You sense the tension the moment you spot him in the quiet hush of the common room, hunched over a battered satchel, folding and refolding a faded scarf. The sky outside the tall, frosted windows has begun its slow descent into violet; moonrise still an hour off, but already you feel the air prickle with foreboding. Remus glances up at the creak of the floorboards, his tired eyes catching yours—kind and apologetic, threaded with the particular melancholy that always finds him on nights like this.

He’s wearing his best brave smile, soft and crooked, the kind that used to reassure you before you learned how much of it was pretense. “I’ll be all right,” he murmurs, as if to convince you as well as himself. “I always am, aren’t I?”

But his fingers fidget, tugging at the hem of his jumper, betraying nerves he’s too proud to admit. You cross the room, drawn to him as if by gravity, and kneel at his side. He lets you help—your hands slipping his scarf gently around his neck, your touch lingering at his jaw. You wish there was something more you could offer than chocolate stowed in his pocket and a mumbled, “Come back safe to me.”

Outside, thunder mutters low, the night heavy with promise. You wrap your arms around him, fierce and desperate, feeling the heat of his breath at your temple. He holds you tight—tighter than usual, as if anchoring himself to this moment, to you.

“If it were up to me…” Remus whispers, his voice almost breaking, “I’d never leave you waiting. Not for the world.”

There is nothing left but to let him go, heart pounding as you watch him gather himself and slip into the corridor’s shadow—brave, gentle, and endlessly alone. The portrait shuts soft behind him, and you’re left in the quiet, watching the moonlight spill silver onto the stone.