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Remus was never cold.
It was one of the few perks of being a werewolf—his body ran hot, no matter the season. Even in the middle of a brutal January, when the castle was a frozen tomb and the lake was solid ice, he could sit comfortably in the Gryffindor common room without needing to huddle near the fire.
Sirius, on the other hand, was always cold.
It was an ongoing joke among their friends. James would smirk and say it was because Sirius was “a delicate pureblood flower” who had never known suffering. Peter would half-jokingly suggest he had poor circulation. But they knew the truth.
Sirius had spent sixteen years in a house where warmth was not freely given. His mother’s voice was as cold as the marble floors of Grimmauld Place, his father’s eyes as distant as the stars he was named for. Even in the dead of summer, Sirius always reached for a jumper, as if he’d never learned how to hold heat inside himself.
And so, Remus gave him his.
It started in fifth year. A casual thing, at first. A scarf thrown across Sirius’ shoulders after an icy Quidditch match. A jumper lent after Sirius had forgotten his own in the dormitory. A seat beside Remus on the couch, close enough for their knees to touch.
Then, somewhere along the way, it stopped being casual.
Because Sirius had a habit of burrowing under Remus’ robes in the morning, pressing against him as he yawned, muttering, “You’re like a bloody furnace, Moons.”
Because on Hogsmeade weekends, Sirius would abandon his gloves and slide his hands under Remus’ jumper instead, cold fingers brushing against his stomach.
Because on the nights when Sirius woke up shaking from a dream he wouldn’t talk about, he would crawl into Remus’ bed without a word, pressing his face into the warmth of his chest.
Because now, in their seventh year, Remus didn’t even think about it anymore.
Like tonight. The Gryffindor common room was nearly empty, the fire crackling low. James and Peter had already gone up to bed, but Sirius was curled beside Remus on the couch, practically draped over him.
Remus barely reacted when Sirius’ cold hands slipped under his jumper, palms flat against his ribs.
“You’re like a living radiator,” Sirius mumbled against his shoulder, voice thick with exhaustion.
Remus chuckled. “And you’re freezing, as usual.”
“Mmm. That’s why we fit.” Sirius shifted closer, nuzzling against Remus’ neck like a sleepy dog. “You’re warm, and I need warming.”
Remus’ heart twisted. Because this wasn’t just about the cold, was it? It never had been. Sirius had spent too many years starved of warmth—not just physical, but emotional. And Remus—Remus had warmth to spare.
So he wrapped an arm around Sirius, pulling him in tighter. Letting him leech as much heat as he wanted.
Sirius sighed contentedly, pressing a lingering kiss against Remus’ collarbone.
Remus smiled. “Warm enough?”
Sirius hummed sleepily. “Getting there.”
And so Remus held him closer.