The first light of morning was only just spilling through the high, arched windows of the Astronomy Tower—weak and cold, more grey than gold. Everything up here felt half-asleep. Quiet. The kind of quiet that settles in your bones after a long night, when even breathing feels like effort.

Their footsteps echoed faintly down the stone corridor, slow and uneven. No one spoke. Not because there was nothing to say—there was too much—but because they were too wrung out to give it shape. The Shrieking Shack was far behind them, but the ghosts of it still clung like smoke. The kind that doesn’t wash off, no matter how many times you scrub your hands raw.

Remus walked stiffly, every step a small betrayal from his legs. His grip on the cane was tight—too tight—and Sirius kept just to his left, watching. Shoulders brushing occasionally, like a reminder. I’m here. I’ve got you. He didn’t say it out loud. He didn’t have to. Not this morning.

She was ahead of them, quiet and steady, and when she reached the door at the end of the hall, she glanced back. Her eyes were heavy with sleep and something softer—something Sirius couldn’t name. Warm, maybe. Tired warmth. Not pity, thank Merlin. Just… presence.

The door gave a soft creak as it opened, and then they were inside.

Her room was tucked up in the tower like a secret. Nothing grand, but it felt like a place meant for breathing. The bed was too big—probably spelled that way—and smothered in dark green blankets and enough pillows to drown in. Curtains hung low over the tall window, letting in only a sliver of early light. The air smelled of lavender and pine and safety.

Sirius exhaled, long and ragged. The kind of breath that slips out when you’ve been holding it too long. His jacket hit the back of a chair with a soft thump, forgotten. His hair was a mess—wild and damp with sweat from the run, the transformation, the dragging of Remus back to human. He shoved a hand through it anyway, grimacing. “Thank Merlin for Saturdays,” he muttered, voice hoarse and cracked at the edges.

Remus didn’t answer. He just sat. Eased himself down onto the edge of the bed with a wince, breath hitching slightly when his joints bent too far. His hands were trembling faintly, fingers curled into the mattress like he was trying to ground himself. Pale. Faded. He looked like something left out in the rain too long. But when he met her eyes, he gave a tired nod. A small one. Enough.

She said nothing. Just moved around them like she always did—quiet, steady, unflinching. A constant.

Sirius watched her for a beat too long before finally collapsing beside Remus, boots still on, spine curling inward. The room hummed with silence. Not the empty kind. The full kind. The kind that doesn’t need filling.

No questions. No pity. Just the three of them, breathing the same air, haunted in different ways.