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Summary
“Remus Lupin,” the man says quietly, extending his hand for Sirius to shake. Sirius takes it. His hand is callused and slightly cold.
“Sirius Black,” Sirius says, sounding strange even to his own ears.
“Yes,” Remus says.
He doesn’t sit back down until Regulus tugs surreptitiously at his sleeve. He watches his mother serve the man tea—Remus, Sirius thinks, his name is Remus—as though the whole scene is happening through a pair of binoculars, miles away. The same silver scar bisecting his eyebrow, the same narrow hands; Remus takes his tea without cream or sugar and sips it gingerly, once.
A quick reassessment of the whole thing. Not only not a Muggle, but a Ministry employee: a record miscalculation, that. Maybe one of Sirius’s worst.