Remus couldn't forgive himself for not noticing the signs. He should have seen it, the subtle but undeniable changes in James and Lily's son. The boy who had once been so full of life, so confident and bold, was now quiet and withdrawn. Harry had always been cheerful, his laughter filling every room he entered. He'd been fearless, unafraid of making mistakes, meeting challenges head-on without hesitation. Harry had never avoided eye contact, never shied away from attention. He was resolute, vibrant, and brimming with energy.
But where was that boy now? What had happened to him?
Aurora, on the other hand, had picked up on it almost immediately. She'd known Harry for only three months, yet she'd managed to draw conclusions that Remus, who had known the boy since birth, had completely missed. That realization stung. How could he have been so blind? Why hadn't he paid closer attention? Only when Aurora pointed out the inconsistencies in Harry's behavior did he begin to piece it all together.
The holidays were approaching, bringing with them an uneasy sense of inevitability. This year, Professor Dumbledore had insisted all students return home for the break. With the full moon falling during the holidays, the headmaster didn't want to risk any incidents with students lingering at Hogwarts. During the holidays, the students usually had more freedom, more unstructured time, time that could lead to accidents. For safety's sake, everyone, even Harry, was required to leave.
Neither Remus nor Aurora had solid evidence to act on. Their concerns were based on observations and intuition, nothing concrete. They couldn't sound the alarm without proof, it would cause unnecessary panic and likely lead to greater harm. Until they had something tangible to back up their suspicions, their hands were tied.
Still, they refused to do nothing. Aurora and Remus agreed to keep a closer eye on Harry. Remus even considered inviting him to his office during the next Hogsmeade weekend. If they could build his trust, maybe Harry would feel safe enough to open up about what was really going on. They didn't expect an outright confession, if something was wrong, Harry would never admit it so easily. But trust, subtle conversations, and observation might reveal the truth.
One thing gave them hope: Harry had recently asked Remus about the Patronus charm he'd used to drive away the Dementor on the train. He wanted to learn the spell, and Remus, eager to help, had agreed to teach him. The lessons wouldn't begin until after the new year, but the request itself felt like an olive branch, a small but meaningful step.
Thinking ahead, Remus had asked Aurora if they could hold the lessons in her classroom. She agreed without hesitation, understanding his intent. She could discreetly sit in on the sessions, offering her own insights and noticing nuances that Remus might overlook.
But despite their plans, both of them felt an undercurrent of dread as the holidays loomed closer. What if their suspicions were right? What if something terrible happened to Harry while he was away? The thought weighed heavily on both of them, a shadow neither could shake.
Remus failed to find Harry on the day of the Hogsmeade trip. He had known the young Potter wouldn't be joining his classmates — Aurora had shared the details of her conversation with Harry. His aunt and uncle had refused to sign the consent form, an explanation that left a sour taste in both their mouths. Lupin suspected Harry had spent the day hidden away in Gryffindor Tower, avoiding the pitying glances of his peers. The thought of visiting Harry in his dormitory felt intrusive, like stepping into a space the boy had carved out as his own refuge. So, Remus let the opportunity slip by, guilt settling uncomfortably in his chest.
When it came time for the students to leave for Christmas, Aurora found herself lingering at her office window. She watched as the carriages lined up in the courtyard, waiting to carry students to the train station. Snow dusted the grounds in a thin, shimmering layer, and the cold air seemed alive with the bustle of goodbyes and last-minute holiday chatter. Aurora's eyes followed each carriage as it rolled away, the sound of Thestral hooves muffled by the snow. When the last one disappeared, the grounds felt unbearably still.
Aurora sighed and leaned her forehead against the cool glass, her breath fogging up the pane. She wasn't going home for Christmas. Home wasn't an option anymore. The Leaky Cauldron, where she'd been living since her breakup, was far from an ideal holiday retreat. The noise, the drafty walls, and the constant churn of strangers made it clear she was no more than a tenant there — a temporary fixture, as unrooted as the inn's transient guests.
Her relationship had been her first real step into independence, or so she thought at the time. Moving in with her partner felt like proof she was finally standing on her own two feet. But the flat wasn't hers — it was paid for by his parents, a fact that became painfully clear when they broke up. She had packed her things, emptied her modest savings from years of tutoring people she met at university, and fled. Renting a place on her own was impossible, so when Professor Dumbledore's letter came offering her a teaching position at Hogwarts, it felt like a lifeline. The salary wasn't much, but it was enough to dream of renting something small by summer. Until then, she would endure. Even if that meant spending Christmas alone in a castle that seemed to amplify the emptiness she felt inside.
Aurora had lied to her sister, Lucrecia. She told her she had too much work to leave the castle, though she promised to send gifts for her and their parents. When Lucrecia urged her to come, at least for Christmas Eve, Aurora deflected with the excuse that professors traditionally spent the evening in the teachers' lounge. The truth was, the idea of returning to Godric's Hollow, facing the questions and well-meaning concern, was more than she could bear.
Remus wasn't going home for Christmas either — not that he had anywhere to go. His parents had been gone for years, their absence leaving a quiet ache that never quite healed. He had no siblings to share the burden of the holidays, no cousins or distant family to welcome him with open arms. He was alone in every sense of the word. Solitude had been his constant companion for so long it felt inevitable, though it weighed heavier at Christmastime.
Neither of them spoke to the other about their holiday plans — or lack thereof. It wasn't until Aurora wandered into the library late one evening that she realized they were both staying behind. She had been restless, searching for something to distract her from the echoing silence of the empty castle. She turned a corner and almost missed him, seated at a small table near the back. The soft glow of candlelight illuminated his features as he bent over a book, utterly absorbed.
Aurora hesitated, taking in the quiet scene. He seemed so at peace in that moment, though there was an undeniable weight to his posture, the kind of heaviness that came from years of carrying too much. For a moment, she felt an unexpected kinship. Her loneliness didn't feel quite as sharp, knowing she wasn't the only one left behind.
Clearing her throat softly, she stepped closer, announcing her presence.
"So, you stayed at the castle too, Remus," Aurora said, her voice breaking the stillness of the library and drawing his attention.
"Aurora," he replied, clearly surprised to see her. He marked his place in the book and set it down. "I didn't expect to find you here. Aren't you spending Christmas with your sister and parents?"
"Let's just say I've been avoiding my parents—or rather, their questions," she said, pulling out the chair opposite him and sitting down.
"Oh?" he prompted, his brow furrowing slightly.
"I broke up with my boyfriend a while ago," she admitted, her gaze dropping to the table. "I lived with him when we were together, and—"
"You're too proud to go back to your parents with your tail between your legs," he finished gently.
"Exactly," she said, offering a faint, sheepish smile.
Remus leaned back slightly, his curiosity piqued. "Where do you currently live then?" he asked, though he quickly added, "If I may ask, of course," noticing her slight hesitation.
"Here," she replied simply.
"Well, yes, but I mean outside of the school year," he said, tilting his head, clearly puzzled by her response.
Aurora hesitated, then sighed. "Actually..." she began, a touch of vulnerability in her voice, "I'm kind of... homeless. I mean, I lived in the Leaky Cauldron for a while, but that was only a temporary solution—the only one I could afford. Tom doesn't charge much for a room, and he's kind, but..."
"Oh," was all he managed to say, though his tone carried sympathy.
"Yeah..." she nodded, her fingers idly tracing a knot in the wood of the table. The weight of her confession hung in the air between them.
They sat in a contemplative silence for a moment before Remus spoke again, his voice careful and thoughtful. "So, what are you going to do when the school year is over?"
"I've been saving," she said, her tone laced with determination. "The pay here isn't much, but it's enough. I'll rent something small—nothing fancy, but enough to call my own."
"I understand," he said, nodding. He paused, as if weighing his next words, then added, "Aurora?"
"Yes?" she asked, looking up to meet his gaze.
"Come to my quarters tonight," he said softly. "It's Christmas Eve. I'll ask the elves to prepare something simple. No one should spend this evening alone."
Her expression softened, her eyes lighting up with gratitude. "Thank you, Remus," she said, a warm smile spreading across her face. "Will any of the other teachers be joining us?"
"No," he admitted with a small chuckle. "Some of them went home, and the rest seem to have their own plans. I only tried to invite Professor McGonagall, but... well, she declined."
Aurora laughed quietly. "Somehow, that doesn't surprise me. I imagine she has very specific traditions for Christmas Eve."
"She does," Remus said, smiling faintly. "But what about us? Shall we make our own?"
Her smile grew wider, and for the first time in weeks, she felt lighter. "I'd like that," she said, and the quiet bond they shared in that moment felt like the start of something neither of them had expected.
Aurora knocked softly on the door to Remus' office at seven in the evening, her nerves fluttering slightly. She had dressed modestly but neatly, her deep green sweater bringing out the warmth in her hazel eyes. The door opened almost immediately, and Remus stood there with a wide smile, his face lighting up at the sight of her.
"Right on time," he said warmly, stepping aside to let her in.
Aurora took a moment to admire his quarters as she entered. She had always loved this space, it was unpretentious yet incredibly cozy. The warm glow of numerous candles filled the room, their flickering light casting dancing shadows on the walls. The rich colors of red and gold dominated the decor, a clear nod to his Gryffindor roots. Softly worn furniture was arranged to create a welcoming atmosphere, and the faint scent of woodsmoke.
"Your quarters always feel so inviting," Aurora said, smiling as she took it all in. "It's like stepping into a memory, nostalgic and comforting."
Remus chuckled, closing the door behind her. "I think it's the candles," he said lightly. "They do most of the work."
Her gaze fell on the table near the couch, where a small feast had been laid out. Platters piled high with roasted vegetables, pastries, cheeses, and a variety of desserts surrounded two empty plates. It was a simple yet festive spread, a real Christmas Eve dinner for two.
"You weren't kidding about making it a proper celebration," Aurora said, her tone tinged with surprise and gratitude.
Remus shrugged, a modest smile on his lips. "I may have had some help," he admitted. "The elves outdid themselves, as always."
Aurora laughed softly, shaking her head. "They always do. This is enough food to feed a small army."
"It's their specialty," Remus said, gesturing for her to sit. "But I'm sure we'll manage to make a respectable dent in it."
As they settled into their seats, Aurora felt an unexpected warmth spreading through her chest. The weight of loneliness that had threatened to overshadow her holiday seemed to lift slightly. She glanced at Remus, who was pouring them each a glass of pumpkin juice, and felt a pang of gratitude.
"This was a good idea," she said softly.
He looked up, meeting her gaze with a kind smile. "I'm glad you came," he replied.
The room fell into a comfortable silence as they began to fill their plates, the gentle clinking of cutlery and the crackle of the candles providing a soothing backdrop. Despite the simplicity of the evening, Aurora couldn't remember the last time she had felt so at peace.
After finishing the delightful dinner, they moved to the couch, their conversation and laughter flowing as easily as it did during their patrols. But this time, there were no portraits to shush them, no reminders to keep their voices down. It was liberating, and the absence of those constraints made their laughter louder, their stories more vivid, and their joy more profound. Yes, it was just the two of them this Christmas, but at least they weren't alone.
Aurora hadn't realized when the space between them began to shrink. It wasn't intentional, it was simply the natural rhythm of their shared humor. One of Remus' hands had found its way to her shoulder at some point, grounding her during a particularly hearty laugh, and Aurora, curled up from a fit of giggles, had almost ended up with her head on his lap.
The fire in the fireplace had dwindled, its embers glowing faintly as shadows danced across the room. The golden light of the remaining candles cast a warm, intimate glow, while outside, the moon hung heavy in the sky, nearing its full phase.
"So that's how Lucrecia ended up face-first in her birthday cake when she was three," Aurora said between gasps of laughter, tears pooling at the corners of her eyes as she recalled the memory of her sister's misadventures.
"I'll never look at Lucrecia the same way again, I swear," Remus replied, shaking his head in mock disbelief.
Their laughter mingled again, filling the quiet room with warmth. When their eyes met, they saw the sparkle of mirth reflected back at one another, an unspoken connection forming in the glow of shared happiness. For that brief moment, they were completely in sync, as if the rest of the world had faded away.
Eventually, the laughter subsided, leaving a comfortable silence in its wake. Remus glanced at the fireplace, now reduced to faintly glowing embers, and the candles, some flickering weakly as they burned low.
"Shit," he muttered, moving to stand. "I'm sorry, I should tend to—"
Aurora placed a hand lightly on his arm, stopping him mid-motion.
"Leave it," she said softly, a hint of reluctance in her voice. "I should be going anyway."
"Already?" Remus frowned, settling back into his seat. "Aurora, come on, stay a little longer. You're not bound by curfew."
She gave him a knowing look, one eyebrow raised. "Remus, it's long past curfew."
His brows furrowed in surprise, and he quickly glanced at his wristwatch, his expression shifting to sheepishness. "You're right," he admitted, turning back to her.
Aurora leaned forward to check the time for herself, her head tilting slightly toward his wrist. The sudden proximity brought their faces mere centimeters apart, and when they looked up simultaneously, they froze, caught in the charged stillness between them.
Remus' gaze drifted, almost involuntarily, to her lips. He saw the way her breath hitched, the faint rise and fall of her chest as she sighed quietly. Time seemed to stretch, the world narrowing to just the two of them.
And then it happened. Neither knew who moved first, or why, but their lips met in a soft, tentative kiss.