-Soft pad of his boots against the cobblestones of Christchurch. The hushed interior of the hidden reading room, where Oxford’s books of magic rustled amongst themselves.
The way they would open for Remus, allowing him to turn their pages and gleam their secrets.
The way he would walk home, with the stars bright above him, their multitude seeming to outshine even the hateful moon. The air would be crisp and cold and the snow deep. Ahead of him, lights in the flat would glow brightly in the distance.
Everything was so simple.
He would push open the door to the flat, only to be greeted by the smell of a burnt meal – roast beef and Yorkshire pudding or perhaps chicken curry and greens – and he would smile. And then Sirius – oh, Sirius – would leap at him, and they would be rolling on the floor, trying to get the other’s clothes off as quickly as possible. Sirius always squeaked when Remus bit his ear. His mouth would warm Remus’s body and Remus would forget the cold walks and lonely days.
Afterwards, Remus would eat the burned food and talk about the spells he had discovered for Sirius to test. He would be aware that he was grinning like an idiot, but he wouldn’t care. Later, there would be warm blankets, and hot coca, and the luxury to take it slow –
Remus opened his eyes and sighed. Old Man Winter had laid his hand across England that January, and even Voldemort had gone underground, seeking warmth. But it was summer now, and the July air hung heavily over London. The reading room at Christchurch laid in waste, destroyed by Death Eaters, and he had not seen Sirius for weeks.