The space between
Chapter Three: The Space Between
Remus’ POV
Remus Lupin had spent his whole life learning how to move through the world before it could move him first.
Some days, that meant disappearing—staying quiet in the back of classrooms, avoiding attention, making sure no one stared too long at the way he walked. Other days, it meant pushing through—ignoring the ache in his joints, refusing to accept the help people tried to offer, acting like he wasn’t exhausted just from existing in a world that never seemed built for him.
Boarding school would make both things harder.
“You know this is a good thing,” his mother said, kneeling beside his suitcase as she folded his jumpers with precision. “A fresh start, better opportunities—”
Remus sat stiffly on the edge of his bed, stretching his leg out as subtly as possible. The dull throb in his knee was building into something sharper, and he wished he had taken the painkillers when his mum had offered them earlier.
“A fresh start,” he repeated, staring at the familiar stacks of books on his desk. As if he hadn’t already had to start over too many times before.
Hope Lupin exhaled through her nose. “I know it’s not what you wanted—”
“It’s not,” he cut in, more forceful than he intended. “I like it here. I know how to handle things here.”
He knew the best routes to get to class when his leg was bad. He knew which teachers wouldn’t mind if he needed extra time to get to his seat. He knew how to exist in this space without feeling like he was constantly in the way.
His mother studied him, the soft lines of her face etched with understanding—but not enough to change her mind.
“Remus,” she said gently, “I know change is hard.”
That was an understatement. Change meant new places, new people, new ways of being seen. It meant teachers who would either underestimate him or hover like he was fragile. It meant students who would whisper behind his back, people who would glance at the way he moved and assume.
“You might meet people who understand you,” his mother continued, as if she hadn’t heard his thoughts already circling the drain. “People who won’t just look at you and decide who you are before you even open your mouth.”
Remus huffed a laugh, short and humorless. “People always decide who I am before I open my mouth.”
And most of the time, they weren’t wrong. At least, not in the way that mattered.
The pitying ones thought he was breakable. The doubtful ones thought he couldn’t keep up. The curious ones asked questions they thought were subtle but never were. And then there were the ones who thought his body was something to fix.
He hated them the most.
His mother sighed, reaching out to squeeze his hand. “I know you don’t believe me,” she murmured. “But you’ll never know if you don’t try.”
He didn’t answer.
Because trying meant opening himself up to disappointment. It meant hoping for things he had already decided weren’t meant for him.
But the decision had already been made. His father had secured the scholarship, the paperwork was finalized, and tomorrow morning, he would be leaving whether he liked it or not.
His mother patted his knee before standing. “Come downstairs when you’re ready. Dinner’s almost done.”
Remus nodded, but he didn’t move.
He stayed there long after she left, staring at the half-packed suitcase, at the space between who he was and who he was supposed to be. And he wondered—not for the first time—if there was anything waiting for him on the other side of this that wouldn’t leave him feeling alone.