Remus stood in front of the Muggle storage space: a cold and blank metal door set into a row of black-painted wood-and-metal. It was the wrong side of Liverpool, not a good neighborhood, but it had been the storage space that he could afford when a flat had been beyond his means. He hesitated, eying the key in his weather-chilled fingers. Finally, he put aside his reservations. He set the key in the lock, and shoved open the heavy metal door.
The space was filled with items he had kept from school: books Sirius had written in the margins of, letters and notes he and Sirius had passed in class, the broom Sirius had bought for him.
Now, of course, Remus knew it had all been a lie. Sirius, a Death Eater, and for how long? How long had Sirius been playing this game?
Remus pulled the matchbook from his pocket. It gave the name of a hourly motel: another place where he had tried to wash the stench of Sirius away. This, then, would finish the job.
Remus lit a match, threw it into the storage space, and hurried away before he was caught.
Behind him, the life he had known perished into a smoke, smoke that curled around the grey November sky and, like Remus Lupin, vanished into the afternoon.