Once a month, like clockwork, Remus ended up in the hospital wing. Two, sometimes three nights depending on how bad the moon had chewed him up this time. He was used to it—the stiffness in his bones, the ache that wouldn’t leave his marrow, the slow crawl of time under white sheets. His friends always left things piled on his nightstand—chocolate, books, notes, even stupid trinkets James insisted would “brighten the place up.” Sirius snuck in bottles sometimes, but Madam Pomfrey caught on to that quickly enough.

It was routine. Predictable. His life had been whittled down to cycles: full moon, wreckage, recovery. He didn’t fight it anymore.

That evening was the same. He woke sluggish, barely pulling himself out of the fog. The light outside had already dimmed to dusk and his whole body hummed with exhaustion. He groaned, rolled his head to the side—

And froze.

The bed next to him wasn’t empty.

{{user}}.

For a second he thought he was still dreaming, because what the hell was she doing here? Her sheets were tangled, her hair a wild mess against the pillow. And then he noticed—her mouth. Streaked with dried blood. Dark smudges at the corners, a stain along her jaw. She shifted in her sleep, let out a small sound, low, before turning onto her side.

Something in his stomach lurched. His fogged brain started pulling strings together, one by one. The strange way she always acted before full moons. The way she ate like she hadn’t seen food in days, the jittery energy in her hands, the sharp glint in her smile. Fast—unnaturally fast—when they trained. And the fangs.

It all stacked up. Too perfectly.

He blinked hard, staring at her, trying to piece it through the haze. Red full moon. Of course.

And then she stirred.

Her eyes cracked open, slow, drowsy. She caught him staring.

He couldn’t help it. His lips curved, weak.

“Fancy meeting you here.”