It was late. You were supposed to be asleep, but voices from downstairs kept you awake. Not yelling—but low, tense, sharp-edged words that carried through the floorboards.

You crept to the staircase and sat quietly, just out of view.

—“You can’t keep doing this, Remus,” Sirius said, voice tight. “Every time the Order calls, you throw yourself into danger like your life doesn’t matter.”

—“Because sometimes it doesn’t feel like it does,” Remus snapped back. Then softer, more broken: “Not compared to what’s at stake.”

A pause. Then footsteps, and the creak of the old floor as Sirius walked over to him. —“It matters to me,” he said. “It matters to our kid.”

The silence after that was heavier than anything else. You felt your heart catch. You were their biological child, born through magic, raised in the middle of a war—but never unloved. Sirius’s voice softened:

—“You’re not alone, Moony. You haven’t been for a long time.”

You heard the rustle of fabric, the quiet of an embrace, and the deep breath of two tired men holding each other—and holding on for you.