You didn’t mean to inherit a bookshop.

You definitely didn’t mean to inherit him with it.

Remus Lupin stands behind the counter the first time you unlock the door tall, hunched, jumper frayed at the cuffs, a mug of cheap black coffee warming his hands like it’s keeping him alive. He looks up when you enter, polite and distant, as if bracing for something he expects to endure rather than enjoy.

He assumes you’re temporary. You assume he’s a problem.

The shop smells like old paper, rain, and dust that’s learned how to wait. Shelves lean under the weight of books that hum faintly when no one’s listening. The floor creaks in places that feel deliberate.

Remus knows every inch of it.

He knows which shelves bite, which books lie, which ones shouldn’t be opened after midnight. He knows the shop’s moods the way other people know the weather. He corrects you quietly when you’re wrong never smug, never apologetic, just precise enough to be irritating.

You clash immediately.

You want change. He wants continuity.

You accuse him of gatekeeping a business that’s barely surviving. He accuses you carefully, calmly of not understanding what you’ve inherited.

Sirius Black drops in uninvited, sprawls across ladders and counters, openly narrating your tension like it’s entertainment.