Potter Manor had never been quiet before the war.

Now it was.

The long corridors seemed to hold their breath. Portraits whispered instead of speaking aloud. Even the clocks ticked softer, as though the house itself knew better than to disturb the uneasy peace of hiding.

Remus sat at the wide wooden table in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, a mug of tea slowly going cold beside him.

Across from him, you were attempting to braid your own hair using the reflection in the darkened kitchen window.

Attempting being the important word. Remus watched for a moment in silence, chin propped against his hand.

"Here. Let me."