I've been looking into writing prompts lately, and I was interested by one I found on tumblr... WARNING: Sad, moody, tearstearstears (i'm sorry). Please don't be afraid to give me feedback, although this one is just for fun ;) You can comment, PM, or message me on tumblr whenever you like! I'm always open to suggestions and prompts; I'd love to hear your ideas! Thanks, enjoy! - mm kierkegaard

"Lower your goddamn standards, and maybe you'll achieve something,"muttered Sirius under his breath, which instantly turned to vapour in the crisp November air. "It isn't up to me to choose what you do; I can't force you. But… God, Moony. You've got to stop aiming so high. Don't try so hard to be something you're not."

"What about you?" said Remus bitterly, tracing the indentations in the wooden wall. The Shack had aged terribly over the years and was slowly being swallowed by mud and mould. "You're a Black, Sirius. It's in your blood, but you've pushed it aside all your life. You're definitely-"

"That's different," Sirius said immediately, scowling into the water.

"How?" demanded Remus angrily. "I want a life, Sirius. Maybe I want a job, a good-paying job, maybe I want to get married!"

Sirius snorted.

Remus fumed. "I raise my standards because I want to achieve something worthwhile! I want to do something in my life, not spend it wallowing in grief!"

"Ass," Sirius sneered. "At least I'm well off, and not living in the gutter."

"At least I'm trying!" Remus shouted.

"Trying will get you nowhere," said Sirius, raising his cigarette to his lips. "You've known that since you were twelve. I know it, Moody knows it, James knew it."

"Shut your goddamn mouth," Remus snapped.

Sirius grinned. "America be good to you, mate?"

"Did London treat you well enough?" Remus shot back.

"Plenty," murmured Sirius, glancing furtively around the shack before taking a wad of tobacco out of his pocket. "Smoke?"

Remus hadn't smoked in two whole months, but he felt like he should now. Hesitantly, he tugged an old package out from his leather bag.

"That old thing?" Sirius said disdainfully. "You and your antique knick-knacks."

"It's not an antique," Remus said, raising his eyebrows. "It was my father's."

They spent the next few moments in silence; Remus made sure to avoid Sirius's gaze - he could feel Sirius stare at him piercingly.

"Full moon tonight," said Sirius finally.

Remus glared at him. "You think I don't know that?"

"You might've forgotten," said Sirius, shrugging. "Shoot my an owl if you want me to stop by."

And he stormed out, slamming the peeling door behind him. Remus didn't try to stop him. he knew he couldn't. He was too weak, and Sirius was too stubborn.

November 11th, 1981. James and Lily had been dead for a week now. Remus didn't understand why he wasn't wheeling in sadness.

He just didn't talk. He didn't speak. When Moody told him the news he had rushed to the scene,but when he arrived - he stood in front of the brass knocker and had just stared. The knocker was the head of a stag, antlers and all. James had been especially fond of it, it was one of the reason he had chosen that cottage. But the stag looked forlorn and lonely in the dim light of his wand.

It had been snowing. He felt flakes fall onto his arms and met there, leaving him soaked in his pajamas. Remus stared at the door. It was a pretty door: willow and oak. Lily's wand had been made of willow. Good for charms.

A scream broke the silence. A baby crying.

Remus choked. Harry was alive. God, Harry was alive…

The baby cried louder. Remus traced a crevice in the door frame.

Harry sobbed. One of the upstairs windows was broken.

Remus couldn't stand it.

For a moment, his hand brushed to knob, and he made a sudden movement with his wrist as if to twist it, shove it open.

A tear slipped down his cheek and seemed to turn to ice; Remus gasped as if burned and drew back. He couldn't trust himself. He was too unpredictable, too dangerous.

He took a step back.

Crack.

He Apparated.

That had been 12 days ago. Now it was November 11th, 1981.

Sirius Black was looking murderous.

He wondered, in the back of his mind, where Peter was.