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| | This Is How |
 | | Lupin, slim and awkward when he shouldn't be, shadowing Black and Potter, forgettable even more than Pettigrew, little mushroom who hopped and clambered for attention, annoying and ceaseless, something you wanted to *swat*. |
 | | Lupin's close enough to breathe--like the forest, the smells of the earth, like he's been rolling on the ground for hours wet and dirty, no Gryffindor's ever felt like this, no Slytherin would know what it was if they felt it. |
 | | Lupin holding himself up on one arm and messy, wet sucks across his collarbone, thrusting against him through wool and cotton, too many clothes but it's too good to matter. |
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