Uh… look! A new chapter! I suck…

For the briefest moment, a kind of paralyzing fear seizes me; he is not kissing me back. And then, suddenly, the spell is broken. Our lips are meeting hungrily, almost violently. He opens his mouth just a bit, and I slide my tongue in experimentally. My kisses are very clumsy and sloppy, but he takes no notice. I take no notice. It is utterly gorgeous.

I reach to loop my hands around his neck, leaning in closer as I do so. My stomach bends over Fort; together, my and Professor Lupin's bodies create a cavern for him to hide in.

But as soon as the flesh of my wrist makes contact with the heated skin of his neck, I feel resistance. Sharp pressure on my breastbone- Remus' hand- pushes me backward, hard enough that I fall indignantly into the soft cushions of the sofa. Our lips part reluctantly with a loud smacking sound. 

I see him through lidded, sullen eyes; I understand that he has rejected me and it hurts like nothing I've ever felt before. He is on his feet now, looking rumpled and wide-eyed. As he backs away, he asks, "What do you think you're doing?"

His tone of voice is one I've never heard before, from his mouth or any other. It is a strange mixture of panic, fear, anger, and confusion. Nearly a scream, but not.

"Professor, I-" I want to say something, anything to pacify him, but he cuts me off in that same shrill timbre.

"Harry, you've had your tongue in my mouth; call me Remus!" With that said, he stalks over to where I am. For the briefest instant I think he might hit me, but instead he snatches Fort from my lap.

"R-Remus, I just-" He holds up one hand, curtly.

"Shut up, Harry." He stands several feet away, gripping Fort tightly against his chest. His eyes are narrowed and, when I look closely, I can see that his hands are shaking. "You… you have no idea what you just did."

"Yes, I do," I whisper. He sets his jaw grimly.

"No, you do not." He turns slightly so that I see only his profile. As I watch, he closes his eyes as if in pain. "There are so many ways to break a person, Harry. To destroy them." His voice is cracking slightly; he wants to cry, but is holding back his tears. "To humiliate them. To get them into trouble."

"But I didn't want-" I'm practically pleading with him.

"You're fifteen!" He screams, still not facing me. "You're fifteen, my best friend's son, and I'm not supposed to like you!" He gives a single, strangled sob to punctuate this statement and lets his head fall to his chest, his cheek brushing Fort's ears.

My eyes widen. I'm not sure if I've ever seen an adult lose control of themselves emotionally, especially not over a situation involving me and only me. I've seen tantrums, raw anger, violence, but never the awful helplessness and desperation Remus was exuding. I can feel his emotions influence mine; when I speak, I find I can barely control my voice.

"Please," I stand, twisting the hem of my shirt around my fingers. "Please, I'm sorry…"

He shakes his head violently and moves over to Fort's tank, muttering just loud enough that I can hear. "No, you're not, you fucking slut. Harlot. Jailbait; Lolita; whore." His voice is without anger, without conviction. He calls me dirty names as if he is reciting facts from a textbook.

I feel a lump forming in my throat; I try to blink back my tears, but the fat drops are already spilling over my cheeks. His insults hurt so much, but it hurts more to understand how absolutely furious he must be to call me those things. I hug my arms tight across my chest and whisper, "I'm sorry."

"Fuck you." His response is quick and crisp and so forceful that I feel myself take a step back. He places Fort down in the glass cage and turns to face me, placing one hand on his hip and running the other through his hair. "And what will you ask me to believe next, hmm?"

"I'm not trying to hurt you…" I try to tell him, but I'm not confident enough, and he immediately pounces on my words.

"Really? Yes, I see how that would be the case. You do know that if anyone found out that we'd… kissed-" Ah, a moment of hesitation, "- I'd be out on the curb so fast I'd barely know what happened. And do you know how they'd find out?" His stare makes me uncomfortable, so I lower my chin and stare at the floor. "If you told them." A pause. "The power's in your hands now. Exactly where you wanted it to be, I'm sure. Now you can go running to McGonagall and Dumbledore and tell them all about how nasty, old Professor Lupin molested you."

My breath hitches. "I don't want to tell them that…" I whisper, twisting my arms behind my back and rocking slightly on my heels. I want to show him that I'm passive, that I'm little, that I'm not a threat to him.

"But how do I know that, Harry? How do I know?" His voice is low and keening; I can only hear sadness now, the anger having been drowned by sheer desperation. "I can't trust you. I'm sorry." He pauses; from the corner of my eye, I see him shrug. "I'm sorry."

He sighs wearily and turns his back on me. I wait a moment, confused, before realizing that his moment of indifference is meant as a signal to me to leave. But I don't want to leave. I want to rush up behind him and give him a fierce hug; I want to tell him that I'll make it all better, somehow. But I cannot. I can only remain rooted to the floor, watching his back for the slightest movement, the tiniest motion that might hint that he is about to turn around and tell me that all is forgiven.

There is only silence. Silence, and the ancient tick-tock of a grandfather clock that is older than both of us.

Tick.

Tock.

"I'm sorry," I try again. My voice cowers with nervousness. He sighs and shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

"Yes, I believe you are," he murmurs. I wait, but he does not accept, reject, or amend my apology. In truth, I'm not even sure of what I'm apologizing for. All I know is that I want to make everything better, and apologies are the only way I know how.

I realize, standing there in my bare feet and ratty pajamas, that if I left—the way he obviously wants me to—things would never be the same between us. There would always be awkwardness, like a wall, between us. There would be no more afternoons of classwork help, no tea early on weekend mornings, and certainly no more visits in the middle of the night. If I turn around and leave, I'd be losing more than an opportunity… I'd be losing a friend.

And yet, I have no idea how to put my feelings into words, how to make him realize that I don't want to lose what we already have. I want to make it better; I want to make it more. It's not all about sex, although that's certainly a part of it. It's about discovery; it's about the supplement of emotions upon emotions. It's about never being alone and never being afraid. It's about my desire to be controlled, to let him control me.

It's about love, or what I think is love, or what I've mistaken for love. But what does it matter? It all feels the same to me.

I clear my throat and he jumps slightly, startled by the sudden noise. "I… umm…" Upon hearing my voice he turns. He looks very tired, even more so than usual. "I'd like to say something." He makes no reply, but stares directly into my eyes to show he is listening. The gesture makes me nervous and all too aware of the reaction he is sure to have to the sappy line I am about to feed him. "I'd like to say that, well… that is I think that… maybe… I… I…

I love you."