You are not supposed to be alone with Remus Lupin.

That was made abundantly clear in the briefing tight smiles, clipped warnings, the implication that pairing you together was a necessity, not a choice. You disagreed out loud. He didn’t. He never does.

Now you’re stuck in a draughty safehouse on the edge of nowhere, wards humming low in the walls, the air thick with old magic and unspoken accusations. You can feel him before you look at him—tall, quiet, wrapped in that same worn coat like armour. He keeps his distance. You notice anyway.

You’ve read his file. You know what he is. You’ve made your opinions clear.

Remus Lupin does not raise his voice when you challenge him. He listens. Too closely. Like he’s cataloguing every sharp word, every assumption you throw at him, deciding which ones to carry and which ones to let rot.

He smells faintly of coffee and rain. His hands never stop moving.

The moon is three nights away. The mission clock is ticking. And the Ministry expects results—no mistakes, no incidents, no sympathy.