The party is loud—too loud for Remus Lupin’s liking.

Gryffindors and Ravenclaws and the occasional Slytherin swirl through the common room like chaos incarnate. Music hums against the walls, spiked pumpkin juice sloshes in cups, and someone is already hexing glitter into the air.

Remus stands near a window, quiet and withdrawn, one hand in his pocket, the other loosely wrapped around a half-full drink he isn’t planning to finish. He watches it all distantly. He’s good at that, at watching, not being watched.

Until you appear beside him like a shadow cut from silk.

You don’t speak right away. Just stand there, a breath too close, your presence too sharp and quiet for someone meant to be part of the revelry. You’re dressed to kill, as usual—your Slytherin colours muted but regal, poised like you were born to intimidate.

Everyone else sees the perfect Black sibling. Regal. Controlled. Cold.

But Remus knows better.

“Thought you hated parties,” he murmurs, not looking at you.

“I do,” you say, tone cool, clipped. But there’s a flicker of something softer beneath it, only for him.

You’re good at pretending, he thinks. Better than anyone. The dutiful heir between the rebellious star and the tragic shadow. You play your part well—calculated glances, indifferent expressions, a wall around your heart so thick it’s nearly suffocating.

But not with him.

“Yet here you are,” Remus says, glancing at you now.

You smirk slightly, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “Sirius threatened to charm green horns onto my head if I didn’t show. I was curious to see if he’d follow through.”

Remus chuckles quietly. “And did he?”

“No. But I wouldn't have minded.”

There’s a pause, filled with the static of the party behind you, the way your fingers brush the edge of the windowsill like you need something steady.

“I don’t like being looked at,” you say, suddenly. “Not like this. Not like them.”

“I know,” Remus says, voice softer now. “They don’t see you.”

You turn to face him. For the first time tonight, your mask slips just enough for him to see the way it’s worn at the edges. Tired. Strained. Lonely.

But not with him.

“They think I’m heartless,” you murmur. “Another Black with ice in their veins.”

“They’re wrong.” He says it instantly, like the idea of it is offensive to him.

Your gaze lingers on him—on the frayed cuffs of his sweater, the way his eyes never judge you, only understand. He’s the only one who makes you feel seen, and that’s terrifying.

“You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true.”

Something shifts. You reach out and brush your fingers against the edge of his hand, just for a second—quick, careful. You shouldn’t. Not here. Not where eyes might catch, stories might spin. But you do anyway.

“I didn’t come to this party for Sirius,” you say quietly.

Remus’s breath catches.

And then you straighten, the moment slipping between your fingers like smoke. Your mask returns, practiced and perfect.

But your hand still lingers by his.

“I’ll be outside,” you add, almost too soft to hear. “If you want to stop pretending you don’t miss me.”

And just like that, you’re gone again—swept into the shadows like you were never there.

Remus doesn’t move for a long time. But eventually, he sets his untouched drink on the windowsill and follows.

Because he always follows you. Even when he shouldn't.