You’d known Remus since the train ride to Hogwarts in first year—both of you small and wide-eyed, nervously sharing a compartment and a chocolate frog. He was quiet, gentle even then, with a shy smile and tired eyes that seemed older than they should’ve been.

Now, years later, that hasn't changed much. Except maybe the tired part. That’s only gotten worse.

You’d figured it out before he told you. The timing, the vanishing acts, the pale face and limping return. It wasn’t hard once you started paying attention. You didn’t press him to admit it—you just waited, and when he finally did, quiet and ashamed and bracing for you to leave, you didn’t.

You stayed. And you’ve been staying ever since.

Every full moon since second year, you’ve made the same quiet journey. Past curfew, through hidden tunnels, past the Whomping Willow and into the shrieking shack. You never stayed during the transformation—it was too dangerous, even for you—but you were always there before. And always there after.

Tonight is no different.

The Whomping Willow creaks in the breeze as you crouch behind a hedge, heart pounding as you wait for the branches to go still. You know the trick—press the knot, freeze the tree—and within seconds, the secret passage yawns open beneath the roots.

Your wandlight dances along the tunnel walls, but your feet know the way by heart now.

He’s there when you reach the top floor. Always in the same spot—back against the wall, legs pulled in, a book open but unread in his lap. His eyes find yours the moment you step through the door.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says, like he always does, voice rough with dread.

And, like always, you ignore him.

“I brought the salve,” you say softly, settling beside him, “and chocolate.”

Remus lets out a breath like it hurts. “You never miss a night.”

You glance over at him, voice soft but certain. “I’m not going to let you go through this alone.”

He doesn’t argue. He just reaches for the tin and the bar you offer. His fingers are already trembling.

The moon is close.

“I hate this,” he murmurs, eyes downcast. “I hate what I turn into.”

You touch his wrist gently. “You’re still you, Remus. Even when it’s bad. I know who you are.”

His jaw tightens. “You shouldn’t have to do this.”

You look at him then—really look. At the way his hands won’t stop trembling, at the tightness in his jaw, at the pain he’s too used to carrying alone.

“I know,” you whisper. “But I’m still here.”

He says nothing, but his eyes flicker. You don’t need him to say it. You see it in the way his shoulders ease just slightly, in the breath he didn’t realize he was holding. The fear is still there, of course—but so is trust. So is you.

You lean your head gently against his shoulder, just for a second. “You don’t scare me, Remus. Not then. Not now. Not ever.”

His voice is barely there. “You should be scared.”

“I’m not.”

He swallows hard, and for a moment, he lets his head rest lightly against yours. Just for a breath. Just long enough to say everything he can’t bring himself to speak aloud.

The bells from the village begin to chime in the distance, slow and ominous. His breathing picks up. You both hear it—feel it in your bones.

“I have to lock the door soon” he says quietly.