The first time you meet Remus Lupin, you already dislike him.

He is leaning against the edge of your desk like he owns the room too tall, too thin, coat smelling faintly of rain and old paper. There’s a cane hooked around his wrist that he pretends not to need, and his eyes flick to the exits before settling on you, measuring. Always measuring.

“You’re late,” you say.

He smiles apologetically, which somehow makes it worse.

Remus Lupin has a reputation for being soft-spoken, polite, harmless. You recognize the lie immediately. People like him don’t interfere with Ministry operations unless they’re willing to bleed for it. People like him don’t sabotage arrests unless they’re protecting someone.

And now, unfortunately, he’s been assigned to you.

The case file between you is thick with redacted names and dead bodies. Experimental wards. Silver residue. Victims no one bothered to count properly. Remus reads it faster than you expect, fingers worrying the edge of the page, jaw tightening not in fear, but anger. Controlled. Focused.

“This is going to get worse,” he says quietly. Not a warning. A fact.

You don’t trust him. He doesn’t trust you.