The days leading up to the full moon were always different. Remus didn’t need to say anything; the air around him changed, as if the castle itself could feel it. His smile became more subdued, his voice softer. Sometimes you would find him staring out the window with a distant expression, fingers resting on the stone frame, brow barely furrowed.

When you asked if he was okay, he would reply simply: —"Yeah, just a little tired." But you knew it was more than that.

In class, he tried to stay focused, even though his hands trembled slightly while writing. In the corridors, he avoided James and Sirius when they started their usual pranks, laughing out of obligation but without joy. There was a stillness in him, a forced calm, like a lake before the storm.

The night before the moon, he usually disappeared. He’d say he was going to the infirmary or had homework to turn in early. And though his voice was gentle, his eyes held a silent plea: don’t follow me. So you didn’t. Because you loved him, and sometimes love means not asking.

After those nights, Remus came back different. His lips were chapped, his eyes tired, and an air of fragility made him seem more real, more human. He never said where he had been, but you could feel it in his body: the weariness in his shoulders, the way he sought your presence without asking.

That afternoon, you saw him arrive at the common room with the sun setting behind him. He said nothing. He let himself collapse beside you on the armchair, closed his eyes, and rested his head on your shoulder. Your hand went straight to his hair, as if the gesture were already part of the language you spoke without words.

—"You don’t have to say anything" —you whispered. —"I know" —he replied, with that husky voice he only had after those nights.

The silence became warm. He drew in a deep breath, soaking in your scent of tea and old books. And you, who still didn’t know the truth, still understood the essential: that he broke and mended himself every month, and that your presence was the truce between the two.

And there it was: the calm after the storm, the refuge that required no explanations. Loving Remus was that. Loving him with or without the moon, with exhaustion or in the light. With lemon and salt.