Chapter Text
The thing about Hogwarts, Remus thought, was that you couldn’t wear one (1) unbuttoned shirt without someone declaring it a statement.
Which was ridiculous, because he didn’t think it was particularly revolutionary to give the world a glimpse of a collarbone. But apparently, in the grand social ecosystem of the castle, collarbones meant danger.
He could hear the whispers from the table behind him — the ones that always seemed to find their way into the conversation whenever he or Regulus Black walked by.
Something about those two.
Something about how they dress.
Something about what it means.
“Remus Lupin, destroyer of propriety,” Sirius said, dropping his toast onto Remus’s plate with the flair of someone who thought breakfast was a stage. “Do you have any idea how many fourth-years are debating your neckline in the library right now?”
“Do you have any idea how much I don’t care?” Remus replied mildly, sipping his tea.
James, half-draped across Sirius’s shoulder like an affectionate cat, added, “Mate, you say that, but you definitely picked that shirt to cause a scandal.”
Remus looked down at his shirt — grey, soft, and a few buttons undone because he runs hot, thank you very much. “This? It’s laundry day. You should be thanking me for not showing up in pyjamas.”
“Maybe you should,” Sirius said, grinning. “You’d give Regulus competition.”
Remus didn’t look immediately — because that would be obvious — but his eyes flicked towards the Slytherin table anyway.
Regulus Black.
Smaller, sharper, dressed like sin had a school uniform.
Dark eyeliner, collar crisp, tie undone just enough to say rules are suggestions.
He was laughing at something Barty Crouch Jr. said, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He had that kind of beauty that looked expensive and slightly dangerous — like he’d stab you but make it look elegant.
And Remus, being completely and utterly doomed, found that very, very appealing.
“You’re staring,” James sing-songed.
“I’m observing,” Remus said primly, failing miserably at pretending his ears weren’t red.
“Observing what, his cheekbones?” Sirius asked.
Remus sighed. “Among other things.”
James grinned. “You two would be insufferable together. I can feel it. The castle would collapse under the weight of your combined hotness.”
“Please don’t say the word ‘hotness,’” Sirius groaned. “It makes me want to hex something.”
Remus didn’t reply. He was too busy pretending not to notice that Regulus had, somehow, looked up and caught his gaze across the hall.
For a moment, just a heartbeat, their eyes locked.
Regulus’s expression shifted — a flicker of recognition, maybe challenge. Then, very deliberately, he smirked.
And Remus — calm, collected, unreadable Remus — forgot how to breathe.
Later that day, the gossip was worse.
Apparently, according to someone in Hufflepuff who claimed to have “reliable sources,” Remus and Regulus had been seen together by the greenhouses.
They had not.
Remus had been near the greenhouses, because he liked the quiet. Regulus had been leaving them, because he liked collecting ingredients for whatever glamorous potions he brewed in his spare time.
But logic had never stopped Hogwarts gossip before.
By the time Remus reached the common room, the narrative had evolved into Remus Lupin and Regulus Black: illicit lovers, corrupting the youth.
“Should we start charging for tickets?” Sirius asked lazily from the sofa. “We could make a fortune off this fandom.”
“Don’t even joke,” Remus muttered, setting his bag down. “I’m one rumour away from being burned at the stake.”
“Mate,” James said from his position upside-down on the armchair, “it’s just jealousy. You and Reggie — you’ve got style. And good hair. That’s threatening.”
Remus ran a hand through his curls. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m right,” James said. “And Sirius agrees, don’t you, love?”
Sirius, already half-asleep, grunted, “Regulus wears eyeliner better than anyone in this school, and Remus could get away with murder if he smiled while doing it.”
Remus blinked. “That’s a disturbing sentence.”
Sirius cracked one eye open. “It’s true, though.”
And maybe that was the moment Remus realised something:
They could talk all they wanted.
They could whisper and stare and make up stories.
But he wasn’t going to apologise for existing in his own skin — not when Regulus Black was doing it too, and doing it so bloody well.
He looked at himself in the mirror above the fireplace: tall, a little too lanky, shirt slightly open at the throat, gold chain catching the light.
He looked good.
Not perfect, not polished. But comfortable. Confident.
And across the room, in the reflection of the window, he could see a shape lingering at the door.
Regulus.
Standing there like he’d been deciding whether to come in or not.
Their eyes met again — this time not across the hall, but across a room full of Gryffindors pretending not to notice.
Remus raised one brow.
Regulus, smirk unwavering, crossed the room and said, “You do realise your fan club’s getting rather annoying.”
Remus smiled, slow and dangerous. “Yours too.”
Regulus’s eyes flicked over him — taking in every inch like an appraisal. “Maybe we should give them something worth gossiping about, then.”
And Remus, completely doomed, said, “Maybe we should.”