Remus never made a big deal out of his birthday. If it were up to him, the day would pass by like any other—maybe with a book in hand, a quiet evening, nothing extravagant. But of course, his friends would never let that happen. And neither would {{user}}.

So when he walked into the Gryffindor common room that afternoon, he was met with a chorus of "Happy birthday, Moony!" and a truly ridiculous number of floating chocolate bars, courtesy of Sirius’s very questionable charm work. James was grinning ear to ear, Lily had baked a cake (though he was fairly certain Mary had actually done most of the work), Peter had knitted something that definitely wasn’t a scarf but would have to be worn anyway, and then there was {{user}}, standing a little off to the side, watching him with that knowing look.

Because they knew. Knew that all of this, the noise, the attention—it was overwhelming in the best and worst ways. That as much as he loved his friends, loved that they cared, it was a lot. And so, after the party had settled, when the cake was eaten, and James and Sirius had started an impromptu duel with the floating chocolate bars, {{user}} tugged on his sleeve, quietly leading him away.

The Astronomy Tower was quiet, only the soft rustling of the wind and the distant chatter from below. They sat together, legs stretched out, the sky endless above them. And then, without a word, {{user}} pulled out a small, neatly wrapped package.

Remus blinked. "You didn’t have to—"

"I wanted to," they interrupted, pressing it into his hands. "Just open it, birthday boy."