny had raced upstairs, and Remus was just… standing there. Unable to move. Unable to run.

But not unable to step outside.

He could hear the birds singing, smell the flowers and the loam and the roast that Molly was cooking. The mocking sun on his face as he stood in the garden with his wand in his hand, contemplating. Cautious footsteps behind him, and a gentle question.

It was something about the way that Arthur had checked in on him first that made him say it, in the end. Didn’t pressure him into saving his daughter the way that Molly would have. Just… wanted to make sure he was alright, see how he felt (as Ginny had made her feelings well known) and Remus might have had a little meltdown about it. Might have asked Arthur why he wasn’t checking in on his daughter — "She’ll appreciate the space, I think."

So he scrubbed his face and told Arthur that he’d do it — and even then, only if Ginny was on board, all the while knowing he was the only sane option and hating it. He’d felt wretched about it, and worse when Molly had thanked him and sent him home with a care package when he’d begged off supper to go and have a proper crisis in the bath over it, probably with the last of Sirius’ handle of Powers and his wand well out of reach. At least now he had something to layer on top of the booze.

Not that he remembered that bit.

He only remembered waking up half-drunk to an owl biting his ear and a letter from the Ministry telling him the appointment had been set for Tuesday, as if anything good had ever happened on a sodding Tuesday.

He remembered that they’d both worn black and glared intensely at the officials, and both stood stonefaced through their lecture about Noncompliance and watching every loophole he'd thought to exploit get closed, one by one, because the bastards really had thought of everything. Sealed their fates with a cursed tattoo and a magical contract he kept jammed in the back of his desk drawer.

And that had been that.

And inevitably he’d wake and he’d roll over to see her sleeping next to him, arms curled up against her chest (which was sort of cute) and snoring like an old farmer (less cute, but funny at least.) And he’d swear under his breath and get out of bed and go do literally anything else — writing, reading, making biscuits — until he was tired enough not to watch her sleep. And if he was lucky, he didn’t remember much when he woke again.

But he usually did.

Chapter Text

The first several months were a miserable time, all things considered. Remus had been trying to put his best foot forward with Ginny, but for every step he took forward with her, it felt like he'd take three back. Their attempts thus far had been… unproductive, so they were still trying — but it was awkward and stilted, despite his many efforts to make it less so. She refused everything other than missionary now, keeping her gaze fixed on the ceiling over his shoulder unless he specifically asked her to look at him — which he only did once because it was somehow worse.

She'd also gotten a job at the market in town, and when Remus asked her what happened to the position at the paper she was gunning for, Ginny told him they weren't hiring. A fact he thought was strange when he had seen an advert just that morning, asking for applicants.

So, naturally, he poked his nose where it didn't belong and discovered that she had applied, and been immediately rejected, on the grounds of her sex. More specifically, the clerk informed him that management wanted to avoid the hassle of training someone who would be in and out on maternity leave, so they were only seeking male applicants at this time.

Remus was proud of himself for not shouting or making a scene, but he did show his teeth a bit when he smiled, thanking the man for his time in a mild sort of way that made it clear the only thing he was sorry about was that the building was still standing.

...And he may have covertly charmed a few nameplates on his way out.

Still.

Ginny was obviously feeling trapped, like she'd been pigeonholed into the exact role she'd told him from the start she’d desperately wanted to avoid, and Remus frankly didn't know what to do to help her. So he did the only thing he could think of, and had a party for Halloween — better than sitting at home and getting drunk alone like he normally did, at any rate — inviting most of her family and friends to celebrate. If nothing else, he hoped it would help with the isolation.

Her parents came, obviously, and Bill and Fleur showed up — now visibly pregnant, good for them. Percy brought his new Ministry-mandated partner, some dim-witted brunette putting paid to every joke ever told about a blonde. Not a single thought in that one’s head, and he legitimately was unsure if Percy preferred it that way or not. George showed up with a bottle, caught a look from his father and left, showing back up without it; he’d escaped the lottery thus far, for better or worse. Ron and Hermione sent their regards from Australia, and Charlie from Romania, all three of them living up the expat life and definitely not rubbing it in anyone’s faces. At least on purpose; they'd already been out when the curtain fell. And then there was Harry, who had very cautiously brought Millicent Bullstrode with him, appearing significantly less intimidated by her than when he’d first gotten his lottery assignment.

Remus had been a little concerned about that one, truth be told. At first for Harry’s sake — no love lost between the two of them, as he well knew — but also for Ginny's. It was always touchy seeing your ex with someone else for the first time, but it seemed he had nothing to worry about; if anything, she was delighting in taking the piss out of Harry more than anything else.

He wondered what it was like to get over someone; he'd never managed it before.

But despite the occasional awkwardness and underlying tension, he felt like the party was an overall success: nothing had burned down. There had been no meltdowns, no arguments, and even George had managed to keep it together reasonably well. Practically unheard of for a Weasley do.

And yet after everyone left, Remus began to sense that something was wrong — more than before, somehow. Ginny had slowly started to withdraw again as the night wore on, from her subdued farewell to her eldest brother to her increasing silence as she got herself ready for bed.

Normally quiet despair was his thing; it seemed unusual for her to slip into it, even now.

She crawled into bed beside him, hugging the edge and turning her back on him, and Remus waited for about two minutes for her to say something — anything — before he pressed.

"... Is everything alright?"

"I'm fine."

You're an awful liar, Remus thought, and changed tack. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"Do I sound like I want to talk about it?" she hissed, and Remus arched a brow.

"Not particularly," he allowed. "But thank you for confirming."

He let that hang in the air for a moment, bait on a string, and waited.

(He'd never really pushed her before, but something about her energy tonight reeked of Sirius — of needing a target to hit. And he was nothing if not an expert at providing one.)

True to form, Ginny threw the covers back, shooting upright to glare at him with bits of her braid coming undone, points of colour high in her cheeks.

"You want to know what's wrong? Fine," she snapped. "What's wrong is that almost every single one of my family members has made a comment today about how I'm not already up the duff and how surprised they all are, since you and I 'seem to be getting on so well,' as if that has anything to do with it. What's wrong is that I've got my mum lightly accusing me of sabotaging things — like I'm not trying —and I've got George cracking jokes about how maybe you're having 'difficulties' so I should up my game, and Percy politely reminding me that our parents can't afford to bail me out if I fuck this up, so 'as unpleasant as it might be' I might want to hurry and get it over with — just lie back and think of England. And I didn't know how to tell them that I feel like a sack of rotten fucking potatoes, and that I feel like you've hardly wanted to so much as kiss me, and how it's all been making me feel like a — a failure, or a used rag or something, and" — she sucked in a shuddering breath, the tears swimming in her eyes finally falling — "I've got no one to blame for how I'm feeling but myself, because I'm the idiot that let myself think that I could ever be more than a means to an end."

"Ginny," Remus began, "I—"

"It's fine."

"It's not—"

"You don't have to justify yourself to me—"

"No, but I—"

"We both knew what this was when it started—"

"Oh my God, shut up!"

And before she could open her mouth to argue again — before he could think — he had her face in his hands, tilting her head back to silence her with a kiss.

If he'd been thinking properly, it would not have been his first choice — he'd wanted to talk to her, not savage her. But here it was: proof that this situation was no longer in his control. She'd frozen briefly when he'd kissed her at first, but she had kissed back. He'd broken away just enough to growl against her lips ("You don't even know… you've no fucking idea—") before crashing into her again, and when she went and shoved him back he thought ah, this is where I fucked up.

He did not expect Ginny to push him down on the bed, to demand that he keep talking. That he keep telling her all the things he wanted to do to her while she moved down his body, dark eyes watching him hungrily. And Remus recognized that he still wasn't in control of the situation, but she was, and that was… fine? It was fine, he was absolutely fine, more than fine, he was — oh God. He was distantly aware that he was speaking — low, rough, utterly unlike himself as complete and utter filth spilled from his lips, as he watched her kneel between his thighs.

She took his hand and placed it on top of her head, lips hovering just over the tip of his cock. "Alright?"

I'm going to ruin you, he thought, and gave her the tiniest little nudge. A polite request, by all accounts, but there was nothing polite at all about the noise he made when she swallowed him down. She kept an agonisingly slow pace, and it took him far longer than he'd like to admit to realise she was doing it on purpose. That she wanted him to beg.

Remus briefly entertained the thought of being difficult — denying her the satisfaction. He'd never begged for a damn thing in his life, and had no plans to start now. But while he could talk a big game when he chose to, Ginny had already learned to see right through him, to take him down at the knees to get at his heart.

To make him admit defeat.

He tightened his grip on her hair, angling his hips a little closer. "...Please."

"Hm?" Ginny either hadn’t heard him or was pretending not to have, enjoying watching him squirm. And that was fair — he more than deserved it — but also there was only so much that his battered body could take.

"Please," he repeated, a little louder this time, and prayed she was merciful.

She was.

And she was quick (or perhaps he was.)

And she swallowed.

“Better?” Ginny asked smugly. And all Remus could do was nod dumbly in response. "Good. Still think you want me?"

It took a moment to register the words he'd just heard, and another still to recognise their significance. Because as quick as he'd been to try and reassure her through action, she'd immediately neutralised him, countered his offer of proof with one of her own: is it actually me you want, or am I just a convenient lay?

At this point, Remus didn't know whether to be offended or impressed.

"I think the answer might surprise you," he managed hoarsely.

Ginny smiled and shook her head, leaning in to kiss him on the forehead before returning to her own side of the bed. "Good night, Remus."

She turned the lights off, leaving him to fix his clothes and frown at her impassive back in the dark, and landing somewhere near offended. And a little angry, really… but not with her.

How could he be, when he'd done this to himself?

Chapter Text

Remus had awoken that morning with A Plan.

Ginny was apparently operating under some misapprehension that he didn’t… care about her, and he needed to correct it. Carefully. Preferably by easing into the subject, and definitely not on an empty stomach — she’d been a downright bottomless pit of late, and he’d much prefer to confess his sins without the risk of losing a hand in the process.

He opened the bedroom door, balancing a tray in one hand that he very nearly dropped when Ginny’s eyes fluttered open, lighting up when she saw him.

Real or not, there was something there — he couldn’t deny that. Not anymore.

“Morning,” he announced softly. “Thought since you were off today, I’d make breakfast.”

It wasn’t anything fancy; just scrambled eggs and bacon with a bit of toast and jam, but it was the thought — the gesture — that was important. Or so his father had used to say. And if he was going to try and do this right, that was as good a place as any to start.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Ginny chided, smiling as she sat up, accepting her plate. So far so good.

Remus shrugged. “I wanted to.”

“Well, thank you.” She paused, brow furrowing. “I thought we were going to do the mending today, though?”

"You know, the funniest thing happened," Remus said, climbing back into the bed beside her and taking his plate. "Your mother just insisted on taking care of it for us—"

"Remus John, did you fob our laundry off on her?"

He almost choked on a mouthful of egg. “I assure you, there was no fobbing involved; I didn’t even finish the damn question before she was elbowing me out of the way to get to it.”

(Molly, of course, was operating under the assumption that freer hands meant more time for making her a grandchild, and while that was technically the case, it was not, in fact, part of The Plan. Not that she needed to know that, of course — Remus was many things, and an idiot was not one.)

Ginny rolled her eyes, half fondly. “She is a menace.”

“She is,” Remus allowed mildly. “And after yesterday I thought the least she could do is make herself useful.”

It was bad enough that they were forced into this situation without her family adding pressure, a fact he’d politely but pointedly reminded Molly of as he handed her the basket. To her credit, she’d seemed contrite enough — still owed her daughter an apology, but he’d take the favour in the short term.

By all appearances, Ginny seemed to agree, accepting his reasoning with nothing more than a hum and a sour twist to her lips, and well, he’d call that a win.

“So, what’s the plan, then?” she asked, pulling her legs up beneath her to sit cross-legged in front of him. “Get me alone and then ravish me while we’ve nothing better to do?”

It was an attractive idea (unfortunately,) but: “Actually, I thought maybe… we should talk.”

Just saying it felt like pulling teeth; if Remus had ever been on the receiving end, he’d have found eight different worst-case scenarios by the time the other shoe dropped. Ginny, however, was not so prone to catastrophising; she simply nodded at him.

“This about last night?”

He was, perhaps, a touch more transparent than he’d imagined himself to be. Or perhaps she’d just gotten that good at reading him. Either way, it was unnerving. “Sort of.” Remus shifted uncomfortably. “More to do with some of the, erm… things I said.”

In the light of day, he could recognise that he’d lost his bloody mind — slipped his leash. Ran his mouth and outed himself as exactly the sort of depraved monster he’d always been afraid of becoming, ever since he was a small boy come face to face with a very large man who smelled like sweat and filth and left him with a lingering fear of the dark.

But he was very much hoping that they could shove that bit under the rug and ignore it forever in favour of the… other, tamer, hopefully less objectionable parts.

“I mean, you can’t really help what you’re into,” Ginny said reasonably. “And I’m not going to lie and say none of it was appealing, even if I don’t exactly understand it.”

Remus winced; no such luck. “...I would have preferred not to blindside you with all of that. And then for me to jump you the way I did was—”

“Hot?”

Well. That took the wind right out of his sails. “I… pardon?”

It was her turn to shrug. “I liked it. Nice to feel wanted.”

He stared at her. “Do you— I’m sorry, I just… I’m sort of surprised.”

“Why?” She snorted lightly. “You’ve been very clear from the start that you don’t see me like that.”

“...I didn’t,” he corrected her. “I shouldn’t.”

He fought the urge to look away as his words sunk in: a twitch to her brows, a little downturn of her lips, head tilting ever so slightly to the right. She searched his expression, and he had always prided himself so much on his poker face — strong enough to save his life — but there was a treacherous heat rising up his neck. He ran a hand down his reddening face, pressed over his mouth.

Ginny set her fork down. “Oh.”

“I’m sorry,” Remus managed through his fingers. “I don’t know how this happened.”

“So… you actually meant all of that, then? Last night?” she clarified, and Remus thought back to everything he’d been growling into her ear, the utter filth. Everything that had all come spilling out of him in one, shameful rush, and now he needed to answer for it. He needed to come clean.

But he couldn’t read her expression and it terrified him.

He swallowed. Rip the plaster off, you coward. “Apparently.”

“Okay…”

“Look, Ginny—” He closed his eyes, shaking his head and starting again. “To be clear, my feelings are not your responsibility. And just because I… expressed something — you don’t owe me anything. That wasn’t the point — not for me, and I—”

“Stop, I — Quidditch.”

He shut his mouth with an audible click, catching his tongue.

Ginny’s cheeks were nearly as red as his own, but she wasn’t looking at him. She was staring deliberately down at her plate, the eggs growing colder by the second. “I need some time to think about this.”

“Of course,” he said automatically, his voice sounding strange to his own ears. Overly formal, even for him. “I can work out in the back today, give you some space if you’d prefer.”

“Thank you.”

Ouch. He stood, gathering his half-eaten plate and what remained of his pride, and made to leave the room.

“Remus.” He turned, and Ginny was looking at him now, her expression pained but earnest. "It's not you. That was just… a lot at once."

It was a fair point; even if it hadn't been his intention to drop everything in her lap all at once like that, the reality was that he did.

"I know. I'm sorry."

"Quit apologising!" she snapped, then softened. "Just… let me get my head around this and we'll talk later, alright?"

Remus wasn't sure he wanted to talk about it anymore; rather, he'd prefer to dig himself a hole in the garden, climb into it, and never have to think about this line of conversation again. But if it made things easier for her, he’d do it.

“Sure,” he said, and gave her an unconvincing smile as he left.

It tasted like blood.

Chapter Text

They did not talk about it again.

In fact, for several weeks they didn’t really talk at all. Ginny had pulled back and Remus had let her and the yawning chasm between them filled with awkward silence that neither of them were making any attempt to break.

It should have come as a relief. Instead, it left him with a crushing weight in his chest that felt uncomfortably close to grieving.

He missed their morning banter, missed her flicking food at him, missed flying, missed gently bullying her into reading Discworld, missed her begrudgingly admitting she loved it, missed her cold feet on the backs of his shins. He missed her.

(He also missed the way she tasted, but that thought was quickly banished, locked in a box and buried.)

(He still didn’t know if it was her or the comfort of contact that he craved. He didn’t know if it mattered.)

But they didn’t talk. They didn’t touch. They hardly acknowledged one another, except to fall into a new pattern of silently doing things for each other. He’d leave her breakfast, kept warm for when she’d wake. She’d take the portion of beef she’d partially burned, leaving him the choice bits. Laundry folded, shirts mended, little flowers arranged in a cup on the sill — they traded gifts, little acts of service, but not one word between them.

It was maddening. Enough so that Remus had resolved to make the first move: if Ginny wouldn’t bridge the gap, he would — if only just to clear the bloody air, because this simply wasn’t sustainable. Not if they were meant to keep living together.

It’s not that his feelings weren’t a bit hurt — they were — but more the fact that he was a bloody adult and more than capable of managing his own emotions. Arguably more so than most. He could pull his big boy pants up and have a conversation without making his feelings her problem. The question was, could she?

Had this been before… everything, he’d have said yes. Ginny had an uncanny ability to cut through bullshit, easily one of the most level-headed young women he’d ever encountered. But this entire situation seemed to have thrown a crup in the kneazle den, and she’d been moody and short-tempered for weeks. Not so much flying off the handle at anything, just… very obviously suffering from a quick trigger, in all directions. It hadn’t exactly been encouraging him to try approaching her before now, but… well, he missed her.

(Also, she’d eaten all of his ginger biscuits, and they were going to have words.)

Remus opened his eyes and blinked into the dim light of the bedroom; he was alone, Ginny’s side of the bed already cold. A quick glance at the clock told him it was only about five, so he settled back down onto his pillow, relishing the peace of the pre-dawn darkness — and then froze.

Where is she? And why is it so quiet?

He threw the covers back and walked down the hall to check in on the office, convinced he was being irrational and he’d find Ginny bent down over the desk with her nose in her notebook, scratching away. It wouldn't be the first time.

But she was not at the desk. The office was empty.

He checked the sitting room, thinking maybe she’d decided to kip on the couch, but she wasn’t there either. He checked the kitchen, the garden, the loo — empty, empty, empty.

Ginny’s bag was still slung over the chair where she’d left it; wherever she'd gone, she hadn't brought it with her. Remus checked every surface in the house for a note — she always left a note, even now, even when she was angry with him she always left a note — but there was nothing. No note, no hide nor hair of her. She was simply gone.

Remus choked back the panic clawing its way up his throat long enough to grab a fistful of Floo powder and fling it into the grate, shouting “Grimmauld Place!” as he leapt through. He came tumbling out on the other side — thank God the lights are on — and began shouting for Harry, raising the alarm—

Only to stop dead when he saw Ginny sitting at the kitchen table, wide-eyed, chatting with Harry with a forkful of some eggy dish lifted halfway to her mouth. Perfectly safe.

He was vaguely aware of turning around and leaving the room, making his way up the familiar steps and down the familiar hall to the familiar drawing room where he used to go and have a sulk after he and Sirius would row, where Sirius would come and find him and apologise for being an arsehole and he’d apologise for being a prat and they’d have a little make up shag on the settee — only that wasn’t going to happen this time because things had gotten bad enough that she was taking off on him and he didn’t know what to apologise for when she told him not to bloody apologise and, well, how was he supposed to know what to fix? He just wanted to go back to how things were before he’d said anything at all, to their quiet meals and throwing clods of dirt at each other in the garden and suffering in silence. He just wanted to fucking pretend.

There were footsteps approaching behind him — quick but soft-stepped, careful, rolling along the outside edge — and his heart sank as he realised it wasn’t the person he wanted to talk to.

"Damn it," Harry swore softly. "Come on, sit down."

Remus let himself be guided to a chair which he immediately sank into, head between his knees and hands behind his head as he sucked a deep breath in through his nose, letting it out in a slow hiss through his teeth. Old familiar motions with new hands guiding him through, and fuck if that wasn't the story of his life anymore. Jesus Christ.

"How long…?" he managed.

"She showed up around three. Had a bit of a rough morning, but… well, I'm sure she'll tell you."

Would she? Remus was beginning to wonder. But then he was beginning to wonder a lot of things, and that had never done him any good in the past. Sirius used to tell him he did his best thinking when he didn't, and he'd give him that knife-sharp grin and Ginny would grin at him like that too sometimes, but wider, wilder. A tiger baring her teeth at his open throat.

Used to.

Fuck. Fuck.

(In. Out. In. Out.)

"You alright?"

Remus shook his head; if anything he was feeling worse now that the initial panic was fading, anger beginning to seep through.

"Yeah, stupid question I suppose."

It was.

"Sorry. If I’d known she hadn’t left you a note, I’d have brought her home.”

Remus believed him: Harry knew about his thing with the notes, and how terrifying it was to wake up to an empty bed and an empty flat and no note and a knock on the door. Harry had always left a note during the war, and he’d made sure that Ron and Hermione had too. And Remus had — stupidly — thought that simply calling it a rule and asking that be respected was enough. That common fucking courtesy was enough.

“I’m going to have a quick word with her about how exactly she’s fucked up—” Remus looked up at him in alarm “—and you’re not going to be a dick to her about it because, no offence, you’re very good at that and she doesn’t need the stress right now.”

“I wasn’t going to be a dick to her,” Remus protested weakly, and Harry snorted.

“Yes you were; you wouldn’t have been able to help yourself.” He stood, clasping Remus’ shoulder. “I know you wouldn’t do it on purpose, but when you get all bent out of shape like this you get fucking rude. I know it, you know it, and if Ginny doesn’t already know it, she’s about to — so let me head off the worst of it, alright?”

It was just the sort of thing that James would have done, throwing himself on a grenade to protect his friends — even the one with the pin in his teeth. He was always the peacekeeper, always the one that everyone went to with their problems, and here was Harry, taking up his father’s mantle. Juggling two friends, two sides of the same crisis at once, and all before dawn. The man was a saint.

So Remus did the responsible thing and nodded, taking deep breaths as Harry left the room — as he pointedly left the door open.

He wished he could say that he wasn’t the sort of person who eavesdropped, but by this point it was a habit built out of a lifetime of hypervigilance. Knowledge was power, especially when that knowledge involved others’ private opinions of you. Dead useful for a werewolf who needed to know when to cut his losses and run. And Harry — who was exactly the same sort of person — recognised that in him. How absolutely mortifying.

…Anyway.

Their voices were already beginning to carry up the stairs, and Remus stepped carefully out into the hall, closed his eyes, and listened.

“...forgot to leave a note.”

There was a small, exasperated huff. “I didn’t think I’d be gone that long.”

“Neither did Sirius.”

(Ginny apparently didn’t have anything to say to that one, and Remus couldn’t quite blame her; what a slap in the face that was — and from Harry of all people. Ouch.)

“I wasn’t thinking straight earlier.” Oh, yes, she was definitely flustered now.

“And I understand that,” Harry allowed, giving her a mile. “But can you blame him for being a bit panicked when he woke up to find you took off on him? Under the circumstances?”

“I had every intention of going back, I just — I needed to get my head on straight.”

“What you need to do is stop avoiding him.”

(Remus thought that would be a good start, but… if she really didn’t want anything to do with him, he wasn’t going to force his presence on her more than strictly necessary.)

“I can’t—”

“Just talk to him, for fuck’s sake.” There was a groan and a low, dull thud that might have been the table. And another. And another. “Ginny.”

“What.” Her voice was muffled; head down on the table, then.

“You know I love you, right?” Oh. Well, now this was awkward. “And I always will, but… you’re one of my best friends, and Remus is… well, I reckon he’s the closest thing I’ve got left to a dad, so…”

(Harry’s voice had lowered, like only Ginny was meant to hear that bit, and Remus blinked hard, eyes stinging. Damn elf must be slacking off again; dust is getting to me.)

“I’m not trying to hurt him.”

“Then quit ignoring what’s right in front of you. I’m not saying it’s all been sunshine and daisies with Millie, but we decided to give each other a chance and… I dunno, I actually really like her. Despite, you know—”

“History, yeah.” Ginny exhaled, caught halfway between a sigh and a huff. Probably wasn’t making eye contact. “But… I dunno, it’s confusing.”

“Yeah, I imagine it is. But don’t you think this has gone on long enough? You can’t keep hiding from him and honestly — while I never thought I’d be saying this — it’s pretty shit of you to be jerking him around like this. And you are. He’s a person, not a revolving door. In or out, Ginny: you've got to pick one.”

“Oh, like he hasn’t been doing the same to me!”

“Well sounds to me like he’s the only one who came forward about his feelings, so… you tell me.”

The silence drew on for several long moments — long enough that Remus thought they were finished speaking. He stepped into the kitchen and—

“What if it isn’t real?” Ginny asked in a small sort of voice. “Like… what if this is just all in my head, and when this is finished, and we’re not forced to live together it just… stops?”

Harry opened his mouth to respond, but froze when he spotted Remus standing in the doorway, and, well, it was as good a time to interject as any.

"Then it stops," Remus said simply, and Ginny's head shot up to stare at him, open-mouthed. "Just like any normal relationship might. And we will both survive, and learn from it, and life will go on."

Her dark gaze burned into him like a brand; he couldn’t look away. "And you don't think it would eat you alive? Knowing that you aren't in control of this?"

“You think it isn’t?”

They stared one another down for a moment, and Harry finally had enough, clapping his hands together.

“Right, well! As flattering as it is to be the go-to person for advice and a shoulder to cry on, I really would like my kitchen back,” he declared. “So if you two are going to talk this out now — which you should — you have your own bloody kitchen to kiss and make up in.”

There was no real heat in it, but Remus knew well enough to know that Harry had reached the end of his social tether. "Fair enough." He turned back to Ginny and held a hand out for her to take.

She did, and he rather thought that was good enough to start with.

"Thanks for… well, this morning," Ginny intoned, and gave Harry a brief but sincere hug — one-armed. "And for breakfast. You could give Mum a run for her money."

"Doubt that," Harry demurred, but blushed under the praise regardless. "Anyway, I’d like to think you’ll do the same for me when all of this inevitably catches up to me.”

“Floo’s always open,” Remus assured him, trying to pour every ounce of meaning he could into it, and Harry must have caught at least some of it because he nodded, expression softening a touch.

“Same. Any time you need,” he said quietly, then smirked. “Bitching aside.”

Ginny smiled, and then squeezed Remus’ hand, looking up at him properly for the first time in weeks. “Let’s go home.”

Home.

His— their kitchen was exactly as he’d left it, vaguely askew from his frantic searching. There was a bit of Floo powder scattered on the floor, hopefully salvageable. He watched Ginny take in the obvious signs of his rushed departure — right down to the fact that he was still in his pyjamas, barefoot — with an increasingly guilty expression, letting go of his hand and tucking her hair behind her ear.

“Give me a moment?” she asked him, refusing to meet his eyes, but he still nodded.

“Of course.”

She hurried down the hall, disappearing into the bath, and Remus tamped down on the violent surge of anxiety that rushed through him as the door clicked shut.

Tea. He needed to make some fucking tea.

This had been a lot easier with Sirius, although… admittedly that was because they’d been friends for years before they’d ever started up together. They already knew how to talk to each other, and were on the same level — more or less. It was different with Ginny. For many reasons, but mostly because he had been an authority figure. But that’s not how he wanted to conduct this… relationship, he supposed. That’s what he had called it, wasn’t it?

He had no idea what to expect from this conversation they were about to have — because they were about to have one, or so help him. But he did know that he wanted to let her say her piece, to listen without interrupting. And hopefully, he could figure out what she wanted from him, because he’d thought the answer to that question had been “nothing” but apparently it wasn’t.

Remus set the tea on the table at their usual places — black for him; milk, no sugar for her. And he sat down, and he waited.

Ginny returned in short order and took her place at the table across from him, accepting the tea he’d made with a quiet thanks and a tentative smile, and it was at that point that Remus realised she was holding something, clutched tight in her fist. But before he could ask her what it was, she threw all of his carefully planned discussion points out the window and placed a small familiar vial on the table between them.

Every month, along with their living stipend, the Ministry sent along a care package, the contents of which varied depending on a wide range of factors, but often included vials of a Detection Draught, and instructions on how to use it. Add a drop of blood, and the potion would either remain a translucent pink — negative — or it would react, turning a bright, opaque blue.

Just like the potion on the table.

"Are you really?" Remus asked stupidly, as if he wasn't staring directly at the proof in front of him. As if it didn't explain damn near everything.

"Seems so," Ginny said lightly, as if he couldn’t recognise false bravado from a mile away. "How's that for timing?"

He laughed weakly; of course Molly was going to take that as a sign that her well-intentioned needling had been successful. They'd never shut her up again. Never mind her daughter’s comfort level or anything — no, only the grandbabies mattered. Remus didn’t think he’d ever understand that mindset, but then he’d never had a child before — not one of his own, anyway. Not by blood.

When Lily had told him she was pregnant, he hadn't known how to respond: did he congratulate her? Apologise? Skip over pleasantries and get right into logistics? (He'd done none of these, just stammered a bit and then made her soup.)

This time, however, he reached across the table and took Ginny’s hand. "How are you feeling?"

"Sore. Tired. Scared, and angry about it." Her hands were shaking. Or maybe it was his. "But… mostly, right now I'm sorry."

"You don't need to apologise," he assured her. "You had good reason."

"So did you."

"How about we call it a wash, then," Remus suggested, and Ginny considered him for a moment before giving him a small smile, shrugging as she released his hand and slumped back in her chair, tea pulled in close to her chest.

"For what it's worth, I'm not just apologising for this morning."

Remus winced. "You don't need to apologise for that either. You were right, it was a lot."

"It's not that, it's just… hard to explain."

When Remus didn't respond except to nod encouragingly, she continued: "I was actually glad when you told me you meant all of that. That you actually wanted me, you know, properly. But… at the same time I was worried that I only felt that way because this whole arrangement is fucking my head up so badly. I don't know what's me and what’s coping, and that… scares me."

He could recall when he’d first started at Hogwarts, and he’d sat down for a meeting with Minerva to discuss expectations for the year. She’d actually warned him about Ginny. “Be gentle with her,” she’d said. “That girl endured horrors no child should ever have to endure.” And Remus had quietly absorbed this information, and proceeded to mess things up with her the same way he did with Harry: by treating her with kid gloves she didn’t fucking want. They both had wanted so badly to be normal, and God but Remus could relate to that.

But well-adjusted or not, trauma left scars.

He rubbed at his shoulder — the left one; that one. “You know I actually thought this was a werewolf thing at first?”

She snorted. “Really?”

“No joke.” He grinned wryly into his tea. “I had no frame of reference to go off of, you see, so I thought that it was just… this curse, twisting my head around.”

“Is it?”

He frowned. “I’m not sure. I don’t think it matters; I’ve been like this for so long at this point, it’s basically all I’ve ever known.”

“How old were you?” she asked. “Only, I don’t think I’ve ever asked.”

There was a brief moment in which Remus considered telling her everything, cracking his chest open to reveal this, the darkest secret he ever held, the one he’d only ever shared with three people — and then only in broad strokes. Metaphors, still vivid enough to horrify them all into silence.

He decided against it; this wasn’t about him. Not today. “I was four.”

Normally, if he let someone know that much, the reaction went about like this: shock, then pity, and then he’d be forced to console them because oh how heartbreaking, you were just a baby. As if he didn't know. He could count the number of people who’d reacted in a way that didn’t fucking exhaust him on one hand: Sirius, Harry, and Tonks.

And now Ginny, whose eyes were sad, but who simply nodded and took the information right in stride. “That would do it.”

Remus laughed. “I suppose so.”

He had been a baby, though, really; too young to know the difference. And now here he was, about to have one of his own, and he had no fucking idea what he was doing. None.

“Hey, Remus?”

“Hm?”

“How do you feel?”

He was feeling rather a lot about it, to tell the honest truth. Mostly he was terrified, partly he was angry, and a very small part of him was actually happy — but the worst bit was that nestled in the depths of that happiness, there was a dark and twisted sliver of pure and unadulterated want. A tiny piece of him that was crowing in triumph, a wolf with its kill in its teeth. Mine! it roared. This is mine!

Remus observed her over the rim of his teacup, taking in the dark circles under her eyes. Her nervous fingers tugging at the end of a braid all come undone from restless sleep and a hellish morning started far too early. Long before the dawn now breaking through the window, casting her in red and gold.

This was the mother of his child.

She was beautiful.

She was terrified.

“I feel like I don’t blame you for running.”

Chapter Text

In some ways, Remus found the role of expectant father easier to slip into — at least at first: making herbal tea and toast to settle Ginny’s stomach and providing a comfortable place to rest her head when she suddenly and inexplicably fell asleep in the middle of the day. He could handle the cooking and the cleaning and the caretaking. He had been — enjoyed it, even. But it wasn’t the fact that he’d had to pick up the lion’s share of the labour around the house — physical and emotional both — that was driving him to his wit's end.

It was the fact that when the changes in Ginny’s body began to become more noticeable, he began to falter.

There was a new roundness to her belly that could at first have been attributed to the marked increase in her appetite — easily ignorable, in his opinion — but as it continued to swell and the rest of her figure (breasts aside) stubbornly refused to follow… he couldn't pretend anymore, not even for his own sanity. The guilt he'd expected: the sick feeling in his stomach that came with the knowledge of what had become of her life, and the part he'd been forced to play in it. But the rest… God, the rest.

He often found himself watching her as she puttered around his house — their house, now. Appreciating the new shine of her hair in the morning light. The way the fabric of her clothes began to strain against her body in ways both new and uniquely frustrating — for both of them. For Ginny, she only had so many things to wear, and now none of them fit right, sending her into Remus’ wardrobe out of necessity. For Remus, as often as the knowledge that he'd done that to her sent him into a crisis of conscience, it seemed that the sight of her wearing his clothes and knowing exactly why frequently sent him retreating into the loo for a long shower and a longer conversation with himself.

He couldn’t keep doing this. It was too much.

He needed to get out, to just… go somewhere. Somewhere that wasn’t there.

Remus set the paper down with a frown. "I'm going to run out to the library, I think. Do you need anything?"

"A baby manual?" Ginny joked, though he reasoned she was probably at least a little serious — it was a good idea regardless. "Otherwise I'm alright, I think. Though if you were to bring home some more of those little oranges…"

He laughed, shaking his head. "You know, you're going to turn into an orange at this rate."

She looked down at herself, tugging his shirt over her little belly and turning so he could see her in profile. "Reckon I'll have the shape down soon, you think?"

“I think you’re beautiful,” Remus said softly, the words escaping before he could catch them in his teeth. He blinked and cleared his throat, running a hand nervously through his hair. “I, erm… I’ll be back soon.”

He grabbed his jacket and swept out the door, terrified of what he’d see if he looked back.

While the library in London was on his list of places to stop, he first made his way into Soho, weaving through a sea of Muggles to slip into a place that had become a sort of sanctuary to him and Sirius years ago, crossing his fingers that this wouldn’t bite him in the arse.

“Well look who it is! The prodigal son returns!”

Remus let out a sigh of relief at the familiar voice, because that meant that Owen was tending the bar — he didn’t think he could have survived the embarrassment if it had been Katja.

“Been a minute,” Remus returned, sliding into a seat and shaking Owen’s meaty hand. “How’ve you been?”

Owen shrugged. “Shite. You?”

“Utter shite.”

Remus hadn’t ordered yet, but Owen immediately poured him his usual, setting it in front of him with a gruff sort of grunt. “On the house.”

“Owen—”

“Shut up and take your damn drink, Lupin. You need it more than most.” His expression softened. “I was sorry to hear about Sirius.”

The thought of him ached more than burned these days. Just about manageable. “Thank you.”

They were silent together for a moment as Owen poured himself a drink as well, coming around the bar to sit next to Remus with a heavy sigh.

“So,” he began without preamble. “How’ve you been making out with your new ball and chain?”

Remus let out a short, bitter laugh. “Better than I should. She’s due in July.” He sipped at his gin. “Yours?”

“April, God help me.” He shuddered. “She was a right bear before the hormones — and I would know.”

Remus smirked. “Takes one to know one?”

Owen let out a great, booming laugh. “There he is.” They clinked their glasses together. “Now… what brings you here today? Bit early for the usual fare—”

“I actually wanted to talk to Angie, if she’s in today.”

Two bushy black brows climbed up towards where Owen’s hairline would have been. “Angie’s been gone for months, laddie. They picked her up in one of the last raids.”

“Oh.” His heart sank, for more reasons than one. “Shit. I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be done for it now.” Dark eyes cut to his. “Business or pleasure?”

“Business,” Remus clarified firmly. “I had… erm. Some questions.”

“Been a long time since you had questions.”

“Yes, well, I didn’t exactly anticipate being in this position, so…”

“Well, I’m no Angie,” Owen sighed, “but I know a thing or two. So… go on, then.”

Remus hesitated, eyes darting around the club; aside from the crew in the kitchen, there was no one else around to hear. And even if they could, he knew they wouldn't care: not here, not in this place.

And so he told him, in low quiet tones, a little barside confessional. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.

And I am still sinning, and will continue to sin.

“Jesus, Lupin,” Owen said pityingly, and Remus was feeling too sorry for himself to care. “You’re in over your head.”

Remus sighed, forehead resting on the bar next to his two — no, three — empty glasses. “I know.”

“And I think you know what my advice is going to be here.”

“Please don’t tell me to talk to her about it,” he moaned. “I can’t put this on her again — I won’t.”

“I still think you ought to let her decide that.” A heavy hand clapped on his shoulder. “You’re going to explode one of these days, you keep bottling things up like this.”

He was probably right.

But as Remus had hoped when he’d walked through those doors, he now had a word for what he was experiencing — and what he needed to avoid. He left the Crush and nipped off to the library to check out a few books on pregnancy and childrearing that were a little more recent than the ones Molly had lent them, and a book on, erm, knitting because that seemed a reasonable excuse. And, as promised, he returned home — albeit a little tipsily — with a box of tangerines, which Ginny accepted with delight.

She went to kiss his cheek, but paused when she caught the alcohol on his breath, brows creased with concern as her gaze flicked between his sheepish face and the clock on the wall, now reading half past six.

“Is this going to be a habit?” she asked bluntly.

“No,” he told her, and it at least felt true. “I just have an old friend who’s a bartender, and I needed to, erm… get some advice on some things, and… well, one drink led to another.” He could feel the heat rising to his already flushed cheeks. “It wasn’t the intent when I walked in there, I just—”

“Need to do something with your hands,” Ginny sighed, missing the point. “I know. I’m not angry, I just… want to know what to expect going forward.” She looked down at her belly, her left hand — with its damningly tattooed finger — splayed across it protectively. “It’s not just us in this now.”

“I know.” He placed his hand over hers. “I’m sorry.”

She gave him a small smile, tentatively forgiven. “Have you considered taking up knitting instead?”

The comment startled a laugh out of him — a real one, scrunchy nose and all. “So, ah, funny you should mention that…”

He showed her the book, and they had a good laugh about it, and about Ginny’s attempt at dinner — shepherd’s pie that she’d refused to use meat for because the smell still made her queasy, and he didn’t even mind so much because she’d gone through all the trouble in the first place and it still tasted… well, not good, but it was fine. And for a little while, he was able to simply enjoy her presence without obsessing about it, and as a result was still feeling pretty high on his own supply by the time they crawled into bed that evening, Remus with Feet of Clay, and Ginny with the copy of Guards, Guards! she’d pinched off his shelf. All properly domestic, like.

But for whatever reason, Ginny couldn’t seem to settle down enough to read, giving it up as a bad job within mere minutes. Remus watched her continue to shift and squirm out of the corner of his eye, the very picture of frustration, and stuck his pen in between the pages of his book to hold his place as he set it down.

"Alright over there?"

"I— no," she admitted. "I can't get comfortable."

"Oh." He frowned. "We could grab you another pillow to put between your knees if you'd like; I heard that helps—"

"Not like that." She was blushing. "It's— I— oh, to hell with it. I really need to come and I haven't been able to bring myself off properly in weeks."

Oh no.

"Oh. I, erm… I could go for a walk, if you need to—"

"You don't understand. I can't. I've tried. Several times, but it’s like the angle’s all wrong," she huffed, burying her face in her hands, and Remus was definitely not going to ask, he wasn't—

"...Do you need help?"

Oh my God, shut up.

Ginny arched a brow at him, shifting to look at him more directly. "Are you offering?"

Don't say yes. Don't you dare say yes.

He shrugged noncommittally, dropping his gaze to his hands as he fiddled with the edge of the duvet. "I mean. I could, if you wanted… erm. Might as well, you know, make myself useful or something—"

"Remus?"

"Yes?"

"Shut up and fuck me. Please," she added, almost sheepishly.

And, well, let it never be said that Remus was a particularly strong-willed man even when perfectly sober, because no sooner had he thought this is a terrible idea than he'd rolled her over and thrown her legs over his shoulders, pressing hot, insistent kisses against the soft skin of her inner thigh and moving up, her rapt expression vanishing behind the soft swell of her belly. He hadn't let himself do this before — afraid if he ever tasted her, he'd never want anything else again — and was rewarded now with a gasp of surprise (pleased, he thought) as he flicked the tip of his tongue against her.

(And he was probably right, but that was for future-Remus to deal with.)

Now, he’d always fancied himself an observant sort: a quick study of body language out of sheer necessity. He knew how to read what someone wanted in what they didn't say, and this was no different. Lick here, and she'd angle her hips higher — harder. Suck there, and she'd start rocking against his mouth — faster. Use teeth (gently — he was a monster, not an arsehole) and her fingers would tighten their grip on his hair, pressing him in — more. And Remus was a very good listener. She came quicker than either of them expected with her thighs clamped around his ears and frankly that was probably for the best, since it muffled the sound enough that it wouldn't keep him up all night, rattling through his brain.

…Probably.

He sat back and observed his work with an artist's eye. He shouldn't have done; she was lying there flushed and quivering with her nightshirt — his shirt, really — hiked up under her little belly and leaving her on display, and he regretted his insistence on showing off almost immediately. Awful habit, enabling worse ones.

Still. "Better?" he asked.

Ginny nodded shakily, her eyes dropping to his mouth as he swiped a thumb over his lips. Catching the last bit of her.

"Good." And with that, he winked and rolled back over to his side of the bed, picking his book back up as if nothing untoward had happened at all. Listening as she adjusted herself, as her breathing slowly settled and then evened out, all while regret seeped into his bones.

You idiot, why did you do that?

He put the book back down, still marking the same place, turning the light off to stare at the ceiling instead.

This wasn't happening. It wasn't.

Chapter Text

In his defence, he hadn't been lying to Ginny when he said it wouldn't become a habit.

He’d been lying to himself.

The game was lost the moment Remus had first broken, first gone out searching for answers he wouldn't hear until he'd sunk himself three shots deep and even then: denial. Because the numbness felt better — until it didn't. Until he realised that lowering his inhibitions was a terrible idea, making him do stupid things — not because he had to, but because he wanted to.

And he did. Want to, that is. That was the worst of it: this sudden realisation that he wanted to fuck her, claim her, fill her. Wanted her down on all fours with her belly heavy with his child, again and again and again. She was the walking embodiment of everything he'd never known he'd wanted, but to take it — take her — was a betrayal of every promise he'd ever made himself.

That he wouldn't be like the monster who'd made him. That he would be good.

But he wasn't good. He wanted.

Remus had endurance, and a lifetime of practice grinning and bearing and he could pretend with the best of them, could smile harder than he was hurting. He prided himself on it. But even he had his limits, and having to sit there in that house, face to face with the results of his decisions — his failure, his weakness — was more than even he could bear. So if one or two or even five drinks wasn't enough to make it go away, he'd just have to keep going.

It wasn’t every day. There was no real schedule to it — just whenever he felt the itch (fuck, claim, fill.) And he was distantly aware that it was happening more often, to the point that Ginny had started to skip right past annoyance straight to resignation. They both knew what he was doing, and they both knew there was nothing to be done, at least while this bloody law held. At least while he couldn’t look at her without wanting to touch her — consume her — without wanting to make her laugh (with her whole body, head thrown back just the way he used to), without wanting her to make those sounds—

He rubbed his temples, glaring down at his empty glass, and signalled for another.

Owen brought his drink, but didn’t leave. “Remus.”

Old bear was gearing up for one of those chats. Well, he wasn’t biting. “Yep.”

“Think maybe you ought to slow down?”

Remus eyed the ominously leaning tower he’d made of most of his empties. “Nah.”

He still felt it.

“Look, I’m not one to pry—”

Remus snorted into his drink. “Mm, that’s bull, but go on then.”

Owen sighed. “You still haven’t talked to her, have you?”

‘You’re going to explode one of these days,’ like hell. I already scared her off with all this once. Not doing it again.

Remus set his glass down with a thunk. “I ever tell you I was gonna ask Sirius to marry me?” He didn’t wait for a response; Owen was listening. He always did. “Wouldn’t have meant anything, cos... wazzocks. You know. Wasn’t the point. Was the message. Had the ring and all. And then one morning I wake up to a knock on my door — everyone’s dead, Sirius killed them, but hey, the war’s over, thank you so very much for your service.” He raised his drink once more in mocking salute, tossing the rest of it back in one go. It didn't burn anymore, and he wasn't sure if that was good or bad. “They expected me to just pick up and move on after — like hell. Twelve years, I hated myself because I still fucking loved him. Despite all of it — all the rot and ruin, the wreckage he left. Twelve years, I couldn't bring myself to do the right fucking thing. Not once.”

“Sirius was innocent, though," Owen pointed out, as if Remus didn't know that. As if he wasn't painfully fucking aware of it.

A mirthless laugh ripped out of his throat. “Oh, and that absolves me. Just like the bit where me fucking a teenager is supposedly fine because our brilliant bloody Ministry assigned her to me like — like homework.”

And Owen nodded sagely, like he had suddenly understood — like he understood anything. “Which is what this is really about.”

He didn't understand shit.

“This is about me being a monster, Owen.”

“Only you’re not a monster, Lupin,” Owen said gently, leaning onto his elbows. “You’re a good man who’s been put in a bad situation.”

Liar.

“I kept the ring, you know. I was fucking starving, I could have pawned it, but I couldn’t— I couldn’t make myself do it. You understand what I’m getting at?”

“Can’t say I do, no.”

“I never even gave it to him, after he got back. Always thought there would be a better time, when the war was done and he was… better in his head, you know? But then the morngy bastard had to go and bloody die on me.” Remus screwed his face up against the wave of agony he shouldn't have been feeling; he shouldn't have been feeling anything. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He was supposed to be here.”

“Remus…”

“I still love him. I do, I always will. I don't let go of things. But that’s part of what makes me a monster, even more than” — he broke off, gesturing at himself — “all this. Cos I love him, and I still think of her." (Red hair, freckled skin, the way she'd say his name.) "She’s — she’s all in my head now, and nothing I do gets her out. It’s like… she carved me up and made a home, and a sick part of me actually likes it. The hell's wrong with me?”

(Fuck, claim, fill—)

Owen’s face crumpled like bog roll in a bin, and Remus felt sort of loosely gratified because that — that was the correct response. No words, just that and the meaty hand clapped to his shoulder in sympathy. And maybe the last of the gin. The little halos 'round all the lights (not him, that was for sure) and the knowledge that one or two more would probably do him in properly. Enough to make it quiet.

He’d wait a minute, though. Pace himself.

“I dunno how I sleep at night, honestly,” Remus continued. “Actually, I mostly don’t. Do a lot of knitting — have you ever tried knitting?”

Owen didn't miss a beat. “Tried once. Didn’t go well.”

“Started a scarf, and then I changed my mind and decided to make it a little blanket instead. It’s like the same thing, just, you know—” Remus held his hands out, gesturing broadly. “But I reckon I don’t need to do a big one. Just… just a little one.”

A little one, like the one Ginny was carrying. His little one. Jesus Christ.

They'd found out last week that Millicent was expecting now as well, and Harry had been so nervous to tell him (God only knew why.) But all Remus could think at the time was of his one ill-fated attempt at babysitting Harry when he was very small: the disaster with the nappies, and the baby powder on every inch of the sitting room. Feeling like he’d aged about thirty years in the span of five seconds because this was James’ son — the closest thing he thought he’d ever have to a son — to having a kid of his own. Thinking about how fucked it was that his child was going to be the same age as his grandchild, basically, and how they’d go to Hogwarts together — provided his kid got to go to Hogwarts at all. Provided he hadn’t ruined that too.

Completely fucked. All of it.

And anyway, he still didn’t know how to change a nappy.

Panic swelled in his chest, his throat. “Owen? Owen.”

“Yes, Remus.”

“Owen, I don’t think I can do this.”

“What’s that, mate?”

“I can’t have a baby.”

(Not now, not with her. Not ever.)

Owen had the audacity to snort. “Remus, I hate to break it to you, but you’re not the one having it.”

“No, Owen—”

He swatted Remus in the face with the dishrag. “I know what you mean, you daft tit.”

“I just mean, like… I dunno, what if it's like me?"

"Annoying?"

"No, like… all wolfy." (Monstrous, wrong.) “I don’t… I don’t want to ruin anyone else.”

His mum had died of heart failure — too much stress, they said. And his dad had hung himself not long after — too much grief, they said. And Remus wasn't stupid, he knew he'd been the root cause of both. Seen the lines forming around their eyes by the day, heard the hissed arguments when they'd thought he was asleep, his father weeping in his office. Every grey hair, every crack in their composure, he'd taken note and counted it. Pinned it somewhere in his heart to carry, and never put it down. And Sirius had known what that was like, had lived his own version of hell at home, had taught himself how to survive. It had been like Sirius had been ready-made to love him — so of course he'd been taken away.

But Ginny had grown up in a happy home, wanting for nothing (at least anything that mattered. Like his mother had, before she'd married his father. Before they'd had him, and everything went to shit. And all Remus could see was history repeating itself, only worse: trauma compounding over generations.

Owen gave him a look he couldn't quite read — things were a bit swimmy — and then sighed, throwing his dishrag down on the bar. He turned to say something to Katja that Remus couldn't quite hear, and then came around the bar, motioning for him to stand.

"Come on," Owen said gruffly, "up you get."

Remus blinked up at him. "Oh. You throwing me out?"

"I'm cutting you off is what I'm doing — and should have done weeks ago."

“Thought we were friends.”

“A friend wouldn’t have let you do this to yourself. Behind that counter, I’m just your bartender, mate.”

Remus found himself strangely hurt by this, and pushed up off his barstool with every intention of storming off. However, the ground beneath him had other ideas, and he began reeling backwards, only barely managing to catch himself on the bar — and even then only with Owen stepping forward to steady him by the elbow.

“I’m fine,” he insisted, jerking his arm away from Owen — or tried to, but everything was going a bit fuzzy round the edges, and Remus realised he was leaning hard against the bar. Maybe he was a little further gone than he’d thought.

“You’re nowhere near fine, Lupin.”

“I just need a minute.”

“You need to go home.”

“No.” He shook his head violently. “Can’t go back there yet.”

“Why not?”

“Because I still feel it!” Remus moaned, tearing at his hair. “I can’t look at her like this, I can’t!”

Not when he destroyed everything he touched. Lives, innocence, even dinner last Tuesday — everything.

“Drinking yourself blind isn’t going to help anything,” Owen said firmly, and Remus felt his composure crumbling like a stale biscuit. “Whatever you’re dealing with in that head of yours, you’ve still got someone at home relying on you to keep your shit together.”

“She doesn’t need me,” Remus insisted. “I ruined her life.”

Owen sighed, but dropped it. “Right. Where are you living these days?”

Remus blinked at the sudden left turn, but paused, thinking hard. “Erm… Arram. Just off Chapel Garth.”

“Where the bloody hell is that?”

“Like… fifteen minutes north of Beverly.”

“Out by Hull?”

“Mm.”

“Right, come on then."

Remus suddenly found himself tipping forward, only the ground was falling away from him, the reason why becoming apparent when he realised he had a fantastic bird's eye view of Owen’s leather-clad arse.

“What are you doing?” he asked, fearing the answer.

“Were you not listening?” Owen replied, laughing. “I’m taking your drunk arse home.”

"What? No!" Remus shook his head again, trying to push away from Owen’s broad shoulder. “No, no, I can’t go back like this—”

But too late; Owen twisted, and there was a crack and a squeeze, and Remus soon found himself being dumped unceremoniously into the middle of a muddy field — just in time to vomit spectacularly in front of a small audience of curious sheep.

They were very cute at least. And more importantly, they couldn't laugh. Very polite.

Owen patted his back consolingly. “Sorry about that, just didn’t fancy you chundering all down my trousers.”

Remus, still gagging, replied with a rude hand gesture.

He recognised the field they were in, he thought; not a mile from his house. Not that the village was particularly large to begin with, but there were a lot of farms to pick through. He knew them all well. Remus stood (fruitlessly attempting to brush the mud and muck off his knees), determined which way home was, and began walking in the opposite direction.

Owen caught him around the midsection, scooping him up again like a stray kitten, and began marching off determinedly in the correct direction, damn him. “You think you’re real clever, eh?”

“No,” Remus put out petulantly, glaring down Owen’s back once more. “If I was clever, we wouldn’t be in this mess to begin with.”

“You gonna solve world hunger while you’re at it?”

“If I was clever, yes.”

“Jesus, Mary and— you’re something else, Lupin, you know that? You really are.”

Something in Owen’s tone was sharper than he was accustomed to hearing from the old bear. “You’re angry at me.”

“I am.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Shut up, you don’t even know what you’re apologising for.”

“For making you angry.”

“Right, see, that’s what I mean,” Owen huffed. “You act like you’re the only person in the whole world who’s ever known suffering, and it’s getting really bloody tiresome.”

“I don’t—”

“I said shut up,” Owen snapped. “You’ve been doing a lot of talking these last few weeks, and now you’re going to fucking listen.”

Remus fell silent.

“You think you're some sort of awful person for wanting to shag the person the Ministry landed you with? Boo bloody hoo — I wish I had that problem. I’d have just turned myself in and been done with it, but with Angie gone, who was going to run the club? Katja? Like hell — I trust her with the queens, she’s fucking ferocious, but she’s got no head for numbers and left unsupervised she’d wind up drinking the bar dry herself by quarter end. Not fucking happening.

“I have to rely on this” — he held his left hand up, displaying the cursed tattoo — “to get hard enough to have a poke at the homophobic shrew they stuck me with, and here you are with no such issue, and yet you’re still here crying all over my bar every week.” Owen paused, stopping dead in the field long enough to take a deep breath, and Remus (thrown over his shoulder as he was) rose and fell along with him. “I don’t mean to turn this into a pissing match; I get why this is difficult for you, and honestly the fact you’ve got such a bug up your arse about it puts you head and shoulders above most of the bloody country in my book — but do you understand why this is a ridiculous thing to get hung up on? Three kids, that’s the mandate. You’re only on the first, but I'm going to hazard a guess that you understand the mechanics well enough to know how that happens, yeah? That ship has sailed.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t steer it,” Remus put out hoarsely.

“You’re not steering shit, you’re running it aground.”

“Well maybe I don’t want to go where it’s heading.”

“And what does Ginny want?”

“...She doesn’t want to be stuck with me.”

“Asked her that, have you?”

Remus ran his hands over his face slowly. “I just know she doesn’t.”

"You need to quit deciding these things for her," Owen warned. "She gets enough of that elsewhere, don't you think?"

He was right, of course, but he was also missing the point. "I just don't want her to end up like my mum, only worse cos at least Mum only had me to deal with and she had Dad to help. Ginny’ll have to deal with us both.”

Owen craned his head around to shoot him an incredulous look. “Are you really that worried your baby’s going to be a werewolf? Because I can tell you that’s not how it works; my father was a werewolf and all I turned out to be was a great flaming queer.”

Remus blinked. “...I didn’t know that. About your dad.”

“Well I don’t exactly go announcing it in bars, now do I?” and Remus felt that admonishment, right down to his bones. “Now if you’re worried about how your kids are gonna see you, you’re in luck: my daddy issues had nothing to do with his lycanthropy and everything to do with the fact he was a raging pisshead — him and my mother both. Now if that’s the sort of relationship you’d like with your children, then by all means, keep doing what you’re doing—”

“I don’t want that.”

“Then knock it the fuck off, you idiot. And talk to your wife.”

He didn’t give Remus a chance to respond before he marched up the familiar path to the familiar front step, and knocked on the door. It took a minute, but the light came on, and the door cracked open, and Remus waited to hear Ginny’s exasperated voice — maybe telling Owen to keep him or something, and shutting the door in their faces; he’d deserve it.

Instead, Owen let out a quiet noise of dismay. “Oh, you poor thing.” And Remus felt a prickling on the back of his neck, a tension in his gut that felt less like sick and more like alarm.

He tried to look over his shoulder, to see. “Is she alright?”

But Owen didn’t respond; he stepped into the house, setting Remus down on his feet and immediately spinning him around to frogmarch him down the hallway. “Hit the shower, Lupin. Now.”

“But what—?”

“Never you mind, I’ll handle it.” He all but shoved Remus into the bathroom, turning the knobs on the shower to get him started. “Try not to drown yourself in the meantime, yeah?”

And then he left, slamming the door behind him, and Remus could hear his heavy footsteps marching back up the hall. The low, concerned rumble of his voice, words drowned out by the running water.

Remus looked down at himself; he supposed he was sort of covered in mud at the moment. And maybe a shower would help clear his head enough to figure out what was going on.

It was slow, careful work, but he managed to get himself washed up properly, to start feeling a little less wobbly, and even staved off a little breakdown because he was nothing if not good at multitasking — but while he wasn't focusing on performing motor functions, he was thinking about what Owen had said. Now you’re going to fucking listen.

Had he truly been so selfish?

He stepped out into the hall, leaning against the wall to steady himself but no longer collapsing against it (that was good, right?), and slowly made his way back to the sitting room to find Ginny curled up on her side with her head in Owen’s lap, looking pale and perfectly miserable.

Well. There was his answer.

“Alright?” he asked cautiously, and Owen looked up at him with an indecipherable expression.

“Reckon she’s pretty far from alright, mate,” he said, the reproach in his tone a slap in the face. “Why don’t you come sit, and we’ll all have a little chat.”

He said “chat” the way Remus’ father had that time he’d caught him smoking pot on the roof. Why don’t you come down from there, and you and I will have a chat. He’d been sixteen and stupid, but not stupid enough to think that was a suggestion. And just like he was sixteen, Remus slowly approached, gripping the back of the armchair like a lifeline as he walked around it, and carefully sat down.

There was a half-empty bottle of whisky on the coffee table. He did not remember leaving it there.

“This wasn’t exactly how I envisioned spending my evening,” Owen sighed, removing his hat to rub a hand over his bald head. “Though I suppose no matter what I did tonight, I was going to be minding a roomful of drunks.”

The implication of what he was saying didn’t quite penetrate at first — I’m hardly a roomful — but then Remus found himself looking between the bottle on the table and the girl curled up and groaning on the couch in front of him, the pieces fitting together far too neatly for his liking.

He blinked. “Are you drunk?”

Ginny opened her eyes blearily, glaring at him. “You don’t get to ask me that,” she slurred. "Not you."

"You're like—" he paused, struggling with the maths in his head — "seven months pregnant, you shouldn't be drinking at all!"

"Ohhhh, but s'fine if you do it, yeah?"

Remus opened his mouth to say yes, exactly, but stopped himself; there was a trap here, he was certain of it. He tried another tact: "I'm not the one carrying a baby, am I?"

"No, you're not," she agreed, sitting up unsteadily, and Remus got the distinct impression he'd still managed to step in it. "You're not carryin’ much at all, are you?"

He flinched. “What does that—”

“I’m the one carryin’ everythin’!” she snarled. “Me! The baby, the whole” — she gestured between them — “this! I’m the one tryin’! An’ what’re you doin’, ‘sides gettin’ drunk and tryin’ not to look at me?”

“Would you rather I did?”

“YES!” She hurled a throw pillow at him, missing his head by an inch. “You’re so fuckin’— Merlin I can’t stand your arse sometimes!”

Remus glanced at Owen, hoping for some backup, only to note his erstwhile friend was simply watching the proceedings with raised eyebrows, sipping a mug of tea. He was half tempted to snatch it from him and throw it in his face, the traitor.

“I’m sorry,” Remus began instead, returning his attention to Ginny who was now worryingly red-faced. “I was only trying not to make things worse.”

Ginny let out a sharp bark of laughter so much like Sirius it burned. “Bang-up job of that. Well done, really.” She crossed her arms over her chest, only swaying slightly. “You told me that we were in this together — better or worse. A team. Was that a lie?”

“Of course not.”

She nodded, something dark and monstrous lurking in her eyes that set the hairs on the back of his neck on end. “Y’know, I used to wonder how they all thought it was you. Thought they were all a bit stupid — but I get it now. I do.” She leaned in, planting her palms on the coffee table to look him dead in the eye. “It’s cos you’re a coward, Lupin. And a shit team player.”

His breath caught in his chest as the hit landed — right through the heart, fucking bullseye — and something worrying must have shown in his face because Owen finally stepped in.

“Hey now,” he interjected, reaching out to guide Ginny back onto the couch. “No need to be like that about it, alright?”

“It’s the truth,” she argued, scowling, but followed his lead regardless.

Owen levelled a stern look at her, channelling his very best disappointed father expression — as if that had ever fazed her. “I'm going to need you two to actually talk to each other, not rip each other apart.”

“Well I don’t want to talk to him.”

Remus wasn’t particularly certain he’d want to talk to himself either, if he were her. Because she was right: he was a coward — the sort who had, even if just for a brief moment, wanted to hurt her back. To lash out instead of face the fact that he’d fucked things up royally, and might have sort of at least a little bit deserved her anger.

A bang-up job indeed.

He dropped his face into his hands, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. He wasn’t going to cry; he wasn’t. Crying was for people with real problems, not monsters who ripped their families apart. Three for fucking three.

Sirius would have been ashamed of him. James, even worse.

Coward.

“Remus, you alright over there?”

(He was fine. Perfectly and utterly fine. Better than fine.)

He shook his head, but did not look up.

Owen heaved out the world’s most put-upon sigh, couch creaking as he shifted. “Like nailing jelly to a tree, this is. Swear to Christ. Right,” he clapped his hands together, the sound echoing through the small sitting room. “Let’s start here, then: Ginny, darling, why don’t you go ahead and apologise now and get that out the way so maybe Remus here doesn’t feel about two inches tall.”

Ginny muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “Piss off.”

Not that it hurt or anything. Really, he ought to be used to this sort of thing by now. (Apparently not.)

“Come on, love, it’s not going to get better if you don’t hash it out now.”

Now it was Ginny’s turn to sigh, her feet kicking at the table. “M’not sorry for what I said,” she grumbled, “but I suppose I was a bitch about it.”

“That was a piss-poor apology if I’ve ever heard one—”

“She doesn’t have to apologise.” Remus dropped his hands, staring resolutely at an old stain on the carpet instead of meeting Owen’s gaze — risking meeting hers. “I do.”

The silence drew out into a small eternity before he realised they were waiting for him to actually say the words.

He took a deep breath, paused, then took another. “I suppose I’ve… been a bit of an arsehole recently.”

Ginny snorted at that; a quick movement out of the corner of his eye suggested that Owen might have elbowed her. Probably gave her The Look.

“And I don’t know if I can promise to get it right every time,” Remus continued slowly, “but you’re right: I do at least need to try. I owe you that much.”

“You don’t owe me a damn thing.”

The anger had mostly left her voice — more drained than anything else — and so Remus finally raised his head, meeting her heavy gaze head-on.

(He only slightly regretted it; he wasn’t the only one with suspiciously wet eyes, and damn if that didn’t sting.)

Owen scoffed. "Don’t be silly, he absolutely does.” He began ticking off on his fingers. “Let’s see… kindness? Respect? Common courtesy, at a bare minimum? An explanation? Better yet — any amount of communication?”

Remus closed his eyes briefly. “Yeah, thanks, I get it.”

“I bloody well hope you do, because I don’t want to be having this conversation with you again three months down the road.” Owen leaned back in his seat, throwing his arm over the back of the couch. “Now, the issue here is you keep talking to me when you should be talking to her, so why don’t you tell Ginny here what you told me earlier?”

It was a simple enough request, but there was one glaring issue: Remus couldn’t quite remember what he’d said. “Which, erm… which bit?” he asked, hoping he wasn’t too obvious — but of course Owen saw right through him, rolling his eyes.

“Well, we can skip over the part where you were panicking about the baby being a werewolf, because I already explained why you’re a bellend.”

Ginny levelled a look of such exquisite confusion at that, it took everything in Remus not to laugh. “Why would he be a werewolf?” she asked.

“He wouldn’t be,” Remus admitted grudgingly, “I’m apparently just being irrational.”

“I could have told you that.”

“Moving along,” Owen interjected loudly before Remus could protest, “let’s talk about the bit where you got all worked up about the mortal sin of — let me see if I’m remembering this right — finding your wife attractive.”

Ginny’s eyes widened and Remus felt his face light up like Bonfire Night. “Fucking hell, mate, really?”

“Would you have broached the subject if I wasn’t pushing it?”

“No!”

“Then I regret nothing.”

“You… hang on.” Ginny pressed her fingers to her temples, frowning. “You’re bein’ a shit because you fancy me?”

It sounded so strangely juvenile when she said it like that. Like they were passing notes in class — fancy Hogsmeade next weekend? — and flirting in the corridors. All paper flowers and candy hearts. But this… what he was feeling, it was so far beyond that. This was no puppy love — his heart had teeth.

But she wanted an explanation — deserved one, as Owen pointed out. He could deliver.

Remus straightened his shoulders and looked her straight in the eye. “I’m being a shit because all I can think about anymore is bending you over the kitchen table.”

Once more, ringing silence met his admission.

Ginny squinted at him. “You need to get off that badly, all you have to say is—”

“No, I don’t think you understand.” He steepled his fingers, pressing them against his lips. “It is constant. Unrelenting. Like, I see you wearing my clothes and I’m standing at attention like I’m sixteen and the wind blew the wrong fucking way; I want to tear them off with my teeth. I want your back against the wall and your legs over my shoulders and I want to fucking drown myself in you — do I need to keep spelling this out?”

Ginny gestured to herself — to her swollen belly. Her thickened waist and thighs. “You’re tryin’ to tell me you find this attractive.”

Remus shrugged. “To the point of madness, apparently. But you made it clear last we spoke about this that you weren’t interested, and so it remains my problem to sort out, not yours, and I won’t—”

“Won’t what? Ask me? And the hell you talkin’ about, ‘not interested’ — when did I ever say that?”

He frowned. “That day I made you breakfast in bed, and I was telling you… but then you said your word, so I stopped—”

“Well, yeah, cos you were fuckin' babblin' and I couldn’t — ugh!” She dragged her hands down her face. “I needed to wrap my head around how I felt about the fact that you were apparently really into the idea of pumpin’ me full of fuckin’ babies, Remus. I don’t think that’s rocket surgery—”

“Rocket science,” he corrected meekly.

She glared at him. “Whatever.”

A muffled sort of snort drew both their attention back to where Owen was still sitting, one hand clapped over his mouth, the other clutching his teacup like a rosary as he very poorly stifled a laugh. “Sorry,” he managed, clearing his throat. “That was just — I didn’t mean to interrupt; by all means, keep forgetting I’m here.”

Ginny groaned, flopping against the back of the couch. “Nah, moment’s lost.”

But Remus was still hung up on what she had just said, turning it around in his mind. Examining it for cracks.

She’d only needed to wrap her head around it. To think.

It wasn’t a no. It never had been.

Huh.

“Right, so, I've got to get back to work,” Owen began, standing. “Are we feeling a bit better now? I’m not going to leave and hear you two’ve murdered one another by morning?”

“Not tonight at least,” Ginny muttered, shrugging.

Remus was less sanguine. “Check back in Tuesday.”

He hadn’t expected to see Owen off with anything short of a bloody nose after the night he’d been having — that they’d all been having, truthfully — but he supposed stranger things had happened. Owen left the two of them with a set of very strict instructions — “No Sober-Up, alright? It’ll be worse for the baby than the booze. Oi, Remus, look at me, I’m serious: do not let her have any, no matter how miserable she feels.” — and a warning that if Remus darkened the Crush’s door again for at least the next three months, he’d personally see to it that he was blacklisted from every bar in London. Remus privately thought this was a bit of an overreaction, but he wasn’t going to say that to his face. At least not while he was scowling like that.

And not while Ginny was waiting for him, hovering in the hallway uncertainly. Like she was afraid he would leave too.

He closed the door, waited three seconds for the sound of Owen Disapparating, and made his way towards the hallway. Towards her.

“Dunno about you, but I’m knackered.”

Ginny huffed. “Almost like we’ve been talkin’ about our feelings for the past… erm…” She squinted. “Three hours?”

Remus stepped closer, humming thoughtfully. “Wasn't that long. But then I think we’re both still a bit drunk.”

“A bit.” She held her arm out. “Help me to bed? Only I don’t want to fall over.”

He did.

It was slow going — a sort of awkward three-legged race, her leaning on him, him leaning on the wall — but they did eventually make it to the bedroom, and Remus was rather proud of himself for having the wherewithal to help her into bed (socks on, but who gave a shit) and sort of vaguely recalled climbing into bed next to her, intent on talking a bit more before they went to sleep… at least until his head hit the pillow.

It was fine.

They could figure the rest out in the morning.

Chapter Text

It took a week for them to talk about it properly.

The first day after… well after, he’d woken up still slightly drunk, and more hungover than he’d ever been in his life, spending his waking hours alternating between burying himself under his pillow and trying to drown himself in the toilet. He had hardly even seen Ginny, aside from a brief, half-grunted conversation about whether this was normal after a night of heavy drinking.

“Only if you’re either stupid or unlucky,” he’d groaned, quoting Sirius.

“And which were you?”

“Both.”

-

The second day started much the same as the first had ended: with a pounding headache that he could feel in his teeth, rivalling the insistent drag of the moon on his bones. But he’d managed to shower and brush his teeth and felt somewhat human by the time he was able to drag himself out to the kitchen for supper: a bowl of chicken soup left on the counter for him with a note that Ginny was visiting with Millie, and not to wait up.

-

By the third day, Remus had gathered his wits about him enough to determine that Ginny was avoiding him, waking yet again to an empty house and a note on a mug of tea — the ginger sort she liked to settle her stomach with. He focused on that instead of the ache, and spent the morning digging up every trace of alcohol in the house: from a bottle of wine they’d been gifted to the remainder of the whisky still sitting on the coffee table, to the cooking sherry in the cupboard. He gathered it all into a bag and walked it through the Floo to place it unceremoniously into Harry’s arms without explanation.

(He could see Ginny in the drawing room over Harry’s shoulder, taking tea with Milly.)

Harry, bless him, didn’t ask. He set the bag on the table, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Look, I don’t want to pry, but—”

(She looked up, meeting his gaze.)

“—is everything alright? Only I thought you two were past the whole… dancing around each other… thing.”

(She looked away.)

“Yes,” Remus said, and tried to believe it. “I’ve just got a lot of work to do.”

It was a clever turn of phrase — dishonest, but not a lie.

The distinction helped him sleep that night.

-

On the fourth day, Ginny had work at the market, and Remus had set out to tear his childhood bedroom apart. Old textbooks moved to the attic, boxes of old clothes binned, too worn for donation or repair — why his mother had kept them, he’d never know. He’d been halfway through fussing with the furniture when Ginny had come home and asked what he was doing.

“Trying to figure out what I can refinish for the nursery,” Remus muttered distractedly, jiggling the chest of drawers. It was low enough to double as a changing table, he reckoned, and the drawers themselves were in good shape. Just needed a bit of paint and polish.

“Oh,” she said, and fell silent. Then, “Are you doing the nightstand?”

He glanced at it. “I’d like to, but the drawer’s broken. Not sure if it’s worth fixing.”

The floor creaked as Ginny shifted her weight. “Anything’s worth fixing if you want it badly enough.”

(“—coward—”)

Remus nodded, looking at the nightstand more carefully. “I suppose. Worst case if it doesn’t work, I can always turn it into a shelf.”

She sighed, tapping lightly against the doorframe. “...Right.”

Her footsteps retreated to their bedroom, and as the door clicked shut he marvelled at his own ability to turn an olive branch into a knife.

-

On the fifth day, Ginny brought home a dozen paint samples, setting them down on the table in front of him.

“For the nursery,” she explained quietly. “I thought some colour might be nice.”

Remus picked up one of the pots, checking the label: No. 309, Whirlybird — a soft, sort of sagey green. “For the walls?” he asked, showing her.

Ginny nodded. “Yeah. I like that one.” She made to take it back from him. “I can pick it up tomorrow—”

“I’ll take care of it.”

Remus knew he’d be back long before moonrise, that he would go straight to the shops and back, no detours. But he also knew that seed of doubt in Ginny’s mind had long since taken root. He couldn’t blame her for the suspicion in her eyes, the long assessing look. But he was grateful that she relented, handing him another pot: No. 239, Wimbourne White.

“This one too.”

Compromise. He’d take it.

-

On the sixth day, Remus bought the paint as promised, and spent the rest of the daylight hours tearing up the old carpet, stripping the floors until his knuckles bled. And then he waited by the cellar door until he couldn’t, hoping to see her before the change.

Instead, Ginny came down an hour after, breaking his rule about not unlocking the cellar. He growled at her from the old, worn out couch.

She glared right back. “I know, but you always forget to eat before unless someone sits you down and makes you and I’m not about to let you starve just because I got held up at work. As for why…” She set her bag down on the floor, pulling an entire mutton leg out of it. “One of Mr Whitby’s ewes broke her foreleg in a hole and needed to be put down, but she wasn’t exactly market-ready so to speak… so I offered to take her off his hands. And yes, I got a good deal, before you ask.”

She offered him the leg, and he took it from her gingerly, offering a small wuff of thanks.

“I’m going to finish rendering the rest of her, if that’s alright with you.”

He wagged his tail.

“You’re welcome.”

-

On the seventh day, he slept.

-

The eighth day dawned miserably: pissing rain from the moment Remus woke, and continuing on well into the afternoon as he paused, paintbrush in hand, to observe his handiwork. The old brown carpeting was gone, revealing the original hardwood underneath — freshly refinished, and left unstained. Small mercies that his mother had never gotten around to wallpapering the room after he’d moved out: the walls were clean, holes were patched, and the first layer of green paint had been roughly applied. If it weren’t raining, he might have been able to get the second coat as well, but such was not his luck, it seemed.

The front door opened and closed, bringing with it the familiar jangle of keys dropping into the bowl and the one-two-three scuffs of shoes against the doormat. (She’d take them off and leave them by the door anyway; she always did.) Footsteps, heavier now than they used to be, padded down the hall. A small hand pressed gently against the space between his shoulders — hello — and trailed over his side as she stepped around him and into the room.

“This is really lovely,” Ginny said softly.

Remus shrugged. “It’s coming along.”

“Yeah…” Her eyes fell on the pile of tools tucked away in the back corner of the room. “Have you really been doing this all by hand?”

“Mostly,” he replied, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m not particularly skilled at maintenance charms — never have been — so if I want something to actually last… well, It’s not like I don’t use magic at all,” he hastened to add. “I’m not a complete masochist — like, I Impervious all the bits I’m trying not to get paint on so I can go a little faster, and ventilating charms worked a treat while I was doing the floors—”

“And you want this to last?” Ginny turned to face him, her eyes suspiciously bright. “Even though it’s only temporary? Even though it’s only for a few years?”

It took longer than it probably should have for the full implication of her questions to sink in, but when it did, it dragged his heart all the way into the pit of his stomach — and kept going.

“The programme is for five years,” he said with careful deliberation, “but you, and the children that will come of it are not.”

Remus considered what his life had been before the programme began, before her: simpler, perhaps. There was a part of him that missed the solitude, the peace and quiet of his parents run-down old cottage out in the middle of east fucking nowhere. Lord knew Ginny was a grenade dropped into his midst: bright and loud and forceful, never still, never silent. Not even while sleeping, snoring into his hair like a congested troll, cold feet pressing against his calves. She sang off-key and laughed like a mule and had an awful, hideous temper that could rival his own and was just as bad at communicating — and yet.

And yet.

“No,” he said quietly. “And I’m sorry I’ve made you feel that way.”

Ginny pressed her lips together firmly in a valiant attempt to keep them from quivering as she nodded, eyes bright and swimming. “It’s stupid, really, I just—” She screwed her face up against the tears that were coming quite of their own accord. “I hate this so much. I can’t control anything anymore — nothing, not even this—” she gestured broadly at her now tear-streaked face— “and I just wanted to have something. I wanted to be able to choose—”

“I know—”

“I’m trying to choose you, Remus—”

“I know—”

“Why won’t you let me?” she sobbed, stripping away the last bit of Remus’ resolve. He pulled Ginny into his arms, rocking gently while silently cursing himself for his foolishness, his selfishness.

“Come here,” he murmured softly, and began leading her into the hall without releasing her, rubbing small circles into the space between her shoulders.

“I didn’t mean to start crying,” she insisted. “My brain’s been taken over; baby’s steering the broom.”

“It’ll do that,” Remus assured her as he walked them into the bath, wandlessly turning the taps on. He remembered how it was with Lily, how the normally steady woman had been thrown entirely off-kilter, bursting into tears over things as simple as being unable to open a jam jar. He remembered recounting this to his mother, utterly baffled, and received a pitying look in response.

“That’s normal, I’m afraid. Best to just ride it out til she settles — and for God’s sake, don’t say anything about it, she’s well aware she’s being silly, I promise you.”

The bath didn’t take long to fill, the scent of one of the sweet-smelling soaps Fleur had gifted Ginny wafting through the room — not one of the floral ones, though; he drew the line at debilitating himself with a migraine for the foreseeable future. Ginny, for her part, kept a finger curled round his belt loop even as she undressed, and as he waited.

After a few moments of fruitless shuffling, she huffed, trousers halfway down her thighs, and dropped her forehead against his chest. “Could you—?”

“Of course.”

She released him, and he hooked his thumbs around the sides of her trousers and pulled them smoothly down the rest of her legs, leaving him roughly eye-level with her belly at the exact moment it… moved. Twitched, really. Remus blinked, then held his hands out for Ginny to balance herself with as she stepped out of her trousers and into the tub, and he tried to remember how to breathe.

“Should I—?”

She placed a hand over his. “Stay.”

Remus settled in beside the tub, leaning half against the side and half against the wall, knowing full well his body would be protesting this decision tomorrow — though it had been protesting most of the decisions he’d been making of late, so he rather thought he could survive one more.

And more importantly, he could make better ones.

“Can I ask you something?” he ventured tentatively, and Ginny watched him sidelong for a moment before nodding. “What did you mean when you said you were trying to choose me?”

She was silent for several minutes, brows knitting thoughtfully.

“After my first year,” she began, “I had… a lot of trouble getting past what had happened to me. I was terrified of trusting people again, of being controlled, of people whispering about me and calling me a monster for what I had done. And then one day, you held me back after a particularly difficult class, and we had tea and you told me — and I remember this very clearly — ‘It is a sad truth of the world that we cannot always choose our circumstances… but we can choose how we respond to them.’ And I remember being very cross about this, and I said—”

“‘If I could magically stop being afraid, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.’ Yes, I remember that.”

“You laughed.”

“I was relieved. And,” he added, reaching out to tuck her hair behind her ear, “I recall I told you to hold onto that feeling, and to remember it the next time you felt afraid.”

“I did. I still am.”

“And what are you afraid of?”

“Losing myself,” she said simply. “Becoming my mother, but… less somehow. Because Mum’s whole world revolves around her family, but like… she prefers that. And she’s still got a personality behind it all, and strong opinions, and a voice. One she uses. But this programme…” she trailed off, chewing her lip.

“It’s a bit skewed,” Remus remarked, and Ginny snorted.

“A bit, yeah, considering that we lowly women don’t get the freedom to fuck off after, and there’s no recourse for us if we’re being mistreated in any way — you heard about Demelza?”

“No?”

“Her husband shoved his cock where it wasn’t wanted and she damn near bit it off. Aurors show up, evidence of bruises all over her — hardly the first time he pulled this — but she’s the one they throw into Azkaban, while he got a shiny new girl to abuse. Some Hufflepuff girl a year below me, Millie said. Harry was doing his nut over it. Reckon he’ll quit before summer.”

“God, I hope so.”

“But all that to say — while I recognise how this sounds — I genuinely thought I lucked out when they drew your name, because I reckoned that if anyone understands this fear I have of losing control of myself, it would be you.” She swallowed hard, staring at a spot on the ceiling with bright eyes. “And I thought I could trust you with that, especially after the discussion we had that first night, and how patient you were with me in the beginning… and I dunno. I started getting comfortable, and I started feeling things I wasn’t expecting to feel, and then all of a sudden you’re hot and cold with me and it feels like every time we talk we’re not really talking about the same things, you know? Like we’re just missing each other. So I thought maybe if I started leaning into it more it might get it through your head that I want you around, except—”

“I panicked.”

Ginny sucked in a deep breath, letting it out slowly as she leaned back again against the towel behind her head. “About wanting to fuck me?” she asked bluntly.

God, he wanted to sink into the floor. “Yes,” he admitted. “Among other things.”

She dropped her head to the side, brown eyes boring into his. “What do you mean?”

Remus briefly considered his answer — about how honest he wanted to be. If he truly wanted to crack himself open for her, exposing all his soft gooey bits. Somehow, discussing newfound kinks was easier than emotional vulnerability. He could get away with that sort of evasion with Sirius. But Ginny wasn’t Sirius.

“I panicked about doing the washing up. About you stealing the blankets at night, and about me stealing them right back. About learning how you take your tea, and learning to love your… creative takes on pies, and the sound of you breathing in the bed next to me when I wake up in the middle of the night.

“And then I panicked about how all of that used to be his, and about how I might forget how he took his tea, and about how you’ve carved out your own place in my life quite without my permission, and now some days I don’t even think of him anymore and it feels like I’m replacing him. And it’s making me feel like I’m losing a part of myself that I can’t get back, and I don’t know if I want to, and that scares the shit out of me.

“And yes, I panicked about wanting to fuck you, because I don’t know if it’s me or if it’s loneliness or proximity or the wolf in me, and I panicked because whether you see it that way or not, you’re still a child, and I was a child when—” he choked on the words— “I just… I didn’t want to be like Greyback. And I know it’s different, I know. But—”

“But you can still feel him like it was yesterday,” Ginny interjected gravely, “and you’re terrified he put more of himself in you than you want to admit. Sound about right?”

Remus nodded, wide-eyed as she took his hand, bringing it to rest against her cheek.

“And I suppose the drinking was you trying to, what, make all of that go away or something?”

“Well when you say it like that,” Remus groused, “it sounds even more stupid. And what about you?”

“They cut my hours at the market due to my, quote, delicate condition, and I came home to find you’d buggered off again. Got angry, got pissed, had regrets. Simple enough?”

He squinted at her. “Please tell me they did not actually phrase it like that.”

“I wish.” Ginny leaned into his hand, studying him carefully. “Do you think I’m being too stubborn about things? I mean, like, in terms of me trying to keep working and going about things as normally as possible.”

“That depends on how you feel,” said Remus. “If you’re not feeling like you’re pushing yourself too hard, then they ought to trust you to know your limits better than they do — particularly if the midwife hasn’t asked you to slow down.”

She nodded, humming low in her throat. “And do you trust me to know my limits?”

Remus blinked at her. “I… well… yes?”

“Then can you trust me to tell you if I don’t want you to touch me?” she asked, shifting closer. “Or, better yet, if I do? Want you to, I mean.”

“What, erm.” He cleared his throat, mouth gone unbearably dry. She couldn’t possibly be asking what he thought she was. “What do you mean?”

“What I mean is I’m following what feels good. And this—” She took his hand, pulling it under the water and placing it firmly between her thighs, holding his fingers against her, letting her feel her warmth. Her pulse. “This feels good.”

“Ginny—”

“Has it really never once occurred to you that I might want to fuck you too?” She shifted her hips, grinding slightly against his fingers. “That maybe I want you to bend me over the table?”

“Why?” Remus asked, appalled at how rough his voice had gone.

“Because you want me — to the point of madness, even. To the point that you’d destroy yourself before you’d let yourself have me.” Ginny smiled, slow and cat-like, sending a shiver up his spine. “I’ve got your number now, Lupin.”

He forced himself to keep his eyes on hers. “I don’t understand.”

And he didn’t. Truly, he didn’t. Like she’d said, he felt as though they’d had this conversation a dozen times, and each time they’d get close to the same page, and then one of them would spook and throw walls up and avoid anything but the barest semblance of contact. They’d just done it again, even — twice. But what she was saying… what she was suggesting…

She frowned slightly, cocking her head. “I don’t know that I can really be any clearer about this, actually, short of climbing on top of you.”

(Please.)

“What you’re saying right now is very clear,” Remus allowed, “but it’s not lining up with what you’ve told me in the past — or at least my understanding of it. Even just now, you were talking about feeling like things were out of your control, and you’ve always been very explicit about how you feel about that, and I’ve tried to be as mindful of it as I can, and to let you have as much autonomy as possible, but—”

“And that included leaving me alone?”

“I didn’t want to influence your decisions.”

Ginny released his hand, sinking back against the tub again with a skyward glance dripping with exasperation, fingers massaging her temples. “Right, so — in crayon, then.”

“What do you—?”

“You have hang-ups about our ages, and I get that. Normally I’d agree. But the Ministry made that choice for us, so your concern is irrelevant. I’ve accepted that. You haven’t. Now, I had some hang-ups about feeling like I was losing control over my life. But you’ve bent over backwards to give me as much power back as you can, except where you either can’t—” she gestured down at her belly— “or won’t. Because while you think you’re doing me some sort of service by suppressing your own wants in favour of mine, you’re doing the opposite. You’re trying to save me from an imaginary monster I didn’t ask you to slay.”

Remus wrinkled his nose. “I wouldn’t call it imaginary.”

“And I’m still not asking you, so…” She raised her eyebrows at him pointedly. “Maybe we should just do what we said we were going to do at the beginning of all of this and make the best of the hand we were dealt. Let ourselves feel whatever we’re feeling and quit fussing over whether or not it’s right or true, because it doesn’t matter anyway. And maybe you can start treating me like your partner instead of your problem.”

There wasn’t really anything to say to that; she was right.

There was a part of him — a part that still knelt in the pews alongside his mother — that felt that denial was holy. Like if he refused himself these things he so craved (closeness, comfort, touch) it would cleanse the curse from his soul, if not his blood. He’d done this before, he realised, back during the war. Withholding himself from his friends, his family — from Sirius — all in the name of protecting them from the dark deeds he’d been asked to perform. As if the blood on his hands could ever stain theirs. As if they weren’t already.

“Love is a choice,” his mother had once told him. One she’d made when she’d met his father, and kept making after every fight, after Greyback, after every moonrise, right up til her last. And his father had chosen her, too. And Remus had chosen Sirius for as long as he could remember. It had been easy — obsessive at times, even. Like a scab he kept picking, never letting it heal.

Ginny was choosing him — God knew why, but she was. Could he choose her? Could he open himself to another wound, another wreck he didn’t need the Sight to know was barreling towards him? A runaway train just waiting for the crash?

“...I think I can do that."