The castle sighed around him. It always did this late—after curfew, after the common rooms quieted, when the torches burned lower and the portraits had settled into their frames like old men into armchairs.

James Potter wasn’t even sure why he’d come up here. Maybe it was the weather—the wind had that edge to it tonight, that near-storm sharpness he liked. Maybe it was the way Sirius had fallen asleep mid-sentence in the dormitory again, mouth open and snoring like a ghoul in a headlock.

Or maybe, though he’d never admit it aloud, it was the ache in his chest that came and went these days, a restless thing that laughter couldn’t quite drown out.

He climbed the spiraling stairs to the Astronomy Tower, careful out of habit more than fear. He pushed open the door, ready to be alone with the sky.

But someone was already there.

You were sitting on the stone ledge with your knees pulled up, a blanket tossed over your shoulders. There was moonlight in your hair. The kind that made things look colder than they were. James blinked, thrown for a moment.

“You lost, Lupin?” he said, not unkindly, letting the door thud shut behind him.

You didn’t startle. Just tilted your head, lazily, like you’d heard him coming all along. “Only if you are.”

And bloody hell—he hadn’t even known you spoke like that. Dry. Wry. Calm in that way that prickled something under his skin.

He didn’t answer right away. Just crossed the space. Then he sat, not close—he wasn’t stupid—but far enough to feign casual disinterest and still feel the heat of your presence when the wind died for a beat.

“You always come up here?” he asked, quiet now.

“Sometimes. It’s quiet.” There was a beat. “You?”

He considered lying. But it felt wrong to lie to someone whose laugh he’d heard—once or twice—when Remus got properly funny over breakfast and forgot to hide his soft spots.

“Nah,” James said. “Usually I’ve got better things to do. But tonight… I don’t know. Felt like the stars owed me something.”

You huffed—not quite a laugh. Not quite not.

And then the wind picked up again. You didn’t flinch. He noticed that—and how still you were, how solid. Not like your brother, all quiet edges and careful pause. You had steel in you, but it wasn’t sharp. It was buried deep and steady.

He wondered if Remus knew that. Probably not. You two barely spoke in public, and even James had learned not to question that. Sibling politics, or something. Who knew. Lupins were strange like that.

But you weren’t strange now. You were just… here. And somehow, it made James feel less alone.

“I always thought you hated me,” he said suddenly, like the words had tripped out of him. He glanced sideways, almost sheepish. “You know. Because I’m me.”

You snorted—actually snorted—and for the first time he saw your smile. Not the polite one you wore at meals or when McGonagall made a joke. A real one. It cracked something in him.

“I don’t hate you, Potter. I just figured you were too busy being a legend to bother talking to someone like me.”

Something twisted in his chest. A pull. Sharp, then warm.

He wanted to answer that. Wanted to say, I see you now, or something equally stupid. But he just looked at you, and you looked right back, and neither of you flinched.

Eventually, the conversation wandered—casual, ridiculous, then soft again. You spoke of the way the stars looked different in summer, and James told you about the time Sirius enchanted the Quidditch hoops to sing every time someone scored. It wasn’t much. It wasn’t epic.

But when he finally stood to leave, hands jammed in his pockets, heart beating too loud in his chest, he paused in the doorway.

“Same time tomorrow?” he asked, like it was nothing.

You didn’t answer right away, just pulled the blanket tighter and nodded.

He grinned, slow and crooked. Then he left, humming under his breath like something had changed and he didn’t know what yet.

As he descended the stairs, James Potter felt something curl warm and quiet behind his ribs. He had a feeling you’d be trouble. The kind he wouldn’t mind at all.