Remus watched Harry withdraw, and felt a tug of impetus in the pit of his stomach to go after him, but to what end? He opened his mouth to say the boy's name, but didn't. After a moment of what felt like a slow creeping claustrophobia brought on, no doubt, by an overwhelming sense of uselessness, Remus sat on the edge of Sirius' bed and fisted one hand in the sheets.

"He's right," he said quietly to Neil.

"It can be dealt with later. When." When what, the hurt was less? Not likely.

"When everything's a bit less raw," he said, because it wasn't sinking in. Just like the last time, it was sinking in. It had been mere hours since dry fingertips were tracing up his spine and the taste of cigarettes had been pressed into his mouth and now that was gone. Again. And he hadn't ever even expected it back. Maybe seeing it in writing would drive it home.