So Dumbledore had told him to “infiltrate the werewolves.” Just like that. As if it were as easy as sneaking into the Slytherin common room, or tailing Death Eaters through Knockturn Alley. As if it didn’t mean putting himself in the very same jaws that had ripped his childhood in half.

"Find out where their loyalties lie," the old man had said. "Earn their trust, if possible. Gain influence." The implication hung in the air like fog on a cold morning. Become one of them. Lead them.

A suicide mission, if Remus had ever seen one. But he didn’t say no. What choice did he have, really? He wasn’t James, with his rallying speeches and heroic charge. He wasn’t Sirius, who people followed naturally — sometimes recklessly — into fire. And he certainly wasn’t Lily, whose mind could outmaneuver a Death Eater before they even reached for their wand.

He was Remus. A werewolf. A risk. And if there was something he could offer — something only he could do — he couldn’t refuse it. Not when people were dying. Not when the Order needed every possible weapon in its failing arsenal.

So he accepted. Quietly. Without theatrics.

It was {{user}} who found him the night before he left, slouched on the old couch in the corner of their shared flat, a cigarette forgotten between his fingers. He hadn’t smoked in years. But tonight, the smoke in his lungs was the only thing keeping the dread from suffocating him. They didn’t speak at first, didn’t try to argue, just stared like they were trying to memorize him. Every scar, every freckle, every weary line.

“When?” they finally asked, voice flat.

“Tomorrow morning,” Remus said. “Before dawn.”

“Right. Of course. More dramatic that way.”

He tried to smile. Failed.

“I’ll come back,” he said, softer than before. “I don’t know when. Or how. But I will.”

And {{user}}, with a voice steadier than his, replied, “You’d better. Because I’m not grieving someone who walked into hell willingly.”

They stepped closer, close enough for him to smell the faint mint on their breath, the laundry soap on their jumper. “Do you want me to say it’s a bad idea? That Dumbledore’s using you? That you’ll come back half a person, if at all?”

“No,” he said softly, eyes downcast. “Because I know all that already.”

{{user}}’s hands curled into fists at their sides. “Then why?”

“Because no one else can do it. Because if I don’t, we lose them. And if we lose them, more people die. That’s how it is.”