The floorboards of the Shrieking Shack groan as Sirius takes a step back, as if trying to get a better look at him. Remus stays by the sagging bedframe, arms crossed, wand still loose in one scarred hand. The rat—Wormtail—twitches in the corner, trapped under Ron’s trembling grip. No one speaks.
Hermione clutches her wand tightly, wide-eyed. Harry’s breathing is loud in the stillness, furious and fast. But Sirius… Sirius is frozen.
Because Remus is not what he expected.
He looks older, yes—more lines around the eyes, more grey in the hair, like the world sanded down all the softness. But it’s the body that startles Sirius most. The loose jumper can’t quite hide the shape beneath: thick shoulders, a solid chest, and arms that look like they’ve carried too much for too long. Not bulky. But powerful.
When did he get so—?
Sirius’s breath snags before he can finish the thought. He remembers a too-thin Remus in threadbare cardigans, all quiet bones and apology. This is… this is something else entirely.
“Moony,” he says, hoarse.
Remus’s eyes flicker. The smallest nod. “Padfoot.”
And God, that almost breaks him.
“I thought…” Sirius swallows. “When I escaped—I wasn’t sure if you were alive. I imagined—hell, I imagined you’d died years ago. Quietly. Without anyone.”
The words hang in the air like smoke.
Remus’s mouth tightens. He doesn’t move. “I didn’t.”
“No,” Sirius murmurs. “I can see that now.”
It’s meant to be a joke, or almost—a gesture toward normal. But it comes out reverent. The way someone speaks at an altar.
Behind them, Ron shifts slightly, muttering under his breath. The rat’s pink paws twitch.
Sirius doesn’t care.
“I didn’t expect—” He gestures vaguely. “The scars. The… the rest.”
Remus huffs softly, without smiling. “Werewolf. War. Life.”
“You’re…” Sirius starts, then falters. Because the truth is you’re beautiful, but that feels stupid and wrong when there’s so much blood between them and a traitor in the room.
“You’re stronger,” he finishes instead.
Remus’s brow lifts, just a bit. “So are you. You’re alive.”
“Not quite,” Sirius says, too quickly. “Not all the way.”
They look at each other then, really look, and Sirius wonders what he would’ve done if Remus had been just a little closer. If they were alone. If this wasn’t all happening in the rotting bones of a house built for pain.
He takes a step forward anyway.
The rat in the corner squeals.
And the moment—like everything else in their lives—breaks.
But Sirius can still feel it. The weight of Remus’s gaze. The shape of him now. The heat still caught in his chest.
The way he wants to kneel and press his face to Remus’s abs and beg for twenty years back.
