Notes:
English is not my first language, so I appologize in advance for any mistakes.
In 2005, before "Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince" was released, I wrote a fanfic with a similar premise in Brazilian Portuguese. I promise I'll translate all my old fanfiction to English, but for now I decided to write this new one.
I was really sad that I'd finished my latest story, "Awaken" - which had drained me emotionally despite it's light ending - and was feeling lost, because writing really helps me coping with real life ordeals. So, I had this weird idea of trying to make a fanfic about me and the moment I'm being through... and fight my real life boggarts with a little laughter.
It does have some "not-that-light-or-funny" moments (sorry about that, I'm not used to writing comedy fanfics), but hey, most romantic comedies have them, don't they?
Chapter 1: Between Reality and Fiction Chapter Text
Maria sighed deeply, staring at the glowing screen before her, where the final words of her fanfic, "Awaken," blinked back at her. The story—a raw and emotional exploration of Remus Lupin's life after surviving the Battle of Hogwarts—had consumed her for a whole month. She'd poured everything into it: the heartbreak, the healing, the possibility of love and a future he deserved. It was her gift to the character she'd adored since She was young. But now, it was finished. And Maria felt empty.
She saved the document one last time and closed her laptop, letting the silence of her room press in around her. A pile of unwashed laundry slumped in the corner, her cat Nicky lay sprawled across the bed, tail flicking irritably, and a half-eaten packet of biscuits perched precariously on the edge of her desk. The chaos of her surroundings mirrored the chaos inside her.
"Happy New Year," she muttered sarcastically, glancing at the calendar on the wall. January 1, 2025. Another year, another uphill battle.
Maria's life was, in her words, a series of messy attempts to stay afloat. A full-grown woman, she still felt like a child pretending to be an adult. Her parents—her anchors—depended on her now more than ever. Her mother's recent injury had only added to Maria's growing to-do list. Freelance translation jobs had dried up, swallowed by the efficiency of AI. She taught Musical Theater for an hour a week—a bright spot, sure, but far from enough to keep her afloat. And her dreams of acting and singing professionally felt like distant echoes from another lifetime.
Yet, she'd always found solace in stories. Especially this one. Remus Lupin. The werewolf. The outcast. The man who had been her literary crush for over two decades. She remembered discovering him inHarry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, his quiet strength and dry wit tugging at her heartstrings. By the time she'd readHarry Potter and theOrder of the Phoenix, she'd been utterly captivated by his kindness, his self-doubt, his refusal to give up despite the odds stacked against him. He wasn't just a character; he was a mirror reflecting her own insecurities and resilience.
And whenHarry Potter and the Deathly Hallowshad killed him off—without fanfare, without justice—Maria hadn't been able to finish the book back then. The grief had been too real.
Now, twenty years later, her rediscovery of the Wizarding World had reignited her love for him. The movies, the books, the online fandoms; she'd dived in headfirst, reconnecting with the parts of herself she'd buried under responsibilities and regrets. She'd started writing fanfiction again, channeling her creativity into stories that gave Remus the happy ending he'd been denied by J. K. Rowling. It was escapism, sure, but it was also survival.
Maria picked up her battered copy ofHarry Potter and the Order of the Phoenixfrom her nightstand, running her fingers over the familiar cover. She'd been re-reading it, savoring every scene with Lupin, wishing—not for the first time—that she could step into that world. She imagined casting a cleaning spell to tackle her laundry, whipping up dinner with a flick of her wand, and, of course, meeting him.
She sighed again, a long, wistful exhale.
"If only," she whispered.
Nicky yawned pointedly, as if to say:
"Dream on."
Maria set the book aside and lay back on her bed, staring at the ceiling. The weight of her unfinished tasks pressed down on her, but she couldn't muster the energy to move. Her thoughts drifted, as they often did, to the fantastical. What would it be like to meet Remus? To talk to him, to see him smile, to tell him he deserved all the happiness in the world? She'd written those moments countless times, but they always felt just out of reach.
The clock ticked steadily, a reminder of the mundane world she couldn't escape. But tonight, something felt different. There was a strange hum in the air, a vibration she couldn't quite place. It was as if the universe had paused, holding its breath.
And then, everything went dark.
Maria sat up with a start, her heart racing. Her room was gone. The bed, the laundry, Nicky—all replaced by an unfamiliar warmth and the faint scent of parchment and ink. She blinked, disoriented, her eyes adjusting to the dim light of a flickering candle.
She was in a library. A vast, ancient library filled with towering shelves of books that seemed to hum with magic. The air crackled with energy, and Maria felt a strange pull, as if she were exactly where she was meant to be.
"What the…" she began, her voice trailing off as she caught sight of a figure in the distance. A man, seated at a wooden table, his head bent over a book. His sandy hair caught the candlelight, and Maria's breath hitched.
It couldn't be. But it was. Remus Lupin.
The musty scent of old parchment and leather-bound books was a familiar comfort to Remus as he settled into an armchair in the library of number twelve Grimmauld Place. The house itself was far from welcoming—its shadows seemed to press inwards, thick with the weight of generations of dark magic. But here, in this quiet corner, surrounded by the whispers of pages and the scent of history, Remus could breathe.
His fingers traced the edges of a faded, leather-bound book he'd discovered on a forgotten shelf earlier that afternoon. The title was nearly illegible, the gilded letters worn thin with time. Still, something about the book had drawn him to it—a peculiar, almost magnetic pull that he couldn't quite explain.
Number twelve Grimmauld Place was quieter than usual, a rare reprieve. Sirius had been uncharacteristically subdued, retreating to brood in one of the upper rooms after a particularly sharp exchange with Molly Weasley.
"I need to think," Sirius had grumbled, his voice heavy with frustration.
Remus didn't press him. As much as he cared for his old friend, Sirius's restless energy was a constant drain. Living with Sirius was a peculiar blend of joy and exhaustion—a reminder of the bond they shared, tempered by the volatile scars of Azkaban. Dumbledore had insisted Remus stay at Grimmauld Place to keep Sirius company, fearing what isolation might do to his already fragile mental state. But even here, where they had each other, Sirius's mood swings could make the atmosphere tense.
Before this, Dumbledore had suggested that Sirius take refuge in a tumbledown, semi-derelict cottage in Yorkshire, where Remus had been living for the past few years. The cottage was tucked away on the outskirts of a tiny village, surrounded by overgrown hedges and fields that seemed to stretch forever. It was a quiet, isolated place, ideal for someone like Remus who needed to keep his condition hidden from prying eyes. But to Sirius, the very thought of living there was unbearable.
"I'd rather rot in my family's miserable old mansion than live in a shack," Sirius had said with a theatrical shudder, his voice brimming with disdain.
Remus had raised an eyebrow, amused but unsurprised. He knew Sirius too well to think his friend would willingly embrace such austere conditions. The cottage was far from luxurious—it had barely enough space for one person, let alone two grown men—or even a man and a massive, boisterous dog. The furniture was sparse and mismatched, the roof leaked when it rained, and the small fireplace struggled to warm more than a few feet of the room.
"You'd hate it," Remus had replied mildly, not unkindly. "There's barely enough room for me, let alone Padfoot and Moony crammed together under one roof. You'd be barking mad within a week."
Sirius had scoffed, but a ghost of a smile tugged at his lips.
"It's not just the size, Moony. It's… this." He gestured vaguely, as though trying to capture the essence of the cottage's worn-down charm. "The isolation. The endless fields. I spent twelve years locked in a cell; I'm not about to spend what freedom I have left in another one, no matter how many rolling hills surround it."
There was an edge to his voice, a reminder of the wounds Azkaban had carved into him. Remus had nodded in understanding. He didn't take offense; he knew the cottage wasn't for everyone.
In truth, he hadn't minded the suggestion. The idea of having Sirius close by had been tempting, a chance to rekindle their friendship in ways they hadn't been able to since their school days. But deep down, Remus knew it would never work. The confined space, combined with Sirius's restless energy and his own need for solitude, would have been a recipe for disaster.
So, number twelve Grimmauld Place it was. Sirius's childhood home, dark and oppressive as it was, offered at least some semblance of space—and more importantly, security. The house's ancient wards and enchantments made it a natural choice for the Order's headquarters, even if it came with the burden of Sirius's complicated history with the place
Remus had spent weeks here, tending to Sirius's fraying temper and working on secret missions for the Order. He had just returned from one such mission, and the weight of the work, combined with the oppressive gloom of the house, left him desperate for escape.
And so, he turned to books.
He opened the novel to its first page, his eyes scanning the neat lines of text. The Muggle world of Maria unfolded before him, rich with detail and personality.
Maria. She was unlike anyone he'd ever read about. She wasn't a polished heroine or a tragic figure destined for greatness. She was vibrant, clumsy, full of wit, and yet deeply introspective. Her flaws didn't detract from her; they made her achingly real. Her struggles—balancing her eccentricities with a world that didn't quite understand her—felt tangible. Her triumphs, small as they might have seemed to others, resonated deeply with Remus.
He found himself smiling at her antics, chuckling softly at her awkward attempts to navigate her life. A scene where she tripped over her own feet while attempting to carry too many groceries had him shaking his head fondly.
Yet, as the story deepened, so did his connection to her. Beneath her humor lay a thread of vulnerability that struck a chord within him. Her insecurities mirrored his own—the constant feeling of not quite belonging, of carrying wounds invisible to others.
"This is ridiculous," he murmured under his breath, closing the book briefly and rubbing his temples. He was a grown man, fantasizing about a fictional character. But Maria felt so real.
This wasn't the first time he'd lost himself in the pages of a book. Escaping into fictional worlds was a secret guilty pleasure of his. It was safer this way—safer to imagine a love that could never reject him and who he coukd never hurt, safer to dream about someone who wouldn't recoil from the truth of what he was and whose life wouldn't be destroyed by the simple fact of being connected to a werewof. Fictional characters didn't care about werewolves or full moons or scars that ran deeper than skin.
As the hours passed, the lines between reality and fiction blurred. He imagined Maria here, in Grimmauld Place, her quirks and humor clashing beautifully with the house's grim atmosphere. He could see her tripping over Buckbeak's tether, earning a startled squawk from the hippogriff and a bemused smile from Sirius. He imagined her finding a way to charm even Kreacher, her clumsiness and sincerity somehow melting the old house elf's prickly exterior.
He leaned back in the armchair, closing his eyes for a moment, letting the fantasy unfold in his mind. And then he heard it—a soft gasp. His eyes flew open, and his heart jolted. There she was.
Standing in the doorway, illuminated by the dim glow of a flickering candle, was Maria. Just like he had imagined her in his head—but more vibrant, more alive than his mind could have ever conjured. She was petite, her golden-blond hair catching the faint light and framing her face in soft waves. Her dark brown eyes were wide, framed by long, curling lashes that gave her an almost ethereal look, though the unevenness of her brows and the slightly crooked tilt of her nose lent her a touch of charming imperfection.
Her lips—full, with a slightly pouted lower one—were parted as though she were about to say something but had thought better of it. There was a quiet energy about her, as if she were poised on the edge of a startled retreat but equally anchored by curiosity.
His gaze dropped briefly to her clothes—plain but unmistakably Muggle, though far from what he had expected. She wore what appeared to be sleepwear: a matching set of pale pink pajamas adorned with what looked like cats, their expressions whimsical and exaggerated. The fabric was soft-looking, clearly well-loved but not shabby, and her slippers—fluffy, with little bows on the toes—peeked out from beneath the pajama hems.
She looked utterly out of place in the somber and foreboding atmosphere of the Grimmauld Place library, a burst of pastel light in a world of shadowy grays. Yet there was something oddly endearing about it. Remus blinked, caught off guard by the absurdity of her outfit in such a serious setting.
Maria's chest rose and fell quickly, as though she'd just run a great distance or been caught in the middle of something extraordinary. Her expression was a mixture of confusion and disbelief, her dark eyes darting around the room. She took in the towering bookshelves, the heavy, ancient furniture, the dim lighting—all so utterly foreign yet strangely familiar.
But as her gaze traveled back to him, realization seemed to strike, and her cheeks flushed a deep pink. Her hands instinctively tugged at the hem of her pajama top, as though trying to make herself smaller or somehow less conspicuous. She glanced down at her fluffy, bow-adorned slippers and the cartoonish pink pajamas with wide-eyed cats staring out cheerfully. A muffled groan escaped her lips, and she covered her face with one hand.
"Oh no," she mumbled, her voice muffled by her fingers. "I'm in my pajamas. MyHello Kittypajamas." She talked with an unfamiliar accent, while her free hand gestured vaguely toward the ridiculous ensemble as though it explained everything.
Remus blinked, startled by both the humor and the humanity of the moment. It was surreal enough that she was standing there—someone he'd only read about in a novel—but seeing her embarrassment somehow made it all feel bizarrely real.
"I… don't know what that means," he admitted cautiously, his voice calm yet tinged with curiosity.
Maria peeked through her fingers, her face still bright red.
"No. Of course you don't," she muttered, more to herself than to him. "Why would you? You're a wizard, and you are staying in a haunted mansion full of cursed furniture. I must look completely ridiculous."
Her words tumbled out, quick and flustered, as though trying to fill the silence with anything but her mortification. Remus didn't find her ridiculous, but he couldn't stop thinking of how impossible that whole situation was.
"Who are you?" he managed to ask, just to make sure, his voice steady despite the rapid thudding of his heart.
"I… I'm Maria," she stammered, clutching the edge of the doorway as if afraid to step further. "Where am I?"
It couldn't be.
Remus stared at her, his mind racing. The woman from the novel—the one he'd spent hours reading about and imagining—was standing there as if she'd walked right off the page.
He rose slowly from his chair, the book still clutched in his hand. His gaze darted between her face and the cover of the novel. Her features were unmistakable, even though the book had been entirely void of her image before.
"Maria Duarte," he repeated, her name falling from his lips as if saying it would solidify her presence. "Also known as Mary."
She nodded hesitantly, her wide eyes locking onto the book in his hand.
"How do you know my name? And… why is my face on that book?"
Remus looked down. Her face was there, clear as day, though it hadn't been before.
"I think…" he began cautiously, his voice laced with wonder and disbelief, "that you and I have a lot to discuss."