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The music is loud and the laughter louder as you nurse a half-finished drink, the edge of the bar sticky beneath your fingertips. The pub hums with chaotic comfort, full of warmth and noise and the slightly sweet tang of spilled cider that clings faintly to the air. The floor is scuffed and uneven, years of dancing and stomping preserved in every groove. The lights are low and golden, casting soft glows across flushed cheeks and pint glasses, and the music thrums through your chest like a second pulse.
James is in full performance mode, halfway through a grotesquely exaggerated reenactment of his most recent rugby injury, a pint in one hand and a napkin dramatically tied around his head like a battlefield bandage. He limps in erratic circles for effect, letting out wails that would embarrass a Shakespearean actor, and finishes with a flourish, collapsing against the bar like a dying soldier.
Sirius, never one to let a moment slip by, is draped over a stool beside him, absolutely delighted. He claps and whistles, egging James on with theatrical gasps and booming affirmations. "He fought bravely! A warrior of unmatched grace and questionable judgement!" he bellows, slapping the counter so hard his glass topples and Mary snatches it up just in time. Occasionally, Sirius leaps in to add visual aids—diving across furniture or miming tackles that are about as accurate as a drunken centaur on ice skates. Marlene is doubled over with laughter, gasping for breath, and Lily covers her mouth in mock horror, her eyes glinting with affection.
Mary hovers behind them, the unofficial chronicler of nights like these, her phone raised and ready. She snaps burst after burst of blurry, chaotic images—arms flailing mid-gesture, laughter frozen in grainy detail, a pair of socks inexplicably on the table. You already know the captions she'll use by morning: "James 'The Martyr' Potter: gone but not forgotten," and "Sirius Black: currently auditioning for Macbeth, drunk."
You smile. Because you do love them—deeply, truly—in the way that quiet things love the sun. Drawn to the warmth, even when it scalds. Even when it overwhelms. You sip your drink again—flat now, but fizzy enough to sting—and try to focus on the pull of the present. Not the weariness building behind your eyes. Not the stiffness blooming in your knees, dull and familiar. You roll your shoulders, just slightly, testing for resistance. There it is. The slow, predictable thrum that starts deep and spreads like fog, crawling under your skin.
The lights blur faintly at the corners. Colours desaturate. Laughter stretches into distortion. You blink, try to ground yourself, rest the weight of your forearms on the bar. Your hands hurt when you clench them, so you don't. You've learned that lesson. You sit up straighter instead, cross your ankles, breathe slowly. You check the clock. Half-nine. Not late. Too early to leave without questions. But the signs are there. Your body's giving you the look—firm, inevitable. You can't pretend you don't understand it.
You hate this part. The weighing. The mental checklist. Stay longer and risk a worse flare. Go now and miss the good stuff—miss the way Sirius will inevitably end up shirtless in the cold, swearing his devotion to a pigeon. But the more you sit, the heavier everything becomes. Joints locked. Muscles pulled tight like rubber bands. And that tiredness—not just tired, but exhausted, marrow-deep—pulls at you like an anchor.
They wouldn't want you to stay and suffer. But they wouldn't want you to leave, either. Not without reason. So you do what you always do. You make your exit invisible. You slip your coat off the back of your stool and slide it on without a fuss. No sudden movements. Just careful, quiet efficiency. You press a light kiss to Lily's shoulder, earning a vague, distracted smile. You squeeze Mary's fingers in passing. You catch Marlene's eye and wink, as if you're just popping to the loo. And you nod to Sirius, who's too busy shouting about blood loss to notice.
Then you catch Remus's eye.
He's half a room away, perched on the edge of the old leather armchair, his butterbeer resting against his thigh. He's not laughing like the rest. He rarely is—not because he's distant, but because he watches first. His expression is quiet, unreadable, the kind that listens even when it's silent. And when his gaze lands on you, it sharpens instantly.
He sees it. Of course he does. The extra care in how you rise to standing. The way you shift your weight to protect your hip. The tiredness carved into your features like fine etchings. He watches, but he doesn't call attention to it. He doesn't say a word. There's just a subtle narrowing of his eyes, a tilt of his head, and then something in him softens.
It's a small thing. Barely a nod. But you feel it like a thread pulled taut between you. I see you. I know. You're not alone.
You almost stop. Almost.
But you don't. You hold his gaze just a moment longer, offer him a quiet, grateful smile, then step away. You push through the front door and out into the night.
The cold hits you like a sigh, bracing and immediate. It seeps through your coat, latches onto your bones. But it wakes you up, too. Clears your head a bit. The noise from inside fades into a warm, muffled echo behind you. Out here, the world is still. Streetlights blink overhead, casting pools of amber onto slick pavement. Your boots click softly with each step.
You move slowly. Deliberately. Testing your knees, adjusting your pace to the rhythm your body allows. There's a rhythm to this walk home that you know by heart. You count the landmarks like mile markers—the crooked lamppost, the boarded-up bakery, the bench with someone's jumper left behind.
You barely make it to the corner when you hear footsteps behind you. Not hurried, not loud—just steady. Intentional. Like someone making a decision and following through on it. The kind of footsteps that carry more than just weight. You don't turn around right away. You already know who it is.
"You weren't really going to walk home alone, were you?"
Remus's voice reaches you like the hush of a library in the middle of a storm—quiet, but solid. A presence. His tone is soft and measured, concern carefully wrapped in understatement, like he knows exactly how much weight you can carry and isn't interested in adding more. You pause, just enough to let him catch up, and glance sideways.
He's already there. Hands in his coat pockets, shoulders slightly hunched against the chill, scarf loosely wrapped around his neck. He's not out of breath. He hasn't jogged to catch up. He simply followed. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.
He doesn't crowd you. Doesn't reach out. Doesn't fill the air with well-meant noise. Instead, he simply walks. Matches your pace without asking what that pace needs to be. Like he's done this before. Like he's learned your rhythms through years of careful observation and quiet presence. And then—without saying anything—his hand brushes yours.
It's the lightest touch. Barely there. A suggestion. A question. A promise. Your hands don't quite link, but they don't need to. That one small moment is enough to say, I'm here if you want me to be. I'll match you where you are.
You don't pull away.
A moment later, he shifts. Just a fraction of a step, just a slight repositioning of his body, and you're on the inside of the pavement. The side away from traffic, away from the unknown. It's such a subtle gesture that you almost miss it. But once you notice, you can't stop noticing. The way his body acts like a buffer, not just from the street but from the world. From noise, and danger, and anything that might come too close too fast.
And that—the careful positioning, the unspoken protection—settles something inside your chest that's been rattling since you stood to leave the pub. Something small and tired and raw. You exhale without meaning to. Just a slow release of air you hadn't realised you'd been holding.
"You didn't have to do that," you say, aiming for casual, aiming for distance. "I've made it home in worse shape."
He gives you a look. That look. The one that holds more than words, that sees deeper than you want to be seen but never makes you feel exposed. It's not pity. It's never pity. It's recognition. A quiet inventory of everything you've been carrying, everything you've tried to hide. Your uneven steps. The way your shoulders stiffen with every block. The faint tremble in your hands.
"I know," he says simply.
Just two words. But they land with weight. They say: I know you can handle it. I also know you shouldn't have to. And you believe him. Not because you want to, but because with Remus, believing feels less like a choice and more like a fact.
You walk on. One step, then another. The silence between you isn't empty. It's full. Full of the hum of distant traffic, the rustle of leaves caught in the wind, the occasional creak of a distant bicycle chain. Your body aches, but it's quieter now. Like it, too, recognises the shift.
He doesn't press. Doesn't comment when your steps grow slower or when your breath catches on the uphill. He simply adjusts. You don't even notice him doing it at first—just that the walk feels less burdensome than it should. That you're not forcing yourself to keep up. That you don't have to explain.
"You didn't have to leave them," you say after a while, the words soft in the night air.
He shrugs. Not like it doesn't matter. But like the answer is obvious.
"There's no one I'd rather be with right now."
You turn your head slightly, just enough to look at him. He's not smiling, not really. But there's something contented in his expression. Calm. Sure. His eyes, catching the light of the streetlamps, look even warmer in the dark.
You look away again, not because you're embarrassed, but because there's something in your throat now. Thick and fragile. The kind of emotion that doesn't come with instructions.
His words settle inside you like a stone dropped into still water. Not heavy in a bad way. Just real. Deep.
For a long stretch of sidewalk, neither of you speaks. The quiet stretches out between you like a soft blanket. It isn't awkward. It never is. You don't need to fill it. He's not waiting for you to explain anything or apologise for anything. He's just there. Steady. Kind. Unmoving.
And maybe that's what makes you feel safest. The knowing that you don't have to earn his company. That he's here because he wants to be. Not because you asked. Not because you need him. But because he chose to be.
You realise then—maybe you've always known—that with Remus, it's never just about being cared for. It's not about fixing or solving or rescuing. It's about being chosen. Even when you don't ask for it. Especially then.
You glance over again. He's looking ahead, brow relaxed, jaw unclenched. At ease. Like being beside you is a place he's comfortable in. Like this moment, simple and quiet and unremarkable to anyone else, matters to him.
"Remus?"
He turns slightly toward you. "Yeah?"
You think about saying something bold. Something honest. Something that might tilt the shape of the evening into something else entirely. You open your mouth—then close it again. The moment is enough. For now.
"Thanks," you say.
He smiles, and this time it reaches all the way to his eyes. It's soft and certain and deeply felt.
"Always."
And so you walk. Side by side. Two figures in the quiet night. You don't rush. There's no finish line. No deadline. Just the road ahead, and the rhythm of your shared steps, and the knowledge that—for tonight, at least—you don't have to face the dark alone.