Remus

“You stayed again,” Remus said quietly, standing on the threshold of the library. “This is the third time this week.”

You flinched, but didn't raise your head.

— It's quieter here than in the living room.

Pause. The pen creaked on the parchment.

• Have you ever stayed after school too? - you finally asked, still not looking at him.

Remus chuckled, but there was no humor in his eyes.

• Yes. Often. Sometimes it seems to me that loneliness is the only thing that knows my name well.

You finally looked up. There was no fear in your eyes, just a quiet understanding, as if you recognized something familiar in his words.

Later, when nights became their usual time, you started talking. At first cautiously, then more and more boldly. About the fear of not living up to expectations. About how painful it is to be different.

Remus didn't interrupt. He listened, and you could read understanding in his eyes. One day, in a burst of frankness, he said:

• Sometimes I'm afraid of my own rage.

You answered in a whisper:

• And I - my weakness.

And at that moment, something inside you broke — or, on the contrary, fell into place. But then everything changed. Whispers appeared in the corridors. Looks full of suspicion. Remus began to come less often. And one day you found the classroom empty. Only a note lay on the table:

"Take care of yourself."

And nothing more.