A/N: Feeling a little nostalgic. It's just a little short interlude between chapters really. There's some lightly implied rated M stuff here, but not really - it's super subtle. The chapter isn't important to the plot so you can skip over it if you want, but it strangely seemed appropriate. I really enjoyed writing it.

S38: Thank you so much! So good to hear from you! ^_^

missalex3030: Thank you! I'm glad someone is still in love with him because I'm about to kill him and Rowan for being so difficult to write in the next chapter.

misslak: Thank you! I agree - I don't think it's healthy at all, and I'd definitely leave if I were in her place too. I think Rowan will need some convincing too.

sarahmichellegellarfan1: Sorry for the wait! Sorry, no sex for a while haha.

lovirosa: Thank you so much for your concern, but I'm doing fine! I actually just removed my stitches today, so I'm healing up really well! And maybe the walls will break down soon...? Sort of...

REVIEW MEEEEEE!

Disclaimer: I own nothing!

Chapter 33: Of Ever-Reaching Hands

Remus lay on his stomach on top of his four-poster bed in just his pajamas. It was a warm Sunday morning and bright light seeped in through the windows of Gryffindor Tower like liquid gold. He noted that certain parts of the room were blank, but it didn't seem odd at all [shouldn't there be a poster above Sirius' bed?]. He was propped on his stomach and elbows with a large textbook in front of him, grateful for the emptiness of the room – it was finally quiet for once. He felt the book in his hands, the pages against his fingertips, but it still seemed very distant. He knew he was reading the material, but he couldn't seem to comprehend the information that poured into his eyes. Weren't some of the formulas here wrong? Well, it didn't matter much, he supposed [but shouldn't it matter?].

Suddenly, there was a soft pressure on his back. He knew, rather than felt, that it was heavy. He felt warm. There was a rhythmic tapping on the back of his calf, echoing throughout his chest, and he understood that it was an array of small toes. He smiled at the sensation - when had he last felt so happy?

"Lupin, why on earth are you studying? I'm needy – pay attention to me," a voice pouted. It echoed behind him, above him, beneath him. He smiled fondly. His eyes were open, but he couldn't see anything except for a white expanse. The voice seemed to paint an out-of-body picture.

But then he was on his back with his hands resting on her thighs. When had he flipped over? She straddled him playfully, eyes dancing in the spring light. She. Her. Rowan. It seemed very normal for her to be a regular character in his musings. He couldn't remember the last time he'd gone a day without thinking of her. When had she become such a fixture in his dreams? [This must be dream. He didn't touch her like this anymore.]

Her hair was tied messily on her head [or was it down?]. She wore a baggy t-shirt [his of course]. He liked the way it hung from her thin form, how her breasts peaked subtly beneath it [how he loved to see her cheeks redden when he told her]. But hanging from her hips were a pair of shorts he didn't remember seeing on her. They looked familiar.

He looked down and saw that he wore the same pair, and he suddenly understood that both were his [but he'd known, even before he'd seen them]. She watched his face with amusement, toying with the elastic of his boxers idly. His body stirred slightly at the feeling of her small fingers grazing his lower stomach ["This might be my favorite spot on you, Remus"].

"Rowan, why are you wearing my clothes?" he drawled. Even his own voice was felt, rather than heard. He wanted to glare but knew he couldn't. His face strained with the effort to not smile at this imp of a girl. She grinned. He felt it in his chest, through his fingers. She was so warm.

"You don't think they look good on me?" she asked, batting her eyelashes coquettishly. His mouth twitched with amusement. He was suddenly aware of the swell of her thighs beneath his hands. He squeezed experimentally [how long had it been?].

"Don't try to act cute. I should report you for theft. Then everyone will know that you're a pervert who steals other people's underwear," he teased. She grinned devilishly [he'd sell his soul to her in an instant].

"I can take them off then if you want. I suppose I'll just have to bear the humiliation of being seen in my knickers as I return to the girls' dorm. Imagine how embarrassing it'll be to have all the other boys see me in such a compromising position," she said slowly. Her eyes burned through him. Her thumbs hooked into the elastic waistband of her boxers teasingly [but they were really his, as was she]. He watched her slide them down her hips slowly. A soft swell of flesh rose up from beneath [he could taste her there, the feeling of her hips as they trembled against him].

Suddenly, he was sitting up, fingers in her hair, on her hips, pushing the elastic down, the shirt up. He pressed his mouth against hers, but her lips seemed to elude him. There wasn't enough pressure. The softness of her mouth wasn't there like it always was. His teeth were at her neck [he loved the way her pale skin reddened], and her voice reverberated through him [each whimper was a taunt, soft encouragement to hear his name again].

Her skin was bare to him, all of the clothing gone from her form. He was inside her, beneath her, above her [she crawled beneath his skin]. Her body seemed to melt into him. He moved her so easily, like water [but wasn't she more like air?].

"I like wearing your clothes," she whispered.

She was in his arms, but he couldn't feel her. Her eyes shot through him, golden and glowing and burning. James and Peter's beds were gone. The door was missing. There was so much white space and amber and skin. Her sooty eyelashes were on his face, rosy cheeks pressed against his hands. Her voice grazed him, restrained him with his arms pinned down to the bed [he'd always been her prisoner, from day one].

"It's like I'm wrapped in you," she echoed.

He groaned. Her hair trailed up his arms, covered his eyes. It hung around them both. Sunlight illuminated it like a wall of dark fire. He wanted to stay there forever, asleep in this world made for them.

"It's like I belong to you."

He wasn't sure if it was her voice anymore or his. His senses swam dizzily with her. Her eyes pierced through him painfully, her fingers simultaneously everywhere at once. Her hair mixed with his. She was covering him with her, drowning him [oh, punish me].

"But I don't anymore, do I?"

He opened his eyes [when had he closed them?], and she was gone. He knew his arms were there, but he couldn't find them. He sat on their hill, still wrapped in his sheets, but there was no sun, no trees, no lake. He looked around frantically for her, but he couldn't find her anywhere. She'd melded into his being, wrapped herself with him, but he felt incredibly empty. His fingers looked so much longer, so thin ["I've always loved your hands, Remus"]. They seemed to stretch forever into the distance. He didn't know where they were reaching.

You've left me behind.

She was so far away. The grass dissolved beneath him, but he didn't fall. He just faded away with it. Perhaps he'd find her there in the next dream as well.