1959

March 10th – Remus is born.

1964

Remus is bitten by Greyback.

Romularis

1969

Voldemort's power grows.

1970

September 1st - Remus starts his first year at Hogwarts.

1974

Remus becomes a Prefect at the start of his fifth year.

Building the Future

Sirius runs away from home and is disowned by his family.

Sirius, James, and Peter learn to become Animagi.

1975

June - James and Sirius publicly humiliate Severus.

Deception

September – The Marauder's Map is written.

Sirius uses Remus in a prank that almost gets Severus killed.

1977

In Twenty Years

June – The Marauders sits their NEWTS and leave Hogwarts.

1977

September – Sirius gets his own house.

1978

Lily and James are married.

1979

Peter becomes a spy.

Regulus attempts to leave the Death Eaters and is killed.

1980

July 31st – Harry is born.

1981

Circa October 24th – The Fidelius charm is cast.

October 31st – James and Lily are murdered.

Circa November 1st – Peter fakes his own death, killing twelve muggles. Some time after, Sirius is taken to Azkaban.

Hollow Catharsis

Twenty Pounds

1993

September 1st – Remus becomes a Hogwarts professor, at age 34.

1994

June 6th – Peter is exposed.

June 7th – Remus resigns.

Umbridge crafts anti-Werewolf legislation making it almost impossible for him to get a job.

Two Letters

1995

August 6th – The Advance Guard retrieves Harry. Remus is 36.

Introductions

1996

May – Sirius is murdered.

Nothing Left

ten reasons to go (ten reasons to stay)

1997

June – Dumbledore is killed.

Remus and Tonks are married. Remus is 38.

Nightmare

August 1st – The Ministry falls.

Fall - Tonks becomes pregnant.

1998

Ted Tonks is killed.

Ted Lupin is born.

May 2nd – Remus and Tonks are killed.

[Filtered to people from the Wizarding World; forty percent hackable]

[his voice is soft, but firm]

I know it's tempting to go back home – to see the people we've left behind, to get back to our studies and responsibilities.

I do not, however, think we should take this letter at face value. Quite aside from trusting whoever sent it, the letter claims that our absence is affecting our worlds.

We know this isn't true. Some of us are from the same time but most of us aren't, and we know none of us simply disappeared. That decades after it would have happened, the world isn't ending.

Whoever wrote it is manipulating us, and that doesn't bode well for their intentions.

[a New Feather silently approaches the village from the woods; he wears the standard trousers of new arrivals, and his pale, heavily scarred chest is bare

in one hand is a faint, flickering ball of flame; it extinguishes as he enters the square

in the other hand he loosely holds the book

he observes the village with wary curiosity]

Well, this isn't what I was expecting.

There are seers among the pack.

It's not the sort of divination he detested at Hogwarts, far from it; there are no tea leaves here, no crystal balls, no theatrical sweeping of arms or lofty whispers. There are only the stars and the moon and the feral forest curling defensively around them.

Their voices are soft and strong, eyes wise and wild; there is a grace to them that so starkly belies the monsters they've embraced. He is wary of them, of course, but they treat him no differently than the others; do they not realise he's a spy, an interloper, or do they see that it's inconsequential?

As time goes on, he learns to trust them as they appear to trust him. He forges a new family without abandoning the first, the second. He feels guilty about all of them.

He tries not to ask, he really does, but with precious pictures in his robes and an infant's laughter in his memory, he can resist no longer. He approaches her with appropriate deference, voice pitched low, gaze bearing respect he needn't fake.

"Will we be alive, in twenty years?"

He thinks he understands their answer when the pack is savaged months later; when his influence has saved their integrity but not their lives. When he weeps over a child's corpse and clasps an elder's cooling hand.

He knows he does when the war ends.

It's always the most difficult part, introducing himself. Deciding what truths to twist, what lies to tell.

The man who greets him is barely an adult; he stares at him warily, waiting for his questions to be answered. His hair is unkempt, his thin body covered in animal skins, but it's clear he's new here as well – he can tell by the eyes, and the wand clutched tightly in his hand.

"My name is Romulus. I…thought I might find a place here."

Sheer wariness, tentative hope; none of it is fake, he just uses it to his advantage.

The man nods at him slowly, with a furrowed brow.

"You were living with them."

"I tried," Remus answers with a grim smile.

"I was even a teacher for a while. Of course, that didn't last."

No need to tell him he wanted to be an Auror first, a long time ago.

"I wanted to be a healer," the man says quietly, and Remus reaches out a hand, rests it on his shoulder. The man tenses slightly, but doesn't pull away. He isn't accustomed to gentle sympathy.

"You can heal people here, yes?" The man nods, then, earnestly, a faint smile brightening his features.

"Yes. And you…you can teach, if you want." Remus returns the smile, then, the delight genuine enough – perhaps he can at that. He's a spy, but that doesn't mean he can't help.

"What's your name?" The man hesitates, for a moment, but Remus simply waits.

"John. It's…my father's name." The smile fades, and he looks away; Remus squeezes his shoulder.

"Mine as well." John looks up at him, surprised and hopeful, and Remus is grateful that this, too, is true.

"I'll lead you back."

"Thank you, John."

They walk in silence for a while, navigating the path cautiously; this pack lives deep in the woods, past any number of twist and turns and troubles.

"When were you bitten?" John asks suddenly; he flushes, murmuring an apology, but Remus only shakes his head.

"It's fine. I was five." The wide eyes are expected, and the quiet admission that follows.

"It…it was only a year ago, for me. How did you survive on your own…?" Remus' eyes narrow, slightly.

"My mother and father did their very best to raise me as a normal person." Shock and envy fill John's eyes; he almost walks into a low branch, but Remus pushes it aside with a wave of his wand.

"Thanks. Really?"

"Yes," Remus says softly; he couldn't have kept the sympathy from his voice if he wanted to.

"My family was never the problem, it was the rest of the world. I'm…sorry – " John shakes his head.

"The pack is my family now." He sounds uncertain, and he must realise that Remus can tell, for he continues, "Even if I don't…don't agree with everything…"

The heart of the matter, before they even reach the clearing; Remus can't summon much triumph.

"What is it you…don't agree with?" He looks curious, sounds concerned.

"Well, they…" His voice lowers as his steps halt; Remus turns, gazing at him patiently.

"A lot of them want to join up with – You-Know-Who." Remus' eyes widen.

"Really? I…I suppose I can see why…"

John nods rapidly, swallowing thickly.

"They think it will be better, but I…I don't know. Seems like he's even worse – I'm not Muggleborn, but…well, they don't get to choose any more than we do." Once again, Remus finds himself reaching out, and now he's squeezing John's hand, his voice low and soft.

"I know. My father's a Muggle. Either way, I…" John looks scared, suddenly; at the thought of losing his new friend, no doubt, and Remus feels a pang of guilt.

"Should we say something?" Remus shakes his head; he can't compromise the infiltration, not now. He needs to play along.

"I think we should wait. We can't…be fighting amongst ourselves unless we need to." After a moment, John nods once more, slowly.

"I understand. …I – think I can see why you were a teacher, Remus."

Remus smiles, and vows to himself that he won't fail this one.

Remus was fifteen years old when he realised he didn't have a future.

He had always known, distantly, that werewolves had less opportunities than most. As a child, he had let it depress him; let it pull him further into the silent despair that darkened his features and lowered his voice.

Then, he was accepted to Hogwarts, and he began to know hope. Meeting James and Sirius and Peter only bolstered it; there were people in this world who would accept him. Surely, if he was smart enough, dedicated enough, focused enough, he could achieve anything he wanted. Surely things would change by the time he was of age.

So he let it sit in the back of his mind, refused to dwell on it, focusing instead on being the top of his class and staying out of trouble – or, rather, not getting caught.

Now, however, was the beginning of career consultations, and he couldn't ignore the truth any longer. Not with batches of career pamphlets littering the tables in the common room; not with the notice instructing all fifth-years to report to their Head of House for career advice.

Nothing had changed. Nothing he did would matter, in the end.

He was surprised when he saw his name among the scheduled appointments, before a hard, wry smile twisted his lips. Of course, they couldn't make the other students suspicious, not when everyone was so wary already; he would need to see this through.


It used to be fun, discussing the future, refusing to accept a world without endless possibilities, dreaming after the lights went out.

He couldn't do it any longer, and neither could they. Reality was closing in, and it was unjust, and terrifying, and harsh.

Ancient inequity refused to fade; restrictions were toughening, not easing. There were new disappearances and murders and catastrophes every day. They fed into each other, punishing those who were different.

Even James, irreverent, irrepressible James, could feel it all around them, smothering them.

They'd had separate goals, once, ever-shifting. Remus had considered being a professor, a mediwizard, a naturalist; James a Quidditch player, an Unspeakable, an Obliviator; Sirius a musician, a curse breaker, a hit wizard, a Knight Bus driver, a Dragon Keeper; Peter all of this and more. Once, they agreed amidst raucous laughter to be wild nomads.

Later, they agreed in binding silence to put those fantasies aside, for now.

The night became a quieter, bleaker place.


He was grim and tense when he entered McGonagall's office, as austere and elegant as he remembered, but she only gestured at the chair in front of her desk.

"Well, Lupin, have you considered what you would like to do after Hogwarts?" Dozens of bitter retorts were cut short by her sharp gaze.

"I'd like to be an Auror."

He thought he saw her lips curve just slightly as she nodded.

"You'll need a minimum of five NEWTS, none below Exceeds Expectations. I don't expect you'd have a problem with that." His eyes widened; from McGonagall, that was a ringing endorsement. She didn't seem to notice.

"Then, of course, are the rigorous character and aptitude tests, and three years of training. Would you like to know what classes you may need?" Remus almost asked why he should bother, but only nodded.

"Defense Against the Dark Arts, of course; your scores in that class are exemplary. Transfiguration, and you should know I only accept students into my NEWT class who have achieved at least Exceeded Expectations. You're near enough now; just stop letting yourself get distracted in class." She raised her eyebrows, and the trace of a sheepish smile crossed his lips despite himself.

"You do quite well in Charms, which is always useful; if you need any assistance I'd suggest Miss Evans. The most work you'll need to do is for Potions – I'm sure you understand the need for Aurors to comprehend poisons and antidotes – so I suggest – "

"Professor." He very rarely interrupted a professor, much less his Head of House, and perhaps that was why she didn't reprimand him.

"Yes, Lupin?"

"I appreciate this, I really do, but I don't…it won't matter, will it? The Ministry would never hire me."

A slight scowl curled her thin lips, there and gone in a matter of seconds.

"No, Remus, I'm afraid not. They are not, however, the only ones who will need people trained in fighting dark wizards."

He stared at her, for a moment, and she smiled a dark, sad smile that sent shivers of dread and exhilaration down his spine.

"Proceed as would any other student who had this goal in mind; the Order will be waiting."

ten reasons to go (ten reasons to stay)

I could hurt her, with or without the wolf.
"Do you think I took this job to be safe? You've MET my mentor, right? 'Bout this tall, creepy eye?"

She deserves more than I can give.
"How about what I want? Do I need to tell you how bleeding condescending you sound?"

I'm an old man; far too old for her.
"Oh, please, you haven't hit half a century yet – I could get some wrinkles if you want, here, look…"

I'm poor; I'll always be poor.
"Not your fault, is it? I make enough, and the Order – don't give me that look, it's not charity if you're out risking your neck for them every night."

She knows me.
"It's okay to open up, you know, let someone in. I'm not gonna just leave."

I don't want to lose another friend.
"You won't. Even if this doesn't work out – and I'm not stupid, Remus, I know it might not – I won't just stop caring."

She makes me forget.
"Oi, it's okay to laugh, you know. You deserve to be happy sometimes, all right?"

She reminds me of him, sometimes.
"I bet he's having a good laugh, wherever he is. Probably take it as a compliment. I do."

Her mother is a bit terrifying.
"She likes you. She missed you, you know, wondered why you never wrote. Now I tell her you're just thick."

I love her.
"I love you too, and you can't make me stop."

Remus is always on his last twenty pounds.

He can never waste them on tiny pleasures, on ordinary luxuries, on all the fripperies that make a home a home.

(He would like to take those soft blue curtains and hang them on his windows, but he'll have none if his rent is late.)

Once upon a time, it was been easier. He had friends who would buoy him, who would say the right words, who would slip galleons into his pockets when he wasn't looking and always act the befuddled innocents.

(Back then, he would still indulge his sweet tooth, live on more than the bare essentials.)

He had parents who supported him as much as he would allow, in everything he needed, everything he did.

(His mother gave him the sun to wear around his neck, and he repaid her while she wasn't looking.)

He had a purpose. A war to fight, a base to return to. Compensation, camaraderie, sanctuary – not pity. Not charity. He does not accept either and never will.

But the Order has dissolved, and the Marauders are gone, and his parents sacrificed more than they ever had before.

(Their funeral was held after the end, and he bought their favourite flowers, and charmed them to last as so many things do not.)

He turned his back on them anyway, soon after the end. Too many had been wary of him, suspected him (even Sirius, and it's no longer a surprise), and he couldn't deal with their jubilation regardless.

(He bought simple frames for the sacrificed parents and the unlikely hero; any images of the traitor are locked away.)

They had families and careers and futures to return to. They had dreams to fulfill.

Remus had dreams, once. He was going to be an Auror, a professor, a Healer, a librarian. He was going to revolutionise the way werewolves were treated. He was going to prove everyone wrong.

(He still studies, and finds second-hand books that he can almost afford, and sacrifices comfort for knowledge.)

He still tried, of course he tried. But he was alone, and it was difficult enough to stop from himself starving on the streets, and it was exhausting and frustrating and, in the end, hopeless.

(He would campaign, once, squander his meagre funds on struggling awareness and unwanted truths.)

He's helped individuals; offered guidance and protection and any support he could. Sent muggles to the sanctuaries his parents had helped create, so long ago; aided magical families in preparing future students for what lay ahead.

(He has bought gifts, before, trinkets too small to express what he wants to, but they seem to understand.)

It is never enough. He cherishes the joy and satisfaction and triumph, but it never lasts.

(They send him letters, and he saves enough to answer them.)

So he lives in a bare apartment, working any menial muggle job that will have him, as long as it will have him, and he survives because that is what he ought to do.

(He doesn't need immaculate robes or polished brooms; what he needs is priceless, and gone forever.)

It is silent in 12 Grimmauld Place. It's fitting, for a dead man's house.

Remus sits in a battered chair, rubbing his temples as he recalls the past hour, the latest rebuff.

It hadn't gone well. Some people just wouldn't be pushed away.


A fiercely determined scowl that's so familiar it hurts.

"You're being – "

"Monstrous? That's what I am, Nymphadora."

In a voice so carefully cold.

"That's rubbish, Remus, and stop calling me – "

"No, it is not. You can't handle what I am, you don't have it in you. Now get out."

A wince that makes him hate himself, and then a tightening of her shoulders.

"Fine, but I'll be back. I'm not just leaving you to be alone here."

A sharp turn, swift steps, and then she's gone.


He sighs, then, closing his eyes and leaning back.

It must be hereditary, that stubborn streak. That absurd, reckless, strident loyalty.


Once, he had yearned for people to care; now, he pleads for them not to. Not this much.

"You don't really want to do this. James – "

"This isn't about James, all right? …Well, maybe a little. But you're my friend, too, and –"

"And I'm a werewolf." His eyes narrow, his voice lowers, and he doesn't feel like a child at all anymore. "Are you forgetting what your parents taught you?"

Disbelief, rage, and Remus thinks he's won; then, a derisive snort.

"I don't give a rat's arse what my parents taught me and you know it. Now stop being a git."

A wry, sad chuckle escapes his dry lips, as his hands tighten on the arm rests; they creak, and his fingers relax.

None of them would have any of it, he remembers.


"James, this is…it's very dangerous."

Eyebrows rise into his wild bangs.

"Yeah, well, I like dangerous."

An irritated, frustrated noise escapes his own throat.

"Listen to me. I know what the consequences could be, I've researched all of it – "

" – Of course you have – "

"And what if it goes wrong? What if you get caught? I know it sounds brilliant, and I know you like a challenge – "

"That isn't the point, you great idiot. That's all true, yeah, but the risks are worth it because it's for you."


Even Peter, and the memory rises before he can throw it away, as he's tried to do with so very many of them.


Peter wears his weaknesses on his sleeve.

"You don't amount to much, you know. You just follow them around, hoping some of it might rub off. You're in so far over your head with this."

A swallow, averted eyes, and it hurts to keep going but he must.

"Admit it, Peter, you're just following them again. You're weak, and daft, and certainly not on our level."

"You don’t mean that."

His voice, all quiet timidity as always, but there is determination beneath.

"I know you don't, because you're Remus. You don't think people are worthless. You don't think they're beneath you. You help them, and you care about them, and that's why I want to do this, all right?"


They're gone now, of course. Sirius and James dead, Peter – well, Peter certainly isn't the boy he knew.

He's tried to tell himself it's better that way, that he ought to be alone, but then he had Sirius back, and he knew it was all…rubbish.

Slowly, he stands.

He still believes every protest, every rebuttal, every lecture, but maybe – well, maybe he doesn't want to lose someone else.

He shakes his head, and smiles.

Nymphadora Tonks would have made one hell of a Marauder.

It was a small cottage, but comfortable. Rhea had considered making it larger - only on the inside, of course - but it was enough for her and her husband. It was a reasonable distance from the small school John taught at, and one could access St. Mungo's any number of ways.

For some time their home was a peaceful place, quiet and secluded. They were surrounded by the scent of flowers and the shelter of trees and the songs of birds.

It was their haven from all the bigotry and turmoil and desperation of the world. It seemed a fine place to raise a child in.

They couldn't remove themselves entirely, of course. Not with the lives they lived, the lives they had chosen.

When John returned home one day with a young girl in tow, pale and trembling, Rhea welcomed her. John, the eternal researcher, had recognised the signs of a new werewolf after a full moon, and his wife confirmed it. She was one of the few Healers who would treat them.

Muggle werewolves were talked of even less than wizards; ignored by the magical world, classed as murderers and madmen by their own. It was only natural that John would fight for his lonely student when no one else would. He and his wife stood up to the Ministry who scorned her, the pack who wanted her. Eventually, they won.

Their son paid the price. Their bright-eyed little boy who loved the woods and the stars, who was already learning to read, who would never trust the night again.

Months later, they were ready to move. Remus was growing older, after all, and it was such a small cottage.


They lived even more quietly than before, in an isolated place shrouded in mist and vines. They didn't expect to be bothered again, but some risks needn't be taken.

This house was larger, if darker, and they had plenty of space to fill. This room became theirs, this one their son's; this was a study, that a small library.

She would visit sometimes, the lonely girl who was determined to save as she was saved. She would learn and laugh and teach, and counsel their son as much as she could.

Remus was six. He enjoyed climbing the twisting trees, swinging from magically strengthened vines, playing with the small animals who sniffed them out. He was always so sad when they ran from him.

He went to his father's school, and though he learned quickly enough despite his absences, he never connected much with the other children. He was the strange, sickly boy, who kept too many secrets and listened too much.

He, too, needed a refuge from a world he couldn't quite grasp, couldn't quite comprehend, and unlike so many small boys, he came to relish the silence.

To fear its absence.

This peace had been torn apart before, and he didn't think he had much more to lose, so he cherished what he had and promised to defend it.

Only monsters were loud.


Community: Mind the Muse
Word Count: 508

Fade in, start the scene
Enter beautiful girl
But things are not what they seem
As we stand at the edge of the world

t's a cold, quiet night, the sort that's impossible in London. Remus is closer to the stars than he's been in ages, and his body still bears the scars of the moon.

He turns at the sound of footsteps, and sees a girl with wide eyes and a trembling hands.

She would be pretty, if not for the pallor of her skin and the shadows beneath her eyes; tattered robes hang off her like a dark shroud.

She runs her fingers convulsively through dark hair, catching on tangles and making her wince. When she speaks, her soft voice is almost swallowed by the wind.

"Excuse me, sir,
But I have plans to die tonight
Oh, and you are directly in my way
And I bet you're gonna say it's not right."

He tilts his head, slightly, and offers an apologetic smile, but he doesn't move, even when she strides towards him with a grim determination in her step. It's the stride of the warrior and the victim, of fierce desperation.

He can smell the dried tears, the old blood, the wolf in the lamb.

"Excuse me, miss
But do you have the slightest clue
Of exactly what you just said to me
And exactly who you're talking to?"

It would draw laughter from his lips if he had any left. Of course she wouldn't know that he's a spy of their kind, a poster child for the dangers of werewolves, the last

She said, "I don't care, you don't even know me."
I said, "I know but I'd like to change that soon, hopefully."

Her eyes – green, just like – narrow, darken; there is a cold, tired wariness within them that no one so young should bear.

She doubts his sincerity, his motives, but that's all right, everyone does. Even

He speaks gently, earnestly as he walks to meet her, leaving the edge behind.

"Yeah, we all flirt with the tiniest notion
Of self conclusion in one simplified motion
You see the trick is that you're never supposed to act on it
No matter how unbearable this misery gets."

Her features soften, but she shakes her head, steeling herself. Stubborn, stubborn as they always

"You make it sound so easy to be alive
But tell me, how am I supposed to seize this day
When everything inside me has died?"

The words make him flinch, because of course he's asked himself the same question over and over again. They're gone, after all, leaving him alone to face a world that doesn't want him, doesn't even need him anymore.

But he shakes his head, steeling himself, because perhaps it does.

"Trust me, girl
I know your legs are pleading to leap
But I offer you this easy choice –
Instead of dying, living with me."

Shock makes her look younger still, and his heart aches for her; for something other than ghosts and traitors.

She said, "Are you crazy? You don't even know me."
I said, "I know, but I'd like to change that soon, hopefully."

Still, she doubts. She thinks he doesn't understand. What can he say to her that will make a difference?

He doesn't know, but he speaks anyway.

I would be lying if I said that things would never get rough
And all this cliché motivation, it could never be enough
I could stand here all night trying to convince you
But what good would that do?
My offer stands, and you must choose.

She begins to shake, her eyes filling with tears. Her warning is hoarse and tremulous.

"All right, you win, but I only give you one night
To prove yourself to be better than my attempt at flight
I swear to god if you hurt me I will leap
I will toss myself from these very cliffs
And you'll never see it coming."

In one swift motion he pulls her close and embraces her, ignoring the strain of his tired muscles, the burn of his stretching wounds. She remains rigid in his embrace, but she doesn't pull away.

"Settle, precious, I know what you're going through
Just ten minutes before you got here I was gonna jump too."

Community: Mind The Muse
Word Count: 365

I

The pain is overwhelming. His arm throbs in time with his frantic heart, and all he can smell is the blood, all he can see is feral yellow eyes, all he can hear are screams, and they must be his because he's choking on them.

The monster sneers at him, little boy lost, and Remus can only tremble on the damp ground, clutching his ruined arm and wailing for his parents.

They come, and chase the wolf away, but already he can feel it inside of him, and when he begs his mother to fix him she can only weep.

II

A month later, he transforms.

It hurts, it hurts like nothing he's ever known; his body shifts and bends and cracks, to let the monster emerge, and then it turns on itself when there is no prey to satiate the bloodlust that never really goes away; no humans to savour, infect.

He is left exhausted and scarred on the basement floor, small and ashen in the fetid darkness. When it's safe, his mother comes to hold him and tend to his wounds and put him to bed.

He wants to ask her to stay, next time, and knows he cannot.

III

It becomes, if not easier, normal; he begins to forget what it was like, being human. His parents will tell him he still is, this is only a sickness, but he knows better. He knows humans don't smell and hear and see like he does; can't run for hours without stopping; can't feel magic like he does.

Despite this, despite knowing him to be forever different, Professor Dumbledore takes his hand, and tussles his hair, and promises him a place at Hogwarts. It won't be easy, he is warned; his curse must be borne alone.

Remus decides it's worth it.

IV

Despite the assurances of the Headmaster and the jubilation of his parents, he remains quiet and nervous on the Hogwarts Express.

Until a pair of boys barge into his compartment, gasping and laughing, all wild dark hair and bright eyes.

"Hey, mate, d'you mind if we stay here for a bit?"

Of course he doesn't, because he'll take any companionship he can find, no matter what they're running from, or how soon they'll leave.

They tell him their story, of condemning a family and defending a boy, and he decides he made the right choice.

They'll cross the lake together.

V

Sirius is the first to be Sorted, and then James, both to Gryffindor. He'd like to follow them, but he's sure the hat will tell him he's not good and brave and strong enough.

His hands shake as it covers his eyes.

What do we have here? Ahhh, so you're the one, the little wolf cub.

I-I'm more than that!

Well of course you are, you wouldn't be here otherwise. Let's see…you're quite bright, and loyal, and there's quite the thirst to prove yourself…

S-So what, then? Which of those?

None! Why choose them, when you're such a brave child?

VI

Eventually, they learn what he is. James and Sirius are quite brilliant, when they want to be, and Peter isn't far behind; it was only a matter of time.

He expects rejection, prepares himself for solitude and isolation, but it never comes. He can see the nerves in Peter's eyes, the conflict in Sirius', but they nod their agreement as James gently berates him for keeping the secret.

"So really, you're an idiot, Remus, because I don't care what else you are, you're one of my best friends."

Shock becomes indignation becomes delight, because he sees sincerity in them all.

VII

Next time, when he awakes, his three friends surround him, under the watchful, tender gaze of Madam Pomfrey. Sirius grins widely and tells him how horrible he looks, as he helps check the bandages; Peter fusses and fluffs his pillows and adjusts his blankets; James presents him with a giant bar of chocolate he mysteriously procured the other day.

It's utterly overwhelming, but he protests when Pomfrey suggests they leave him to rest; he wants to cherish this as long as he can, because he's sure it will end eventually; certainly they'll grow weary of it all.

They never do.

VIII

After years of research and practice, his three friends achieve the remarkable, all in the name of helping him bear his curse. It's dangerous, and unlawful, but that's par for the course for the Marauders.

He watches as they transform, ignoring any pangs of envy at the swift, smooth beauty of it, the intelligence shining in their animal eyes.

James becomes a stag, robust and noble; Sirius a dog, earnest and unruly; Peter a rat, shrewd and swift.

It's the strangest pack a wolf has ever had, but as the full moon rises, he accepts them still, and they him.

IX

It is in their seventh and final year that they vow to fight the Dark Lord.

They sit in the Common Room, long after everyone else has retired to their beds. Every face is grim and determined in the dim, flickering light of the fire.

Sirius swears that he'll never let his family's bigotry ruin the world.

James honours the ideals he held even as a haughty child.

Remus refuses to let intolerance burden any more children.

Peter trembles, but whispers his agreement, and it is no less sincere.

They are ready to fight, and to die, protecting their world.

X

He was never ready to lose.

He was never ready to be the last one standing.

He returns from his mission and finds three dead to the world, one dead to him, and a baby boy without a family.

His heart shuts down as everyone around him celebrates the fall of Voldemort, his death at a child's hands. Every laugh sears his mind like a brand; ever pitying whisper turns his stomach.

The War may be over for them; it rages still in his chest, and it never stops.

Not for the last time, he wishes it was him instead.

"R-Riddikulus!"

A vampire, fangs teeth dripping with blood, was forced into a merry jig.

"Yes, very good, now, Lupin!"

Remus rushed forward, and with a resounding crack, the boggart changed.

He raised his wand, and froze before the stares of the other children.

Before this had been a steady string of horrors – rotting zombies, wailing banshees, slavering hellhounds. Now, a shining silver orb drifted in the air above them.

They know they know they know they know

"Crystal balls, Lupin? Didn't know you hated Divination that much." His head whipped around, only too meet James' gleaming eyes.

"Ah, come off it, Potter, you remember that old bat breathing down our necks." Sirius winked at him.

In a corner of the room, Peter offered a reassuring smile. Remus returned it, and raised his wand high, ignoring the muttering of his classmates, the reprimands of their professor.

"Riddikulus!"

The moon faded away as his friends cheered.

"When King Lear dies in act five, do you know what Shakespeare has written? He's written....'He dies.' That's all. Nothing more. No fan fair. No metaphor. No brilliant final words. The culmination of the most influential work of dramatic literature is, 'He dies.' It takes Shakespeare, a genius, to come up with 'He dies.' And yet every time I read those two words I find myself overwhelmed with disphorium. And I know it's only natural to be sad. But not because of the words 'He dies', but because of the life we saw prior to those words. I've lived a good, long life Mahoney. And I'm not asking you to be happy that I must go, I'm only asking that you turn the page. Continue reading. And let the next story begin. And, if anyone ever asks what became of me, you relate my life in all it's wonder....and end it with a simple, and modest,...'He died.'" -Mr. Magorium's Wonder Emporium

Remus Lupin has grown accustomed to death. More than that, he has grown accustomed to murder.

In the First War, people were dying or disappearing every day. In the Order especially it was the risk you took, and many of his comrades, his friends, paid that price.

When it ended it took his four best friends with it.

Now, years later, history repeats itself. Tragedies are summarised in the papers, fear pulls people together and tears them apart, danger is a way of life.

He loses his best friend again.

There is no fanfare, no ceremony, no final declaration; just a beam of light and one last fall.

He knows that this is how it works, but somehow he thought it would be different for Sirius Black.

Now he sits alone, wondering when his time will come, and if he, at least, will have time to say goodbye.

Starlight paints the sleepers silver, their still forms like spectres gracing the dim room, a study in contrast and comfort.

A sharp gasp pierces the illusion of peace beyond time, and light slumber is shattered.

Worry sparks red in her eyes as she turns, a slim hand reaching for one scarred and damp. The touch makes him flinch, but the connection isn't severed.

His face, creased and ashen, echoes that of a terrified child. Pale hair is plastered to his features, and his lean body trembles beneath the pastel shroud.

Hoarse assurances tumble from cracked lips, and she listens patiently before stroking his cheek, kissing his forehead, pulling him into a gentle embrace.

He calms in her arms, grasping peace again. All is tranquil, quiet, until his teeth are too big for his mouth and his eyes are amber.

The moon steals the vitality from her blood, and it is ash on his tongue.

In the shadows, surrounded by the enemies he must call kin, he screams.