Remus woke with a start, and ran a hand slowly over his face to reassure himself that he was really awake.
He'd dreamt about her again.
He closed his eyes for a moment, but he knew he'd woken too quickly for sleep to be anything other than hopelessly elusive.
The fierce pace of his heart made his hands shake a little, and so he took a long, deep breath trying to calm himself. It was, after all, just a dream – but he couldn't get the image of her twisting away, just out of reach, as if she'd been snatched by the wind, out of his mind.
He glanced down at the blonde hair on the pillow next to him, thinking how bizarre it was to be dreaming about one woman when he was in bed with another.
He'd met Claire six months ago, in a little second-hand book shop which he'd darted into to hide from a torrential downpour that had caught him unawares. She'd been browsing the classics section, and he'd joked that she shouldn't buy the volume in her hands unless she was in the mood to be depressed…. She'd replied that it was a gift for her sister, who she'd never been overly fond of, and so it would do nicely, and they'd shared a smile and a chuckle and then gone their separate ways, and then run into each other again half an hour later in the bakery in the village.
He wasn't quite sure how they'd fallen into a relationship, because he really had decided – some years ago – that he was a disaster at this kind of thing and that it would be better to give it up, but she'd told him she was new to the area, asked if he could recommend a decent place to get a drink, and before he knew it, one drink that evening had become many and several, and then this.
Obviously there was a vast swathe of stories between a couple of drinks and him waking up in her bed having dreamt about another woman, but when he came to think about it, he couldn't quite remember the details.
There hadn't been any significant moment with Claire, they'd just kind of slid into whatever it was that they had, and whilst he could remember her laugh, picture in his mind quite clearly how it sounded, every timbre, every nuance of the way her lips moved as she did it, he couldn't really remember how he'd come to ask her out, or even kissing her for the first time, even though he knew it had been on her doorstep, in the autumn, with the scent of golden leaves in the air.
These days, he stayed at her flat quite often – it was closer to the heart of the village, more convenient if they'd been to the pub than a stagger through the fields to his. He'd stayed there so often, in fact, she'd hinted, jokingly, that he might as well move in.
He'd always dodged the question, even though he was pretty sure she was joking, because, truth be told, he rather liked the arrangement they had, and if he did move in, he'd be forced to tell her he was a wizard or to go to truly extraordinary lengths to hide it.
And he just couldn't face it.
He rather liked that when she looked at him, she didn't see Remus Lupin the wizard, and think 'isn't it a shame for him – all his friends died, you know, betrayed by that Sirius Black', which was a whisper he'd been dogged by in the aftermath of the war when he'd finally plucked up the will to leave the house.
Claire just saw Remus Lupin, a man with a very odd name that she'd chanced upon in a book shop one day, and he liked that, the simplicity of it. It made a nice change from all the high drama of his past.
And then there was the werewolf thing, of course. Tricky to hide in any relationship, trickier to hide from someone you lived with, but trickiest to explain to that someone, especially when they were someone for whom werewolves only existed in children's stories.
Not to mention that death by pitchfork-wielding mob wasn't his preferred method of slipping from this mortal coil, and he wasn't entirely sure how the good residents of Norfolk would take to finding out they had a werewolf on their doorstep, or how Claire would take to finding out she had one in her bed.
So all in all, he thought, emotional distance was the best way to go – and she hadn't seemed to mind, really. She'd always been pretty easy going about everything to do with him, not questioning why he hadn't made more of himself with a proper career, or why where he lived was so scantily furnished and decked with books with odd titles (he'd charmed the really leading ones, of course, to read as something else), or why he only had four pairs of trousers to his name.
It wasn't that he didn't like Claire – she was funny, and bright, and devoted to her job at the hospital in town – but at the same time, he knew that she was very much the Elsa Whitmore to Malina's Lily Potter, and she always would be.
And it wasn't her – because she was every inch as lovely as Elsa had been – it was him. He just didn't feel – couldn't, he didn't think – what he should have for her, and if he'd learned one lesson, it was that you always felt love when you had it, and didn't when it wasn't there.
He rolled over so he could see the clock on the pine bedside table. The hands helpfully told him it was ten to seven, which seemed a ridiculous time for anyone to be awake on a Sunday morning, and the distinct lack of traffic on the road outside or chatter from the neighbours tended to agree.
In the silence, with just the gentle fluttering of Claire's breathing and the odd tweet of a bird outside to distract him, he had nothing to do but think about the dream that had woken him in the first place.
It was always the same. One minute, she'd be smiling at him, and he'd smile back, and he'd get a wonderful feeling of floating, and go to reach for her, and she'd dodge out of his grasp playfully – and then everything changed, went dark, and she'd get swept away, a look of twisted horror on her face, and he couldn't reach her, however hard he tried.
The dream bothered him.
He didn't mind dreaming about people who weren't in his life any more – he dreamt about his friends all the time, and there was an odd comfort to the ones he had that were set at Hogwarts, reliving some adventure, or panicking about having not revised enough for a Transfiguration exam while Lily tutted at him unsympathetically. Even though when he woke he was invariably engulfed by sorrow and longing, it was nice to feel for a while how he used to feel – that there were people who knew and accepted him, faults and all – people who'd seen the truth of what he was and hadn't baulked.
But when he dreamt about her, it was different. He always woke with a start, because the dreams about her weren't comforting at all, and he never got used to them, even though he'd been having them for years.
He missed her, he supposed.
Malina hadn't heard about James, Lily and Peter for nearly two weeks after they'd died – she'd been incommunicado on some mission in the mountains in Slovakia, but as soon as she had heard, she'd raced to be with him.
He remembered it like it was yesterday, unfortunately.
There'd been a knock at the door, and he'd jumped, because fleetingly a voice in his head had reminded him in a cold, mocking laugh that all of the people who usually knocked on his door were dead.
He'd staggered to open it, blinking as his eyes adjusted to unfamiliar daylight. "Remus?"
He'd squinted to see who the voice belonged to, and her features had swum into something resembling something he recognised. "I came as soon as I could," she'd said. "As soon as I heard – I mean, they were your friends, weren't they?"
He'd uttered a grunt. It was the most coherent thing he'd done in days – even when Moody had kicked his door in, assuming he'd been killed by Death Eaters because no-one had seen him, he'd only managed a hollow explanation he couldn't even be sure contained actual words, and shoved him out the door again.
She'd rushed forward and hugged him, and he'd collapsed against her. He'd wondered if he'd ever been more grateful to see anyone in his entire life, and she'd pushed him inside, mumbling platitudes that were achingly heartfelt if lacking in originality, and slamming the door behind them with her foot.
He'd slid to the ground, and she'd gone with him, tightening her grip until he thought she'd break something. He hadn't cared. He'd clung to her desperately, and wanted to say something – he hadn't even said hello, but the words got lost in his throat and his mouth was too dry and full of sobs.
It still hurt to think of.
They'd been together for five years, on and off.
Because of her work they couldn't see each other very often, which suited him – not because he didn't want to spend time with her because he did – but her not being around much and on a fairly irregular basis made the lying easier. If there was a full moon while she was staying with him it was easy to explain away – she simply wasn't there often enough to spot a pattern, to get suspicious. If he looked tired when she arrived he'd say he hadn't been well, that he'd been working too hard, and she believed him because she had nothing else to go on.
It suited him more than he cared to admit to have her flit in and out of his life – and every time they saw each other it was like they'd only just met. Everything was always exciting and fresh – they were always pleased to see each other, and she was never around for long enough to get irritated with him.
But he did love her; had loved her, with as much of his heart as was left.
That's why the dream bothered him so much. It wasn't the image, so much as the lie of it.
In the dream, she was just out of his reach, but Malina had never been out of his reach – she'd been no such thing. She'd been very much within his grasp, only he'd been too much of a coward – too hurt by the past and afraid of the future – to reach out and take what he wanted.
She'd asked him to move to Poland with her, permanently. She'd said that someone with his skills, his knowledge about magical and Dark creatures would be invaluable, and with her father's worsening health, he'd be an asset.
He'd longed with every cell in his body to say yes –
But in the end, he hadn't been able to trust her feelings, to trust that if he told her the truth, told her he'd lied to her for so long, told her what he was, that she would still love him.
At the time, he'd wanted to leave her with the image of the man she thought he was, rather than with the tattered ruins of reality.
He'd regretted breaking up with her rather than taking a chance every day – every second – for longer than he cared to remember, and in his chest had sat the thought that when she'd left, she'd taken the last chance at happiness life was ever going to throw his way with her.
The clock struck seven, and with a jolt, he remembered what day it was.
And then he wanted to laugh, because at least it was a fitting day to be a pathetic melancholy bastard.
His birthday.
Merlin, he thought. Thirty.
When he'd been younger, he'd always assumed that by this point in his life he'd have sorted things out, had at least a passing handle on it – but he was just as clueless as he had been at seventeen, if not more so.
Next to him, Claire stirred, and he smiled as she sleepily opened her eyes. "You're awake early," she mumbled.
"Hmm," he said.
She shifted closer, resting her head on his shoulder and muttering something about lunacy, and he grinned and kissed her on the forehead. She murmured happily for a moment, and then her eyes opened fully, and she looked up at him, smiling. "Is it because it's your birthday?" she said, and he laughed. "Too excited by the thought of your presents to sleep?"
"Of course," he said, shifting closer. "I thought you'd forgotten."
"What kind of girlfriend would I be if I forgot your birthday? I've got lots of very exciting plans," she murmured. "I just hadn't banked on a dawn start."
He sniggered and wrapped his arms more tightly around her, murmuring for her to go back to sleep. As she settled against the crook of his neck, he smiled. Just because he suspected this wouldn't last, it was no reason not to enjoy it and be grateful for it while it did.
Later that morning, Remus sat at the table finishing his breakfast, and chuckling quietly at the joke in the birthday card Claire had got him about him being over the hill.
There was a tiny tap on the window, and Remus looked up from his toast and jam to see two, tiny yellow eyes peering at him.
He couldn't help but grin.
Checking that Claire was still in the bathroom, he got to his feet and opened the window, scratching Olaf on the head in the way he knew the owl liked. "Hello," he said, quietly. "Long time, no see."
Olaf hooted in a way that made Remus think he was pleased to see him, too, and held out his leg. He detached the roll of parchment with slightly shaking hands, half-afraid, and half utterly euphoric about what he might find inside.
"Is that a – is that an owl?"
"What?" Remus said, with a start. He turned to find Claire, towel-drying her hair and wrapped in her dressing gown, looking at him curiously, and then her gaze darted pointedly towards the owl on the window ledge. "Oh, yes," Remus said. "I think he – er – crashed into the window."
He fished on his plate for a crust and held it out to Olaf, who hooted in appreciation and then took it, and flew off into the sky. "I hope he's all right," Claire said, frowning. "You don't see many owls in the day time, do you?"
"Hmm," he murmured, his eyes tracing Olaf's progress. "I think he's fine. He's flying all right. Probably just a bit startled."
He glanced back at Claire and smiled. "What's that?" she said, gesturing to the parchment in his hand.
"Oh – " he said, glancing at it, as if he was as surprised to see himself clutching it as she was. "Letter from an old friend," he said. "It came the other day – I just found it in my pocket."
She smiled, leant forward and pressed a kiss to his cheek, and then hurried off to the bedroom to get dressed, calling over her shoulder to him to put the kettle on, that they'd have a cup of tea and then get going.
He flicked the switch on the kettle absentmindedly, and then fingered the parchment in his hand.
He wasn't certain whether he wanted to open it or not, and yet he knew that he would.
He took a deep breath, and sat down at the table, unfurling it slowly, and as he did so, a cartoon erupted into life on the paper in front of him – the words 'Happy Birthday' blazing, with balloons drifting up from it, and miniature sparklers writing his name.
He smiled, because he'd always loved the drawings in her letters, and his heart pounded even before he got to the first word.
He scanned through the opening passage – a joke about her hoping this was ok and that he wasn't currently being beaten to death by a jealous lover – and then the next, a couple of lines wishing him a lovely day on his birthday, hoping he was well, asking what he'd been up to.
She was married, apparently, to a fellow troll tamer called Gregor, and they had two children so far – both boys, one of whom Olaf was very taken with and slept with at night, and another who was demanding a pet dragon as compensation.
She'd done a little cartoon of them all in the woods, with a small boy with a dragon on a lead, and her looking distinctly worried as the trees caught light around them as the dragon let out a happy fireball as he chased a bird.
She'd signed it kochający, Malina, and he smiled, though his chest ached at the sight of those words, unfamiliar for so long, but not unforgotten.
He put the letter into his pocket, pressing his fingers to his lips to contain the flutter in his stomach as he wondered if that was the life he could have had with her, if he'd only had the guts – the nerve – to reach for it.
Thirty. Wasn't he supposed to be less of a disaster by now?
He wondered what Lily and James would have done with him today. Harry would be nine or so – tall, he imagined, with Lily's charm, and James' boisterousness, and for a moment he saw a flash of something from another life, a life that had never happened: a party on a lawn in spring on a Sunday for no reason, with everyone together and teasing and laughing; James teaching Harry how to do tricks on his toy broom, Sirius telling Harry not to listen, that his old dad wasn't half the flying ace he thought he was, and Peter laughing his head off, while Lily watched, conjuring barely visible cushions underneath the broom in case Harry fell.
Remus could barely imagine what that would be like. He didn't really want to.
A/N: Apologies for the lengthy wait. I hope you enjoyed this instalment, and that me not killing Malina (as so many of you thought I would – as if I'd be that cruel ;) ) makes up for it. Kind reviewers get a werewolf of their choice and a raft of fun birthday activities, which may or may not include a picnic in the woods with a cartoon dragon for company ; ).