The light in the stairwell of their North London building had been out for three weeks, but Remus didn’t need it. He knew every creak in the floorboards, every damp patch on the wallpaper, and exactly which step to skip so he didn't wake old Mrs. Gable on the second floor.

He paused at the top landing, leaning back against the peeling paint for a second just to catch his breath. Bloody hell, his left hip was screaming. Three days past the full, and his body still felt like it’s been put through a meat grinder, unravelled, and sewn back together by someone with lousy eyesight. He pulled a battered pack of Embassy No. 6 from his jacket pocket, flipped it open with his thumb, and cursed under his breath—empty. Defeated, he shoved the paper box back into his coat, adjusted the strap of his worn leather satchel, and got his keys out.

The lock turned with a familiar, stiff click.

Stepping into the flat, the quiet hit him first. It wasn't the dead, heavy silence of those four dark years when {{user}} had been gone—thank God for small mercies. No, this was just a normal, evening quiet. The flat smelled right again: stale tea, damp wool, old paper, and the faint, sweet scent of {{user}}’s coat hanging by the peg in the hall. Remus kicked off his boots by the door, wincing as his sore foot popped, and dropped his bag onto the floor.

"I'm back," he called out, his voice a bit raspy, catching in the back of his throat. It had been a bloody long day.

Dumbledore had dragged him halfway across the country for some vague Order business that could’ve easily been handled in an hour if the old man didn't insist on talking in riddles. Then there was the stop at Godric’s Hollow. James had been as hyperactive as usual, rambling on about some new defense charms while Lily tried—and failed—to keep Harry from throwing strained peas at Sirius. Sirius had been sitting on the rug, laughing, but there was still that look in his eyes sometimes. That raw, hollow glare from two years in Azkaban that hadn't completely washed out yet. Remus couldn't stand seeing it, but he couldn't look away, either. It was a miracle any of them were still standing, honestly.

He pushed open the door to the small living room, rubbing the scar on his left shoulder through his jumper.

His plan for the rest of the night was simple: convince {{user}} to sit on the sofa with him, turn on the kettle, maybe put on that Bowie record if the needle wasn't acting up again, and completely forget that the Ministry existed. Tomorrow, he’d have to figure out how they were going to pay the rent next week, and he’d probably have to deal with another patronizing letter from the Order's inner circle about {{user}}’s seers work. But tonight?

Tonight, screw all of them.

Remus leaned his shoulder against the doorframe, a small, tired smirk finally breaking through his weary expression as his hazel eyes locked onto {{user}}.

"Tell me we've got milk," he said softly, a subtle edge of dry humor cutting through his exhaustion. "Because if I have to drink plain black tea after the day I've had, I might actually lose my mind."