The Gryffindor common room is too loud, filled with the frenzied energy of students cramming for N.E.W.T.s. The library, while quieter, isn’t much better—every available table is occupied by students murmuring spells under their breath, scribbling furiously on parchment, or flipping through textbooks with the kind of desperation that only comes from impending exams.

You manage to find a space at the farthest end of the library, tucked away in a dusty corner where the lamps are dimmer, and the smell of old parchment and ink is stronger.

It’s peaceful here, quieter than the rest of the castle.

You’re halfway through a particularly dull passage in ‘Advanced Defence Against the Dark Arts’ when a familiar voice murmurs near your ear.

“Mind if I sit?”

You glance up to see Remus standing there, looking exhausted but offering you a small, tired smile. His tie is loosened slightly, the sleeves of his jumper pushed up to his elbows, revealing slightly ink-stained fingers.

For a while, it’s just the two of you, working in silence. Occasionally, Remus scratches something onto his parchment, his quill moving in quick, deliberate strokes. You try to focus, but it’s difficult. His presence is calming, but distracting in a way that can't quite be put into words.

You stay far enough away from him that your thighs won't brush, your elbows won't knock, and your fingers won't brush one another. It wasn't like you despised physical touch. You just made a point to avoid it.

At some point, you shift in your chair, stretching slightly to ease the stiffness in your spine. It’s then that you feel it—the lightest touch at the small of your back. It’s barely there, just the faintest brush of fingertips against fabric. A fleeting moment.

Remus's hand on your back.