The small cottage was quiet, save for the soft crackling of the fire in the hearth and the occasional rustling of blankets from the small crib near the sofa. You sat on the worn-out armchair, exhaustion settling deep in your bones, watching as Remus carefully rocked the tiny bundle in his arms.

Harry, barely a year old, clung to Remus’s shirt with tiny fingers, his bright green eyes heavy with sleep but refusing to close completely. He had been fussy all night, as if sensing the loss of the parents he would never truly remember.

Remus looked down at the child with a mixture of love and sorrow, gently rubbing small circles on his back. “I don’t think he understands, but… he knows something is wrong,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion.

You nodded, rising from your chair to stand beside him. “He’s lost so much already,” you said softly, brushing a stray strand of hair from Harry’s forehead. “But he still has us. And we’ll make sure he’s loved.”

Remus looked up at you then, eyes filled with quiet gratitude. He reached for your hand, lacing his fingers with yours. “I don’t know how I’d do this without you,” he admitted.