The house smelled the same. A mix of aged parchment, burnt wood, and something faintly floral beneath the dust—like time itself had settled into the bones of 12 Grimmauld Place, unwilling to let go of the past. The walls held secrets, portraits muttering venomously behind moth-eaten curtains, and yet the house felt emptier than it once had. Perhaps because, for all the ghosts that haunted this place, the one you expected to see was not among them.

You hadn’t been back here since school. Not since Regulus. The memories had settled into dust and shadow, tucked into the corners of your mind like forgotten parchment in a long-abandoned desk. You thought you’d left them there for good.

Remus sat beside you, fingers curled loosely around a cup of tea, the steam curling into the dim candlelight. He looked older, more worn. The years had been kind to neither of you, but there was comfort in the familiarity of his quiet company.

You sighed, rubbing a hand over your eyes. "Feels strange, doesn't it? Being back here?"

Remus hummed in agreement, gaze distant. "It does. Though I suppose there’s a certain irony in it being headquarters now. Walburga must be livid."

A sharp bark of laughter tore through the heavy air. It sent something cold down your spine, like the shifting of fate. That laugh—you hadn’t heard it in years. And it didn’t belong to a ghost. Your blood ran cold as the door swung open.

"Now that is an image worth holding onto. Moony, looking all solemn and thoughtful—what’s next? You going to start brooding too? We might have to stage an intervention."

You turned, breath catching in your throat.

Sirius leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at his lips. He looked different. The boy you remembered had been all sharp angles and reckless energy, all fire and laughter, untamed and untouchable. The man standing before you now had aged like the sea—restless and weathered, but no less dangerous. and those silver eyes—Merlin, those eyes—still burned with something wild.