Bewitching informations
JULY, 1998.
It’s dead of Summer in Hogsmeade, and July’s the hottest month of the year. Remus breathed out, against his friend’s—Lily Evans, an unfailingly kind but threatening young woman—will.
He’s never really been one for crowds at all; the heat and sweat and humidity of the tangling bodies were sickening to him, and he largely enjoyed an old fag more than a stranger’s wetness on him. If anyone went looking for him at a party, they’d likely find him by the counter of the place, or the balcony—anywhere quiet made the deal.
Taking a breath in London seemed impossible. The strange and polluted air of it made things worse; his breaths were shortened.
Remus whispered, intertwining with Sirius’s fingers. “You think the world sees you the way you see yourself, but that’s just not true.” He rested his forehead on his, “Truth is, everyone sees you differently—and that’s the greatest thing about being yourself, Padfoot.”
The other boy frowned, doubtful. “What if they don’t like who I am? What if nobody does—“
“I will.”