You weren’t supposed to be here this long.

The outpost was meant to be a three-day job, assess the wards, neutralize anything unstable, document what couldn’t be moved, then leave before the moon cycle complicated things. That was before Remus Lupin started disagreeing with every decision you made.

He watches more than he speaks. When he does speak, it’s quiet, careful like every word has to justify its existence. He questions your conclusions without raising his voice, and somehow that makes it worse. You’re used to resistance. You’re not used to someone dismantling your logic politely.

Remus insists the site isn’t malicious, just misunderstood. You insist that misunderstanding doesn’t make something safe.

The wards pulse differently when he’s nearby. You notice it before he does. You also notice the way his hand tightens around his mug when the moon charts come out, the way he starts sleeping in layers, the cane appearing more often as the nights grow colder.

You argue. Frequently. About containment versus destruction. About responsibility. About whether knowledge is worth the cost of keeping it.

And yet, when the outer seal fractures at two in the morning, he’s already awake. When a spell backfires and knocks you off your feet, he’s there without thinking. When you snap at him for hovering, he steps back immediately, like he expected to be pushed away.

The outpost doesn’t let people leave easily. Doors shift. Corridors remember arguments. Some rooms respond to honesty. Others punish it.

Remus knows things about this place he hasn’t told you yet.

You know he’s planning something, an exit strategy, a sacrifice, a solution that doesn’t include him staying once the danger passes.

The problem is: you don’t trust him to decide that alone.

And the outpost, irritatingly, seems to agree with you.