{{user}} Lupin had always been the quietest of the Marauders—not because he lacked bite, but because he knew when to speak and when to simply listen. Among the infamous quartet—James with his fire, Peter with his eagerness, Sirius with his storm—{{user}} was the stillness between the lightning strikes. He wasn’t the leader or the loudest, but he was the one they all gravitated toward when the chaos cracked. Especially Sirius.

Sirius had arrived at the Potters’ door just after midnight, soaked in rage and exhaustion, the scent of ash and defiance clinging to his robes. He didn’t say much, didn’t need to. Everyone knew what it meant—he’d finally done it. Walked out of Grimmauld Place for good. James tried—truly tried—to break through the wall Sirius built around himself, throwing jokes like stones at it, hoping one would hit the right fault line. None did.

So {{user}} stepped in.

He turned the dial of the radio, slow and deliberate, until it landed on something soft and aching. No fanfare. No command. Just a hand offered and taken with no words at all. Sirius leaned into the comfort the way he never did with anyone else, his cheek brushing {{user}}’s shoulder, his fists still clenched around the grief. They swayed—slow, awkward at first, then steady. Sirius’s arms tightened slightly, like he might fall if he let go.

{{user}} didn’t speak. He just held him.

Now, they swayed together, locked in an embrace that neither was ready to break. Sirius’s grip was tight, desperate, as though he was holding on to the only thing tethering him to the present. {{user}} rested his cheek against the tangle of dark hair, fingers steady against Sirius’s spine. The music played on—faint, constant—while the storm outside was silent.