Pinky Promise || Wolfstar

Chapter 1

Dialogue prompt: Were you ever going to tell me? 

TW: self harm, abuse, brief mention of blood

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A: HARRY

Remus had spent years being injured—whether he was covered in bruises and cuts, or limping around the castle—but despite being awful at hiding it, nobody noticed. Of course, the teachers knew he was a werewolf, so perhaps the injuries had made sense to them. To his knowledge, however, no one noticed when James would hide a Quidditch injury so he could take notes for Remus after a full moon, nor did anyone notice when Sirius began cutting his wrists in fourth year. Remus remembered how he'd wince as the scabs stretched and cracked, and how he'd scratch incessantly at the scars once they'd formed.

He knew how it felt to be ignored, so when he started teaching, he vowed to pay the utmost attention to his students—not only in regards to their studies, but to their mental health, too. Remus was lucky that his students trusted him enough to confide in him, and he was lucky that they almost always took his advice to speak to their heads of houses—he'd only had to personally report two students so far.

Perhaps it wasn't surprising when, during a duel with Draco, Remus noticed almost immediately when Harry was injured.

Remus frowned as he watched Harry and Draco throw curses at each other in the middle of the room. They were both very good for their age—Draco was using very advanced hexes (Remus was sure that he read about the subject almost as much as Hermione), and while Harry didn't use any that hadn't been taught in a previous defence class, he made up for it in speed and skill. Remus itched to interrupt and stop Harry from getting injured—he reminded him so much of James, and looked so small—but he reminded himself that this wasn't his fight, no matter how odd Harry had been acting recently. Despite defence being his favourite subject, Remus often saw that his eyes were glazed over, or he didn't show any expression at various graphic details of curses and animals that Remus described, even as the rest of the class shuddered.

The other students were supposed to be practising, but Remus couldn't fault them for watching the veritable light display between the two students. Harry flinched as a flash of pale green light grazed his left wrist, but continued to fire hexes without missing a beat. He started favoring his right arm, clutching his robes so it would cover the injury. Remus' lips thinned as he watched—neither of them were winning this, and Harry was clearly hiding the injury to keep him from calling it off. After all, it was the rule to call a time-out when someone was injured. But Remus was the professor, and he was much more observant than Harry realized.

There was a reason that certain students would find chocolate bar on their desk during a particularly bad day, or why certain students got an encouraging message at the top of their essays; because Remus noticed when they'd fidget with their sleeves, pulling them down to hide their wrists; when they'd scratch at their arms and upper thighs through their robes, when they weren't able to concentrate from anxiety or when their eyes were red from crying.

"Alright, that's enough for now." Remus clapped his hands together. Harry rolled as Draco fired one last hex at him, easily standing again. Both of them were drenched in sweat, their hair plastered to their head and panting. Draco sneered before going back to his goons—what was his problem?—and Harry made to return to his friends, but Remus approached him before he could.

"Hi, Professor," Harry was still breathing hard, his gaze unfocused and vaguely directed towards Remus, not quite meeting his eyes.

"Your arm, Harry?" Remus spoke in a low voice, holding his hand out.