#i hope the remadora family likes description and cottagecore

[locatislunaticolupin]

Day One: Haunted

Written for day one of @remadoramicrofics. 997 words. Also available on Ao3.

In the early days after the Battle of Hogwarts, their home had felt like a haunted house.

The heaters sounded as loud as thunder, the doors of the cottage creaked as if answering each other. You could hear the wind whistling, the leaves rustling against each other, the bats in the blinds and the steps of the birds on the roof. Remus and Dora had woken up more than once, wands in hand, back to back, to something stepping on the crunchy leaves outside or to the mooing of cows far away or to a train whistle they had, so far, never heard during the day. Teddy, blessed Teddy, the apple of their eyes, cried when a door slammed, babbled while he picked up sticks and stones and grass and snails, laughed when a bird fell through the chimney and slammed against their bookcases while trying to find a way out, his parents trying to direct it towards an open window or door. Remus and Dora were frazzled, unable to sleep through the night, finding respite in Teddy's crying because then they had something to focus on, someone they could help (that sometimes they could help. They cried, too, when they couldn't figure out what Teddy needed, wanted, asked for).

It was scary when Remus was outside playing with Teddy and he'd hear a waterfall of metal against porcelain against glass against wood because Dora was doing the dishes and something slipped against something or out of her hands. He'd grab Teddy on one hand, his wand in the other, and peek through the window. They'd laugh, sometimes, at her clumsiness and at his paranoia; mostly, they'd look at each other as if memorizing their faces, their home, the brown and red and yellow leaves around them.

It was doubly scary when Remus arrived home and he was so quiet she'd only realize he was there because of his coat on the rack. In the multitude of sounds that were part of their daily lives, he went unnoticed, slid through the hallways like a ghost. (He did, funnily enough, always warn her when he was going out —just a walk around the hill; I'll drop by the village; I wanted to check out the pond; Little Forest; the pasture; the neighbor's cows, sunflowers, fields—. She didn't think he was overcorrecting or she'd have a talk with him —this was their happily ever after, their fresh start, it wouldn’t do to walk on eggshells around each other—. It was the war, it always was: let others know where you'll be so they'll know where to look for you, let someone know when to expect you back, reassure people that Death Eaters didn't get you when they don't find you at home).

Soon, though, there were even more noises to wake them up at night, and it was Remus' fault, and oh, didn’t Dora find it delightful. She returned from the Ministry one day, mud up to her knees, only to find that Remus and Teddy had adopted the puppies that had found their way to their cottage (they had walked through the storm and everything was wet and cold and they were crying and he'd only meant to give them some warm milk but they'd started playing and Teddy loved them, Dora) and they were now yipping and barking in her living room, their nails stumbling over each other against the wooden floor and catching on the sofa’s upholstery. They played with Teddy and snuggled up to Remus and they jumped on her when she returned home (and woke them up with slobbery kisses up their noses and lay beside them at night, a line of warmth against their backs, stealing their spouses and their bed, and scared them out of their minds when they got lost in the fields).

They were out in the garden, enjoying the autumn sun and bemoaning the mess that was going to be bathing Teddy after all the mud he was getting on his hands, under his nails and in his hair, when they heard it. This one was the neighbors' fault: they lived far away, enough to ask just how long the definition of neighbor stretched, but the echoes of their football games could be heard throughout the hills. Remus and Dora looked at each other, a spark of warmth and joy and mischief in their eyes, in their complicity. They'd moved somewhere where they could have privacy, but they enjoyed people a little too much to keep away from them.

The Lupins were too charming for their own good. They popped into the village often enough, and had charmed them enough, that after they started joining in their games (and if those got a little more magical, if the ball made a sudden turn towards Edda, who never had a chance to kick it, well, nobody had to know), their neighbors started walking or biking or driving the long dirt road to their home to have tea with them, scones and pies and sweets in one hand and a request for help on the other —"I insist you take this food, this money, this toy for little Teddy with you, you've helped us so much!"—, because the family didn't have a lot, and it was a pity that Dora had to work instead of her husband, he was so sick, but didn't they make the most of it, weren't they so loving, wasn't Remus so helpful, so kind, so warm? They were too proud for gifts, but surely not for a thank you, a payment, for the cookies they’d baked too much of because they were still not used to not having Little Jimmy in the house.

Their haunted house soon started sounding more like an orchestra, steps on the floor, bowtruckles in Little Forest, a neighbor yelling hello from the gate. Laughter soon started ringing through it as easy as pie, as if it had never left at all.