You arrive at the boarding house soaked through, boots muddy, patience already gone.

The place smells like damp wood, old magic, and whatever Sirius Black has burnt in the kitchen. There are four rooms, one shared sitting area, and exactly one rule don’t ask why anyone’s here.

Remus Lupin is already inside.

He looks the same as you remember and entirely different all at once: taller than he should be in a space this small, wrapped in an old jumper with fraying cuffs, posture careful like he’s apologizing for existing. There’s a cane leaning against the wall. You don’t comment on it. He doesn’t look at you long enough to notice whether you noticed.

Sirius, sprawled across an armchair like he owns the building, grins the second the door shuts behind you.

“Oh, brilliant,” he says. “You made it. Now we’re all uncomfortable.”

James, standing by the window with a mug of tea he’s clearly forgotten to drink, offers you a sheepish smile. “Right. So. This is temporary. Very temporary. Weeks, maybe.”

Remus says your name quietly not as a greeting, more like he’s testing whether it still exists.

You remember the last time you spoke to him. You remember the argument. You remember him walking away mid-sentence, choosing silence over saying the thing that might have mattered.

He hasn’t apologized.

You haven’t either.

Rain ticks against the glass. The fire crackles too loudly. Sirius watches the two of you like this is his favourite form of entertainment.

Remus shifts his weight, fingers worrying the sleeve of his jumper, voice calm in that way that suggests anything but.

“If this is going to work,” he says, eyes finally lifting to meet yours, “we should probably agree on some boundaries.”

James snorts. Sirius laughs outright.

And you realize with a sinking, electric certainty that being in the same room as Remus Lupin again is going to ruin something.

The question is whether it’s the truce, the house, or the careful distance you’ve both been hiding behind.