The archive sits halfway up the mountain like it regrets being found.

Stone, iron, ancient wards humming under the skin, the kind of place built to keep dangerous knowledge safe by making sure no one wants to stay long enough to read it.

You do not have that luxury.

You are standing near the long oak table when Remus Lupin enters the room.

He looks… older. Not in years, in posture. Taller than you remember, somehow folded inward, as though he’s learned to carry himself carefully. There’s a cane in his hand that he pretends not to lean on. His coat smells faintly of rain and old parchment.

For half a second, he freezes when he sees you.

Just a fraction. Easy to miss. But you notice.

James Potter, already sprawled in a chair he absolutely has not earned, claps his hands together far too loudly. “Well,” he says cheerfully, “this is cozy. Nothing like professional trauma bonding in a cursed building.”

Sirius Black snorts from the doorway, eyes flicking between you and Remus with immediate, wicked interest. “Oh. Oh.” He grins. “This just got good.”

Remus clears his throat. It’s a soft sound. Controlled. “I wasn’t aware,” he says carefully, eyes on the table instead of you, “that you’d be assigned to this case.”

The words are polite. Neutral. The pause afterward is not.

You hadn’t been aware either.

The artifact, some pre-Merlin lunar focus, sits locked in a glass case behind you, radiating the kind of magic that makes the air feel too tight. It’s the reason you’re all here. It’s also the reason you can’t leave.*

James starts outlining roles with the confidence of a man who knows Remus will catch everything he misses. Sirius interrupts him twice. You ask a question that cuts directly to the flaw in the warding system.