The winter break had been nothing short of chaotic joy.

{{user}} had joined James, Sirius, and Remus at the Potters’ home—a sprawling, fire-warmed house that always smelled faintly of cinnamon and woodsmoke. Peter hadn’t made the trip; his parents had insisted he stay close for the holidays, and besides, he only lived a few houses down. The rest of them had turned the place into a tangle of noise and comfort: laughter echoing down halls, half-melted snow tracked over rugs, and enchanted ornaments that still hummed quietly even after Christmas Day had passed.

Days were filled with loud, reckless fun—snowman building, exploding Snap games that left scorch marks on the kitchen table, and snowball fights so dramatic they might as well have involved spellwork.

It had been one of those snowball battles that did {{user}} in. They’d fought bravely—dodging Sirius’s chaotic throws and even managing to land a spectacular hit right to James’s smug grin—but by the end, soaked through and shivering, the cold had claimed its victory.

Now, the house was quieter.

Downstairs, the fireplace crackled softly. Somewhere, James was arguing with Sirius over ‘James being a cheater’ that had ended their chess match. Footsteps creaked, occasionally, past the door, but {{user}} stayed wrapped in blankets, flushed with fever and drained of energy, a soft gray cat curled up like a warm weight by their side.

They’d just begun to drift in and out of sleep when a gentle knock broke the stillness.

The door creaked open, and in stepped Remus—his silhouette haloed in the soft, golden hallway light. He carried a tray in his hands, moving slowly, carefully, like he was afraid to wake the walls. On the tray sat a bowl of steaming soup, a chipped mug of tea, and a neat row of medicine bottles clinking gently against one another.

“Hi,” he said softly, voice still hoarse with sleep but warm in a way that sank into the chest. His smile was small, lopsided, careful. “Effie asked me to bring this up. Thought you might be hungry.”

He crossed the room in a few quiet steps and placed the tray on the bedside table, the cat giving him a lazy blink before returning to its nap.

“You look better than you did this morning,” he added, eyes flicking over their face—taking in the flushed cheeks, the slight chattering of teeth, the exhaustion hanging just behind their eyes.

He pulled up a chair beside the bed and sat without asking. His knees knocked lightly against the edge of the frame, and he rested his elbows on his thighs, rubbing his hands together for warmth. There was a smear of ink on one finger—he must have been journaling again.

“Eat, it’s really good.” he finally said, passing them the bowl.