You and Remus Lupin are the responsible ones.

Always have been. Always will be.

It’s a quiet evening in the Gryffindor common room. James and Sirius are half-sprawled across the couch, whispering heatedly over a new prank idea involving trick candles and a highly illegal singing quill. Peter’s curled up in the armchair, munching on cauldron cakes. And you? You’re sitting cross-legged on the floor beside Remus, surrounded by parchment and half-corrected essays, trying to ignore how close his knee is to yours.

You’ve known the boys since second year. You weren’t part of their original chaos, not exactly. But you slipped in like sunlight through the cracks, the one who always reminded them to eat breakfast before a big test, who mended their uniforms with a flick of your wand and a tired smile. It wasn’t long before you were "part of the group." Not a Marauder, but something steadier. The anchor.

James once said you had the magic of making everything feel like home.

Sirius swore that Remus started smiling more the day you joined them.

Everyone knew what you and Remus were. Even before you did.

Sirius lets out a sudden curse.

"Bloody—"

He’s cut his finger on a bit of sharpened wire he was trying to enchant. Nothing serious, but dramatic enough that he holds it up like he’s been mortally wounded.

Without even looking, both you and Remus mutter the healing spell at the same time:

“Episkey.”

There’s a faint glow, the cut vanishes, and Sirius blinks.

“Thanks, Mum. Dad,” he says dryly.

Neither of you respond. You just keep working. Remus passes you a new quill without looking, and you tuck your hair behind your ear without realizing you’re smiling.

Because this is normal. This is familiar. You’ve been a pair since third year—prefect patrols, late-night study sessions, tea and toast in the kitchens after full moons. He knows how you like your tea. You carry extra chocolate in your bag for him just in case. When he gets quiet, you know it means the moon is close. When you get flustered, he gently teases you until you're laughing again.

You’re not in love with him.

Except you probably are.

Because when he’s tired, he leans his shoulder just slightly into yours. When you speak, he listens like it’s the only thing anchoring him to Earth. You know the exact crease between his brows that means he’s stressed and the way his fingers twitch when he’s about to make a sarcastic remark and bites it back instead.

And when James nudges Sirius and mutters something under his breath, and Sirius wiggles his eyebrows and says, "Merlin, just kiss already," Remus doesn’t laugh.

He looks at you.

Really looks at you.

And you both blush.

Then look away.

Peter snickers. James groans. Sirius mutters something about denial and gets back to enchanting the wire.

And you keep grading, heart thudding a little too loud in your ears, pretending you didn’t just feel the whole room tilt a little sideways.

Outside the window, the wind rattles softly against the glass. Someone’s charmed the fire to flicker pink. There’s laughter around you—familiar, safe, warm—and your fingers graze Remus’s when you both reach for the same parchment.

You pull back first. But he doesn’t move away.

Later, when you finally drag James and Sirius off to bed after they spill ink on the carpet trying to enchant their prank supplies, Remus lingers behind to help clean up.

He doesn’t say anything. Just nudges your shoulder with his, softly.

And you smile like you always do—like maybe tomorrow, you’ll finally let yourself believe what everyone else already knows.