Chapter Text
The line of life is a ragged diagonal between duty and desire.
William R Alger
Glass shatters.
Tinkling, tumbling shards falling into darkness. They fall and fall and cut.
Hoofbeats drumming, coming. A snarl close by— too close. Sparks sear outward from curses flung across the field, spearing bright through the smoking haze.
Screaming, keening stars. They rail against cruel fate.
Burning, burning, burning, they blaze. They fall, too, burning all the way down. A blinding streak, an arc. A widening gyre.
The center cannot hold, the branches claw at the unfeeling sky. Peeling back to find—
Ashes on a cold, curling wind. The house is a crumbling skeleton of charred wooden bones. It collapses on itself.
Nothing but pieces remain…
A last, broken scream. Cut short.
It sounds like Lily.
January 1979
“It’s not the attacks, Merlin knows our bloodline’s pure enough. It’s the environment. I don’t want my kids around that.”
“I don’t see how we’ve any choice about it…”
“Well, see, we’re thinking of sending them out to Wicklow. Our mother-in-law can take them in until this whole business dies down.”
“Mate. You don’t think Ireland’s heading the same way? It’s mad, it is — but it’s nothing that’ll be done quick. The Ministry is too happy sitting on their arses to do their damn jobs…”
“Maybe if the Ministry just legitimized their faction, the terror would stop. I mean, these folks are not messing about—better to let them have their way before more innocent wizards are hurt. Let them have their, well, pardon the phrase: witchhunt. Let them sort themselves out.”
“Are you kidding me? You better be having me on. They’re bloody mental, they are! There’s no way offering these lunatics legitimacy will do anything but make this mad pogrom of theirs ten times worse. My wife’s a Muggle-born. I’ll be damned before I let these folks have their way.”
The two men arguing at each other grew louder, hands gesticulating. Anxious currents of foot-traffic on Diagon Alley swirled around them, their spat left uncharacteristically ignored by passerby. No-one wanted a part in anyone else’s drama, these days.
An elderly woman in a neat blue coat and her pixie-haired daughter passed by from the other way, heads tilted inward towards one other.
“Are you sure you don’t want to move in with me and Elijah, mum? We’d be only happy to have you, and I don’t like the thought of you living alone right now…”
Hopping off the street-curb, a boy glumly to his friend: “Me da says I can’t get the new broom after all. Things at his work, see, are getting worse. They know his status, and he thinks he might be getting the boot one of these days…”
The quill shop-owner, shuttering the windows: “Sorry, luv. But I’m headed for the countryside—my sister and her man, they’ve got the room for me and I’m just not comfortable staying in the city right now--”
A girl to her fella: “Will you still be here--?”
A man in the alley, smoking a pipe, muttering: “Bollocks.”
The red-jacketed man:
“--these days--”
A white-haired lady quavering:
“—too dangerous--”
The crowds:
“—a terrible time—”
“—great change—”
“—dawn of an era—”
“—end of an era—”
“—a visionary—”
“—a villain—”
“—rabble, trash—”
“—innocent folk—”
--and into the breach, Remus Lupin stepped off the curb, posture erect and balanced.
His collar was flipped up as bulwark against the biting dampness, but he forced himself not to tuck in his chin. He strode down the street with a stoic air and let conversations wash over him.
All over, the grey-cast pall drove people to walking quickly, with their heads down and footsteps sharp. Their eyes darted when they arrived at corners, and no-one was smiling.
Some things are just inescapable, Lupin thought, as he made that odd, disjunct crossing from central London’s car-honking, bright-lit streets to Diagon Alley’s crooked cobbles and candle-glowed panes. Even if every witch or wizard worth their cauldron could cast a sufficient Impervious charm to weather the storm, the biting chill and darkening sky left muggles and magic-folk alike scurrying for cover.
Truly, the parallels didn’t stop there – the moods across the divide were feeling comparable in more ways than one. It was different news and different headlines, sure, but the same restless, riotous feeling underlay it all. The Sun headline shouting “CRISIS, WHAT CRISIS?” could’ve been emblazoned on the Minister’s forehead for how well it suited here, too.
The Winter of Discontent, it seemed, was universal.
Skipping over a dodgy cobblestone, Lupin turned up to the slightly crooked doorway of the Leaky Cauldron. A lone spider dangled from the faintly swaying sign, blown about in the slight wind. When it flew up, in a sudden gust, he ducked under. It was with a little sigh of gratitude that Lupin was able to shake himself – finally-- loose of the fog and slip inside.
From over in in the corner, a raucous laugh broke out, and a bit more tension seeped away from him with each step inward. Lupin inhaled, savoring the atmosphere.
The interior of the pub was a clutter of dark wood and crooked tables: a hodgepodge of a timeless refuge-- from both the whirlwind of modernization and mechanization that went on outside its doors and from whatever else a body might be needing to forget. Choked with no small amount of grime and dust, its narrow windows let in only a smattering of the evening sun from outside. Whether that was in the interest of ambience or a certain disinclination toward a quick scourgify had always been left up to the observer to decide.
In all the place, there was not a lightbulb to be seen, nor a wristwatch or telly. In here, you could pretend nothing had changed, that the British Empire still reigned supreme, and there hadn't been automobiles flooding the streets where hansoms once bustled, that the world wasn’t going fast and getting faster. In the Leaky Cauldron, things could be as slow as an afternoon cup of tea that stayed at the ready by means of warming charm or a pint of butterbeer that refilled itself.
Of course, there was more still out there to ignore these days. The disappearing acquaintances. The growing warnings of the Ministry to stay in at night, to not travel alone. The stomach-clawing fear that one of these nights you might be the one to find that laughing curl of green smoke hanging over your house.
The substantial crowd on this Sunday evening was a testament to the stress that hung like a grim pall over the community. They were not here just for the Scotch eggs.
But wizards were, and had always been, above all else, experts at denial. So, the Leaky Cauldron remained a place to escape the tidings of war. If the world intruded a little-- with whisky served in smaller measures, or sipped slowly to last longer…. with the new, heavier, spell-proof locks that hung portentiously at thick wooden doors….with the robes of the patrons looking a little shabby in places, where maintenance had slipped their tired minds whose vigilance was turned more outward…. If the world intruded a little, then, it was at least not so keenly felt, here.
As Lupin approached the bar, a red-haired witch perched on a stool turned to observe his approach. She’d look a bit like Lily, if Lily were nearing fifty and preferred to dress in patterns that would make the most acclaimed of acrobats dizzy.
She hopped off her seat, grabbing her coat and wand as she went, and Remus drew a stray menu toward himself to debate his options.
Back when he’d been at school, Remus had certainly appreciated the bounty and ease of having three meals a day that materialized right before you. But not nearly so much as he salivated over the memory of them now. He rolled the burnished gold galleon between his fingers: his last one.
There were a few knuts in his pack—no sickles since he didn’t want to telegraph to all and sundry just what he was. But those, he was saving. He had decided on one last hurrah, before it was canned food from here on out.
Only one question remained: a meal or a drink?
The red-haired lady finished settling up her tab and smoothed the wrinkles out of her coat.
“All yours, luv,” she winked, sliding the dish of peanuts toward him.
There was little to do but nod in thanks as she bustled out, leaving a crumpled issue of the Prophet in her wake. Its flickering front page -- peeking out from beneath the face-down centerfold – snagged his eye. Long, scarred fingers twitched.
It almost felt like breaking the unspoken code of The Leaky to take a peek, but Remus and rules always had gotten on with quite a loose relationship anyways. He didn’t end up a Marauder by abiding by the spirit of every law. Still not sure if he truly wanted to know the latest development, Remus pulled the newsprint toward himself anyway.
ANOTHER SEVEN DEAD AT HAND OF DARK LORD
The black words were emblazoned across the front page with an abundance of jet-dark ink. He sighed heavily.
That decided him.
“Firewhisky, ma’am,” he settled on, as the serving witch swung by again. Peanuts counted as a meal, yes?
The dialogue of nearby patrons was easily audible, but Lupin did his best to tune them out. He settled in to survey the room. Might be his last trip to the pub for some time.
Lighting had been left up to the massive, spare-armed chandelier at the rooms’ center and the cressets dotting the perimeter. Their efficacy was dubious. Even the weak sunlight did little to pierce the smog of tobacco smoke and fireplace exhaust that hung about the room. It was for this reason, perhaps, that he did not take note of the approaching man until he was right upon him.
“’Lo there.”
The man was stood just at his shoulder, leaning in uncomfortably close, with light glinting off his whitened grin.
Dressed in a shabby suit that was once quite nice and adorned with a stubbled face, he still somehow gave the impression of having made a solid effort to look presentable on the whole. Lupin didn’t turn to greet him fully. He kept his head down, hoping a show of disinterest might chase the man away.
“Sorry, mate, whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying. That there was my last galleon.” He nodded towards where the barmaid as pouring his firewhisky.
“Nah,” the man waves a hand affably, but his eyes stayed on Remus. “Nothing to sell, here for a chat is all.” He signaled to the witch behind the bar for another with his empty mug and slid onto the stool. “Mind if I have a sit?” he added after the fact, in a way that expected acquiescence from Remus.
Remus shrugged, “Can’t stop you,” not particularly caring, but hoping the man would not be too much of a nuisance. There was something of a salesman about him, of the sort that Remus could never really abide.
When his firewhisky came, Remus knocked it back with a shiver at its heat. Definitely the right choice given the plunging temperatures outside.
“So,” the man said a moment later as he received his own drink, killing Remus’ last hopes for peace and quiet. “What’s got a fine young lad like you in the pub on a Sunday evening, hm? Something you’re looking for?” he threw out pointedly, his choppy Estuary accent stretched into something more suggestive.
Exasperated, Remus turned to level him with an unimpressed look, when the light of the cresset burning in the dim room bounced off his eye. A reflective flash.
Remus froze, in recognition, and took the sight of him in. The hollow-cheeked, raw-edged face. The faint raised railroads of slashed and pocked scars decorating his windburned skin.
The man grinned, toothy, the exact moment Remus realized.
Wolf.
The younger werewolf schooled his features into a scowl, annoyed that he had not been paying better attention.
There was a war coming on. Inattention like that could cost him these days.
“Ah, no?” Remus said, recalling he’d been asked a question. “No. Not looking for anything.”
A smirk flickered across his face. Cold slate eyes weighed Remus squarely.
Feeling uncomfortable, the younger man hunched his shoulders inside his ill-fitting jacket. Remus didn’t like scrutiny; he was a man of absences and quiet corners. Avoiding gazes was the work of his lifetime.
The interloper opened his mouth to speak, looking undeterred, but he faltered as the door jangled and he caught sight of something over Remus’ shoulder.
It was a funny look on his face— too tense and guarded an expression for the loose-limbed confidence of a moment before. He looked as though he wanted to say something more, but his hungry satisfaction was gone, and the muscles of his scarred jaw had tightened into a practiced watchfulness. Remus found himself matching the shift in demeanor, ready for whatever had just walked in the door.
Edging away, the werewolf turned his attention back to Remus, and gave him a last considering look.
“Let me know if that changes. Lad like you… well, we could use more of your sort.”
Remus kept a weather eye on the other werewolf, and muttered, “I’ll keep it in mind,” instead of what he wanted to say:
Not for all the money in the world.
Even poor bastard that he was, Remus was not ready to throw his lot in with the other wolves. From what he had heard, it was a fine way to get robbed or killed or arrested, or possibly all three. And despite what his somewhat downtrodden appearance might suggest, Remus was trying, if somewhat failing, to have a real go of it, working on the up and up.
You see: there was a gray area of jobs that existed in-between working at the Ministry-level and the scrutiny that such benefits came with, and working in the truly shady sort of places and the scrutiny that that came with.
And that gray area was where Remus operated. Or where he tried to.
In a smooth motion, the strange wolf swept up his pint in one scarred hand and vacated the bar, leaving the space beside Lupin empty once more.
After a pause, Remus knocked back his second firewhisky.
It really was a very cold day.
Before he could decide whether to push off from the bar or reach for the newspaper again, a new voice cut in, gravelly and low.
“Now you look like death warmed over, lad.”
And he knew that voice from the recent Order meetings. Alastor Moody. Remus turned to greet him.
“Can’t say you’re wrong,” Remus offered, with a perfunctory nod of hello.
He was a little too tired for the smiles and waves and reassurances that he was just grand, thanks for asking. Would’ve fallen flat on a man like Moody anyway. He did manage the politeness for a proper greeting though. “Evening, sir. It’s, ah, Auror Moody, yeah?”
“Alastor, if you’re not under arrest,” Moody confirmed, with only a quick twitch of his scar-nicked brow to reveal his gruff humor. He sat down with a thump, accentuated by his wooden leg. “And you’re Lupin.”
The intensity of focus the man managed to bring to a simple greeting was plain unnerving.
He nodded. “Aye. Remus. If I’m not under arrest.”
This made the larger man snort with unexpected amusement, and he slapped Remus’ back, jostling him abruptly. Remus had to grip the bar to keep his seat.
“Shift over, there’s a lad,” the auror prompted, and he did.
“Ah.” The man sighed in relief to have the weight off his leg, then glanced over at Lupin. “Firewhisky,” Moody noted, with a brusque nod that might have been approving. “What’s the occasion, then? Did yer lassie leave ya?”
The question was asked teasingly, but there was an inescapable undercurrent of tension. These days it was often events much grimmer in nature that were the cause of any drinking, and they both knew it.
“Moving house,” Remus declared, with a firm pat to the bar.
Moody’s head dipped in a sharp twitch of nod, lips pursed in close-mouthed satisfaction. “Hmph, the good sort of drinkin’ then. Maybe I’ll join ye.”
He waved to the serving witch, and she hustled to oblige. A sudden shout arising from further down the bar had them both tensing—before the noise ebbed into laughter. Just a couple of rowdy lads.
The two turned back to their own spot, each consciously unwinding the sudden tension from their shoulders.
“Moving, ye say,” Moody tipped his head with offhand curiosity, after he had received his pint. “Now, where’ll that be to?”
Remus hesitated. “Nowhere far.”
It wasn’t false. In fact, he just happened to be moving nowhere in particular at all. He thought maybe he’d pitch his tent in Kielder forest, back in Northumberland. He’d been there once as a boy, he was fairly sure. It had seemed a nice place then, though maybe that was the rosy glasses talking.
Moody hmphed, noncommittally.
A faint cold breeze seemed to brush Remus’ back, making him shift, uneasy.
Maybe a third firewhisky was in order. A bad habit to tempt, perhaps, but then this was the last hurrah wasn’t it? He didn’t feel he had reached the point of hurrah just yet.
When he glanced around the room once more, his eyes snagged again on that man. Wolf. Remus’ wary gaze cut across the shadows that draped the dimness of the pub, to where the man stood in the corner, by the window, a darkened silhouette limned by light.
He forced himself to face forward again. Moody took note of his glance.
“Friend of yers?” He sounded casual, but Remus had the sinking feeling that nothing this man did was.
Remus cleared his expression under the Auror’s scrutiny, and leaned into his elbows on the bar, shoulders hunching.
“No? Never met him before today. Dunno his name, even.”
Moody’s craggy face shifted, raising an eyebrow, putting creases into his scars.
The young man held in a sigh. Auror Moody was in the Order. Remus was fairly certain that Dumbledore had told him there was a werewolf in the group, if not outright relayed that it was Remus.
Might as well….
“He—was a wolf,” Remus admitted, speaking lower and leaning in a bit, to avoid being overheard.
“That so?” Moody’s shrewd eyes narrowed. “He told ye this?”
“No, but. We can, well,” he rubbed the back of his neck. “We can tell—usually.”
Cold, blue eyes flicked sharply back to Lupin, a new keenness in them.
The Auror leaned away faintly, but he did so appraisingly, rather than out of alarm or disgust—as though he needed get a better look at Remus.
“Hmmm.”
Remus’ lips twitched, close-mouthed, at this repeat of evaluation. Now from the other side of the trenches.
After a minute, the Auror shook out his head, like a dog getting dry. “I suppose the big man knows,” Moody grumbled in his glass, before tipping it back. He seemed only slightly disgruntled that he hadn’t been told previously, but no more perturbed than that.
“Dumbledore? Yes, that is—yes.”
“Well, now. That is interesting. Very interesting.” Without warning, he slammed his glass down on the counter and wiped his mouth carelessly. “I’m off, then. Million bloody things to do, you know how it is.” He hopped off his stool and clapped Lupin on the back once more – enough so he did half-fall off this time.
“Constant vigilance, laddie! And don’t let people slap you around--or let them near your back. I coulda had a knife in my hand for all you knew.”
Lupin nodded. “Right, then.”
The Auror left in a whirlwind of wooded-legged thumps and not-nearly-under-his-breath grumbling. Remus’ gaze followed him to the door. The wolf, he noticed, was gone; and the window he had been obscuring shone bright and clear – clear as anything was in here.
With a clatter and rustling of the bell, another rowdy lot entered the pub, fresh off the quidditch pitch. Remus sighed. Not a moment’s peace.
A third firewhisky, it was.
February 1979
The Dumbledore cottage was a quaint, old thing. Humble and small, yet dignified, somehow—and entirely unassuming.
It was, Remus thought, eminently suited for their purposes… in the sense that it was so deeply not what one would expect in the slightest. After all, who would imagine a clandestine society of guerilla fighters to be based in a little pink house with camellia climbing the walls?
Probably, no one but Dumbledore.
There lay the genius. Some days, Remus wondered if Dumbledore hadn’t actually wasted his potential by becoming headmaster and wizard extraordinaire -- and instead, what he truly would have excelled at was forging some manner of Willy Wonka-esque candy empire, filled with both whimsy and the chance of damnation. The sight of the little pink cottage, ringed by deadly serious magical booby traps and protected by the password ‘Turkish delights’ was not convincing Remus otherwise.
At the door, three sharp knocks before cold hands were tucked back into pockets was sufficient to bring someone to the door.
His face split into a crooked smile
“Hullo, McKinnon.”
She nodded, but her face remained guarded.
“What was the Fat Lady’s favorite aria?” she asked without preamble.
“Nessun dorme,” Remus answered easily. “And no one could, with that racket on,” he added, on a wry note. Her grip on the door loosened, and the edge of a mouth twitched.
“How did we first meet?” he asked in turn. Now, he got an eye roll.
“I pulled you out of the fountain in the main courtyard,” she said and opened the door wide to let him in.
“My valiant rescuer,” he grinned ruefully and got a light shove in as he entered.
“If only you’d been smart enough not to go befriend the ruffians that pushed you in. I used to think you were the wise one, Lupin.”
“Ah. A common misconception.”
She snorted, then nodded her head onward. “Go on. There’s a fire on, and you look like a popsicle.”
“Ta very much,” he said, unwinding his scarf and letting out a relieved shiver at the heat of the indoors. God, he loved wizard heating charms. Especially having spent most of the past month outdoors, and before that, in his drafty bedsit.
It looked like about half of the Order was already there, gathered round the long oak table set up in the drawing room.
Caradoc, Fabian, and Gid were at one end, all three nursing hot drinks, with the Longbottoms a seat down from them. Alice was looking cosy, as bundled up in her enormous sweaters as always. Dorcas was nearer the other end, beside what was obviously Marlene’s place, and Arthur and Molly were near the middle with a twin each in their lap.
These were the youngest two, Remus was fairly sure. What was that, six children now? The babies seemed to be trying to hypnotize each other through sheer will, staring intently into each other’s eyes. An odd twin thing, he guessed.
Remus pulled off his tatty woolen scarf and draped it on the back of a wooden chair before settling in it. He studiously ignored the looks exchanged over at the end of the table and the way Dorcas’ gaze was drawn unerringly to his neck and the newest claw marks there.
There was an awkward quiet, for a moment, the cracking and popping of the fire the only noise beside the creak of chairs. Caradoc seemed to be trying to look anywhere but him.
Remus had to suppress the urge to sigh.
At the previous meeting, Dumbledore had asked his permission to tell the other Order members of Remus’ ‘condition’. It could become relevant, the headmaster had said, to the war effort.
And what could he say to the man but yes?
Obviously, he’d known things would be different now that they all knew, but he’d hoped they wouldn’t be quite this strained.
Merlin’s sake, he’d known most of these people since he was eleven! Surely, no one could be that afraid of him, when they’d known him since before he’d grown into his jug ears, back when he was a miniscule twig of a boy tripping over his own two feet?
Remus rubbed a hand over his mouth uncomfortably.
“Alright, Lupin?” Frank asked genially, breaking the silence. Remus couldn’t help the way his shoulders loosened in relief.
“Aye. Yourself?”
“Oh, we’re grand,” Alice said, with her nervous but earnest smile. He didn’t take it personally. Alice was usually nervous about something.
“The ministry treating you well, then?” Remus enquired. “I heard from Pete you got a promotion, recently.”
Alice blushed. “Yes, well, but it’s nothing, really.”
“Deputy Head of the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad is nothing to scoff at,” Remus insisted.
Frank nudged her. “He’s right, luv. And in just two years, too.”
“And you? What are you doing these days?” Alice looked hopeful for a moment, and Frank had on that lopsided grin. Remus hated to disappoint, but…
“I’m looking,” he said and forced a smile.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Caradoc scoff slightly, overly loud in the quiet room.
Remus’ jaw tightened.
He kept his eyes focused on his hands, but he could still see the wary, knowing glances between Molly and her brothers, and Arthur’s palpable discomfort though he manfully tried to cover it by shifting the twin in his lap.
Remus tried to keep the scowl of his face and pushed down the feeling that rose up—the nagging wish that things could go back to the way they had been at school, back when he had at least been passing for their equal.
“Peter’s in the kitchen, if you want to say ‘hello’,” Alice interjected, before the moment could linger.
The Longbottoms were saints, the both of them.
“I think I will,” Remus agreed, and with a choppy nod, pushed his chair back and headed to the other room. He heard conversation resuming as the door swung behind him and exhaled with a thorny mixture of relief and annoyance.
Peter was, as promised, in the kitchen. He stood facing the window, a hand wrapped around a glass of water, and leg fidgeting.
Remus noted, with tired sympathy, his old roommate looked as tense as he used to when Sirius or James would bully him into standing on guard duty for some madcap prank: like he had some faint electric current running through his veins, giving his whole body and his nose an intermittent twitch. In the darkened glass panes, his reflection was pale and ghostly, but dark circles of exhaustion ringed under his eyes.
“Pete,” Remus announced himself, and the shorter boy jumped, water sloshing over the rim.
“Oh! Remus!” A hand clutched at his chest, even as a relieved smile spread across Peter’s face. “You gave me a fright.”
“Sorry.” Remus smiled, and they embraced with a real sense of relief. It had been a month at least since he’d seen the other Marauder. “You must be getting out of practice, with no Peeves around to keep you on your toes.”
Pete set the glass down on the counter, looking rueful. “It’s more that I keep worrying I’ll turn around and find a Death Eater creeping up on me. Bloody boggarts, those hoods. Did they have to pick such a horrible costume?”
Remus shook his head, somewhat amused. “It’s the costumes that’re bothering you?”
“Oh, you know.” Peter waved him off, and they laughed quietly.
“How have you been?” Remus asked, leaning against the counter.
“I’ve been well enough. Are you alright, though?” He glanced guiltily up at Remus. “I’m sorry I didn’t come for the moon, but when James and Sirius said they couldn’t make it… well. I just thought I’d more likely get eaten than be of any help to you.”
“’S’alright, Pete.”
“Y’know they tried. To be there. But things are really busy at the Aurors’ office now, and they just couldn’t get the night off.”
“Aye, I got their owl,” Remus nodded.
He’d been a little disappointed. He couldn’t help it. Since graduating, he had faced the moon alone more often than not. But really, he had always known it wouldn’t last forever. That he’d had their companionship during the transformation for even a few years was more than he’d ever dared hope.
Remus shrugged. “I’m in one piece, so no complaints.”
Pete looked dubious, eyeing with concern the same nasty claw marks that Dorcas had stared at, where they stretched up his neck to just above his jaw. But Peter shook his head and let it go. Seven years of living with Remus had taught him that if Remus didn’t want to talk about it, he was not going to talk about it.
For a minute the shorter boy seemed to waver, mouth opening and shadows under his eyes pronounced -- Peter was looking tired, Remus noticed -- but then there was a call from the other room.
Kingsley, Dumbledore and Alastor had arrived. As had Benjy Fenwick, the Boneses, Doge, and Diggle, it seemed. And of course: Lily, James, Sirius. Peter and Remus exchanged a rueful look at the sound of Sirius teasing Marlene once again, loud enough to be heard in the kitchen. They pushed through the white doors, and two Marauders joined the rest of the Order, to stand at the fringes of the room.
With a grand “welcome all,” Dumbledore called the meeting to order.
“Remus-- a word, if you would?”
The room had only just finished clearing out, but the headmaster remained where he stood throughout, at the front of the room. Having just slung his leather motorcycle jacket over his shoulder, Sirius Black stopped where he was, too, and glanced at his friend.
“Erm, certainly,” Remus said, after a visible moment of confused hesitation. His brows pulled together in faint puzzlement. Sirius remained there, by Remus’ side another moment -- they had been headed out together-- until the headmaster took note.
“Thank you, Sirius, but -- a moment alone with Remus,” the old man clarified delicately. Sirius felt his mouth twist into an unhappy shape, but he put on a bright, magnanimous smile and made for the door …. Well, he did, right up until the other two had stepped into the next room at Dumbledore’s gesture, that is.
Sirius glanced around quickly, with a furtiveness that was probably unnecessary. The rest of the Order either had already headed out – for patrol, or for home – or had headed into the kitchen for a last hot drink before they left. No-one was there to see him cast a quick concealment charm on himself and then pad over silently to listen at the closed door.
“There is no need to call me Headmaster any longer,” he heard through the wood. “Please; it’s Albus. Or Dumbledore, if you will.”
Sirius caught himself just before he snorted in amusement. Ever so mannerly, Moony, he thought fondly. Even when out of school and addressing the ringleader of our illicit little vigilante group.
He tuned back in to the conversation, trying to pay attention after missing Moony’s response and possibly a segue or two. What he caught next was Dumbledore speaking : unusually solemn and unusually tentative.
“Do you remember what I said to you, Remus, when I called upon your home all those years ago? To follow-up on your recipience of a Hogwarts acceptance letter…. To ensure you understood your situation. Both its shortcoming and, perhaps… its blessings?”
Remus’ answer was slow. Reluctant. He spoke as though quoting something:
“…That nothing in this world occurs without a reason. That we are all exactly what we are supposed to be.” His voice was painfully neutral.
Moony sounded like he had not exactly loved this nugget of wisdom, and yet -- it seemed he had found something in it, given that he’d remembered it all these years later.
“And that the pieces of the puzzle have a tendency to come together when you least expect it,” Dumbledore agreed, voice slightly muffled. “I told you that you might someday find a unique advantage to your position. A purpose you may find through it. … If you will listen to my offer, perhaps today might be that day.”
Ah. So this, then, was the reason. Sirius had wondered at Dumbledore’s eagerness to bring Remus into the Order.
As much as Sirius and the rest perhaps liked to consider themselves rebels, iconoclasts, and free thinkers, the fact was they all fit a certain mould, more or less. At least half of them were Aurors. Probably three-quarters: purebloods. A fair few were what you might call people of means, with family crests and fortunes. They all had Ministry jobs – and through those, a direct line to the mutterings and moods at the heart of the Wizarding World.
Remus had…. precisely none of these things.
Not that he was useless, by any means. Remus fought like a mad bugger when provoked, Sirius was well aware— a little lack of self-preservation went a long way in a fight apparently… not that Remus’ friends appreciated this, out of concern for his safety and general wellbeing. But none of that was anything Dumbledore necessarily knew.
Who could say what that man knew though? He was referencing a conversation had nearly ten years previous, in which he had apparently mentioned foreseeing this very day. Sirius wondered darkly, and perhaps a bit cynically, how long the old coot had been sitting on this idea.
Whether he had the spark of it in his eye when he met little eleven-year-old Remus and told him he could have an education and be treated like a normal human being at his school —you know, the things every child ought to be guaranteed— and bestowed it on him with the airs of a man doing him a great service.
Oh, Dumbledore had let Remus into his school alright, but he had made no effort to assure him it was what he deserved. If anything, Sirius thought grimly, his overdone air of magnanimity encouraged the opposite idea.
Sirius listened, with growing disquiet, as Dumbledore outlined his plans. An agent amidst the werewolf packs. Gathering intel. Currying favor and rising through the ranks— moving ever closer to Voldemort, if possible. Sabotage, maybe. Whatever could be done to further their cause…. from the other side.
Sirius’s ear was pressed near flat, he leaned so close in toward the thick doorway.
"Trust me, Remus,” Dumbledore was saying, with a solemn gravitas and Sirius could just picture had Remus’ narrow shoulders squaring up in resolve to support that weight. “I would not make the decision to send you into such danger lightly.”
And there it was. The clincher.
He couldn’t decide if he was surprised it had taken Dumbledore so long to use it, or if he was surprised Dumbledore had used it so soon.
For so long, Remus had existed at the sufferance of this man—who’d offered him a place at his school, who had not reported the boy’s status as an unregistered werewolf. He had made possible all the things that had contributed to Remus’ best shot at a normal life... and now he was calling in the debt.
Moony had walked around with that debt in his head for years now. On prefect rounds and through long nights in the library, trying desperately to be the perfect student, to assure the man he had not made a mistake and would not take it all back.
Sirius knew what Remus would do before even Remus did.
As Sirius expected, his friend caved.
“Of course, Headmas—sir…. Whatever I can do.”
The night outside was frigid, and the stars distant with their glow.
Peter shivered. It was cold, and the shortest Marauder was feeling chilly, despite the energetic jostling and rough-housing that Prongs and Pads had initiated as the five of them walked down the quiet lane.
He pulled his coat tighter around himself and cleared his throat to be heard. “Oi, listen here, you daft buggers. I’ve got a real... bad feeling about something,” he warned. There was a creeping caution all around him these days, that grew and grew. Sometimes he wondered if he would ever breathe free again.
James, of course, had no understanding for that sort of thing. “Oh, don't worry so much, Pete," he threw an arm reassuringly around the shorter boy. "You'll be gray before you're twenty five."
"A little caution--"
"Caution is for Hufflepuffs. Fortune favors the bold!” James declared, running a hand through his already-greatly-disheveled hair.
Lily rolled her eyes and asked how they had ever pulled off anything with that attitude, which led, of course, to James and Sirius sounding off on alternate beats, like some daft comedy act.
“Why, with great aplomb, of course.”
“With unparalleled talent and ingenuity. We operatives extraordinaire, we men of action, with that certain je ne sais quois….”
“I know what: charisma.”
“Flair-”
“—Panache--”
“—And Remus as our mastermind.”
Lily whirled on the scarred boy, outright betrayed. “Does that mean it was you who came up with the idea for that terrible trick with everyone’s voices swapping?”
Remus’ mouth opened soundlessly in a sheepish struggle for an answer, but clearly, nothing defensible came to mind.
"Remus! I had a solo for the choir!"
She looked ready to set him on fire, apparently the indignation un-soothed by the long time since the prank's enactment. Sirius was already jumping in, though, to his staunch defense.
“Detention is fleeting. Glory is eternal.”
“Glory?” Lily raised a dubious eyebrow. “I think you mean disrepute.”
James coughed. “I stand by what we did, but you must admit: two months detention was not so very fleeting, Pads.”
Remus was looking worriedly at Peter. “A bad feeling, though? Surely not yet?”
The shorter boy shrugged and rubbed at his nose.
Remus nodded slowly. “We’ll keep a sharp eye, then. Pete’s not been wrong yet.” He reminded the others.
Sirius rolled his eyes, but then shook off his annoyance with the manic look of a man who’d been struck by sudden inspiration. “Say—do you think it’s to do with animal instinct? The way rats abandon the sinking ship. Some sort of innate radar of doom?”
James laughed. “Pff, naw. I say Pete’s just special like that.”
“Moony’s considering it! That means it must be intellectual and correct.” Sirius argued, waving a hand.
Remus was clearly holding in a laugh by pressing his lips together sternly, but he pretended to look thoughtful at this.
“If there is a carryover from your Animagus form… that would explain why you slobber so much in your sleep.”
Lily snorted, and Sirius had to push James away, the boy was laughing in his face so hard.
“Moony, my betrayer,” Sirius pouted, hands clutched over his heart.
“Yeah, yeah.” The young wolf smiled absentminded, before sobering as he remembered something. “I’ve, uh, I’ve got to use the phone box. I’ll - meet you at the pub.”
James and Sirius exchanged a knowing look. In a world of owls and Patronuses, it was obvious just who Remus meant to ring. He didn’t want company for it.
“C’mon, let’s head down a-ways.” Peter prodded at Sirius, who was still gazing after Moony’s retreating figure.
“Yeah.” Sirius said, without looking away. “There’s something I have to tell you lot.”
Remus’ mother -- a muggle -- had been very accepting of the quirks of wizarding ways, initially.
She had tolerated broomsticks with some amusement, adored cleaning spells, and declared cooking spells to be 'blasphemy' in her staunch French-ness (but always cheated and asked Lyall to make use of them when time was short). But despite her indulgence of all the rest, she had firmly drawn the line at her husband’s suggestion that they forgo a muggle telephone, claiming there was 'no need to renounce technology just for the sake of dramatic flair'. Owls, in her mind, were an absurdly convoluted means of communication. Remus couldn’t find it in himself to entirely disagree.
So, the Lupin residence had always had a phone in it— even after each new move, even now, when it hardly mattered anymore what she thought. They had continued on with it out of wistful habit and eventually turned its use into a perfunctory if sparing schedule.
Nowadays, using phone lines had become almost private joke for Remus, too: a gesture of rebellion against blood purists and their lack of common sense. There was little danger in any call being intercepted or traced by them, after all. Most wizards would never conceive of using anything so pedestrian and Muggle.
Tonight though, he shut himself into telephone box with a bit more foreboding than amusement, and pressed the clunky buttons in the order he knew by heart.
The phone rang hesitantly for three long brills, before someone picked up.
“Da.” Remus breathed.
“Remy,” came the roughened reply.
His voice sounded the same. He seemed…. good. Seemed well.
Guarded, perhaps, but well. That was fair enough, Remus admitted to himself. He didn’t often call his father just for the hell of it.
Remus cleared his throat.
“How are you?” he said into the silence. When the pause went unfilled, he went on. “How is the knee? Is it bothering you at all?”
That got an answer. “Fine, fine,” came the impatient brush off. “I am not an invalid.”
“I know, Da.” He answered tiredly.
Remus’ breath billowed against the frigid glass, obscuring the view. Warmth stopped by the chill. He brushed bare knuckles against the pane. “I just called to let you know I’ll be out of contact for a little while…” Not that they spoke much, anymore. Not since sixth year, since moving out. “…I’m doing a job for Albus Dumbledore.”
It was a sparse explanation, but one he hoped would satisfy his father, with whom he was generally close-mouthed anyway and who considered Albus Dumbledore to be a great wizard, if a little radical.
The man had, after all, permitted a werewolf to attend his school.
“A job? What job? Not teaching,” Da sounded skeptical. “You’re not qualified for that.”
“Ah, no,” he admitted, then searched for what to say. “It’s just.... research,” Remus settled on. “Information-gathering in the field.”
“Hm.”
This was how their conversations always seemed to go. In ebbs and flows, heated then frosty, back and forth, back and forth. Each of them impossibly out of sync with the other. Never could seem to get it right.
“Anyway. I wanted you to know I won’t be able to make it. For my visit, this February.”
The line crackled between them.
“Don’t know why you bother with that,” Lyall Lupin muttered. “There’s no cause for celebratin’ her birthday when she’s a dozen years in the wind,” he said darkly. “Save your energy, Remus. She doesn’t give a damn if you mark the day or not.”
“I don’t do it for her— you know what.” He blew the air out of his mouth and gathered himself.
He just— he didn’t—
People like them didn’t say much to each other. Not with words. Those were no good to them.
But Remus had thought, he had thought that there were still some things they managed to say without the words. With little gestures—like still calling now and then, just to make that connection. Or simply being there, on a day that they both knew would be hard.
But perhaps that was all just in Remus’ head.
Maybe all those things that had gone unspoken really had been unheard, and he was going through motions that no one could follow, with meanings that had all been lost.
“Forget it. I just thought you ought to know.”
“Come, don’t come.” It was like a verbal shrug. “Do what you want. You always do.”
“Fine,” Remus said curtly, before swallowing down his temper. It just left him tired. “Have a good night, then.”
“Goodnight,” Lyall replied, then after a pause, gruffly, “Hope this job works out.”
The line ended with a click.
If only that didn’t sound so ominous.
Compromise, compromise. That had been his Mam’s word. She was the peaceable one amongst the Lupins, he and his Da too easily riled and too able to hold onto grudges. She’d been the one to smooth things over, able to get everyone smiling again.
Marriage is a compromise, she always said, her lightly accented voice delicate but firm.
Magic and muggle. English and French. They’d disagreed on everything from how to cut toast to where they ought to live. The big things, though, they always seemed to agree on. And on everything else, they could compromise. His mum had been good at that.
But the deal had changed on one terrible night, and suddenly, she had a boy she had to share with the wolf, who was ill about as often as he was well, whose scrapes and scratches drew attention and called doubt on her parenting whenever he went to school, and a husband whose job involved prosecuting and restraining the very thing his son had now become.
It was a volatile mixture.
In the end, she had walked away. From the screaming rows on the nights they thought Remus was asleep; from the aching howls in the bomb shelter on the nights they knew their child would not be sleeping at all.
It wasn’t what she’d signed on for, he had overheard her say. It was too much.
A compromise she wasn’t willing to make, he supposed.
It was one that not many people were, Remus had to acknowledge. In the end, his father hadn’t truly managed it either. He had just held out a little longer, out of guilt, or a heavier sense of civic responsibility perhaps. Always chasing after one fraudulent cure or another, consulting dubious gurus and mystics and potioneers, desperate for a way to fix his son.
No. Perhaps that was ungenerous to say. Remus loved his father, and his father loved him. He just made things so… difficult sometimes.
It was this that made Dumbledore’s magnanimity so unprecedented, so unmatched.
Who else would imagine a werewolf could hope to attend school with normal children-- or hope, even, for a normal life?
There lay the debt. It was unfathomable that he had given Remus such a chance, such an opportunity.
He stepped out of the phone box, and the cold air filling his lungs, darkness wrapping around him again as he left the booth's light behind. He shut the door and closed it on those thoughts, as well.
Lily Potter stood waiting for him. She tilted her head at the sight of him, her red hair falling over one shoulder.
“I told the boys to go on ahead.”
Remus felt briefly guilty by how relieved that made him. He just…. needed a moment to breathe.
He shoved his hands in his pockets. “You didn’t have to wait up.”
She rolled her eyes and threaded an arm through Remus’. They fell into step with ease, well accustomed to each other’s stride from endless prefect rounds and long, sunny walks around the Great Lake, foraging for bits and bobs for potions. It was easy, and familiar.
The silence in Lily’s company was never uncomfortable—save for on the rare occasion she wanted it to be so, and weaponized her steely looks and pointed silences. Remus and Lily had a way of reading one other that left them often able to guess the other’s train of thought.
It made the quiet companionable. And it meant that when she chose to speak, she was direct.
“Sirius said you’re going to spy for Dumbledore.”
Remus’ head jerked up in surprise. “He heard that?”
She studied him carefully. “Was it a secret?”
He shrugged, uncertain. “Dumbledore wanted it kept quiet. Operational security, and such.”
“Well, we all trust each other. It’s not like any of us are going to ring up You-Know-Who and tattle on you.”
He choked out a chuckle even with his throat still tight. Lily had the terrible habit of making him laugh whenever he was trying to wallow or brood.
“I suppose not.”
“Remus…”
“Oi! Hustle on, you two! We’re aiming to get to the pub today, ladies and gents.” Sirius’ impatient voice drifted back to them.
They exchanged a look – one piercing, one evasive – then dropped the matter, and made their way over the rise in the road.
“I say we try out the local.” Sirius stretched his arms over his head. “I’d rather like to minimize the number of Apparations I have to manage tonight, and even as charming a rogue as I am, I wouldn’t want my dearest Rosmerta getting sick of me. I may be her most devoted customer, but absence makes the heart grow fonder, so they say.”
“Mate, she’s been sick of you since you set that stool on fire. And there’ll be no absence long enough to make her fond of you after that—"
“None of that, now, James. We all know you’re just jealous. What do you say, Remus— you’re coming along, yes?” He looked like a pleading puppy. Damn him-- Sirius was far too good at that look.
Remus wavered. He really didn’t have the money to spare right now.
“On me!” James declared over-cheery, and Remus’ stomach twisted at how they shot a quick twitchy glance his way, knowing, and perhaps expecting further protest.
Another day, he might’ve, but tonight… tonight arguing would just bring down the mood.
Remus pasted a smile on his face. “Ta, James. Owe you one.” He relented.
Into the darkness, a night-owl hooted solemnly, and together, the four marauders – along with the honorary and honored Lily – walked on, up the hill.
%%%%%%%%%
The shadow had circled near all the way around the cup where it sat on the sidewalk — shortened by the hours, then drawn long again — by the time the plan took.
Not bad, really. One day, and already: contact made. Remus’ frozen hands couldn’t find the enthusiasm to agree, though.
It had been cold—colder than Remus had been expecting. Like every miserable quidditch match he’d ever attended in the dead of winter, against his better judgment, and suffered through from frozen stands.
He realized he probably looked quite pitiful with his woolen cap drawn low and hands huddled under sleeves, skinny as ever, with pants too short at the ankle. He hadn’t previously thought that his pathetic appearance would ever be so useful.
Across the crooked cobblestoned way, another man huddled – a much older, grey, grizzled one, and worn down with age. Earlier that morning, Remus had nodded to him in hello, as he’d set out his own cup with an arthritic and shaking hand. The bloke's eyes were lowered now, and his cap pulled down low over his face, but he kept glancing Remus’ way, almost ashamedly wistful at the sight of the boy’s fuller cup.
Every time a knut, or even the occasional sickle, clinked into Remus’ tin, something folded inward and crumpled in the old man’s weary gaze. And the people walked on, and on. Remus hated them a little bit for that. That double-edged kindness, careless enough to cut.
When the foot-traffic lightened up and his bones had begun to grow too stiff with the cold, Remus pushed to his feet in an awkward stumble. His knees ached slightly as he rose.
Across the path, he stepped, shaking out a fair portion of his collections into his own cold, chapped palm.
“Here.” He tried, voice coming out a bit hoarse.
He cleared his throat, and extended his handful of coins.
For a brief moment, their eyes met. Remus saw the surprise – and gratitude – flicker in the man’s dulled gaze. ...Then his eyes landed on the ragged scars that peeked out from Remus’ sleeves, where they wrapped around the wrist and sprawled onto his pale hand.
His craggy face shuttered with disgust.
“Keep your filthy paws away from me,” he barked roughly, shoving Remus’ hand away, with his elbow.
Remus stuttered. “I-”
“I don’t want your disease.”
A wet splat as he spat on the ground. Remus jerked back sharply.
With a last dirty look, the older man limped away, in no small hurry. He moved faster than he’d arrived, even, and with more speed than Remus had thought he’d had in him. A few people glanced their way at the disturbance, but most ignored them entirely.
Remus’ hand dropped to his side, and he exhaled, tiredly.
It was almost funny: in Hogwarts, people walked around entirely oblivious to him, a wolf among the sheep, so to speak. But put him on the sidewalk, begging in the cold, and with the first glimpses of his scarred face and cut-up hands, they twigged to it.
It must’ve been a matter of context, he decided. You expected to see things where they belonged, and maybe didn’t recognize them when they were out of place. Context and belonging, that’s all. And he belonged…
Remus cut off that line of thought off there, then. No use in making the day any gloomier.
He sagged against the brick wall and dearly hoped it wasn’t one of the rearranging ones that would shuffle its pieces and send him tumbling through. He didn’t think his dignity couldn’t take it, at the moment.
When it held firm, he stuffed his chapped fingers into his pockets, deep as they would go, and sighed from the slight relief it brought.
Why did they have to be doing this in February? He--
“Rough time of it?” came a voice right by his ear, cutting off his thoughts. Startled, Remus spun, only to slam his shoulder against the brick with a sudden grimace. This drew a low chuckle from the man.
It was the same bloke he’d seen in The Leaky weeks ago— graying brown hair, scar across his right lip that stretched with his crooked smile. He was nearing forty, maybe. Last time, in the dim light of the pub, he’d looked wan and weary, a little worn at the edges.
He was looking fine, looking satisfied, now.
Remus rubbed his shoulder to ease the ache there, and admitted grudgingly, “Not the best.”
“We’ve all been there,” the other werewolf said knowingly.
It didn’t sound like a platitude the way he said it: plainly and tinged with faint bitterness. The moment stretched as that settled.
“Guess so,” Remus said awkwardly, and his gaze skittered to the side.
The other wolf straightened, abruptly. “That Auror. The other day. Moody.” His examination of Remus felt sharp. Keen. “He a friend of yours?”
Remus had to admit, there was an amusing symmetry to the two conversations, even if he was not finding it particularly amusing right at this moment. “Not exactly. He was a-- friend of my father’s.” He fibbed.
“Was?”
“Was, is,” Remus shrugged. “I dunno, really. Me and my da… we’re not exactly swapping tales by the fire these days,” he said wryly.
“That, I can see,” the man smirked, darkly amused. “Folks like us. Well. We don’t tend to stay popular with the family very long.”
Remus took a deep breath in, and then just … let it out.
What was there, really, to say? There was some sense of brotherhood this man was tapping into—whether it was imagined only by him, or simply unfamiliar to Remus, Remus didn’t know. Either way, it felt foreign to the younger man. What did he know of this fraternity? He’d never known another wolf in his life.
His thoughts were cut off when a heavy hand landed over his, where it still clasped his shoulder.
“Look, kid, you got anywhere to go?”
The half-amused pity in his question rubbed Remus the wrong way. It was too much, suddenly.
Maybe it was all true — he was homeless, he was jobless — but he didn’t need people looking at him that way or talking to him like that.
Even sitting on the street waiting for a coin thrown your way didn’t feel this scrutinized. People dropped a coin, or they didn’t. They glanced down, or they ignored you. And they all walked away, moving on soon enough.
For a second, it didn’t matter that he was supposed to be ingratiating himself with this man. Remus stuck his chin out. “I’ve got my tent,” he said defiantly. “I do alright.”
This seemed to amuse the werewolf more. “Good for you.” He released Remus’ shoulder, leaned back. Remus half-expected him to walk away. “Does it make any difference to you where you pitch it?” His eyebrow was raised, challenging Remus right back.
He shrugged - then shivered, his bravado undercut by the chill. “’Spose not.”
“This way, then. I’ll show you the place.” The man turned to go, but two strides in, he glanced back. “Got a wand, lad?”
“Aye,” he nodded.
“Even better,” came with a toothy grin.