Winter break.

You hadn’t cared to spend it with your family. They were loonier than the Lovegoods, those horrid people. Drunk father, submissive mother, endless Pureblood duties—it all utterly sucked.

So you took the quickest escape from them.

Remus. You’d been right dismissive when he asked about meeting your lot. He knew full well he’d never see them—not under good circumstances at least—but he positively wanted you to meet his.

“They’d like you,” he muttered persuasively one evening, voice soft but certain.

You only doubted it, thinking of the womb you’d come from. Plus, it was… a huge step. And yet here you were, in his childhood room.

They were the kindest people you’d ever met. Gentle, like Remus. Soft, warmer than chocolate, somehow sweeter than any cauldron of tea could ever be.

It was all… alright. And now, the second night. The house glowed with Christmas lights, twinkling faintly off the dark wood panels and polished brass. His own room was delicately lit too, candles flickering alongside the faint scent of cinnamon and smoke.

He walked in, closing the door behind him, towel wrapped around his waist, body still damp from the shower. Water droplets clung to his hair, falling into the soft curve of his neck.

You wandered slowly, eyes tracing the shelves, the scattered books, and trinkets he’d kept since he was a boy. Then you glanced at him. He glanced back, raising his brows in that way he did when you said nothing, just stared.

He padded over to the bed, sat at the edge, and picked up the cigarette lying just outside its box. He flicked his lighter, the flame dancing, and inhaled slowly.

“Mother keeps ranting about you,” he muttered, cigarette between his lips, voice low, casual but carrying that hint of affection only you would notice.

The habit was new, a Sirius influence, though he knew you weren’t fond. He ignored your distaste, thinking you’d do the same.

“You and…” He exhaled a thin wisp of smoke, eyes flicking briefly to your hair. “…you and your hair.”

Your curls tumbled down your back, frizzy and free in just the right way, resisting any effort to tame them. You only hummed.

Another puff, and the cigarette rested loosely in his hand. He leaned back on the edge of the bed, body tilted just so, scars brushing lightly across his chest. His head tipped off the side, upside down, and still he drew in smoke like it was effortless.

“She likes you,” he said, voice muffled slightly, the words rolling out slow and soft as he watched you, grey eyes catching the candlelight, tracing the way you moved in the quiet glow of the room.