Remus Lupin’s twenty-first birthday arrives quietly.

War has a way of swallowing dates like that. Potter Manor is dim tonight, most of the lamps turned low and the curtains drawn tight against the dark. Outside, the wind drags softly against the old stone walls.

Somewhere upstairs, a floorboard creaks as the house settles.

You find him in the kitchen. Remus Lupin is sitting at the small wooden table with a cup of tea cupped between both hands. The kettle has long since gone cold, and the fire in the hearth has burned down to low embers. His sleeves are rolled to the elbows, a faint bruise darkening the edge of his jaw.

He looks up when you enter.

“Oh,” he says softly. “I thought everyone had gone to bed.”