The Potter house always felt like a heartbeat.

There was something alive in every corner — the crackling of the old radio in the kitchen, the uneven rhythm of footsteps on wooden floors, the echo of James’ laugh bouncing off the walls. And always, the warmth. The kind that clung to you like a second skin — cinnamon-sugar warmth, fireplace warmth, people warmth.

Remus had only ever visited during the holidays before. A few days here and there. But this summer… this summer, he stayed.

It was Sirius’ fault, really. He’d run away, and the Potters took him in like he belonged there — because he did. And James? He begged Remus to stay for a weekend. Just a weekend. One Friday evening, Euphemia kissed his cheek and handed him a cup of tea, and by Sunday night, he wasn’t sure how to leave.

You were there too, of course. James’ little sister. Two years younger. Quieter, in a way that wasn’t really quiet. Observant. The kind of quiet that watched, waited, knew.

He remembered you from summers past. Darting barefoot through the garden. Falling asleep on the couch with your nose in a book. Bickering with James over who stole the last piece of toast. You’d always been around.

But this summer… this summer was different.

It started with soft hellos. Familiarity. Small smiles over mugs of tea, rolled eyes exchanged when James wouldn’t shut up. You’d ask him about his books. He’d ask you about your sketches. There was a rhythm to it, subtle and careful — like the quiet between storms.

And then tonight happened.

James had gone out with Sirius — something about fireworks and broomsticks and Marlene. You’d both stayed behind, citing excuses neither of you believed. “Headache,” you’d said. “Too tired,” he’d mumbled.

Now, the house was silent. The kind of silence that presses into your chest and makes you feel every breath. The kind of silence that doesn’t beg to be filled, just shared.

You were both in the living room, “sleeping,” as James had arranged. You’d claimed the couch, curled up in one of your mother’s old knitted blankets, legs tucked up, eyes heavy. Remus had taken the floor nearby, a cushion beneath his back, a book he wasn’t reading resting on his chest.

He looked at you — the warm lamplight catching the slope of your cheek, the way your lips moved slightly as you read something on the page.