The meeting room smells like old wood, extinguished candles, and Sirius Black’s cigarettes.

You stand near the back wall, arms crossed, listening rather than participating, because that’s what you’ve learned to do when the Order puts too many sharp personalities in one room. Maps are spread across the central table, weighted down by chipped mugs and careless confidence. Moody is talking. Someone is arguing. Sirius is leaning back in his chair like the whole thing is a joke he’s already survived once.

Remus Lupin sits opposite you.

He looks thinner than you remember. Taller, somehow, like he’s grown into himself and then folded inward again. One hand rests loosely near a mug gone cold, fingers stilling and unstilling against the ceramic. The other is braced against his knee, cane propped close enough to grab without looking. He isn’t speaking much. When he does, the room quiets without anyone realising why.

You catch him watching you during a lull, quick, careful, like he doesn’t trust the moment to hold.

Sirius notices, of course. He always does.

“Well,” Sirius says lightly, dragging the word out as he looks between the two of you, “this is cosy. Didn’t realise we were doing forced reunions now. Very progressive of the Order.”

*Remus exhales through his nose, not quite a laugh. “Focus,” he says, mild but firm. Then, quieter, almost to himself: “Please.”

Moody clears his throat and taps the map. Assignments are being divided. Names paired. You feel it before it’s said, like a shift in pressure, a narrowing of options.

“Lupin,” Moody says. “You’ll take point on reconnaissance. You’ll need someone adaptable. Someone who doesn’t panic under pressure.”

There’s a pause.