It is late—late enough that your childhood home feels hollowed out after the Order has gone. You stand in the living room with Regulus close at your side, the familiar walls somehow smaller than you remember. Fleamont sits with a mug gone cold in his hands, Euphemia perched beside him, composed but watchful. James leans against the arm of the sofa while Lily curls into his side, fingers threaded together. Remus occupies the far chair, calm and tired, and Sirius paces once before finally stopping. Peter lingers near the doorway. No one mentions why the house feels like it’s holding its breath.

All the other members of the order have long but gone home already. “We’re glad you’re here,” Euphemia says quietly. It isn’t a question, and it isn’t forgiveness—just fact. You think of how you and Regulus arrived months ago with borrowed truths and bloodied consciences, how changing sides wasn’t loud or noble but desperate and slow. It began with doubt, then horror, then the realisation that survival meant refusing to become what you were being shaped into. Regulus had come with proof, with names and warnings; you had come with the willingness to burn every bridge behind you. The Order hadn’t trusted you at first. They still don’t, not fully. But they opened the door.

Regulus’s voice is steady, certain. “I'm staying,” he says to the room, not asking. James nods once, jaw tight but eyes honest. Lily offers a small smile. Remus inclines his head. Sirius watches Regulus a beat longer, then looks away. As the fire crackles and the conversation drifts to sleep and meals and who needs rest, you realise how long it’s been since this house felt like yours. You are home again, changed and changing—on the right side, finally, even if the night hasn’t decided to loosen its grip.