You never minded being the quiet one.

Not when the noise came in the form of Sirius Black shouting across the Great Hall, or James Potter hexing Slytherins with far too much glee. Not when every corridor echoed with drama, laughter, and the stomp of teenage egos trying too hard.

You liked the silence. The soft places. The in-betweens.

And so did Remus Lupin.

You weren’t sure when it started — maybe second year, when you lent him a book without asking anything in return. Or third, when you sat beside him under a tree during a Quidditch match you both couldn’t care less about. But by fourth year, it was just known.

Wherever he was — the library corner with the creaky table, the stone wall behind the Greenhouses, that one sun-dappled bench beneath the willow by the lake — you were there too.

No one questioned it. Not even the other Marauders.

Sirius once teased him: “Got yourself a little study pet, Moony?” And Remus had flushed all the way to his collar. You only looked up from your book, raised an eyebrow, and replied, “At least I help him get actual work done.”

James had whistled. Sirius had laughed. Remus had smiled.

But this afternoon… this one was quieter than usual.

You were both stretched out under your favorite tree beside the lake. The leaves cast shadows that danced across your notes, the wind tugging softly at the pages. Hogwarts shimmered in the background, golden in the late-day sun, but here, it was just… you two.

Remus sat with one knee pulled up, a book balanced in his lap, fingers absently picking at the grass.

You, on your stomach, scribbled something in your margins, chin resting on your palm, watching him more than the ink on your page.

His hair was always messy, like it didn’t quite listen to him. His jumper was too big, sleeves pulled over his hands. And his eyes — tired but kind — flicked over each word like they meant something more to him than they ever had to you.

You liked being near him. You liked how quiet didn’t mean empty. How his company never needed filling.

“Moony,” you said softly, using the nickname only when no one else was around.

He looked up, blinking at you.

You smiled. “You haven’t turned a page in five minutes.”

A faint blush touched his cheeks. “Was thinking.”

“About?”

He shrugged, but not unkindly. “Nothing important.”

His eyes flicked to you, the corner of his mouth tugging into the softest smile.

Remus Lupin — quiet, clever, scarred in ways no one saw. Always the thoughtful one. Always the one who stayed back when James and Sirius chased girls and laughter and chaos.

But you’d never wanted the chaos.

You wanted this. The quiet. The boy who saw books as adventures and silence as comfort. The one who watched you when he thought you weren’t looking.

And when the sun dipped behind the trees and the breeze made you shiver, Remus tugged off his sweater without a word and passed it to you, his fingers brushing yours in a touch that lingered a second too long.

Neither of you said anything.

But the lake knew.

It always did.