Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
{Mature Chapter}
"𝕳ow was it?"
Remus slumped against the whacky, yellow door, spending a few moments absorbing the echoed, gracious voice sounding from their living room. Dumbledore had requested to speak with him up at Hogwarts on his own— private business— he was advised to keep from Willow. Remus ignored him in that sense, he's vowed to his wife, he was not going to keep secrets, he knew that, Dumbledore knew that, it was pointless advice.
He knew why of course Dumbledore suggested this to stay a secret, ultimately due to the fire flaming veela they were both fond of— Remus unconditionally more fond. The elder wizard had rested the decision in his hands, with what he wanted to do given the suggestion and proposal asked of him. He's not entirely sure whether he wants to go through with it, though he has weeks to decide and he will certainly not allow Dumbledore to influence him.
After a few moments, he rolled himself off the door, kicking off his shoes and trodding towards the living room, pausing at the doorframe to soak up the sight. His Willow Lupin snuggled underneath one of Mia Potter's knitted blankets she'd bundled them up with, golden framed glasses perched on her nose and an annotated book in hand.
She seemed fairly contented, and he had to admit the both of them had started to feel much more mature— perhaps partly giving way to the group's love for mocking the way their old souls dressed like the elderly. Or perhaps it was the fact they were married, or maybe just being involved in the darkest war of their world's history. Whatever it was, they both felt they don't match with their mental age.
I raised my head up, dropping my book on my lap to study him, the storyline of the March sisters fading from my mind as I took him in. Untamed, tousled sandy hair— though from here I could easily spot the fine grey that seemed to also stretch across his chin, alluding to a sort of silver fox look already. His honey eyes looked pure golden, something that was usually described metaphorically or written in fiction— rich, and pure.
A soft sigh escaped me, rubbing my lips together as he slipped his hands into his pockets, waiting patiently for me, whilst I merely stated,
"If you were a death eater, you'd have struck by now. They'd have a determined and ambitious glint in their eyes, not one of irrevocable love and adoration for the lovely being in front of them"
He tried to shoot her an exasperated look, silently pleading for her to just question him like she's supposed to do— to keep her safe. It didn't matter they both knew it was the true self of each other, they needed to stick to this new rule. Internally cursing when his lips twitched at the corners, he ran his palm across his lips, keeping his feet solid to the ground, still waiting until she sighed, muttering in a plain tone,
"What's my favourite sex position?"
His eyes grew round and he choked on air, the hufflepuff managing to have completely knocked the air out of his lungs from the intimate question. Clenching his hands at his sides, he shook his head, exclaiming indignantly, "Willow?!"
