Harry Potter and its world does not belong to me.
Inspired by this post: /gag/an93MN0
This story starts after the death of Lilly and James Potter and focuses on Remus Lupin and how he ends up working for the police.
It is assumed, that Remus did not know that the Potters decided to switch secret keeper from Sirius Black to Peter Pettigrew.
The 31st October of the year 1981 was just after a new moon and one would therefore think it to be a good day, with the vicious beast lurking inside Remus Lupin deep in his moon-driven slumber. And it started as such. Sure, he knocked is head into the doorframe when he sleepily stumbled in to the kitchen of his current domicile, a shared flat on the muggle side, to prepare some much-needed coffee. It was a Saturday, which means heading to the harbour early to help unload crates of vegetables and fruit, repackage them and load them into trucks that would make their way all over the United Kingdom to make sure stores were ready to reopen with fully stocked shelves on Monday.
He went to bed that day exhausted after the strenuous work, having earned the meagre income that his job provided, anticipating Sunday, when he was invited to the Potters for lunch.
Not even 24 hours later and the world as he knows it is gone, irrevocably, irreversible..
It was coincidence that lead him to the wizarding street near Dover in a small village called Ottinge to pick up a treat for the luncheon. He was sure Sirius would be there. That man never grew up but at least he took his godparent duties seriously, not pun intended. Peter hasn't been at the Potters as often, but then he always was a tiniest bit skittish around Remus, not that he could take offence. After all wolves, contrary to dogs, do eat the occasional rat. Though Remus hated when his wolf ate something, fur and bones gave regular Remus indigestion.
It was there, in front of Tarmik's Treats and Treaties, a shop run by a wizard baker and his squip lawyer wife, where he saw the headlines of the Daily Prophet.
He-who-must-not-be-named's reign of terror ended.
Boy-who-lived does the unthinkable
Did he finally snap? Disowned black heir confesses involvement in death of Potter family
It went only downhill from there.
...
He actually made it to Godric's Hollow.
Though he later wouldn't be able to tell you how.
The Potter homestead lies in shambles. There are scorch marks on the door and the roof and parts of the second story have been blown out. Everywhere lies rubble and shindles, and auror helps stalking around, guarding the recent crime scene while hooded figures scramble about, tittering, muttering, chanting with only an occasional wand wave. The Unspeakables got there before him.
There would be no entry for him, no search for survivors, no reaching for memories now lost.
Remus was pacing, agitated, anxious, disbelieving, trying to wrap his head around the fact that his friends were no more, and yet another friend was responsible, it just wasn't feasible. They were a pack! A Family! How could Sirius DO this?
His visage turned to anger, furrowed brows, snarled lip, slightly pointy canines barred to the world. His wolf had woken up from his slumber, early, for the full moon was weeks away. And it was him that poked Remus, startled him, really, and mentally pointed to two auror guards who had taken notice of him, through the occasional onlookers that were still celebrating.
Best not stay here, Remus realised, and turned to head to the local pub and its fireplace. There was nothing he could do here.
Harry! Harry lived. Harry was alive, his cub lives. A slither of hope? Longing? Spread through his torso. Dumbledore must have taken him, he must be at Hogwarts, or at the Ministry, Wizarding Child Services. The Ministry! He could go and... his wolf side jubilated, ready to pounce and protect what was left of his pack.
They would never let me take him. A werewolf as the guardian for the Boy-Who-Lived? Riddiculus.
it was at that thought that the casual passer-by got to see the calm and respectful once-prefect Remus Lupin, curse.
...
He awoke alone. That in and of itself is a regular and normal occurrence. The headache and hangover he felt, his throat dry, his head hurting with beat of blood pulsing through his body. That was irregular. He made no habit of drinking, especially to this degree.
He slowly realised he must have fallen asleep in a sitting position, fully clothed. Shaking his head to rattle himself awake to at least find some source of caffeine before any heavy thoughts... that was a bad idea, shaking his head. Everything is turning and dizzy.
Taking some concentrated breaths his memories started returning. Of him in front of the Potter's home, box of mixed treacle tart forgotten in his limb hand. Of him just wandering around, only leaving one random place to another random place when people began to stare. Of him finding a liquor store, in the muggle world. And damn the stuff that they sell is strong, way stronger than mulberry wine or fire whiskey he was used to. And of him stumbling into the shared flat drunken to the brims and shouting about his life being over, and being kicked to the curb by his roommates, hard workers that had been sleeping up for the next early morning workday.
Well fudge...
He needs to plan. He was not known as the ravenclawishest Gryffindor in his year for anything. Well most people probably didn't know he even existed, but he was fine with that. Glad most of the time even, because it meant less scrutiny on his habits and weird furry pets.
The most pressing thing would be to get a roof over his head. Sure, he slept outside before, as wolf but also as human in the tough times. But it's the beginning of November and the weather in England is no bed of roses that time of the year.
Then he needed a new job. His co-workers were sure to have reported his unruly behaviour already and those bosses do not tolerate such alcoholism.
And the next full moon is only a week away.
...
Full moon…
Such fond memories he now associated with that term. Of schoolboys feeling proud and boisterous in their continued evasion of teachers and detentions. Of victory and success, watching his friends focused on studying to help him in his transformation as they never were before an exam. And of his friends now adults, still making time to accompany him on his strolls, through different forests, always on the outskirts between civilisation and the territory of a real pack. To the British packs he was the elitist and educated snob, fearing his wolf instead of embracing it. Dumbledore's charity case, offered possibilities they were denied. Resented for something he never got to choose.
The packs were an option for his next full moon. Though they were not friendly receptive of him, they would allow him to submit and run with them, so as not to endanger any muggles. But there are fairly few to choose from. The Greyback pack of course was widely known to have been recruited by Voldemort himself and would tear him apart on sight. The other packs hid or fled to the continent or to Ireland mostly. The Irish had even stronger laws than the British Ministry, having less undisturbed forest so free roaming werewolves were a palpable danger. But they were fair about it and had a shelter program, not entirely safe for ones own health but affordable.
But it would be a pack-less, shame-filled Lupin that would try to go there. He was not ready yet, not so soon after loosing whom he considered pack, to try and grasp the intricate sociality of a new pack.
He could always go to Dumbledore and beg for admittance to the Hogwarts Grounds, but school was in session and the Gryffindor spark was not yet extinguished to the point, where he would admit his inability to live independent.
But what options are left when one removes the obvious?
He had no other friends, after all the boys were a handful in school and were sure to exhaust his social batterie. He of course interacted with the other prefects and the student body as was necessary in his duties, but those relationships never ran as deep. And thinking of romantic relationships, those were scares as well. Mostly muggle women, though he bailed after several weeks, dreading the day he would have to enlighten them about magic and all that comes with it.
His wolf is awake and pacing, restless. The emotional turmoil, the GRIEF.. it all got to much. His instincts scream at him to retreat, to flee and lick his wounds away from the world.
Remus Lupin is a smart fellow. Joining the Order of the Phoenix it was his job, his duty to keep taps on the remaining werewolves, of their allegiances and migrations. Searching for intel often took him to out-of-the-way places, the last dwellings of werewolves' shunt by their fellow citizens. More often then not he found the homes deserted. Raided by frightened villagers or absconded by scared wolves, fleeing by muggle means, unmonitored, to the last hiding places of the werewolves in the sacred forests far to the east, in Russia or Germany.
Germany, he realised, as if a lightbulb turned on in his head.
He went there once, on a trip to get potion ingredients for the Order. Potion ingredients that could not be transported by wizard means, lest the magic traces of that tainted them. The wizards sent him, ignorant as they were of the muggle world, they would have been lost trying to get back.
The forest his portkey landed in was wonderful, lush green, thick bushes and trees higher than he ever dreamed of. He strolled for hours in this paradise, taking in the smells and sounds of wildlife all around. Before he had to leave to meet the vendor.
Those are times long gone, or so it seems him, when the war was not yet at its peak and travel was possible free and unmonitored.
And with that Remus picked up the bag with his few belongings, pushed himself up from the floor, leaning on the wall, and apparated to the familiar harbour of Devon to book passage over the channel to the continent to head to Germany, hopefully in time for the full moon on the eleventh. For nothing was left of the life he build himself, no friends, no family, no job for a werewolf, even with the NEWT scores he could provide. Off to start anew in the German forest of old, the Black Forest.