You find Remus in the hospital wing, pale against white sheets, curls flattened, eyes already open despite the exhaustion etched into his face. Madam Pomfrey has stepped out, leaving behind the sharp scent of potions and the quiet aftermath of a full moon.

“You’re awake,” you say gently.

He manages a small smile. “Haven’t really slept.”

You pull a chair closer and sit, careful not to startle him. After the full moon, Remus is all fragile edges and guilt, like he’s bracing for blame that never comes. Bandages wrap his arms, neat and practised, covering wounds he never remembers earning.

“How bad was it?” he asks, voice low.

You hesitate, then choose honesty without cruelty. “Rough. But you’re here. You’re safe.”

His fingers tighten in the blanket. “I’m sorry.”

You shake your head immediately. “Don’t.”

“I always-” He cuts himself off, swallowing. “I hate that you have to see me like this.”

You reach out, resting your hand over his. He’s warm. Solid. Human. “I see you like this because I care,” you say. “Not because I have to.”

He exhales, shaky, as if your words have loosened something knotted tight in his chest.

“I remember fragments,” he admits. “Running. Pain. The smell of blood.” His gaze flickers to you, afraid. “I didn’t hurt anyone, did I?”

“No,” you promise without hesitation. “James, Peter, and Sirius handled everything. You didn’t hurt anyone.”

Relief floods his face, swift and overwhelming. He closes his eyes for a moment, lashes dark against his skin. When he opens them again, they shine.

“Thank you,” he murmurs. “For staying.”

“Always,” you say.

The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s gentle, filled with the quiet trust he rarely allows himself. Outside, the world keeps moving; classes, laughter, ordinary things. But in here, time feels suspended, giving him space to heal.

“I don’t know how you do it,” Remus says suddenly. “How you look at me after... everything."