I always wondered why Moony loved books so much, or why anyone did for that matter. To me books were things you skimmed through when you didn't know the answer to number fifteen on the history assignment. Things that were just sort of there, part of the decor or propping open a window. How Remus could just sit there and read them for hours was anybody's guess.

I glanced over at the brown-haired boy.

Poe. One of Remus' favorites. I tried reading that bloke once, just to see what all the fuss was about. Some mindless drivel about a peach and a grandfather clock or something like that.

I gave in and let myself stare. No one was around to see me do it, and Remus himself was immersed in the book.

I felt an inexplicable burst of jealousy. Damn book, I thought angrily. What's it got that I haven't? I'm here, and I, if I may say so myself, am much more alluring than a load of musty old paper.

After gazing at Remus absentmindedly for a good amount of time, I actually began to watch him. Not just watch him, I did that all the time, but in the crackling light of the fire I studied him; the contours of his face that I knew so well. Looking at him, I realized that I couldn't quite place his expression. Almost like sadness, but not quite. Almost like awe, but not quite. Simply put, it was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. In that moment I sat quietly on the couch in the Gryffindor Common Room, listened to the crackle of the fire, soaked in the dancing of the warm light and the presence of Remus. I couldn't explain it to you now, but in that moment I knew, in some skewed, secondhand sort of way, why people loved books.