A/N: Oh gods. Okay, yes I know, I know I should probably not be working on any new stories, not when I have at least two unfinished ones on here that I've been neglecting (not to mention the handful of ones sitting on my computer collecting dust) but, But, BUT, I promise this one will be different. Probably. Hopefully. (don't trust me on this, I have commitment issues). Anyway, I'm mostly posting the first two chapters (hey look! two chapters. go me!) for my benefit, just to see how many people are actually interested in this. So please review and comment?

Also, guys, there are some mentions of child abuse here (and throughout the rest of the story) so please read with caution and be careful!

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or anything related to it. Sigh.

(I've proofread this as many times as I could before my eyes glazed over, so naturally, there are bound to be some mistakes. Sorry about them in advance!)

Prologue

A man sits alone at a long, empty table, his back to the closed door. There's a glass full of a dark, amber liquid set in front of him, although this he hasn't touched, just drums his fingers impatiently against the table. There are two other glasses set in the seats across from him, one a shot glass full of a lighter, golden liquid, while the other is tall and thin, filled to the brim with a clear liquid-water, most likely, he scoffs to himself.

There is a small, closed window on the wall across from him, an almost-full moon visible from it and this he glances at every once in a while, almost imperceptibly, his shoulders tensing every time he does it. The large, strange looking clock on the opposite side of it ticks away the minutes slowly and it is the only sound in the large room, other than the man's occasional small sigh, the drumming of his fingers.

It isn't until the small rotating star in the middle is halfway around the clock that something happens. A small flash of green light emanates from the large fireplace in a corner of the room, and if this surprises the man, he doesn't show it. Instead, he sits up curiously, staring intently into the fireplace, as if expecting something from it.

For a moment nothing happens, and then there are two women stepping out from it, one tall, with a messy knot of black hair at the top of her head, sharp blue eyes sweeping across the room in a calculating motion, the other shorter with long, blonde hair, kind brown eyes, a small file clutched in one of her perfectly manicured hands. The taller of the two moves to the door, taking out a long, wooden stick from the inside of her robes, the other taking a seat opposite of the man's, taking a small sip of water.

"I already set up wards around the room," the man says, a hint of amusement in his voice. "The Headmistress herself double checked it when she was here."

The woman nods her head, even as she continues walking around the room, inspecting the thin air; not much has changed, it seems. "And the window?"

"Sealed tight. There is no-one else in this room; I even made sure there were no unwanted visitor of the other kind."

A dark look crosses the woman's face as she turns to them, apparently satisfied with her findings.

"Right. Well, let's get down to business," the woman says, as she plops herself on the seat across from the man's, next to the blonde woman. She takes her drink and throws it back in one go, as if trying to give herself a quick dose of liquid courage, doesn't even blink when the glass refills itself again. "I take it McGonagall has already explained everything?"

"She has," the man ascents, doesn't offer anything else.

"And?" the woman pushes, raising a trimmed eyebrow.

"And I think we all know why that would be a terrible idea."

"More terrible than leaving the son of your supposed best friends to be raised by those people?" It's the blonde woman who directs that question, and the conviction in her voice surprises even herself. "I've been watching them. They're vile, horrible people, and I for one will not allow the son of my best friend to spend a day more in their presence."

"I understand that, but-," the man starts, but the blonde woman interrupts him sharply.

"But nothing! He is your godson for Merlin's sake! I know Black might have held the official title, but you and I both know Lily asked you first," the blonde woman spits out, narrowing her eyes accusingly, as if daring him to interrupt her. "You have a duty to that child and I will well bloody make sure you honour it, or so help me Helga, I will hex you."

"Mary, it's not that simple," he starts again, but Mary, it seems, isn't in the mood to listen to any excuses he can come up with because she interrupts him yet again.

"You bloody Gryffindors always over complicate things unnecessarily," Mary murmurs under her breath, rolling her eyes, before giving him a long, hard look. "It actually is quite simple; we've already discussed it. Our decision is final. You will be the boy's true, legal guardian."

"We?" the man says, letting out an incredulous laugh. "We've discussed it, have we?"

"Yes, we have," Mary says, shooting the other woman a look. "The Headmistress, Emmeline and I."

"And nobody thought of consulting me?"

"You would have only slowed down the whole process with your empty excuses," Emmeline says, waving her hand impatiently and levelling him with a look. "Everything is already taken care of, all we need is your signature."

Emmeline motions out her hand and Mary extracts a piece of paper from the files she's holding, which she places in front of the man. He stares at it, the letters nothing more than a series of unreadable scribbles, but he knows what it is. An adoption form.

"I don't even have a proper job, or appropriate housing," he tries helplessly, but Mary interrupts him before he can properly finish the sentence.

"Already taken care of," she says softly, firmly, giving him a gentle smile. "We've managed to acquire the old family home of the late Mrs Potter and everything is all set up, ready for you to move in as soon as possible. It's in Scotland, which works quite well for us; nobody will even think of looking for the boy there. They'll all be expecting him to still be somewhere in England."

"As for money, I have it on good account that the Ministry will no longer interfere with the monthly allowance James had intended for you in his will, after his death. It's not much, but it is enough to make sure you both would live comfortably," Emmeline says, giving him a smug smile at the questioning look he gives her. "Amelia Bones owed me a favour."

"But what about…"he trails off, leaves the sentence unfinished, but he knows they both understand him by the sad smile Mary gives him, the way Emmeline's eyes soften, just a little.

"Mary and I have already discussed that, as well. We'll take turns during those days, taking care of him while you're away," Emmeline says, continuing before he can interrupt her again. "And before you ask, no. I think we can all agree that I should be the last person entrusted with the permanent care of any child. And Mary's schedule is too hectic to give the boy the attention and care he needs. And I'm sure you know Professor McGonagall has enough on her plate as it is."

"We've already discussed it to the last minuscule detail. We know what we're doing."

He changes tactic, a last desperate attempt.

"But Professor Dumbledore-," he starts, but Emmeline cuts him off sharply.

"Dumbledore was a crazy old bastard who couldn't even manage to take care of himself, in the end." She sighs, softening her tone a little. "Look if I, even for a second, thought that leaving Lily and James' son at the care of that despicable family was for his best, I wouldn't be here."

"We're the only people he has left," Mary says softly, hands reaching in again to the file she's set in front of herself, extracting this time a picture. "He needs us. Just. Please."

The man takes a deep breath, hands shaking a little as he takes the picture. The boy staring back at him looks so uncannily like James that he feels completely floored for a moment, the air in his chest feeling constricted, making it harder for him to breathe. The boy is small for his age, a tuft of messy jet black hair on top of his head, large round spectacles perched atop his small nose. It's his eyes that catch his attention because although he is the spitting image of James, from the wild mess atop his small head, to the smooth darkness of his skin, his eyes are different. Large, bright green. Lily's eyes.

He manages to tear his eyes away long enough to notice the scar running down a side of his face, long and angry, a strike of lighting, of a curse.

"Is that where?" he murmurs, fingers tracing the scar carefully; someone whispers a soft yes, and it could be Mary or it could he Emmeline, but it doesn't matter.

Not when his eyes fall to a large, purple bruise blooming underneath the collar of the boy's old, dirty shirt, three sizes too big for his small frame. He can feel the bile rising in his throat as his fingers curl around the picture, something like anger boiling in his veins.

"Professor McGonagall never trusted them and always made sure to keep an eye out for him," Mary says, noticing the spot his eyes seem to be trained on, unable to tear himself away, voice even softer than before. "She just never realised the extent of it, not until the boy was admitted to the hospital a month ago, with fracture wounds the family claimed were a cause of his clumsiness. I have a cousin, a Squib, who works for the hospital and who was one of the nurses in charge of his case. She was the one who phoned me after. I did the only thing I could think of and contacted Professor McGonagall. And, well, you know how the rest of it goes."

"Lily and James would never forgive us if they knew how much their son was suffering and we didn't do anything to stop it," Emmeline says, and for once, her voice sounds as weary as he feels.

"And you're sure this is your last viable option?" the man asks quietly, staring at the picture of the boy for as long as he dares. There's a part of him, a large part of him that grows louder by the second, demanding him to protect the boy at all costs, but there's also a smaller, quieter voice, whispering the same thing.

Remember what you are, the voice whispers, you'll only end up hurting the boy.

"You won't hurt him," Mary murmurs softly, as if reading his thoughts. "I know you won't. But you will hurt him if you turn your back on him now. You won't just be letting Lily or James down, you'll be letting him down, too."

The man says nothing, only takes the form again, looking down at it as if it holds all the answers he is looking for. There's a moment in which neither of them say anything, and it seems to stretch for hours, but finally he nods, almost imperceptibly.

Emmeline procures a quill from what seems to be out of thin air, and the man accepts it wordlessly, his hands shaking as he takes a long, deep breath. He can feel a small shock of magic rushing through his veins as the quill touches the parchment, and he doesn't think as he signs his name away, in bold, spiky letters: Remus J. Lupin.