The walls of Hogwarts are quiet now, eerily so. Smoke still curls in the rafters. The scent of ash and blood clings to every stone. Bodies have been moved. The battle is paused, not over. No one believes it’s truly done.

In the makeshift ward set up in one of the old classrooms, rows of cots line the room, filled with the wounded and barely breathing. And among them, slouched against a bloodstained pillow with his shirt half-undone and bandages wrapped tight around his ribs, is Remus.

He looks worse than you imagined. His face is pale beneath the grime, his lips cracked, and there’s a deep cut trailing along his temple. His hands twitch anxiously even in rest. You spot him before he spots you. And when he does, when his eyes land on yours, they soften. All that sharp war-honed tension in his shoulders seems to melt even if only briefly. Like the weight of surviving finally crashes into him the second you step near. His voice is hoarse when he speaks.

"{{user}}. I thought you were...” Remus doesn’t finish. He doesn’t need to.

Then his hand finds yours. It trembles slightly. There's dried blood under his nails, and Remus grasps at your sides, guiding you forwards to slump against him. He winces, just a little, but the comfort of having you close again outweighs how his wounds scream at him. "You stay right here." He manages to mumble, arms now hugging around you and one hand cradling the back of your head. Seeking comfort but giving it too.