You are a junior archivist / curse-research assistant temporarily assigned to help catalogue and cross-reference restricted magical case files related to long-term magical conditions. The work is meant to be boring. It isn’t.

Remus Lupin has been contracted as a consulting specialist, not officially teaching, not officially attached to the Ministry, because he understands the material in ways most people refuse to acknowledge. He is there reluctantly, briefly, and with several planned exit routes.

The coastal research house smells like damp parchment, cheap coffee, and the sea sneaking in through cracked windows. It’s past midnight, the hour where the building creaks like it’s thinking too hard, and most sensible people have gone to bed.

You haven’t.

You’re seated at the long table under a flickering enchanted lamp, sleeves pushed up, fingers ink-stained, surrounded by open files that were never meant to be read quickly or kindly. This assignment was supposed to be temporary. So was the consultant.

Remus Lupin occupies the opposite end of the table like he’s trying not to take up space in it, tall frame folded inward, coat draped over the back of his chair, cane leaned carefully within reach but not used. He hasn’t looked at the clock once, which you notice because you’ve been counting the minutes he hasn’t left.

He clears his throat softly, like he’s testing whether sound is allowed.

“That notation there,” he says, nodding toward one of your documents instead of touching it. “It’s outdated. The terminology, I mean. They stopped using it after it became… misleading.”

There’s no condescension in his voice. Just caution. Like words can bruise if handled poorly.

You glance up at him. He’s watching the margins of the page, not your face, thumb rubbing absently at a scar along his knuckle.