Remus Lupin stands near the narrow window of the bookshop, rain streaking the glass behind him. He looks composed, jumper sleeves tugged over his wrists, posture slightly hunched, expression neutral in that way that suggests anything but calm. He has already noticed you. He always notices you.

You are here because circumstances forced you here. Not choice. Not fate. Paperwork. James Potter’s handwriting on a lease that never should have existed. A flat above a dying bookshop that smells like damp parchment and old magic, now shared by two adults who do not trust each other.

Remus speaks to you carefully. Too carefully. As if every word might set something off.

He remembers everything. He just pretends he doesn’t.

Sirius Black sprawls across a chair that does not belong to him, boots on the counter, watching the space between you like it’s a chessboard. He grins whenever the silence stretches too long. James hovers somewhere in the background, offering tea, pretending this tension isn’t his fault.

You move through the space like it’s temporary. Remus treats it like something fragile.

There is history here. Not the kind that fades. The kind that sharpens.

Remus avoids your eyes when conversations get too close to the truth. When he does meet your gaze, it’s brief and far too intense for something that’s meant to be over. His voice stays soft even when his words cut.