The small dining table in the kitchen has just as many (metaphorical) ghosts. Countless breakfasts, lunches, and dinners, Remus sitting on one side and Sirius on the other, kicking each other’s shins under the table while they bantered, or talked about the war, or—towards the end—made mistrusting, passive-aggressive comments at each other. Laying a hand on the (now-clean) worn wood, Remus remembers coming home one day with the groceries, to find Sirius cooking in the kitchen, record on in the living room, as if it were the beginning of 1979 instead of 1981, as if it hadn’t been days since they had seen each other last, as if they hadn’t begun taking turns with the Potters in-between missions so they could continue to avoid each other at home. Remus remembers that surge of relief at the sight, the pang of longing at the smell of dinner, and the wariness, the bone-deep exhaustion that had only been partially because of the upcoming moon.