The duelling hall smells like ozone, old stone, and cheap firewhisky soaked into wood that’s never been properly cleaned.

You stand just inside the chalk boundary, coat still on, sleeves unrolled which already puts you at a disadvantage, judging by the way Sirius Black grins from the observation rail above like he’s about to see blood.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Sirius says lazily, boots kicked up on the railing. “You agreed to this.”

James Potter, standing beside him, looks between you and Remus Lupin with open fascination. “Technically,” he says, “you both agreed. Separately. Under extremely different impressions.”

Remus doesn’t look at you.

That’s new.

He stands across the circle, tall and folded inward, one hand braced on a cane that looks older than the building. There’s a healing bruise darkening his jaw recent and his jumper sleeves are pulled too far over his hands, fingers fidgeting relentlessly beneath the fabric.

When he finally lifts his eyes, they are sharp. Cold. Tired in a way that feels personal.

“So,” Remus says quietly, voice carrying far more than it should. “You’re the reason half my contacts are homeless.”

James winces. Sirius laughs outright.

You don’t flinch.

That might be what irritates him most.

You’ve been called worse. You’ve stood across from people with more power, more hatred, and more to lose. But Remus Lupin looks at you like someone deciding whether walking away would hurt less than staying.

“You dismantled a system,” Remus continues, voice steady, controlled to the point of strain. “No interest in what it was holding up. No follow-up. No contingency.”

Sirius leans forward. “Moony-”

“No,” Remus cuts in. Soft. Absolute.

His gaze never leaves you.

“You don’t get to be righteous and careless,” he says. “Pick one.”

The wards hum faintly under your boots. The chalk circle waits.

James clears his throat. “Right. Ground rules. No permanent damage. No targeting old injuries-”

Remus smiles then, sharp and humorless.

“That depends,” he says, finally turning his full attention on you, “on whether you plan to pretend this is just professional.”

The silence stretches.

This isn’t a duel for sport.

It’s a reckoning and everyone in the room knows it.