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You always knew where to find Remus when he needed space: the abandoned classroom on the sixth floor, the one with the broken window latch and a perfect slant of evening light. It wasn’t a secret, he was terrible at hiding things from you, even when he thought he was brilliant at it.
So when he didn’t show up for breakfast, or lunch, or any of the moments he normally folded himself into your day, you slipped out of the Gryffindor common room and went looking.
He was sitting on the windowsill, knees drawn up, a book open but clearly unread. The light caught him in that unfair way it always did, softening the harsh lines he carried after every full moon, turning the gold in his eyes luminous.
“Remus?” His shoulders went tight, just for a second. Then his voice, just above a whisper answered, “Hi, love.”
You crossed the room slowly, giving him time to pull himself together if he wanted to. But he didn’t. The book closed. He watched you with that look that broke your heart a little every time: like he wasn’t sure he deserved that you’d come. “Rough day?” you asked.
He huffed a laugh. “Rough week. Rough…everything.” You stopped in front of him, hands finding the edges of his knees. He didn’t flinch. He let you touch him. That was how you knew it was bad.
“Talk to me?” you whispered. He shook his head once, the movement tight. “It’s nothing you need to worry about.”
“Remus.” You waited until he met your eyes. “I worry because I love you. Not because I have to.”Something in him cracked silently, like ice splitting down the center.
“I hate that I put you through this,” he said, voice trembling just enough to count. “The disappearing. The moods. The… everything. You deserve someone who doesn’t break every month.”
You stepped closer, cheeks brushing his as you cupped his jaw with both hands. “And you deserve someone who sees you,” you murmured. “All of you. Not just the pieces you think are too sharp.”
His breath hitched, and then he buried his face in your shoulder, arms winding tight around your waist. Remus didn’t cling often. But when he did, it was wholehearted, like you were the only soft place in a world made of stone.
You held him, fingers threading through his hair, feeling the way each exhale shuddered out of him. Minutes passed. Maybe hours. Time didn’t matter here. When he finally spoke, it was into the crook of your neck. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“You don’t have to find out,” you whispered. He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes glassy but warm. “I’m sorry I disappeared today.”
“Just don’t disappear from me,” you said gently. “Not emotionally.” His mouth quirked into a small, real smile, rare on days like this. “I’ll try,” he murmured. “You make it easier.”
Then he leaned forward and kissed you, slow, tentative at first, then steadying, grounding. The kind of kiss that wasn’t about passion or urgency, but about relief. About coming home. When he rested his forehead against yours, sunlight pooling around the both of you, he whispered, “Stay with me a little longer?” “Always.”
And you sat together in the quiet, the broken window letting in a soft breeze, Remus’s hand laced with yours. For now, that was enough.
And for him, it was everything.