The room was stifling. Heated voices had clashed for too long, pride scraping against fear, strategy against instinct. You couldn’t take it anymore.

“Fine. Do whatever you want,” you snapped, your voice sharp enough to cut the thick air. The chair scraped back hard as you stood, and without waiting for anyone’s response, you stormed from the room, boots echoing through the cold, miserable halls of Grimmauld Place. The door slammed behind you, rattling the ancient frame.

For a long moment, no one spoke.

Then Sirius sighed, rubbing a hand over his face, his voice rough and low. “She’s just like me.”

The words hung there, heavy but fond, threaded with equal parts pride and regret.

Across the room, Remus gave a quiet, tired laugh—dry and warm at once. “No, Padfoot. She’s got your rage… but my restraint.”

Sirius shot him a look, sharp, defensive.

“If she were only like you,” Remus continued, softer now but no less certain, “she’d have burned this whole place down by now.”

That made Sirius huff a breath—almost a laugh, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He leaned back in his chair, staring at the doorway you’d disappeared through, his expression tight.

“She gets it from both of us,” Remus added gently. “The temper from you. The control from me. But that stubbornness?” He gave a faint, fond smile. “That’s all her.”

Sirius let his head fall back against the chair, staring at the cracked ceiling. “She shouldn’t have to be like either of us.”

Remus’ smile faded, and his voice dropped to a murmur. “Maybe not. But she is. And that’s what’ll keep her alive in this war.”

The silence stretched again, thick and familiar. In the distance, a door creaked shut.

Sirius finally rose, grabbing his jacket. “I’ll go after her.”