The cottage always smelled like old books and damp wood. Tonight, it was worse—like the autumn had crept in early and settled between the floorboards. The windows were cracked just enough to let the chill in, just enough to remind you that the world outside was rotting slowly, leaf by leaf, hour by hour. The fire made a valiant effort to hold the cold back, but even it seemed tired. Its crackle was more whisper than warmth.

Remus sat hunched over the old oak table like it had personally offended him. His quill scratched along the parchment with stubborn insistence. Letter for the Order. Updates. Warnings. Half-measured strategies. The ink bled a little at the edges—old parchment, too much pressure, not enough sleep. Always not enough sleep.

You watched him from the threshold of the kitchen, arms crossed, your own tea long gone cold in your hands. It wasn’t the first night he looked like this: hunched, brow tight, hair falling into his eyes like it wanted to hide him. He didn’t notice you. Or maybe he did and pretended not to.

You’d met him when you were thirteen. Hogwarts. Fourth row from the front, always silent, always watching. He’d been kind, brilliant, haunted. A man who wore weariness like a second skin. You'd watched him through the lens of youth—admiration wrapped in a schoolgirl’s longing. He kept his distance. Professionally. Painfully.

Then came the Ministry. Chaos. Screams. The sharp, acrid tang of spells in the air. You weren’t a child anymore. He wasn’t your teacher. And suddenly, your name in his mouth sounded different.

Things shifted quickly after that. Quieter than anyone expected. Letters, meetings, hours spent reading the same books, fighting the same war. A slow-burning gravity. It wasn’t loud, this thing between you. Just inevitable.

Your parents hated it, of course. Didn’t say so outright, not at first. Just silence at dinners, stiff smiles, sidelong glances. But disdain always finds a way to speak, even when words aren’t used. Half-blood. Werewolf. They said it like a curse, like he was a stain you’d never scrub out of the family name.

You tried to explain. At first. That blood didn’t matter. That you loved him. That they were wrong. But explanations fall flat when people have already decided what to believe. The fights escalated. Cold fury gave way to screaming matches, until one night, your hands trembling, you shoved your life into a bag and walked out.

That was a year ago.

Now the days are long again, thick with humidity and fear. You’re seventeen, technically. Technically grown. But Hogwarts still looms—your final year waiting just past the horizon. If the school even survives that long. If anyone does.

Dumbledore is dead. The world tilted sideways when the news came. People don’t say his name out loud anymore. Not like they used to. Like speaking it will somehow undo the last scraps of hope they have left.

Voldemort walks in daylight now.

And Harry—poor bloody Harry—is carrying the weight of it all like Atlas with a broken back. He’s slipping out of everyone's grasp. You’ve seen it in his eyes. Too much death. Not enough childhood left in him.

No one’s safe anymore. Not you. Not Remus. Not even the ghosts.

He exhales sharply, pinches the bridge of his nose, and drops the quill. The ink pools where the tip rests, seeping outward like blood.

You walk to him, slow, careful, and he doesn't flinch when your hands find his shoulders. Just leans into the touch like a man starved of warmth.

For a moment, the room is quiet.

The fire cracks. The wind rattles the glass. And the only sound between you is the weight of everything neither of you knows how to say.