You never expected to see Remus Lupin again, not like this.

Not older in the way people get older too fast. Not with a tiredness that sits in his bones. Not with a small child half-hidden behind his leg, fingers curled into the worn fabric of his coat like she’s anchoring herself to the world through him.

You and Remus hated each other at school.

There was no dramatic feud. No singular explosion. Just years of sharp looks, clipped words, and the mutual understanding that you brought out the worst in each other. You remember thinking he was sanctimonious. He probably remembers you as cruel. You’ve never compared notes.

Now, years later, you’re standing in the same narrow community hall on the Welsh border, rain tapping against the windows, both of you here because neither of you really had a choice.

Remus looks different, taller somehow, thinner too. Still hunched, like he’s apologising for the space he takes up. There’s a cane leaned against the wall near him that he pretends not to need. His coat smells faintly of rain and old books. When he speaks, his voice is still soft, but steadier than you remember.

“Right,” he says, after a pause that stretches too long. “I didn’t realise you’d be assigned here.”

His Welsh slips out under his breath when the child tugs at his sleeve, a quiet cariad, murmured without thinking. He freezes for half a second after, like he’s bracing for judgment that doesn’t come.

The girl peers at you with unsettling focus, eyes too perceptive for four years old.

“This is Alys,” Remus says, unnecessarily. His hand settles on her shoulder, gentle, grounding. “She’ll be… around.”