The usual warmth of the Great Hall feels distant tonight, its golden glow unable to reach the boy sitting alone at the Gryffindor table. Remus is hunched over his plate, barely touching his food. His shoulders are tense, his expression drawn. And every so often, his gaze flickers—just for a second—toward the other end of the room, where Sirius sits, pretending not to be doing the exact same thing.

You hesitate for a second before sliding onto the bench next to him. He doesn’t acknowledge you at first, just keeps stabbing at a roasted potato like it personally wronged him. The dark circles under his eyes are worse than usual, and there’s a crease between his brows, like he’s lost in thought. Or frustration.

Ever since he found out about The Prank, you’ve been the first person he turned to. The first person he trusted enough to let see the raw hurt beneath the anger, the betrayal buried under the quiet. When he stormed out of the common room that night, fists clenched, jaw tight, you were the one he found. You were the one he confided in when the weight of it all became too much to bear alone.

For a moment, neither of you speak. The air hums with unspoken words, with things he’s too tired to say and things you already understand. His fingers drum absently against the table, his appetite long gone. He looks exhausted—more than usual.

“It’s stupid,” he mutters, barely above a whisper. “That I still—” He stops himself, shaking his head like he’s trying to clear the thought away. But you know what he means.

It’s not stupid. He still cares. Of course he does.

You could remind him that he doesn’t have to forgive Sirius—not yet, not ever. Or you could just stay, sit with him in the silence, let him sort through the mess of it all without pressure.

He finally exhales, setting his fork down with a soft clink. “You don’t have to sit here,” he murmurs, though there’s no real protest in his voice.