You’re halfway through translating a particularly vicious bit of Ancient Runes when you realize Remus hasn’t turned a page in ten minutes. He’s sitting across from you in the library, quill hovering uselessly above parchment, brow furrowed in that familiar, thoughtful way.

A stack of books threatens to topple beside him. The candles between you flicker softly, casting warm light over the quiet corner you’ve claimed as your own.

“Remus,” you whisper. “You’re staring again.”

He blinks, startled, then flushes faintly. “Sorry. I was thinking.”

“Dangerous habit,” you tease. “You’re meant to be helping me.”

He smiles, small and sheepish. “Right.”

You slide your parchment toward him. “This rune. It doesn’t match the others.”

He leans closer, shoulder brushing yours, and the scent of old books and something distinctly Remus fills your senses. He studies the text carefully, lips moving as he reads.

“It’s a binding modifier,” he murmurs. “Subtle, but nasty. It changes the entire meaning.”

You groan. “Of course it does.”

He chuckles under his breath. “Here. Try this translation instead.”

As you write it down, you notice the dark circles under his eyes, the faint tension he carries even on ordinary days. He always says he’s fine. You’ve learned to read the truth anyway.

“You didn’t sleep,” you say quietly.

He hesitates. “Not much.”

You nudge his knee under the table. “You know this only works if we’re both functioning.”

He meets your gaze, something soft and grateful there. “I know. I just didn’t want to cancel.”

The admission settles warmly in your chest.

Around you, the library hums with turning pages and distant whispers, but your little corner feels removed from it all. Safe. Familiar.

An hour passes in comfortable silence, broken only by the scratch of quills and the occasional shared glance. When you finally lean back, stretching, Remus looks up.