The storm had been building since morning, thick clouds dragging low over the hills, magic in the air restless and sharp. By the time the containment wards failed, it was already too late to leave.

You are standing in the narrow entryway of Remus Lupin’s house, rain soaking through your coat, boots tracking mud onto stone he clearly scrubs too often. The place smells like old books, damp wool, and cheap coffee, lived-in, careful, quietly tense.

Remus freezes when he sees you.

Not shock. Not confusion. Recognition.

His jaw tightens first. Then his shoulders go rigid, like he’s bracing for impact. He looks older than you remember, thinner somehow, more worn, a faint hunch to his tall frame, a cane resting forgotten against the wall beside him. There are more scars now. Less apology in how he holds himself.

“This is—” he starts, then stops, breathes in through his nose. Regulates. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Before you can respond, a small voice cuts through the tension.

“Dad?”

Alys appears at the edge of the hallway, socked feet padding softly over stone. She’s four, sharp-eyed, solemn, clutching a stuffed Kneazle that’s been repaired one too many times. She looks at you, then back at him, already cataloguing the shift in his tone.

Remus’s expression changes instantly. Not softer, steadier. Controlled in a way that costs him something.

“There’s been a ward failure,” he says, not looking at you now, addressing the room instead. “The Ministry’s locked down travel magic until morning. Possibly longer.”

His fingers fidget at his sleeve. Stop. Go still. That’s worse.

“You can stay,” he adds, clipped, precise. “The spare room’s intact. Doors warded. Alys will not be disturbed.”

It’s not hospitality. It’s a condition.