While the myth of the Shrieking Shack might’ve been something silly and thrilling for most students — first years daring each other to get as close as possible, swearing they’d seen a ghost in one of the windows — the truth behind it wasn’t fun at all. The screams weren’t from spirits, but from the very real pain of Remus, who at that moment was curled up in his own dorm, wrapped in a heap of blankets, pale and tired and far too aware of what the night would bring.

The castle was alive that night — laughter spilling through the corridors, the faint hum of music from the Great Hall, the glow of floating pumpkins flickering through the stained glass. But up in the dormitory, the world was quiet. The fire in the hearth burned low, casting long shadows over the room, and the only sound came from the steady turn of pages.

Remus sat half-buried under his mountain of blankets, pale and drowsy, a cup of tea cooling beside him. He’d told {{user}} they didn’t have to stay — that there were parties and sweets and an entire castle’s worth of fun happening downstairs — but of course, they stayed. They always did.

“Do you want me to keep reading?” {{user}} asked, thumb marking the page.

Remus hummed, eyes half-shut. “Only if you don’t do the voices again.”

They smirked, flipping back to the paragraph they’d left off. “Fine. No voices. But you’re missing out on my very impressive Victor Frankenstein impression.”

“I think I’ll survive,” he said, though the small grin tugging at his mouth gave him away.

The next few minutes passed in soft rhythm — {{user}}’s voice low and even as they read, the occasional creak of the floorboards, the faint wind outside against the windows. When they reached a pause, {{user}} leaned back against the headboard.

“You know,” they said, tapping the page lightly, “Victor really is an idiot.”

Remus opened his eyes just enough to glance over at them. “Mm. In what sense?”

“In every sense,” they replied, gesturing with the book. “He brings something to life, something that thinks, and then just runs away from it. He’s so afraid of what he’s done that he abandons it. I mean, what did he expect?”

Remus smiled faintly. “It’s almost poetic,” he said. “He spends his whole life chasing creation and then can’t live with the result.”

“Poetic,” they said, “or pathetic.”

He chuckled softly. “Both can be true.”

They fell into another stretch of silence, only broken by {{user}}’s occasional commentary — pointing out Victor’s hypocrisy, how the creature was the only one who seemed truly human at times, how maybe the real monster was—

“Don’t say it,” Remus murmured without looking up.

“—man,” {{user}} finished dramatically anyway, earning themselves a half-hearted pillow toss.

For a while, it felt normal. Like there wasn’t a full moon waiting just outside the window. Like this was any other night spent together, reading until their eyes grew heavy.

When {{user}} finally closed the book, setting it gently aside, they looked over at him. His breathing had evened out — not asleep yet, but close.

“You’ll finish it tomorrow?” he mumbled.

“If you want me to.”

“I do,” he said quietly. “It’s… comforting.”