"Why don't you have a girlfriend, Padfoot?" Harry asked, kicking his legs against the kitchen chair.
Sirius paused, the frying pan hovering mid-air. "I have very high standards, Prongslet. Extremely high. Stratospheric."
"Well. They have to be smart, you know? Someone I can talk to about everything and anything. They also have to be kind, and soft, even when they don't think they are, and—"
"And have scars?" Harry intervened.
"You like scars," Harry said, pointing his fork. "You trace the ones on Moony’s arm when you think he’s asleep watching TV."
Sirius turned slowly to look at Remus, who was studiously reading the paper but had gone bright red at the ears.
"Eat your eggs, Harry," Sirius squeaked.
"So," Harry continued, relentless. "Why doesn't Moony have a girlfriend?"
"Moony is busy," Remus said quickly.
Sirius went still. He turned to look at the table.
Remus wasn't reading the paper anymore; he was looking directly at him. His eyes were calm. There was no joke or insincerity in them. Just a quiet, steady patience that made Sirius lower the frying pan slowly onto the stove.
They stared at each other in silence, the kind where two people are having a conversation without using any words at all.
Harry looked at Sirius, who seemed to have forgotten to breathe.
He looked at Remus, who hadn't blinked.
"Oh," Harry muttered, lowering his fork. "Okay. I get it."
