Grimmauld Place was still. Too still.

The low groan of the old house settling, the soft clatter of rain against the windows, the distant whisper of something crawling behind the walls — none of it drowned out the tension that crackled in the kitchen.

You stood near the long, worn table, jaw set, arms wrapped tightly around yourself like armor. Your wand rested on the counter behind you, and your boots were already laced. You’d been waiting for the right moment. This wasn’t it — but it had come anyway.

Remus stood by the sink, both hands braced on the edge of the counter, shoulders tight beneath his threadbare jumper. His back was to you, but you could see it in the way his spine held too straight — he already knew. You didn’t have to say a word.

But you did.

“I’m going.”

It wasn’t a question. Not a plea. Just truth.

Remus didn’t turn. The silence that followed was cold and long and heavy enough to crush a person.

“You’re not,” he said, quiet and low. Not a shout — worse than that. It was the kind of voice people used at funerals.

From the doorway, Tonks winced.

She had walked in mid-sentence and stopped short, a mug of tea forgotten in her hands. She leaned against the frame now, watching the two of you like she’d seen this exact fight before — one you never quite finished, only postponed.

You watched Remus’s reflection in the dark windowpane. His eyes were sunken. There were deep lines along his brow that hadn’t been there a year ago. War did that. Grief did that. And love — love turned even the kindest man into a desperate one.

“I won’t stay behind,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt. “Not again.”

Remus turned, slowly. His face was drawn tight — not angry, but hollow. Scared.

“You think I care about protocol? About missions?” he asked, voice low, shaking. “I care about not burying the person I love.”

Tonks lowered her mug slightly. Her brow furrowed, but she didn’t interrupt.

You didn’t flinch, but it hit like a slap. Not because it was cruel — because it wasn’t. Because it was real.

He stepped closer, slow and careful, like you might vanish. His hands trembled, clenched at his sides.

“Do you know what it’s like to watch everyone you care about die?” he asked. “I’m running out of people. I’m running out of you.”

Tonks cleared her throat softly, stepping into the room. “Maybe this isn’t the way—”

“Tonks,” Remus said sharply, eyes still on you. His voice cracked like a splintered floorboard.

But Tonks didn’t leave. Instead, she set her mug down on the table with a quiet clink and crossed her arms. “She’s not a soldier in your care, Remus. She’s a person. A fighter. Just like the rest of us.”

You glanced at her, grateful.

She met your eyes with a soft, steady nod. “You don’t have to prove anything. Not to him. Not to anyone. But if you believe this mission matters — then it matters.”

You swallowed hard, throat tight.

“I need to do this,” you whispered, more to yourself than anyone else.

“I need you alive,” Remus answered, barely louder.