The train pulled away from the station in a cloud of steam, leaving behind the echo of laughter and trunks clattering against stone. Arthur didn't look back.
He hadn't said goodbye to anyone. Not Harry, not Hermione, not even Draco.
He hadn't waited for Lupin either. Just slipped out between conversations and confusion and the roar of Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. He wanted the quiet. Needed it, in a way that felt like a hole in his chest.
London was warm, the kind of warmth that clings to brick and pavement like it's trying too hard. But when Arthur stepped through the front door of the narrow townhouse Lupin called home, it felt like walking into winter.
The house hadn't changed—still filled with books and soft clutter and the faint smell of sandalwood and ink—but it was quieter than he remembered. Not silent in the way of an empty room, but in the way of things left unsaid.
He dropped his trunk just inside the doorway and stood there. No one came to greet him. No startled gasp or running embrace or questions about why he was back two days early. Only the slow tick of a clock somewhere in the next room.
Arthur didn't announce himself. He simply walked.
Lupin was in the kitchen, a steaming mug in one hand and a book in the other. The mug read: World's Most Tired Werewolf. Arthur had bought it for him two Christmases ago.
"You're early," Lupin said without looking up.
Arthur hovered in the doorway, wet shoes on dry tile. "Yeah."
A pause. Then Lupin gently closed the book and set it aside.
"I suppose that means Hogwarts was… eventful."
Arthur's mouth twitched. "You could say that."
He didn't sit down. Neither of them did. The moment held—awkward, suspended—and then passed. Lupin turned back to his tea. Arthur turned and climbed the stairs.
The silence followed him.
The days blurred. Morning bled into afternoon into evening, like watercolor in rain. Arthur slept in late and wandered the creaky old halls at night. He avoided the spare room with the charmed window that once showed snowy forests instead of rooftops. He avoided mirrors too.
There was something in the way he moved—slower, heavier. Not broken, just… muted.
The world around him felt muffled. Like he was seeing it through water. Or glass. Or frost.
Lupin, to his credit, gave him space. He asked no questions, offered no long-winded monologues. Only the occasional cup of tea left outside Arthur's door and a plate of toast that always appeared—whether Arthur ate or not.
Arthur rarely did.
On the fifth night, the nightmares returned.
He dreamed of glass mirrors, of hands reaching from behind them, of eyes that glowed silver and lips that whispered his name in the wrong voice. Of a voice like his, but not. Of a world where the air crackled with cold and everything—everything—was frozen in place. Even time.
He woke up gasping, the bedsheets rimmed with delicate lace-like frost.
He didn't scream. Just stared at the ceiling, heart pounding in his throat, until morning.
A week later, the silence broke.
Not with words—but wings.
A soft thud against the windowsill startled him out of a daze. He turned, and there she was.
Elira.
Her feathers were silver-dappled, eyes gold-ringed and ancient. She was soaked in rain, head tilted at a sharp angle like she could see through him.
Arthur opened it just as a gust of wind swept feathers into his face.
"Where the hell have you been?" he asked.
Your fault, she said flatly, ruffling her feathers. You left me. Again.
"I didn't mean to." His tone softened.
You did. Elira's gold eyes narrowed. You're not well.
He sighed. "I know."
His hair turned yellow.
Elira blinked slowly, as if processing the words, then gave a little hop on his shoulder, the faintest rustling of feathers against his ear.
"I know, I know," Arthur added, lifting one hand to scratch her head. "Don't get all judgmental on me."
Her beak clicked in that way she always did when she was about to 'speak,' though Arthur knew it would never be in words.
"You could at least tell me something interesting," he said, settling back against the wall, eyes tracing the lines of the worn wallpaper. "Been flying across the skies? Eating mice? Spying on the neighbors?"
Elira shifted, her talons digging gently into his jacket as she settled more comfortably.
Arthur half-smiled at the weight of her silence. He always got the sense that Elira had seen more than anyone. She'd been there through everything. Through the moments of terror, the moments of silence, the moments when Arthur was more lost than found. She'd seen everything, or at least, that's what he liked to think.
"Well?" he prodded.
Elira's head twitched, and her wings fluffed up slightly, the soft rustle of feathers like the sound of distant whispers.
"I suppose you have your adventures," he said, shaking his head slightly, "dodging owls that don't like you, flying across places you shouldn't be, eating mice you probably shouldn't. What's that like, Elira? Must be something, huh?"
Her golden eyes flashed, and the beak clicked again, a faint sound that was like a soft laugh. A bird laugh, Arthur thought, even though he knew it wasn't really a laugh at all. She hopped off his shoulder then, gliding to the edge of the desk nearby.
"Well, I'll take that as a yes. Great to know you're having fun while I'm over here trying not to fall apart," Arthur muttered, rubbing his eyes. "Really, though. Do you ever just... get tired of it all?"
Elira turned her head slowly, those piercing eyes glancing at him like she was weighing his words. And then, after a moment, she flapped her wings lightly, fluttering back over to him.
Arthur chuckled. "Yeah, that's about right. You're much better at this whole silent thing than I am."
There was a long pause between them. The night felt stretched, like time itself was holding its breath. Elira blinked once more, her feathers gleaming softly under the flickering lamplight, her expression unreadable as ever.
"Well, when you're done pretending you don't care, maybe you'll start talking again," Arthur said, though it wasn't meant for Elira. More like a reminder to himself. "Maybe then we can figure out what happens next."
Elira tilted her head, and the silence between them deepened. But this time, the stillness felt less oppressive. For once, Arthur didn't feel so alone with the weight of it all. Maybe that was enough.
It was later, much later, when Lupin finally spoke again.
They sat in the living room, the wireless muttering faint jazz in the background, both sipping tea like it might solve anything.
"There's more you want to know," Lupin said quietly. "About your parents. About the power you used. About what's coming."
Arthur didn't answer.
"You're not the same boy who left for Hogwarts last year."
"You got that right " Arthur said
Lupin's gaze softened. "But you're still you."
"No." Arthur looked down into his tea. "I saw what I could become. What I almost became."
"And you didn't," Lupin replied. "You chose differently."
Arthur didn't reply. He didn't believe that made much of a difference.
Lupin leaned forward. "Your mother used to say power isn't the test, Arthur. Choice is. You've already passed the hardest part."
Arthur's grip tightened around the mug.
"I still feel him sometimes," he said, almost too quietly to hear. "Like something pressing against the edge of my thoughts. Watching."
Lupin nodded slowly. "Then we should talk. About all of it. About them."
Arthur looked up.
Not ready. Not yet. But he would be.
That night, as storm clouds rolled in over London and the first drops of rain kissed the windows, Arthur stood at the foot of his bed, staring at the golden dagger he'd hidden inside his trunk.
It hadn't changed. Cold. Gleaming. Silent.
Like him.
He picked it up. Held it. Watched his reflection shift across the blade.
And in the stillness, the silence didn't feel quite so loud.
**********
The next morning, Sirius Black barged through the front door with a box of doughnuts, an off-key hum, and absolutely zero warning.
"Morning, my favorite brooding teenager!" he shouted.
Arthur stared. "It's 7 a.m, you overly cheerful adult."
"Which means we're wasting daylight!" Sirius dumped the doughnuts on the kitchen counter and grinned. "C'mon, mopey. I'm taking you out."
Arthur blinked. "Out where?"
"Anywhere but this cave of tragic vibes. You need sun. You need life. You need—dare I say it—fun."
Lupin walked in, yawning, and barely glanced at the chaos. "Bring him back by midnight."
"No promises!" Sirius chirped, tossing Arthur a jacket.
And just like that, the silence broke.