In the Gryffindor common room before the fire, Milo almost felt human. He liked the flames licking at the air surrounding them. He liked the front of his legs getting red and raw from the strength of the heat. Most of all, he liked the sound. All of the houses he'd lived in throughout his life had fireplaces. The only thing that felt like home to him was the crackling of the flames and the splitting of the wood. So he shuffled his tarot cards and placed them into a wide spread before him, turning cards over and making sour faces at the ones he disapproved of.

Remus Lupin observed this from afar. He was pretending to read a book in an armchair, close enough that he could study Milo's face but far enough that the turning pages wouldn't announce his presence. He didn't think Milo knew he was there. He was only turning the pages of his book to make sure the other people in the room didn't think he was being weird.

He wasn't being weird.

Eventually, the last few people cleared out of the room and Milo was still cross-legged before the fire. Remus stood slowly and walked over, socks padding his steps into almost-silence. Milo flinched backward harshly at the sound of the older boy catching his attention with, "Courtney?"

"What— Lupin? What do you want?" Milo asked, a look of confusion and annoyance upon that bronze face of his.

Remus looked pointedly at the spot opposite him, and Milo shifted backward to give enough room for Remus's too-long legs. "I know this sounds stupid, and I know we're the furthest thing from friends, but I wanted to ask if you were alright?"

"I'm fine," Milo blurted out a little harsher than he meant it to be. Remus raised his hands in surrender.

"I wasn't saying you weren't," he said. "I just— after all of the things being said about you in the papers, I didn't know if you would be affected by it."

"I don't care what people think of me," the brunette replied shortly. "I couldn't care less if the majority of wizarding Britain thinks I'm a homicidal maniac."

Remus gave him an unsure look, but continued, "If you feel that way, then great. But— I just— I'm here if you ever want anybody to talk to, alright?"

Milo frowned and opened his mouth, then closed it again. "Why?"

"What?"

Contrary to the soft look on his golden face, Milo's words were venom. "Why would you even say that to me? Your friends have done nothing but torment and harass me for five years, and you haven't spoken an inch to stop them. Why do you think I would suddenly use you, of all people, as a shoulder to cry on. I've got Cass and Renée. What makes you think I'd want a bully as a counsellor?"

Remus tried to disguise his flinch as best he could. "I don't want to be your counsellor, Courtney. I don't expect anything from you, I know how much the boys hurt you. I'm just saying I won't snitch on you to anybody if you talk to me."

Milo scoffed and turned back to face the flames before him. "Yeah, alright. Whatever."

The seventh year sensed that this was all he'd be getting out of Milo for the night, so he stood and looked down upon him. "Offer still stands, Courtney. Your choice."

Milo nodded carelessly, not bothering to watch as Remus collected his things and jogged up the stairs. It was only when he'd disappeared around the corner that he looked to the stairwell, his mind lost in a memory from years ago.

It was the first time he actually hit back, midway through October of his first year. He didn't know many spells at all, let alone spells that would help him defend himself from those boys in the year above. So he'd punched James Potter in the side of the head, and he'd split his knuckles in doing so.

Cass laughed about it, so Milo retreated to a window seat in the common room and cried when everybody else had gone to bed. Only, not everybody was in bed. Remus had raided the medical kit his mother made him bring to school and returned with a roll of clean bandage. Milo had let him gently hold his hand while he wrapped the bruised and bloody fingers. They hadn't said a word, but the soft eyes Remus had looked at him with had spoken volumes.

It became something of a tradition. Before either of them had enough skill to perform healing charms, and after they realised Milo could never take these issues up with teachers, the younger boy would wait in the window seat with his scraped elbows and scuffed knees and grazed fists and Remus would clean them with alcohol wipes and damp cloths and wrap them with fabric and gauze. Remus got used to seeing Milo black and blue. He began to expect that Milo's gums would be stained red and his lips would be swollen. Milo began to respond to the gentle hands brushing over his wounds, began to look Remus in the eye when he checked for concussion. Neither of them ever said a word. Nothing ever had to be said. It was unspoken, and it was lovely.

Except in the middle of fifth year, around the time that Milo and Renée became involved, Remus stopped. Milo didn't understand why, but it didn't matter by then. The boys had moved on from pushes down stairs and shoves onto rough stone floors. Their methods of bullying had moved to the invisible. Jinxes and hexes satisfied them more than physical violence ever had. Milo would sit in the window seat by himself, his tongue glued to the roof of his mouth and his limbs quivering because his body had been turned to ice again.

Remus just stood behind his friends and watched. He had nothing more to say, nothing more to do. And no matter how many times he rubbed heat back into Milo's arms and how many times he fixed his damages, he never stopped them from doing it in the first place.

And that was why Milo couldn't trust him.