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The first time Remus Lupin met Regulus Black, he thought Regulus was a sixth form student sneaking through the staff corridor with an attitude problem and a frankly impossible face.

In Remus’s defence, it was eight in the morning on the first Monday of September, the photocopier had jammed for the third time in ten minutes, Year Nine had already managed to glue something to something else in the humanities corridor, and Remus had not yet had enough coffee to view the world with generosity. Or patience. Or basic civility.

He was standing outside the history office with one hand around a mug that read I TEACH THE DEAD PEOPLE, NOT THE LIVING ONES, staring down the corridor like a man already considering early retirement at thirty-four, when he saw someone walking briskly past the “STAFF ONLY” sign.

The someone was short.

Very short, compared to Remus, at least, though most people were.

He had dark curls that fell in a deliberate mess around his face, a streak of pale blond slicing through the front like lightning had once touched him and decided to stay. His features were sharp and elegant in a way that looked almost unreal beneath the harsh school fluorescents: grey eyes, long lashes, a pretty mouth set in a cold little line, cheekbones that did not belong in a state secondary school before nine in the morning.

He wore black trousers, black boots, a black turtleneck under a dark green blazer, and carried himself with the kind of poisonous grace Remus had only ever seen in students who thought rules were things that happened to other people.

So Remus, who was strict before coffee and insufferable after insufficient sleep, stepped straight into his path.

“Where are you going?”

The boy stopped.

Not slowly. Not guiltily.

He stopped like a guillotine.

His eyes lifted.

Remus, unfortunately, had half a second to think, Oh. Pretty, before the boy said, “Excuse me?”

“Staff corridor,” Remus said, nodding at the sign. “You know, the massive one on the wall? With the words?”

The boy blinked at him. Once.

Then his lips parted, not in embarrassment, not in apology, but in sheer, theatrical disbelief.

“Do I look twelve to you?”

Remus glanced at him. Up. Down. Back to the face, which was getting colder by the second.

“You look like someone who should be in form.”

“I look like someone who has had the misfortune of being employed here,” the boy said. “Which, apparently, was a mistake.”

Remus stared.

The corridor seemed to pause around them.

From behind the humanities office door, someone dropped a stapler.

Remus said, slowly, “You’re staff?”

The boy smiled.

It was not a kind smile. It was the sort of smile a cat gave a bird after knocking it off a windowsill.

“Regulus Black,” he said. “Music.”

Remus felt his soul leave his body, inspect the scene, and decline to return.

“Right,” Remus said.

“Yes,” Regulus said. “Right.”

“I didn’t realise—”

“Clearly.”

“You’re new.”

“An excellent deduction. Are you history?”

Remus stiffened.

Regulus’s gaze slid pointedly to Remus’s mug.

“I’m Remus Lupin.”

“How unfortunate.”

Remus stared at him again.

Regulus stared back.

The photocopier behind them made a horrible grinding sound, then beeped in surrender.

Remus looked away first. He hated that he looked away first.

“Well,” he said. “Welcome.”

Regulus tilted his head. “Was that meant to sound like a threat?”

“It wasn’t meant to sound like anything.”

“Then you failed in a very specific direction.”

Remus opened his mouth.

Regulus stepped around him, shoulder brushing past his sleeve, and continued down the staff corridor with all the serene fury of a person who had just been deeply insulted and was absolutely going to make it everyone’s problem.

Remus watched him go.

Then he turned to the staff room door, where Lily Evans was standing with a folder clutched to her chest and a grin sharp enough to cut through laminate.

“Don’t,” Remus said.

Lily raised both eyebrows. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I was going to say, ‘Lovely first impression.’”

“Don’t.”

“Then I was going to say, ‘You’ve just offended the new music teacher.’”

“Lily.”

“And then,” she said, smiling wider, “I was going to say, ‘He’s prettier than you described anyone being since the National Portrait Gallery trip of 2022.’”

“I never said anyone was pretty on that trip.”

“You described a Tudor miniature as ‘achingly lovely’ and then stared out of a coach window for twenty minutes like a widower.”

Remus took a long, punishing sip of coffee.

It was cold.

Naturally.

“I thought he was a student.”

Lily’s grin turned wicked. “Yes, I gathered that from the part where you treated him like one.”

“He was in the student age range.”

“He’s twenty-seven.”

“He doesn’t look twenty-seven.”

“No,” Lily said. “He looks like he was painted by someone having a nervous breakdown.”

Remus glanced down the corridor despite himself.

Regulus had disappeared into the music department.

The door shut.

A second later, an electric guitar screamed through the wall.

Remus’s fingers tightened around his mug.

Lily looked delighted.

“Oh,” she said softly. “This is going to be awful.”

It was.

It was absolutely, spectacularly, institutionally awful.

By the end of Regulus Black’s first week, Remus knew three things about him.

One: the students adored him.

This was ridiculous, because Regulus did not appear to be nice.

He did not greet them with sugary enthusiasm. He did not bribe them with stickers. He did not pretend their mediocre excuses were charming. He did not say things like “There’s no such thing as a wrong answer” because, as he informed one Year Eight with surgical calm, “There is, in fact, such a thing as a wrong answer, and you’ve found it twice in one sentence.”

And yet they loved him.

They loved his dry little comments. They loved the way he dressed like a rich widow in a music video. They loved that he could play piano, bass, guitar, drums, and once, apparently, a cello that had appeared in the department cupboard with no paperwork and a cracked bridge. They loved that he spoke to them as though they were capable of not being idiots, which naturally made them all desperate to prove him right.

They also loved that he was beautiful.

The students were not subtle about this.

“Sir, has anyone ever told you you look like you should be in a perfume advert?”

“Yes,” Regulus said, without looking up from his laptop. “My mother, during an argument.”

“Sir, do you have TikTok?”

“No.”

“You’d be famous.”

“I’d rather be buried alive.”

“Sir, can we make you a fan account?”

“No.”

“Sir—”

“Open the keyboards before I start grading your breathing.”

They opened the keyboards.

Two: Regulus Black could weaponise sound.

Remus discovered this on Wednesday during Year Ten’s lesson on the causes of the First World War.

He had just written MILITARISM on the board in capital letters and turned to a room of students who looked like they would rather be eaten by furniture.

“Right,” Remus said. “Who can remind me what we mean when we talk about militarism?”

A hand went up.

Remus pointed. “Go on.”

“Is it when countries are, like, really into armies?”

“Not a bad start.”

Then, through the thin wall behind him, a drumbeat began.

Not a modest drumbeat.

Not a gentle, educational tap.

A full, thundering, floor-rattling assault.

The classroom ceiling tiles trembled.

Three students sat up.

One said, “Sick.”

Remus closed his eyes.

The drums grew louder.

Someone in the music room shouted, “ONE, TWO, THREE, FOUR!”

Then came guitar.

Then bass.

Then twenty teenagers singing something loudly, badly, and with the kind of enthusiasm history almost never inspired unless someone was being executed.

Remus turned very slowly towards the wall.

His Year Ten class watched him with sudden and passionate interest.

The music slammed through another verse.

Remus turned back.

“Militarism,” he said, voice controlled, “is the belief or desire of a government or people that a country should maintain a strong military capability and be prepared to use it aggressively to defend or promote national interests.”

“Sir?” said one of the students.

“Yes?”

“Can you say that again? I couldn’t hear because of the music.”

From next door, a cymbal crashed.

Remus’s smile was a thin, academic wound.

“Of course,” he said. “I’d be delighted.”

Three: Regulus Black hated him back.

This became clear on Friday.

Remus had stayed late to put up a display on the Industrial Revolution, because apparently he hated himself and believed wall borders were a suitable punishment for sins committed in a past life. He was halfway through stapling a printed portrait of Isambard Kingdom Brunel when the music room door opened.

Regulus stepped out carrying a stack of sheet music and a travel mug. His blazer was gone. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow. The blond streak fell loose over one eye.

Remus looked at him.

Regulus looked at the display.

Then he looked at Remus.

“Is that meant to be straight?”

Remus slowly lowered the stapler.

“Good evening to you too.”

“It was a genuine question.”

“It’s straight.”

“It’s slanting.”

“It’s not slanting.”

Regulus took three steps closer, eyes fixed on the display. “It’s slanting.”

“It’s not.”

“It is. The entire nineteenth century is tilting.”

Remus turned fully. “Do you make a habit of insulting other departments’ displays?”

“Only when they deserve it.”

“You should have said earlier. I would’ve invited you to assess my font choices.”

“I’ve already seen them.”

“And?”

“Bleak.”

Remus inhaled.

Regulus sipped from his travel mug, eyes bright over the rim.

Remus said, “Do you need something?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“For your classes to stop shouting through my lessons.”

Remus stared. “My classes?”

“Yes, yours.”

“You’re complaining about noise?”

“I am.”

“You?”

Regulus’s expression sharpened. “That sounded weighted.”

“It was carrying the full burden of irony.”

“My lessons involve music.”

“Funny, I’d wondered.”

“Yours involve thirty children yelling over you while you pretend not to be losing control.”

Remus took one step forward.

Regulus did not move back.

“My classes are louder than usual,” Remus said, “because they can’t hear themselves think over whatever battle of the bands audition is happening next door.”

“My classes are louder than usual,” Regulus said, “because your students come in already feral from being trapped in a room where enthusiasm goes to die.”

“At least my subject doesn’t require amplifiers.”

“At least mine has pulse.”

“History has plenty of pulse.”

“Yes, mostly because everyone involved is dead.”

Remus actually laughed.

It escaped him before he could stop it: a sharp, incredulous sound.

Regulus blinked, as if he had not expected that.

Remus gathered himself quickly. “Your drums are excessive.”

“Your homework is excessive.”

“My homework has pedagogical value.”

“So does rhythm.”

“Not when it sounds like someone throwing a wardrobe down a lift shaft.”

Regulus’s mouth curled.

Remus hated noticing.

“Careful, Lupin,” Regulus said. “That almost sounded creative.”

Remus stepped closer again.

Regulus was much shorter than him. It should have made the whole thing less infuriating. It did not. Regulus looked up at him with calm, poisonous confidence, as though height was something other people relied on because they lacked personality.

“I am asking you,” Remus said, “to keep the noise down.”

“And I am asking you,” Regulus said, “to teach your students how to use indoor voices before I introduce them to percussion with emotional intent.”

“That sounds like a threat.”

“It was meant to.”

They stared at each other.

The corridor light buzzed faintly overhead.

Somewhere in the distance, a cleaner’s trolley squeaked.

Regulus glanced at the display again.

“The title’s crooked too.”

Remus looked at the display.

It was crooked.

Barely.

A fraction.

A whisper.

A crime.

When he turned back, Regulus was already walking away.

“Goodnight, Lupin.”

Remus called after him, “Goodnight, Black.”

Regulus lifted one hand without turning around.

It was not a wave.

It was a dismissal.

Remus watched him go, jaw tight.

Then he turned back to the display, stared at it for seven full seconds, and ripped the title off the board.

The war began properly the next week.

Remus did not call it a war out loud, because he was an adult, a professional, and technically responsible for shaping young minds.

But privately, he knew what it was.

It was a war.

A cold war at first.

A war of glances in the corridor and comments in the staff room.

A war of doors closed a little too firmly.

A war of Remus leaning on the wall between their classrooms during break and saying, “Did Year Seven survive the tambourines, or should I alert next of kin?”

A war of Regulus replying, “Did Year Eleven survive your lesson on rationing, or did they simply lose the will?”

A war of Remus sending an email that said:

Dear Regulus,

Could you please keep the volume down during Period 3? My Year Nine group are completing an assessment.

Best,
Remus

And Regulus replying exactly nine minutes later:

Dear Remus,

Could you please ask your Year Nine group not to celebrate every completed paragraph as though they have discovered fire?

Regards,
Regulus

Remus responded:

Dear Regulus,

They are fourteen.

Best,
Remus

Regulus replied:

Dear Remus,

That explains much, excuses little.

Regards,
Regulus

Remus stared at that email for a long time.

Then he forwarded the thread to Lily with the message:

I am going to resign.

Lily replied:

No, you’re not. You love suffering too much.

He hated that she was right.

The students noticed, because of course they noticed.

Students noticed everything that did not concern homework, deadlines, or the fact that corridors had a one-way system during lesson changeover.

By October, Remus could not open his classroom door without someone asking, “Sir, did you hear Mr Black’s class yesterday?”

“Yes,” Remus said. “So did the international space station.”

“Sir, he said we’re louder than Year Seven recorders.”

“That’s because you are.”

“Sir, do you hate him?”

“No.”

A beat.

“Do you like him?”

“No.”

“Do you think he’s pretty?”

Remus dropped his whiteboard pen.

The class erupted.

He picked it up with dignity.

“No,” he said.

“Sir, you went red.”

“I bent down.”

“You’re still red.”

“Open your books.”

“Sir—”

“Books.”

They opened their books.

Badly. Slowly. With a lot of whispering.

From next door, Regulus’s class began clapping in rhythm.

Remus looked at the wall.

One of his students whispered, “They’re doing this on purpose.”

Remus said, “Yes.”

Another student said, “Are you going to do anything?”

Remus smiled.

The class leaned forward.

Remus turned back to the board and wrote:

1920s JAZZ AGE: CULTURAL CHANGE

Then he picked up the remote for the classroom speakers and played a documentary clip at a volume he would later describe to Lily as “educationally robust.”

Next door, the clapping faltered.

A minute later, the wall vibrated with a bassline.

Remus turned the documentary up.

The bassline got louder.

Remus turned the documentary up again.

The students were no longer pretending to work.

They were watching him like he was performing theatre.

A knock came at the connecting wall.

Not the door.

The wall.

Three sharp knocks.

Remus paused the documentary.

Silence fell.

Then, from the other side, Regulus’s voice rang out, clear and furious.

“Lupin.”

The Year Ten class lost its collective mind.

Remus walked to the wall.

He knocked back twice.

“Black.”

“Turn it down.”

“You first.”

“I’m teaching music.”

“I’m teaching history.”

“You’re teaching petty escalation.”

“So are you.”

The students were bent over their desks, shaking with silent laughter.

Regulus said, “You are insufferable.”

Remus said, “You are disruptive.”

“You are dull.”

“You are loud.”

“You are controlling.”

“You are childish.”

“You started it.”

“You accused an entire century of slanting.”

“It was slanting.”

“It was not.”

There was a brief silence.

Then Regulus said, “It was.”

Remus leaned his forehead against the wall.

He should have been angry.

He was angry.

But beneath that, traitorous and inconvenient, was something else.

Because Regulus’s voice, when sharpened by irritation, did something terrible to Remus’s concentration. It cut through the air bright and clean, all silver edges and heat. Regulus had a way of sounding like he was standing too close even when he was on the other side of plasterboard and institutional paint.

Remus said, “Teach your class, Black.”

Regulus replied, “Teach yours, Lupin.”

Remus stepped back from the wall.

His students stared at him.

He stared back.

“Right,” he said. “The Jazz Age.”

Someone raised a hand.

Remus pointed with deep reluctance. “Yes?”

“Sir, are you and Mr Black divorced?”

The room exploded.

Remus closed his eyes.

Next door, faintly, Regulus laughed.

That was the worst part.

He laughed.

Not loudly. Not long.

Just once, quick and unwilling and bright.

Remus hated him for it.

Remus thought about it for the rest of the day.

By November, Lily Evans had a folder.

This was dangerous.

Lily with a folder meant someone was about to be managed.

Lily without a folder was already formidable enough. She was head of curriculum because she possessed the rare combination of fierce competence, moral certainty, and the ability to make fully grown adults feel ashamed with nothing but an eyebrow. With a folder, she became administrative weather. She entered rooms and barometric pressure changed.

Remus knew this because she appeared in his doorway at lunch with the folder tucked under one arm.

He looked up from marking Year Eight assessments.

“No.”

“I haven’t said anything.”

“You have the folder.”

“That’s because I’m organised.”

“That’s because I’m doomed.”

Lily smiled. “Come with me.”

“Why?”

“Because I asked nicely first.”

“That implies there’s a second method.”

“There is.”

Remus capped his pen. “Is this about the wall?”

“It’s about several walls, two formal complaints, four informal complaints, and an email from site management asking why the humanities corridor sounds like a nightclub arguing with a museum.”

“I am the museum?”

“You are absolutely the museum.”

“That feels unfair.”

“You own three cardigans with elbow patches.”

“They’re comfortable.”

“They’re evidence.”

Remus sighed and stood.

Lily stepped aside, watching him with far too much amusement.

“Where are we going?”

“My office.”

“Is Regulus there?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Remus.”

“I have marking.”

“You always have marking. You breed it in drawers.”

“I’m behind.”

“You’re always behind.”

“This feels hostile.”

“Good,” Lily said brightly.

Regulus was already in Lily’s office when Remus arrived.

He sat in the chair opposite her desk like he had been born to look judgmental under office lighting. His legs were crossed, one boot moving slightly in the air. He wore a black shirt with the top button undone, a silver chain at his throat, and a green jumper so soft-looking Remus briefly resented it for touching him.

Regulus looked up.

His expression cooled instantly.

“Lupin.”

“Black.”

Lily shut the door behind them.

“Lovely,” she said.

Remus took the other chair.

It was too close to Regulus’s.

He refused to move it.

Regulus glanced at him as if he knew.

Lily sat behind her desk and opened the folder.

Remus disliked the folder immensely.

“Right,” Lily said. “We need to talk about the noise.”

Regulus said, “Excellent. Remus’s students—”

Remus said, “Regulus’s department—”

Lily held up a hand.

They both stopped.

She smiled.

It was not reassuring.

“One at a time,” she said. “And because I enjoy optimism, we’re going to pretend you can both manage that.”

Regulus leaned back. “I have made several reasonable requests.”

Remus turned to him. “Reasonable?”

“Yes.”

“You once emailed me a list of recommended classroom management strategies with the subject line ‘In Case You Misplaced Yours.’”

Regulus’s mouth twitched. “I thought it was helpful.”

“You attached a document called Voice Levels for Beginners.”

“It had diagrams.”

“It had a cartoon llama.”

“It was a very clear llama.”

Lily pressed her lips together.

Remus looked at her. “Don’t laugh.”

“I’m not.”

“You are internally.”

“I contain multitudes.”

Regulus said, “The issue is that his students are constantly shouting.”

Remus snapped his head back. “Because your lessons are so loud they have to shout.”

“My lessons are loud because music is sound.”

“Sound does not have to be violence.”

“History does not have to be sedation, and yet.”

Remus stared. “You are unbelievable.”

Regulus turned to Lily. “You see what I’m dealing with.”

Remus turned to Lily too. “You see what I’m dealing with.”

Lily looked between them.

For one radiant second, she appeared to consider walking directly into the sea.

Then she closed the folder.

The sound was soft.

Both men stopped talking.

“Here is what I see,” Lily said. “I see two highly capable teachers, both well-liked in different ways, both committed to their subjects, both apparently incapable of sharing a corridor without turning it into a territorial dispute.”

Regulus said, “That is an exaggeration.”

Remus said, “It’s not territorial.”

Lily looked at him.

Remus looked away.

Regulus looked faintly smug.

Lily continued. “I have students telling me they can’t concentrate. I have staff asking if there’s construction work near the music room. I have senior leadership asking why the head of curriculum keeps receiving emails titled ‘URGENT: DRUMS.’”

Regulus folded his arms. “I cannot teach music silently.”

“No one is asking you to.”

Remus muttered, “A shame.”

Regulus’s eyes flashed. “I heard that.”

“You were meant to.”

“Children,” Lily said.

They both looked at her.

She smiled again.

“Sorry. Colleagues.”

Regulus’s boot stopped moving.

Remus leaned back in his chair.

Lily tapped the folder once with her pen.

“I’ve decided on a solution.”

“No,” Remus said immediately.

“You haven’t heard it.”

“I can feel it.”

Regulus narrowed his eyes. “Why does he sound frightened?”

“Because he knows me,” Lily said.

Remus said, “Because she thinks conflict builds character.”

“It does.”

“It builds HR meetings.”

“Only if you’re unimaginative.” Lily opened a drawer, pulled out a thin booklet, and slid it across the desk. “You’re going to run a co-curricular together.”

Silence.

Then Remus said, “Absolutely not.”

At the exact same moment, Regulus said, “No.”

Lily beamed. “Good. Agreement already. Promising start.”

Remus leaned forward. “Lily.”

“Historical music,” she said.

Regulus blinked.

Remus blinked.

Lily looked very pleased with herself. “You’re welcome.”

Regulus stared at the booklet as if it might bite. “What does that mean?”

“It means you combine your subjects. Music in historical contexts. Protest songs. War music. Folk traditions. Jazz. Punk. Court music. National identity. Social movements. Plenty of scope.”

Remus said, “That sounds like something someone else could run.”

“No.”

“There are other history teachers.”

“Yes.”

“And other music teachers.”

“Yes.”

“So—”

“No.”

Regulus picked up the booklet between two fingers. “This is blackmail.”

“This is curriculum enrichment.”

“It feels like punishment.”

“Funny how often growth does.”

Remus turned to Regulus. “You’re not seriously considering this.”

Regulus looked offended. “Of course I’m not. I’d rather swallow a metronome.”

“Then we agree.”

“Don’t sound so pleased. It cheapens us both.”

Remus turned back to Lily. “There. We can’t do it.”

“You can,” Lily said. “You will. Thursdays after school. Music room. Six weeks to start.”

“No one will sign up,” Regulus said.

Lily shrugged. “Then you’ll have a quiet hour together each week.”

Remus felt something in his chest trip over itself.

A quiet hour together.

With Regulus.

Regulus’s eyes cut to him.

Remus looked away too quickly.

Damn it.

Regulus noticed. Of course he noticed. He noticed crooked titles and weak arguments and probably the exact moment a person’s dignity slipped.

His mouth curved.

“Careful, Lupin,” he said softly. “You look pale.”

Remus looked back. “Just imagining six weeks of your company.”

“Try not to swoon.”

“I’ll bring a chair.”

“Bring a personality.”

Lily said, “Excellent chemistry.”

They both said, “No.”

Lily stood. “Wonderful. First session next Thursday.”

Remus remained seated. “Lily—”

“This is not optional.”

Regulus stood too. “You cannot force us to run a club.”

“I can frame it as professional collaboration and put it in your performance development targets.”

Regulus went still.

Remus slowly turned to him. “That one landed, didn’t it?”

Regulus ignored him. “You wouldn’t.”

Lily’s smile softened into something almost affectionate and therefore far more terrifying.

“Try me.”

Regulus looked at her.

Lily looked back.

Remus had seen Year Elevens crack faster.

Regulus finally said, “Fine.”

Remus stared at him. “Fine?”

Regulus shot him a look. “I’m not happy about it.”

“I gathered that from your face.”

“My face is none of your business.”

“Difficult when it keeps appearing near my classroom.”

“Likewise.”

Lily walked around the desk and opened her office door. “Thursday. After school. Music room. Play nicely.”

Regulus swept out first.

Remus followed.

In the corridor, Regulus stopped so abruptly Remus almost walked into him.

Regulus turned.

“You will not sabotage this.”

Remus gave a humourless laugh. “Me?”

“Yes, you.”

“You think I’m the danger to a peaceful working environment?”

“I think you’re stubborn, condescending, and used to being quietly impossible in ways people mistake for maturity.”

Remus stared at him.

That had been far too specific.

Regulus stared back, eyes bright.

Remus said, “And I think you’re arrogant, provocative, and addicted to getting reactions because you’ve mistaken attention for winning.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

The corridor felt much narrower than usual.

Regulus’s mouth parted slightly.

Then he shut it.

Remus had the strange, disorienting sense that he had surprised him.

Good.

Then Regulus smiled, sharp as a paper cut.

“Thursday, then.”

“Thursday.”

Regulus stepped closer to pass him.

Remus did not move.

For half a second, they stood shoulder to shoulder.

Regulus smelled faintly of bergamot and coffee.

Remus stared at the opposite wall like it had the answers to every bad decision he had ever made.

Regulus said, very quietly, “Try to keep up.”

Then he walked away.

Remus stayed where he was.

Behind him, Lily’s office door was still open.

He did not turn around.

“Don’t,” he said.

Lily’s voice floated out, delighted. “I didn’t say anything.”

The first session of Historical Music had no students.

None.

Not one.

Remus arrived at the music room at 3:12 with a folder under one arm and the grim satisfaction of a man who had been proven correct by failure.

Regulus was already there, naturally.

He sat sideways at the piano bench, one leg crossed over the other, marking something in red pen. The music room looked different from the history classroom in ways Remus found immediately irritating. Too alive, for one thing. Too much colour on the walls. Too many instruments waiting with silent potential. Posters of musicians and movements and album covers lined the far side. A drum kit sat in the corner like a threat.

The history classroom had timelines.

The music room had mood.

Remus hated that too.

Regulus looked up. “You’re late.”

“It starts at quarter past.”

“It’s twelve past.”

“Then I’m early.”

“You arrived after me.”

“That doesn’t define lateness.”

“It defines taste.”

Remus put his folder on a table. “No one’s coming.”

Regulus looked back down at his marking. “Apparently not.”

“You seem devastated.”

“I’m hiding it bravely.”

Remus pulled out a chair and sat. “We could use this time productively.”

Regulus lifted his gaze. “We could also sit in silence.”

“That would be productive.”

“I knew you’d think so.”

Remus leaned back. “I brought lesson ideas.”

Regulus stared.

Remus tapped the folder. “For the co-curricular.”

“No one came.”

“This week.”

“No one will come next week.”

“Probably not.”

“Then why did you bring lesson ideas?”

“Because Lily will ask.”

Regulus considered him for a long moment.

Then he put his red pen down.

“You really are like this all the time.”

“Prepared?”

“Tragic.”

Remus opened the folder. “Week one: music and political protest.”

Regulus made a face. “Obvious.”

“Obvious is often accessible.”

“Accessible is often boring.”

“Would you prefer starting with Baroque court composition and monarchy?”

Regulus paused.

Remus smiled faintly. “Thought not.”

“I’d start with rhythm as ritual.”

Remus blinked.

Regulus stood, taking his coffee with him. “If we’re doing historical music, we start before lyrics. Before notation. Before your beloved printed sources. Music as memory, warning, worship, work, grief. People making sound because silence wasn’t enough.”

Remus watched him move around the room, quick and precise, tapping one finger against the side of his mug as he spoke.

“It’s older than politics,” Regulus continued. “Older than written history. You want them to care? Don’t start with a worksheet about protest songs. Start with why people ever made music at all.”

Remus hated that this was good.

Regulus turned back to him. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“That face isn’t nothing.”

“I was thinking.”

“Painful?”

“Occasionally.”

Regulus leaned against a table. “You disagree.”

“No.”

Regulus blinked. “No?”

“No,” Remus said. “You’re right.”

Regulus stared at him.

Remus looked down at his notes and wrote, with some resentment:

WEEK 1 — WHY HUMANS MAKE MUSIC / MUSIC BEFORE WRITING / SOUND AS MEMORY

When he looked up, Regulus was still staring.

“What?”

“You admitted I was right.”

“You were.”

“I expected more resistance.”

“I can resist if you need consistency.”

Regulus narrowed his eyes. “Was that a joke?”

“No.”

“It was.”

“It wasn’t.”

“You’re bad at them.”

“And yet you noticed.”

Regulus looked away first.

Remus felt a small, ridiculous victory bloom in his chest.

Then Regulus walked to the board and picked up a marker. “Fine. If we’re designing a course no one will attend, we might as well make it less embarrassing.”

“Agreed.”

“Don’t sound so relieved.”

“Don’t be so helpful.”

“I’m not helpful.”

“You are currently helping.”

“I’m correcting.”

“Same outcome.”

“Different spirit.”

Remus smiled down at his folder.

Regulus caught it.

“Don’t smile,” he said.

“I wasn’t.”

“You were.”

“You monitor my face a lot.”

“I monitor threats.”

“I’m a threat?”

“To my blood pressure.”

Remus looked up.

Regulus was turned to the board, writing in elegant, slanted handwriting.

His shoulders were narrow beneath the green jumper. His hair had fallen forward again. The blond streak gleamed under the classroom lights.

Remus looked away.

He had made a grave mistake.

Because with no students in the room, no wall between them, and no noise to be angry about, Regulus Black was still infuriating.

He was also, inconveniently, brilliant.

The next week, no one came again.

They planned anyway.

The week after that, three students lingered outside the door, saw Remus and Regulus arguing over whether punk belonged before or after post-war folk revival, panicked, and left.

Regulus watched them go.

Remus watched Regulus watch them go.

“Your face scared them off,” Remus said.

“My face inspires devotion.”

“From a distance, perhaps.”

Regulus turned. “Jealous?”

“Concerned.”

“For them?”

“For society.”

Regulus threw a whiteboard eraser at him.

Remus caught it.

Regulus’s eyes narrowed. “Annoying.”

“You threw it badly.”

“I threw it beautifully. You ruined the arc.”

“You’re blaming me for catching something?”

“I’m blaming you for being there.”

“I work here.”

“Still.”

Remus put the eraser down, very carefully, because he was mature.

Mostly.

By the fourth week, they had four students.

Not because of the posters Lily had printed.

Not because of the announcement in assembly.

Not because of Remus’s carefully phrased explanation to his Year Eleven class that the co-curricular would “explore the relationship between social change and musical expression.”

No.

They came because someone had filmed ten seconds of Remus and Regulus arguing by the doorway about whether a lute counted as “emotionally avoidant.”

The clip circulated by lunch.

By the end of the day, several students had asked whether Historical Music was “the club where the teachers beef.”

Remus said no.

Regulus said, “Apparently.”

So four students came.

They sat in the back row, whispering feverishly.

Remus stood at the front beside Regulus and tried not to feel like an exhibit.

“Welcome,” he said. “This is Historical Music.”

Regulus leaned against the piano. “Against all sense and scheduling.”

Remus shot him a look.

The students’ eyes widened.

Regulus smiled faintly.

Remus cleared his throat. “We’ll be looking at the ways music reflects, preserves, and shapes historical experience.”

Regulus said, “And how history gives music teeth.”

One student whispered, “That was hard.”

Another whispered, “Shut up.”

Remus pretended not to hear.

Regulus absolutely heard and looked pleased.

The lesson, annoyingly, went well.

Remus explained work songs and rhythm as coordination, how labour shaped sound, how communal singing could turn effort into endurance. Regulus demonstrated by building a rhythm on the table with his palms, then making the students join, layering claps and foot stamps until the room pulsed with something simple and old and alive.

Remus watched students who usually slumped through lessons sit forward.

Regulus moved through the rhythm like it belonged to him.

“Feel that?” he said, tapping out the beat. “That’s not decoration. That’s function. That’s timekeeping. That’s bodies agreeing on motion. That’s music doing a job before anyone cares whether it’s pretty.”

A student raised a hand. “Sir, is that why sea shanties work?”

Remus pointed. “Exactly.”

Regulus snapped his fingers. “Good. You’ve made the history teacher happy. Dangerous choice.”

The students laughed.

Remus looked at him.

Regulus looked back, eyebrows raised.

Remus said, “Sea shanties are an excellent example.”

Regulus murmured, “Of course they are.”

By the end, the students were arguing over whether protest songs worked better when they were angry or sad.

Remus packed up slowly, listening.

Regulus stood beside him, arms folded.

One student said, “Are you doing this next week?”

Remus said, “Yes.”

Regulus said, “Unfortunately.”

Another student said, “Are you both going to be here?”

“Yes,” Remus said.

“Unfortunately,” Regulus said again.

The student grinned. “Cool.”

When they left, the room felt oddly empty.

Remus picked up his folder.

Regulus closed the piano lid.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Remus said, “That went well.”

Regulus looked pained. “Don’t sound smug.”

“I’m not smug.”

“You’re breathing smugly.”

“That’s just asthma.”

Regulus paused. “You have asthma?”

“No.”

“Then you’re smug.”

Remus laughed before he could stop himself.

Regulus’s gaze flickered to his mouth.

It was quick.

Almost nothing.

But Remus saw it.

Or thought he saw it.

Or wanted to have seen it, which was worse.

Regulus looked away. “Next week, we do protest songs.”

Remus said, “I thought that was obvious.”

“It is. I’ve decided obvious can be useful when properly handled.”

“How generous.”

“I contain multitudes.”

“That’s Lily’s line.”

“I improved it.”

“You stole it.”

“I refined it.”

Remus stepped closer to collect his coat from the back of a chair.

Regulus did not move.

They were too close again.

They kept doing that.

Or the room did.

Or gravity did.

Something.

Regulus looked up at him, expression unreadable.

Remus became deeply aware of the shape of his mouth.

The exact curve of it. The faintest shine where he had worried his lower lip while listening to a student speak. The way his face could be all sharp angles and then, suddenly, almost soft.

Remus looked away.

“Thursday,” he said.

Regulus’s voice was quieter than usual. “Thursday.”

The club grew.

The next week, twelve students came.

The week after that, nineteen.

By December, Historical Music had a waiting list, which Remus considered proof that teenagers could not be trusted with freedom.

The students came for the music, some of them.

They came for the history, a surprising few.

Mostly, they came for the arguments.

They arrived early and filled the room with the breathless energy of spectators at a boxing match.

“Do you reckon they’ll fight today?”

“They always fight.”

“Yeah, but like properly.”

“They’re going to get married.”

“Teachers don’t do that.”

“My aunt married her driving instructor.”

“That’s not the same.”

“It’s basically the same.”

Remus heard far too much.

Regulus heard all of it and pretended he didn’t, which meant his ears went pink.

Remus discovered this one Thursday when he walked in halfway through a student whispering, “No, but teachers who argue like that are definitely flirting.”

Regulus was standing at the front sorting through a playlist.

His expression did not change.

His ears betrayed him beautifully.

Remus shut the door.

“Afternoon,” he said.

Regulus did not look up. “You’re late.”

“I’m three minutes early.”

“Later than me.”

“We’ve had this conversation.”

“And yet you haven’t improved.”

The students exchanged looks.

One mouthed, See?

Remus put his folder down. “Today we’re looking at protest songs.”

A hand shot up.

Remus sighed. “Yes?”

“Are you protesting each other?”

Regulus said, “Constantly.”

The room went up.

Remus pointed at him. “Do not encourage them.”

“They asked.”

“You don’t have to answer everything.”

“That explains your teaching style.”

“Ooh,” said one student.

Remus turned. “Not a sports match.”

“Sorry, sir.”

Regulus smiled at the laptop.

Remus said, “Today we’re considering how music can become a tool of political expression.”

Regulus clicked something, and a rough guitar chord filled the room.

“Or,” he said, “how anger learns to carry a tune.”

Remus looked at him.

Regulus looked back.

The room quieted.

It happened like that sometimes now. The noise would collapse suddenly, not because either of them demanded it, but because the space between them pulled attention like a struck match in a dark room.

Remus disliked how much he liked teaching with him.

He had always enjoyed his subject. He loved the shape of the past, the long threads between cause and consequence, the way a century could turn on a speech, a famine, a factory, a rumour, a song. He loved teaching students to look at the world and see ghosts in its foundations.

But Regulus made everything immediate.

Remus gave them context; Regulus gave it a pulse.

Remus explained movements; Regulus found the note beneath them.

Remus spoke of protest, censorship, war, labour, identity, and Regulus made the room listen not just with minds but with skin.

It was unbearable.

It was addictive.

It was ruining Remus’s life.

“Music doesn’t just reflect history,” Regulus told the students, pacing slowly at the front. “It can interrupt it. It can gather people who have nothing else. It can put a sentence in everyone’s mouth at once.”

Remus leaned against the desk, watching him.

Regulus glanced over. “Anything to add?”

The tone was challenging.

The look was worse.

Remus straightened. “Only that songs often survive where official accounts fail.”

Regulus’s eyebrow lifted.

Remus continued, “Governments record what they want remembered. Institutions preserve what flatters them. But music can carry what people actually felt. Fear. Rage. Hope. Grief. The things too dangerous to write down plainly.”

Regulus went still.

The students were quiet.

Remus looked at him, not them.

Regulus looked back.

For once, he had no immediate retort.

Remus felt absurdly triumphant.

Then Regulus said, softer, “Good. You do have a pulse.”

The students burst into laughter.

Remus rolled his eyes, but warmth had already climbed the back of his neck.

Regulus turned away, smiling like he had won.

Maybe he had.

After Christmas, the club became chaos.

Respectable chaos, educational chaos, but chaos nonetheless.

Students brought friends.

Friends brought snacks.

Someone made a group chat.

Someone else made a poster with Remus and Regulus’s faces badly cut out and the words HISTORICAL MUSIC: COME FOR THE CONTEXT, STAY FOR THE DIVORCE.

Lily found it first.

She brought it to Remus at break.

He was marking in his classroom, trying to drink tea before it became tragic.

Lily placed the poster on his desk.

Remus stared at it.

Then he looked up.

“No.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“No.”

“It’s quite good.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“They’ve captured your hair well.”

“They’ve made Regulus look like a vampire prince.”

“He does look like a vampire prince.”

Remus picked up the poster. “I’m confiscating this.”

“It was on the enrichment board.”

“Why?”

“Advertising.”

“This is slander.”

“This is student voice.”

“This is a disciplinary matter.”

“This is hilarious.”

Remus folded the poster.

Lily leaned against his desk. “You know they’re obsessed with you both.”

“They’re obsessed with disruption.”

“They’re obsessed with narrative.”

“There is no narrative.”

Lily’s smile gentled in the most dangerous way possible.

Remus looked away.

She said, “How’s the co-curricular?”

“Fine.”

“Fine?”

“It’s popular.”

“It’s very popular.”

“Then why ask?”

“Because I wasn’t asking about attendance.”

Remus stared at a Year Nine exercise book without reading a word.

Lily waited.

She was unfortunately good at waiting.

Eventually, Remus said, “He’s difficult.”

“Yes.”

“Arrogant.”

“Yes.”

“Needlessly provocative.”

“Frequently.”

“Too sharp for his own good.”

“Definitely.”

“And he winds me up on purpose.”

“Oh, obviously.”

Remus nodded. “Exactly.”

Lily tilted her head. “And?”

He looked at her.

“And what?”

“And he’s brilliant.”

Remus said nothing.

Lily smiled. “There it is.”

“There’s nothing.”

“Remus.”

“No.”

“I didn’t say what.”

“You were about to.”

“I was going to say you respect him.”

“That’s not a crime.”

“No.” Lily’s eyes glittered. “But that’s not all.”

Remus closed the exercise book. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything. You started it somewhere around September when you mistook a grown man for a student and then proceeded to build an entire personality conflict around not knowing what to do with finding him attractive.”

Remus stared at her in horror.

Lily looked pleased.

“Your face,” she said. “Remarkable.”

“I do not—”

“You do.”

“I don’t.”

“You absolutely do.”

“Lily.”

“You stare at him like he’s an unexploded archive.”

“That doesn’t even mean anything.”

“It means you want to touch him and you’re scared he’ll destroy you historically.”

Remus stood. “I have a lesson.”

“You have lunch.”

“I have to prepare.”

“You have taught the Tudors twelve thousand times.”

“I might innovate.”

“You might pine.”

“I am not pining.”

“You are pining with a lesson planner.”

Remus grabbed the poster. “I’m going to put this in the bin.”

Lily stepped aside. “Coward.”

He stopped at the door.

Turned.

Pointed at her with the folded poster.

“I am not attracted to Regulus Black.”

The universe, having an ugly sense of humour, chose that moment to let Regulus appear in the doorway.

He was holding a stack of keyboards.

He looked from Remus, to the poster, to Lily.

Then he said, “How convincing.”

Remus wished for immediate, total structural collapse.

Lily, who was evil, smiled. “Regulus.”

“Lily.”

Remus stood frozen.

Regulus’s gaze slid back to him. “Lupin.”

Remus said, with impressive lack of dignity, “This isn’t my poster.”

Regulus looked at the folded paper in his hand. “Do you often carry other people’s posters while announcing who doesn’t attract you?”

Lily made a sound suspiciously close to a laugh.

Remus turned on her. “Don’t.”

Regulus set the keyboards down on a desk. “I need to borrow extension leads.”

“From history?” Remus said.

“No, from you specifically. I assumed you keep several in your cardigan pockets with the chalk dust and emotional repression.”

Lily laughed properly.

Remus closed his eyes.

Regulus’s mouth curved.

Remus opened his eyes just in time to catch it.

That was a mistake.

Regulus Black’s smile, when unguarded, was a devastating thing. Small. Quick. Rare enough to feel accidental. It took the cold symmetry of his face and made it briefly, startlingly alive.

Remus forgot what they had been talking about.

Regulus noticed.

Of course he noticed.

His smile faded into something quieter.

Lily looked between them.

The room held still.

Then a bell rang.

Students roared into the corridor like released wildlife.

Regulus stepped back.

“Extension leads,” he said.

Remus blinked. “Cupboard. Bottom shelf.”

“I know.”

“Then why ask?”

“I wanted to see if you’d answer.”

Remus frowned. “Why wouldn’t I answer?”

Regulus picked up the keyboards again. “Because you’re busy not being attracted to me.”

Lily put a hand over her mouth.

Remus, with all the composure of a man whose life had caught fire in front of a colleague, said, “Bottom shelf.”

Regulus passed him.

At the doorway, he paused.

His shoulder nearly brushed Remus’s arm.

“Don’t worry,” Regulus said, voice low enough that Lily perhaps heard it and perhaps didn’t. “You were almost believable.”

Then he was gone.

Remus stood there.

Lily said, “You’re handling this beautifully.”

Remus walked to his desk, sat down, and placed the student poster carefully in his drawer instead of the bin.

He did not know why he did that.

That was a lie.

He knew exactly why.

The worst thing about wanting Regulus was that the wanting had nowhere sensible to go.

It settled into ordinary moments.

A glance across a crowded corridor.

A shoulder brushing his in the staff briefing.

Regulus leaning over Remus’s lesson notes during co-curricular, the chain at his throat swinging forward slightly, his hair falling into his eyes as he said, “No, that example is dull. Use the other one.”

Regulus at the piano after school, playing absentmindedly while Remus packed up, fingers moving softly over the keys.

Regulus arguing with a student about whether Auto-Tune counted as an instrument.

Regulus drinking coffee like it had personally wronged him.

Regulus laughing at something a Year Twelve said, quick and unwilling and bright as match flare.

Remus started remembering details he had no business remembering.

How Regulus always rolled his sleeves when he was about to demonstrate something.

How he tapped two fingers against his thigh when thinking.

How he went very still before he got truly angry.

How he hated being interrupted but interrupted Remus constantly.

How his voice sharpened when he was annoyed and softened when a student was genuinely trying.

How students who arrived loud and careless left his lessons standing taller.

It was unbearable.

It was not love.

Remus was not reckless enough to call it love.

It was attraction, irritation, respect, fascination, and a catastrophic failure of professional detachment.

Historical Music did not help.

Historical Music made it worse.

By February, the room was packed every Thursday.

Students sat on the floor between guitar stands. They perched on windowsills. They argued over periods of history with the confidence of people who had once claimed that the Victorian era happened in the 1950s.

Remus and Regulus had found a rhythm.

Not peace.

Never peace.

Peace would have bored them both to death.

But rhythm.

Remus would begin with context. Regulus would interrupt with sound. Remus would challenge the interruption. Regulus would challenge the challenge. Students would watch like they were witnessing a sport. Somewhere in the clash, the lesson would become sharper, funnier, better.

One Thursday, they were covering music and empire.

Remus had barely written the title on the board before Regulus said, “Your title is doing that thing again.”

Remus turned. “What thing?”

“Being dull.”

“It’s a title. It’s not meant to dance.”

“In my classroom, titles can aspire.”

“This is our classroom for one hour a week.”

“Tragic, isn’t it?”

“You can’t insult the title before I’ve started.”

“I can. I did. History in motion.”

A student whispered, “They’re starting early today.”

Remus pointed without looking. “I heard that.”

Regulus said, “Everyone heard it. That’s what volume does.”

Remus turned to him. “Would you like to teach this section?”

“No.”

“Then let me.”

“I am letting you.”

“You are actively not.”

“I’m providing texture.”

“You’re providing obstacles.”

“Texture often is.”

Remus stared at him.

Regulus stared back.

The students leaned in.

Remus said, “Are you finished?”

Regulus pretended to consider. “For now.”

“How generous.”

“I’m known for it.”

“You are known for many things. Generosity isn’t high on the list.”

Regulus smiled. “You keep lists?”

“Professionally.”

“Of my qualities?”

“Of corridor hazards.”

Regulus placed one hand over his chest. “You think I’m hazardous?”

Remus opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

Because yes.

Obviously yes.

Regulus was a hazard. A beautiful, sharp-tongued, grey-eyed hazard. A walking professional hazard with lovely hands and a mouth Remus thought about too often for a man with a mortgage and marking deadlines.

Regulus’s smile shifted.

He knew.

The students knew something.

They did not know what, exactly, but they knew enough to go silent.

Remus turned back to the board too quickly. “Empire.”

His voice was rough.

Regulus did not interrupt for the next five minutes.

That was almost worse.

After the session, when the students had gone, Remus stayed behind to rearrange chairs.

Regulus unplugged a speaker.

Neither spoke.

The silence stretched.

Remus hated the silence.

Regulus, who apparently could sense peace and needed to murder it, said, “You’ve been strange all week.”

Remus kept stacking chairs. “Have I?”

“Yes.”

“I’m tired.”

“You’re always tired.”

“I’m especially tired.”

“Of me?”

Remus paused with one chair in his hands.

He set it down carefully.

Regulus watched him from across the room.

Remus said, “Why would you ask that?”

Regulus shrugged, too casual. “You’ve been quieter.”

“You complain when I talk.”

“I complain when you bore me.”

“That must be difficult. You’re bored so easily.”

“Not by you.”

The room became very still.

Remus looked at him.

Regulus seemed to regret saying it the moment it left his mouth.

His chin lifted, defensive. His shoulders went back. His expression sharpened as if he could cut the words out of the air before Remus reached them.

Remus, because he was apparently a fool, took one step closer.

Regulus did not move.

“Regulus.”

Regulus’s eyes flicked.

Remus did not call him Regulus often.

Almost never.

Black was safer. Black was distance. Black was rivalry and walls and complaints and all the brittle armour they had built from September onward.

Regulus was something else.

Something with the door unlocked.

Regulus said, “Don’t.”

Remus stopped.

He did not ask what Regulus meant.

He knew.

Do not step closer.

Do not make this real.

Do not say the thing hovering between them with teeth.

So Remus swallowed it.

He nodded once.

“Thursday,” he said.

Regulus looked away. “Thursday.”

And the wanting, denied, only grew teeth of its own.

March came wet and grey, all rain on windows and muddy footprints across corridors.

The walls between history and music seemed thinner than ever.

Remus would be halfway through the Russian Revolution and hear Regulus next door conducting a group through some complicated rhythm exercise.

Regulus would be in the middle of composition work and hear Remus’s Year Ten class erupt over some debate Remus had allowed to become dangerously enthusiastic.

They complained, of course.

It was tradition by then.

Regulus would appear at Remus’s door, arms folded.

“Are you teaching history or hosting livestock?”

Remus would not look up from his desk. “Are you teaching music or summoning weather?”

“My Year Nines have better timing than your Year Elevens.”

“My Year Elevens know when the Cold War started.”

“Do they know when to stop shouting?”

“Do your Year Nines know volume settings exist?”

“Do you?”

“Come closer and find out.”

That one slipped.

Remus heard it after he said it.

So did Regulus.

So did the three students passing in the corridor, who froze like startled deer.

Regulus’s eyes widened a fraction.

Remus’s heart tried to climb out of his throat.

Then Regulus recovered, because Regulus always recovered.

He took one slow step into the classroom.

“Is that a threat, Lupin?”

Remus stood behind his desk.

The students in the corridor were still frozen.

Remus said, “An invitation to observe effective teaching.”

Regulus smiled.

“Tempting,” he said. “But I prefer music.”

“Because it forgives poor arguments?”

“Because it punishes bad rhythm.”

“My rhythm is fine.”

Regulus glanced over him. “Is it?”

The students in the corridor made a noise.

Remus looked at them.

They scattered.

Regulus’s smile was unbearable.

Remus lowered his voice. “You are doing this on purpose.”

“Doing what?”

“Trying to provoke me.”

“Yes,” Regulus said simply.

Remus stared.

Regulus tilted his head. “It works.”

Then he left.

Remus sat down very slowly.

His Year Eleven class, who had been pretending not to listen and failing miserably, stared at him.

One student said, “Sir?”

Remus said, “Do not.”

“But—”

“I will set homework.”

The class fell silent.

Remus picked up his pen.

His hand was not entirely steady.

By April, Historical Music had become the school’s most unlikely success story.

Lily took credit, naturally.

She appeared at the back of one session with a clipboard and the expression of a person watching a plan become better than she had any right to expect. Remus saw her there while Regulus was leading the students through a section on music and memory.

He was using a piano motif, repeating it softly while asking the students what changed when the same notes were played slower, lower, fractured, unresolved.

“It feels sad,” one student said.

Regulus nodded. “Why?”

“Because it sounds like it’s remembering something.”

“Good. What if I play it like this?”

He changed the rhythm.

The mood shifted.

Unease crept through the room.

Another student said, “Now it sounds like something bad’s going to happen.”

Remus leaned against the wall, arms folded, watching.

Regulus’s fingers moved gently.

“Music cheats,” Regulus said. “It gets under language. History tells you what happened. Music tells you how the ghost of it might feel when it walks into a room.”

Remus forgot Lily was there.

He forgot the students for a second too.

Regulus looked up across the piano.

Their eyes met.

And Remus felt it with awful clarity.

Oh, he thought.

Not the beginning of it.

That had been months ago.

This was simply the moment the denial lost its footing.

Oh.

Lily caught him afterwards in the corridor.

She did not smile this time.

That was how Remus knew he was doomed.

“Careful,” she said.

He looked at her. “I know.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

“Because the students are romantic little vultures and staff gossip travels faster than flu.”

“I know.”

“And Regulus is—”

“I know.”

Lily softened. “I was going to say not as untouchable as he acts.”

Remus looked through the window of the music room.

Regulus was inside, alone now, putting away sheet music. He looked smaller when he thought no one was watching. Not fragile. Never fragile. But less armoured. The coldness fell away, leaving something quiet and tired around his mouth.

Remus said, “I know that too.”

Lily followed his gaze.

For once, she did not tease.

“Then don’t hurt each other for sport,” she said.

Remus huffed a humourless laugh. “Isn’t that our entire dynamic?”

“No,” Lily said. “That’s what you use to avoid the rest of it.”

Remus said nothing.

Lily touched his arm lightly.

Then she left him there.

The Thursday before Easter break, the room was too hot.

That was how Remus would remember it later.

Not as the day everything broke.

Not as the day the students screamed.

Not as the day Regulus Black finally stopped being on the other side of all that unbearable distance.

He would remember heat.

Radiators clanking despite the mild weather. Too many students in one room. Rain drying off blazers. Bodies packed in rows and on the floor. The faint electric warmth of the speakers. The smell of dust, coffee, damp wool, and Regulus’s cologne cutting through it all like trouble.

The topic was music and revolution.

It should have been safe.

Nothing was safe with Regulus.

Remus stood at the front with his sleeves rolled up, trying to explain how revolutionary songs could compress ideology into something repeatable, memorable, portable. Regulus had been in a mood from the start. Sharp. Restless. Bright-eyed. He kept interrupting.

Not lightly.

Not playfully.

Actually interrupting.

“No,” Regulus said for the fourth time.

Remus stopped mid-sentence.

The students went silent with the instant obedience of people who sensed blood in the water.

Remus turned. “No?”

Regulus stood near the piano, arms crossed. “You’re making it too tidy.”

“I am making it comprehensible.”

“You’re sanding the edges off.”

“I’m providing structure.”

“You’re embalming it.”

A few students whispered, “Oh my God.”

Remus ignored them.

He looked at Regulus. “Would you like to explain what exactly you object to?”

“Yes.”

“Briefly?”

“No.”

A ripple of laughter.

Remus’s jaw tightened.

Regulus stepped forward.

“That’s the problem with the way you teach it,” he said. “Everything becomes cause and effect. Context and consequence. As though people in the middle of upheaval are calmly arranging themselves into paragraphs for your exam board.”

Remus folded his arms. “I don’t teach it that way.”

“You just did.”

“I did not.”

“You did.”

“Regulus.”

The first name cracked through the room.

Regulus stopped.

So did the students.

Remus never used his first name in front of them.

Regulus’s eyes flashed.

“What?”

Remus lowered his voice. “Do not turn this into a performance.”

Regulus laughed once. “That’s rich coming from you.”

“From me?”

“Yes, from you.”

“I am trying to teach.”

“You’re trying to control the room.”

“That is part of teaching.”

“No, that is part of you.”

The words landed hard.

Remus felt them in his ribs.

The students had stopped breathing.

Regulus seemed too angry to notice or too far gone to care.

He stepped closer.

“You can’t stand anything messy,” he said. “Anything loud. Anything that doesn’t fit into your notes. You want revolution, but only if it sits politely on your timeline.”

Remus’s pulse kicked.

“That is not what I’m doing.”

“It is exactly what you’re doing.”

“You’re oversimplifying my argument because you want a fight.”

Regulus smiled, but there was no humour in it. “Maybe your argument deserves one.”

A student whispered, “This is insane.”

Remus heard it distantly.

The room had narrowed.

Regulus was in front of him now, close enough that Remus could see the colour high in his cheeks. His hair was wild from where he had pushed it back too many times. His mouth was set, furious and pretty and impossible.

Remus said, “Lower your voice.”

Regulus’s eyebrows shot up. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

“You’re shouting.”

“So are you.”

“I am not.”

“You are.”

“I’m asking you to stop derailing the lesson.”

“And I’m asking you to stop making everything bloodless.”

Remus stepped closer without meaning to.

Regulus did not step back.

Of course he didn’t.

He never did.

“Bloodless?” Remus repeated.

“Yes.”

“You think I don’t care about what I teach?”

“I think you care so much you strangle it.”

The room flinched.

Remus stared at him.

Regulus’s chest rose and fell quickly. His eyes were bright. His jaw was set like he had bitten down on something that hurt and refused to let go.

Remus should have walked away.

He knew that.

A reasonable man would have ended the session. Sent the students out. Taken ten minutes. Spoken privately. Done anything other than stand in a room full of teenagers while months of tension dragged itself up from beneath the floorboards.

But Regulus was looking at him like that.

Like he wanted to win.

Like he wanted to be stopped.

Like he wanted Remus to finally, finally stop pretending he did not hear every challenge underneath the words.

Regulus said, louder, “Well?”

Remus’s control frayed.

“Enough.”

Regulus laughed again, sharp and breathless. “That’s it?”

“Regulus.”

“No, go on, Lupin. Tell me to behave. That usually works so well for you.”

Something in Remus snapped.

Not violently.

Not cruelly.

But completely.

One second he was standing there with his hands clenched at his sides, every sensible thought burning out behind his eyes.

The next, he had crossed the remaining distance.

Regulus’s eyes widened.

Remus caught him by the front of his blazer and turned them, backing him into the wall beside the whiteboard with a dull, solid thud that made the room gasp.

For half a second, they simply stared at each other.

Regulus’s mouth opened.

Remus looked at it.

And then he kissed him.

The room detonated.

Someone screamed.

Someone shouted, “NO WAY!”

Someone else made a sound like a chair had died.

But Remus barely heard any of it, because Regulus made one small, startled noise against his mouth, a shocked little sound that went straight through him, and then his hands flew up and grabbed at Remus’s shirt like he was falling.

Remus pressed closer before he could think better of it.

Regulus kissed him back.

Not cautiously.

Not politely.

Furiously.

Like he argued. Like he taught. Like every sharp thing in him had found another shape.

His fingers twisted in Remus’s shirt. His shoulders hit the wall. Remus’s hand found his waist, firm and instinctive, holding him there as Regulus rose onto his toes, chasing the kiss with a desperation that made Remus’s head go white.

The students were losing their minds.

“Oh my God!”

“I KNEW IT!”

“THEY’RE ACTUALLY—”

“MISS EVANS NEEDS TO SEE THIS!”

“NO, DON’T GET MISS EVANS, ARE YOU MAD?”

“THEY’RE GOING TO GET FIRED!”

“They’re not going to get fired for kissing!”

“They might!”

“Sir! Sir!”

Regulus broke away first.

Barely.

His mouth was red. His eyes were wide and stunned. He was still clutching Remus’s shirt.

Remus was breathing like he had sprinted the length of the building.

For one suspended, disastrous second, he forgot where they were.

Then a student whispered, with reverent horror, “Historical Music is the best club in school.”

Regulus blinked.

Remus blinked.

Reality returned like a fire alarm.

Remus stepped back so fast he almost tripped over a chair.

Regulus remained against the wall, one hand still lifted, fingers curled as if Remus’s shirt had vanished out of them.

The room was chaos.

Absolute chaos.

Students were standing. Laughing. Screaming. Clapping. A few had their hands over their mouths. One looked like they had witnessed a religious event. Another was half under a table, apparently overcome.

Remus ran both hands over his face.

“Sit down,” he said.

No one sat down.

His voice came out rougher. “Sit down.”

The students sat.

Mostly because Regulus, still flushed and wide-eyed, snapped, “Now.”

They dropped into seats instantly.

Remus looked at him.

Regulus looked back.

Then looked away.

His ears were scarlet.

Remus’s heart was trying to kill him.

A student slowly raised a hand.

Remus closed his eyes.

“No.”

The hand went down.

Another student raised a hand.

Regulus said, “Also no.”

The hand went down.

Silence stretched.

It was not peaceful silence.

It was explosive silence.

The kind of silence with thirty pairs of eyes and no mercy.

Remus cleared his throat.

“We are,” he said, then stopped, because there was no possible dignified end to that sentence.

Regulus touched his own mouth, seemed to realise what he was doing, and dropped his hand.

The students made a collective sound.

Regulus glared. “One noise from any of you and I’m assigning a two-thousand-word reflection on the historical significance of silence.”

Instant quiet.

Remus looked at him.

Despite everything, despite the catastrophe, despite the fact that his career had just flashed before his eyes wearing clown shoes, he almost smiled.

Regulus saw it.

His eyes narrowed.

“Don’t.”

Remus said softly, “I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

The students started vibrating.

Regulus pointed at them. “No.”

They froze again.

Remus turned back to the board.

The words MUSIC AND REVOLUTION stared at him.

He looked at the title.

Then at Regulus.

Then at the students.

“Right,” Remus said, voice still uneven. “Where were we?”

A student whispered, “Revolution.”

The room cracked.

Laughter spilled everywhere, helpless and loud.

Regulus covered his face with one hand.

Remus stared at the ceiling.

He could hear Lily’s voice in his head with terrifying clarity.

Careful.

Well.

So much for that.

The session ended early because there was simply no recovering it.

Remus dismissed them with the sternest expression he could manage, which was not very stern, considering his mouth still felt like Regulus and the students were leaving with the manic joy of people who had just been given a story they would tell until graduation.

“No filming,” Regulus said sharply as they packed up.

A student froze.

Regulus held out his hand.

The student reluctantly passed him a phone.

Regulus deleted the video with the terrifying efficiency of a man who had ruined lives before breakfast.

“Anyone else?”

Three more phones appeared.

Remus stared. “You filmed?”

One student said, “Instinct.”

Regulus deleted another video. “Develop worse instincts.”

“Sorry, sir.”

“You will be.”

By the time the last student left, the room was wrecked.

Chairs crooked.

Papers scattered.

The air still charged.

The door clicked shut.

Silence.

Real silence this time.

Remus stood by the front desk, hands braced on the edge.

Regulus stood near the wall where Remus had kissed him.

Neither moved.

Neither spoke.

Then, from the corridor, one student yelled, “PAY UP, I TOLD YOU IT’D HAPPEN BEFORE SUMMER!”

Regulus shut his eyes.

Remus laughed.

He didn’t mean to.

It came out quiet and cracked and completely helpless.

Regulus opened his eyes and glared.

“Do not laugh.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You are not.”

“I’m a little sorry.”

“You kissed me in front of students.”

Remus sobered immediately.

“Yes.”

Regulus’s expression flickered.

Remus straightened. “I’m sorry.”

Regulus looked at him.

“No,” Remus said, more carefully. “I mean it. I shouldn’t have done that. Not like that. Not here. Not in front of them.”

Regulus’s mouth tightened.

He looked away.

The flush had faded from his face, leaving him pale and furious and something else Remus could not read.

Remus took one step forward, then stopped.

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

Regulus’s gaze snapped back. “Stop saying that.”

“I am.”

“I know.”

Remus waited.

Regulus pressed both hands to his face, dragged them down, and laughed once under his breath.

It sounded unsteady.

“This is ridiculous.”

“Yes.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

Regulus looked at him sharply.

Remus did not look away.

For once, the silence between them did not feel like a battlefield.

It felt like a door.

Regulus’s voice dropped. “You’re very sure of yourself suddenly.”

“I’m really not.”

“You kissed me like you were.”

Remus swallowed.

Regulus’s eyes fell to his mouth.

Remus nearly lost what remained of his sanity.

He said, very quietly, “You kissed me back.”

Regulus’s chin lifted.

“Obviously,” he said.

Remus blinked.

“Obviously?”

Regulus looked furious again, but now there was colour blooming at his throat.

“Yes, obviously. Do you think I spend months arguing with every tall, repressed history teacher who irritates me?”

Remus stared.

Regulus threw his hands up. “Oh, for God’s sake.”

Remus said, slowly, “That was flirting?”

Regulus looked as though he might actually combust.

“Not all of it.”

“How much of it?”

“Enough.”

“Enough?”

“Don’t make me quantify it.”

Remus took another step closer.

Regulus watched him.

“Regulus.”

“What?”

“I thought you hated me.”

“I did.”

Remus paused.

Regulus rolled his eyes. “At first.”

“At first.”

“You accused me of being a student.”

“You looked like one.”

Regulus’s eyes flashed. “Say that again and I’ll bite you.”

Remus’s breath caught.

Regulus went still.

The room went still with him.

Remus said, carefully, “Don’t say things like that unless you mean them.”

Regulus’s mouth parted.

The air between them tightened.

Then a knock came at the door.

Both of them jolted.

Lily Evans opened the door and stepped inside.

She took in the room.

The crooked chairs.

The scattered papers.

Remus, flushed and dishevelled.

Regulus, hair mussed, mouth still red, standing too close to the wall.

Lily looked at Remus.

Then at Regulus.

Then back at Remus.

Her face did something complicated.

“Interesting,” she said.

Regulus muttered, “I’m going to resign.”

Remus muttered, “I said that first.”

Lily shut the door behind her.

“Would either of you like to explain why approximately twenty-eight students just ran past my office screaming, and why one of them shouted, ‘Historical Music is canon’?”

Regulus stared at the floor.

Remus stared at a chair.

Lily waited.

Neither spoke.

She looked delighted despite herself.

“Oh,” she said softly. “Oh, this is much better than the noise complaint.”

Regulus looked up. “Nothing happened.”

Remus looked at him.

Regulus amended, “Nothing requiring paperwork.”

Lily’s eyebrows rose. “That depends.”

Remus said, “Lily.”

She held up a hand. “I am going to ask one question, and I would like both of you to consider answering it like adults.”

Regulus folded his arms.

Remus braced himself.

Lily said, “Was this mutual?”

“Yes,” Regulus said instantly.

Remus looked at him again.

Regulus did not look back.

Lily looked to Remus.

Remus said, “Yes.”

“Good,” Lily said.

Regulus exhaled.

Remus had not realised he had been holding his breath until Lily continued.

“It cannot happen in front of students again.”

“No,” Remus said.

“Obviously not,” Regulus said.

“It cannot disrupt teaching.”

Regulus gave her an incredulous look.

Lily stared back.

Regulus said, “Fine.”

“It cannot become gossip I have to manage every day.”

Remus said, “That ship may have sailed.”

From somewhere down the corridor, a student shouted, “MR LUPIN AND MR BLACK ARE IN LOVE!”

Lily closed her eyes.

Regulus whispered, “I’m going to die.”

Remus, absurdly, smiled.

Regulus saw.

“You find this funny?”

“No.”

“You’re smiling.”

“I’m traumatised.”

“You smile when traumatised?”

“Apparently.”

Lily pointed at them both. “Stop being whatever this is in front of me.”

Regulus said, “We’re not being anything.”

Remus said, “We don’t know what this is.”

They looked at each other.

That was, unfortunately, the wrong thing to do.

Because Lily made a sound.

Not a laugh.

Worse.

A knowing little hum.

Regulus snapped, “Don’t.”

Lily held up both hands. “I didn’t.”

“You did internally.”

“I contain multitudes.”

Remus said, “He stole that from you.”

Regulus turned on him. “This is not the time.”

“It was relevant.”

“You are impossible.”

“You’ve said.”

“You’re worse now.”

“You kissed me.”

“You started it.”

“You shouted at me.”

“You enjoyed it.”

Remus went silent.

Regulus went silent.

Lily looked between them again.

Then she opened the door.

“I am leaving,” she said, “before this becomes something I definitely have to document.”

Regulus looked horrified.

Remus said, “That’s probably wise.”

Lily paused in the doorway.

Her expression softened, just slightly.

“Talk,” she said. “Properly. Without an audience. And if either of you turn my successful co-curricular into a romantic disaster zone, I’ll make you run Year Seven recorder club together until retirement.”

Regulus said, “Cruel.”

Remus said, “Unconstitutional.”

Lily smiled. “Try me.”

Then she left.

The door shut again.

Remus and Regulus stood in the aftermath.

For a while, neither spoke.

Then Regulus said, “Year Seven recorder club.”

Remus nodded gravely. “We should avoid that.”

“Agreed.”

Silence.

Regulus rubbed one hand over the back of his neck. “The students will be unbearable.”

“They already were.”

“They’ll be worse.”

“Yes.”

“They’ll make posters.”

“Already happened.”

Regulus looked at him.

Remus hesitated.

Then, because dignity had already died violently that afternoon, he pulled out the folded poster from weeks ago, and held it up.

Regulus unfolded it.

His face changed.

Slowly.

The bad cut-out photos. The bold, chaotic lettering.

HISTORICAL MUSIC: COME FOR THE CONTEXT, STAY FOR THE DIVORCE.

Regulus stared.

Then he laughed.

Not the sharp little laugh.

A real one.

Soft at first, then helpless, his shoulders shaking as he pressed the poster to his chest like it had personally defeated him.

Remus watched, completely lost.

Regulus looked up, still laughing. “You kept this?”

Remus felt heat climb his neck. “Evidence.”

“Of what?”

“Student misconduct.”

“Liar.”

“Yes.”

Regulus’s laughter faded, but the smile stayed.

It made him look younger. Warmer. Devastating.

Remus said, “I kept it because it made me think of you.”

Regulus’s smile faltered.

Remus stepped closer.

This time, slowly.

This time, giving him every chance to move away.

Regulus did not.

Remus stopped in front of him.

No students.

No screaming.

No Lily.

No wall between classrooms.

Just Regulus, looking up at him with all that impossible sharpness gone quiet around the edges.

Remus said, “I’m sorry I kissed you like that.”

Regulus’s fingers tightened around the poster.

Remus continued, “I’m not sorry I kissed you.”

Regulus looked at him for a long moment.

Then he said, “Good.”

Remus breathed out.

Regulus glanced at the door. “But if you ever do it in front of students again, I’ll deny enjoying it.”

Remus huffed. “You enjoyed it?”

Regulus’s eyes returned to his.

“Don’t be stupid.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It is if you’re clever.”

“Regulus.”

“What?”

“Can I kiss you again?”

Regulus went very still.

Then his mouth curved.

“Look at you,” he said softly. “Learning.”

Remus smiled despite himself.

“Is that a yes?”

Regulus stepped closer, the poster crumpling slightly between them.

“Yes, Lupin,” he said. “That’s a yes.”

This kiss was different.

Quieter.

No wall.

No challenge thrown like a match into petrol.

No students screaming as if the world had split open.

Remus touched Regulus’s face carefully, thumb brushing the line of his cheek. Regulus’s lashes fluttered once before he leaned in, his hands settling against Remus’s chest, not grabbing this time but holding.

The kiss unfolded slowly.

Still sharp at the edges, because Regulus was Regulus and Remus suspected even tenderness would argue its case if Regulus held it long enough.

But softer too.

Honest.

When Regulus pulled back, he did not go far.

His forehead nearly touched Remus’s chest.

Remus said, “Your mouth is no longer shouting.”

Regulus looked up at him.

“If that is your idea of romance, we’re in trouble.”

“I’m a history teacher.”

“That explains nothing and everything.”

Remus smiled.

Regulus rolled his eyes, but he did not move away.

From the corridor came a muffled burst of student voices.

“Do you think they’re still in there?”

“Obviously.”

“Do you think they’re kissing again?”

A pause.

Then another voice said, “Should we check?”

Regulus closed his eyes.

Remus murmured, “I’ll handle it.”

He stepped to the door and opened it.

Four students nearly fell into the room.

They froze.

Remus looked down at them.

Regulus stood behind him, visible over his shoulder, arms folded, poster still in hand.

The students stared.

Remus said, “Can I help you?”

One student, impressively pale, said, “Forgot my water bottle.”

Remus glanced around the room.

“No, you didn’t.”

“No, sir.”

Another student said, “We were worried.”

Regulus said, “About what?”

The student looked between them.

“Curriculum continuity?”

Remus pressed his lips together.

Regulus’s voice went cold. “Go home.”

They went.

Immediately.

Remus shut the door.

Regulus said, “They are going to be unbearable.”

“Yes.”

“You seem calm about that.”

“I’m choosing denial.”

“Healthy.”

“I learned from the best.”

Regulus gave him a flat look. “I am not in denial.”

Remus looked at the poster in his hand.

Regulus followed his gaze.

Then he folded it very carefully.

“I’m keeping this,” he said.

Remus’s eyebrows lifted. “Evidence?”

Regulus walked to his desk drawer and placed the poster inside.

“Student misconduct,” he said.

“Liar.”

Regulus looked back at him.

This time, his smile came easily.

“Yes.”

On Monday, the school knew.

Of course the school knew.

By registration, the Year Elevens had become poets of speculation.

By break, three separate students had asked Remus whether Historical Music counted as “romantic history.”

By lunch, someone had drawn a heart around the enrichment timetable.

By the end of the day, Regulus had confiscated five notes, two phones, and a handmade sign reading TEAM LUPIN-BLACK, which he threw in the bin with such force that three Year Nines applauded.

Remus, for his part, tried to remain dignified.

He failed at 10:42 when one of his students raised a hand and asked, “Sir, is Mr Black why you know so much about romanticism?”

Remus set down his pen.

The class went silent.

“Romanticism,” he said, “is an artistic and intellectual movement that emerged in Europe towards the end of the eighteenth century.”

A student whispered, “He’s avoiding it.”

Remus continued, louder. “It emphasised emotion, individualism, nature, and the sublime.”

Another student whispered, “Mr Black is sublime.”

Remus looked at the ceiling.

He thought, distantly, that teaching was a noble profession and also a punishment invented by someone with a dark imagination.

At lunch, Regulus appeared in his doorway.

Remus looked up.

Regulus looked murderous.

“Your students are calling me sublime.”

Remus coughed.

Regulus stepped inside. “Did you tell them to do that?”

“No.”

“Did you encourage it?”

“I defined Romanticism.”

“You weaponised vocabulary.”

“That feels like something you would do.”

Regulus shut the door behind him.

Remus’s smile faded slightly.

“Are you all right?”

Regulus leaned back against the door.

For once, there was no instant retort.

He looked tired.

A little overwhelmed.

Still beautiful, which was beginning to feel less like an observation and more like a condition Remus had to survive.

“They won’t stop staring,” Regulus said.

Remus softened. “No.”

“I know it will pass.”

“It will.”

“I still want to throw myself into the instrument cupboard.”

“There’s a cello in there. It might fight back.”

Regulus’s mouth twitched.

Remus stood.

Regulus watched him cross the classroom.

He stopped a careful distance away.

“Do you want me to say something to them?”

Regulus looked at him. “What, exactly?”

“That you’re allowed a private life. That gossip stops being funny when it makes people uncomfortable.”

Regulus studied him.

“You’d do that?”

“Yes.”

“You enjoy lecturing them.”

“I contain multitudes.”

Regulus groaned. “Don’t.”

Remus smiled.

Regulus looked at him for another second, then sighed. “Fine.”

“Fine?”

“Say something. But don’t be noble about it.”

“I’m always noble.”

“You are frequently damp and irritating.”

“That too.”

Regulus looked down, then back up.

His voice was quieter. “Thank you.”

Remus wanted to kiss him.

He did not.

They were at school. In his classroom. During lunch. The corridor was full of teenagers with the observational skills of spies and the restraint of hungry gulls.

So he only nodded.

“You’re welcome.”

Regulus seemed to notice the restraint.

His eyes softened briefly.

Then he stepped away from the door.

“I have Year Eight next.”

“My condolences.”

“They’re composing jingles.”

“My deeper condolences.”

“If I have to hear another rhyme about cheese, I’m blaming you.”

“How is that my fault?”

“I’ll find a reason.”

“I’m sure.”

Regulus opened the door, then paused.

He glanced back.

“Thursday?”

Remus smiled. “Thursday.”

Regulus left.

Remus watched the door close.

Then he turned to find three students peering through the narrow window beside it.

They vanished instantly.

Remus walked to the door, opened it, and looked down the corridor.

The students stood frozen several metres away.

He said, very mildly, “My classroom. Now.”

They came.

Because he was strict.

Because most of them knew he meant it.

Because, despite everything, despite the gossip and the teasing and the fact that his life had become a school-wide serial drama, Remus Lupin still knew how to make a room go quiet.

He spoke to them.

Not cruelly. Not dramatically.

But firmly.

He told them staff were not entertainment. He told them people deserved privacy. He told them kindness mattered most when gossip was funny. He told them Historical Music would continue only if they remembered it was a class, not a theatre.

They looked ashamed by the end.

Mostly.

One student raised a cautious hand.

Remus sighed. “Yes?”

“Sir, are you still doing the lesson on music and scandal next week?”

Remus paused.

He had forgotten about that.

The room seemed to hold its breath.

Remus looked at the student.

Then he looked through the wall, towards the music room, where faintly, faintly, someone struck a piano chord.

He said, “We may be adjusting the topic.”

The students laughed, but softer this time.

Better.

On Thursday, everyone came early.

Remus expected it.

Regulus did too, judging by the expression on his face when Remus arrived to find him standing at the front of the packed music room with a whiteboard marker in one hand and murder in his eyes.

The board read:

MUSIC, RUMOUR, AND PUBLIC IMAGE

Remus stopped in the doorway.

Regulus looked at him.

The students looked at both of them.

Remus said, “We’re not adjusting the topic?”

Regulus capped the marker. “No.”

Remus walked to the front slowly. “Bold choice.”

“I’m a bold person.”

“You threatened to hide in a cupboard on Monday.”

“Privately bold.”

The students laughed.

Regulus pointed at them. “Careful.”

They quieted, but they were smiling.

Remus stood beside him.

Not too close.

Close enough.

Regulus said, “Since you have all apparently developed an interest in the relationship between public narrative and private reality, we’re discussing how musicians become stories other people tell.”

The room settled.

Remus looked at him.

Regulus did not look back.

His voice was cool, controlled, but Remus knew him better now. Well enough to hear the pulse beneath it.

Regulus continued, “Rumour shapes reception. Scandal changes interpretation. Audiences decide they know the artist because they know a fragment, a performance, an image, a mistake.”

A student shifted.

Regulus’s gaze swept the room.

“And sometimes,” he said, “people decide the story they want is more interesting than the person in front of them.”

No one spoke.

Remus stepped in gently.

“That isn’t new,” he said. “Historical figures are often reduced to symbols. Heroes. Villains. Tragedies. Jokes. Their complexity gets flattened because a simpler story travels faster.”

Regulus glanced at him.

Remus held his gaze.

Then he turned back to the students.

“Your job,” Remus said, “in history and in life, is to be suspicious of easy narratives.”

Regulus added, “And to remember that wanting a story doesn’t entitle you to someone else’s life.”

It was the quietest session they had ever taught.

Not the least engaged.

The opposite.

Students listened.

They thought.

They asked careful questions.

They discussed famous musicians whose public images had swallowed their work. They talked about protest, press, fandom, mythmaking, privacy. Regulus played examples. Remus offered context. The room did not feel like a battleground or theatre that day.

It felt like a class.

A real one.

At the end, as students packed up, one lingered by the door.

“Sir?” they said.

Both Remus and Regulus looked over.

The student went red. “Sorry. Mr Black.”

Regulus lifted an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“I’m sorry about last week. And the yelling.”

Regulus’s face did something small and startled.

Then he nodded once.

“Thank you.”

The student looked at Remus. “Sorry, sir.”

Remus nodded too. “Thank you.”

After they left, Regulus stood very still.

Remus began stacking chairs, giving him space.

Eventually, Regulus said, “That went better than I expected.”

Remus looked over. “Told you. You’re a good teacher.”

Regulus frowned. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like it’s easy.”

“It isn’t.”

Regulus’s expression shifted.

Remus set a chair down.

“You’re a good teacher,” he said again, quieter. “Not because it’s easy. Because you care enough to make it look sharp instead of soft.”

Regulus stared at him.

Then looked away.

“You’re not terrible either,” he said.

Remus smiled. “High praise.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Too late. I’m framing it.”

“I’ll deny it.”

“I’ll cite witnesses.”

“They’re unreliable.”

“They’re teenagers. They’ll remember everything embarrassing.”

Regulus huffed.

Then he walked to the piano and sat.

Remus watched as he touched the keys, not quite playing.

“Do you regret it?” Regulus asked.

Remus went still.

“No.”

Regulus’s fingers pressed down softly.

One note.

Then another.

“Even with the screaming?”

“Even with the screaming.”

“Even with Lily?”

“Lily was inevitable.”

Regulus’s mouth twitched.

Remus crossed the room slowly and leaned against the piano.

Regulus kept his eyes on the keys.

“I regret where,” Remus said. “Not who.”

Regulus played three notes, low and thoughtful.

Then he looked up.

“Good.”

Remus smiled.

Regulus looked back down.

“Don’t look so pleased.”

“I’m privately pleased.”

“You’re visibly pleased.”

“I contain multitudes.”

Regulus groaned, but this time, when Remus laughed, Regulus laughed too.