Being around Remus Lupin close to a full moon often felt like an out-of-body experience.
Her legs refused to listen and drifted towards him freely. Her thoughts ran away from her; the mouth spoke of its own accord – rambling and stuttering.
And the eyes... the eyes were truly impossible to control.
They roamed.
Past the rolled sleeves of the threadbare cardigan and the collar of his white shirt to where the black ink covered the scars she just knew were there.
“It’s a muggle tattoo,” he said, not lifting his head from the book. “A cover of a band’s debut album you’re too young to have even heard of. Nothing to get curious about.”
Hermione knew – she felt it in her bones – that one night, with the moon high in the sky, she was bound to lose control of her hands too.