Title: November 1, 1981
Author : Daria
Category: Drama
Sub-Category: Tragedy
Rating: T
Spoilers: Eh, the Harry Potter series.
Summary: Lily and James Potter are dead, their infant son handed over to Muggles. Peter Pettigrew is dead. Thirteen innocent Muggles gone, as well. Remus Lupin is not, and a mental breakdown ensues in the solitary privacy of the Shrieking Shack.
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made from this, and no copyright infringements were intended.

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The gravel below appeared only as various blurry gradations of gray and the occasional earthy tone - his black wingtips moved across it as koi would in a pond. Everything was swimming, at least the ground, and it seemed as his stomach lining was on fire, though that organ was the least of his worries. His heart must have exploded, and it was a wonder his brain was still intact. Why Remus Lupin had Apparated here, of all places, was beyond him, but his innate tormentor was mostly in control now. His fists were flexing involuntarily, and he could feel the tainted blood, seemingly hot enough to melt his scarred dermis, coarse through his veins. Legs that were no longer in his control carried the young wizard through unruly yellowed grass. He was approaching a small, crude and crooked-looking fence. Though he saw his hands, no longer the delicate ones inherited from his mother, rip the waist-high posts from the ground and continue on as if they hadn't ever obstructed his path, he felt nothing. There were undoubtedly countless splinters lodged in his spindly fingers now, but he was either too hot or too worthless to feel any pain. Come to think of it, he could feel nothing but rage, pure and ravenous, and he could have been struck with the Cruciatus innumerable times and not have felt a prick. Rage, and only rage, consumed him.

Stalking up the five steps he had never thought to use before, the possessed wizard pulls a willow wand and commands the door to open. Gray-encircled amber gaze, fiercely shining in the cold, crisp darkness of the autumn witching hour, widened considerably and then narrowed as his brows arched together. In one quick movement the skinny, frail-looking twenty-one year old had withdrawn both arms and in one powerful thrust knocked the bewitched door off its hinges. Somehow the Dark creature, as he was indeed one, had enough anger to convince those protective charms that there was no use in putting up a struggle, or maybe the house recognized him as its only inhabitant for seven years. Had he returned for a visit? In reality it was his only sanctuary; he had no home, no friends, and no will to reply to the Ministry's inquiries. They could find plenty of other people to question. They could file the damn report by themselves. Had they no hearts? It would have made perfect bloody sense for them to think he was lacking one - werewolves don't have any emotion, they would say.

The lycanthropic wizard stood in the doorway of the Shrieking Shack, chest heaving as he slowly gazed about. The moonlight poured into the darkness like cream into the coffee he'd had that morning with his Daily Prophet. It was that newspaper that had been the one to break the news. No phone call, no Ministry suits. A ruddy newspaper had told him of the tragic events that previous night. The scattered porcelain shards still littered the dirty linoleum floor where he had dropped the mug. It was amazing what a few printed words could do to one's physiological state. "Attack Claims The Lives Of Wizarding World's Finest," the headline had read. God, the words were burned into his eyelids, it seemed. The picture of the scorched remains of their beautiful home, the garden that Lily had pampered almost as much as little Harry. Sirius would have-

Each thought was more painful than the next. Each added to his destructive rage. Gripping the shaky doorframe with trembling hands, the wizard's chin presses against his chest, legs feeling as if they were made of rubber, eyes forced shut. How could he? How dare he. No two wizards could be more perfect, more pure. Massacred. And what of poor Peter? It was probably the first time his frail-willed friend had stood up for someone. And to their friend? No, monster. Only a monster could have betrayed... Murdered. Massacred. The three of them - gone. Harry's life was shattered before it had scarcely began. Would they actually hand over that beautiful child to the worst pair of Muggles in existence? Over a dozen Muggles had been killed along with Peter. Dear Wormtail. His thoughts were so jigsawed and scattered they were barely thoughts at all. Were his legs giving in? Did it matter? All those years of harmony to be wasted away in an act of greed. Why couldn't it have been anyone else? Remus would have given his life for one of them in a heartbeat. How had he not known...

Falling to his knees on the hardwood floor, stirring the dust around him, the broken wizard fell apart. If it had been any other night he would have been able to help. Hunched over, hands covering the tears as they spilled from his already-reddened eyes, Remus wept. He wept for James and Lily Potter, the proud parents who would never see their remarkable child grow into a miniature copy of themselves. And for Petter Pettigrew, the puny, soft-spoken friend who had only just fit in with the group. The little wizard who considered his miniscule Ministry job a proud achievement, who never noticed how he hadn't ever measured up to his friends. The inconsolable, selfish wizard, scared, sad, angry and alone, rocked back and fourth, sobs ringing in the stillness of the ravaged Hogsmeade house. Remus cried for Sirius, the brash, impulsive charmer he had shared a flat with up until two days ago - the reason for all of his anguish. He cried for his friends, and the utter injustice of it all.