The past honoured in the present, the present gambled for the future

16th January, 1997

It has been twenty seven years since I first wrote in this diary. Such a long span of time as my little brain was scarcely capable of comprehending at that time, but as it turns out, I need not have bothered. Not very much has changed. I am older and I have a family, a wife and a child, but the basic facts of my life, sadly, are intact.

I come back to the diary now, out of boredom, rather than any meaningful attempt to convert it into a publishable book, as I had once hoped to do. The thought of it makes me laugh. As a child, I was naïve and fanciful; as a young adult, I was an utter idiot, to carry on with the foolish hope that someday the magical world would be interested in reading the self-centered ramblings of a wretched werewolf.

The worthlessness of my biography aside, there's another very good reason this diary should never be published. In writing accounts of things which have happened to me, I have stupidly spilled a thousand secrets – secrets that are not mine to share, secrets that should not have been committed to parchment in the first place. Indeed, it's a miracle that this diary never fell into the wrong hands. So many things could have gone wrong if it had. Not even if Voldemort is defeated will I be convinced that it is safe for these secrets to leave the confines of my knowledge and those of others whom they protect, whether dead or alive.

Perhaps Teddy could read it one day. It is my wish, however, that he doesn't. There is enough about his father that will upset and embarrass him, without the added burden of knowing about these perplexing escapades. Dora knows most of it, of course, and thankfully, she is too impatient to bother to read the details.

Our days are spent behind closed walls and security charms. It's just waiting and hiding, some Order business in between, then more waiting and hiding. The only times I glimpse open skies are the times I don't want to see them at all. The others say we are fighting, resisting. I think we are just… surviving.

So here I am, dipping my toes into a sea of memories long buried. I will, perhaps make some corrections and adjustments, allow myself a few spells of nostalgia, and then, for the peace of everyone around me, close these chapters forever.

R.J. Lupin

5th August, 2000

St. Mungo's was having a busy day. Someone had distributed Hiccupping Teacups at a child's birthday party (as a joke, of course) and nearly twenty guests had had to be brought in to Spell Damage. Normally, they would have been treated at Artefact Accidents on the first floor, but the hospital was short-staffed these days, with the result that everything which wasn't poison, a contagious disease or a creature bite, was being dumped on the overworked and increasingly mutinous Healers at Spell Damage.

This suited Peregrin perfectly well.

She had spent three months on the second floor, tending almost exclusively to wizards and witches stupid enough to contract C.R.A.B.s (Coitus-Related Ailments and Bugs). Not only did this involve looking at distinctly un-pretty body parts, she also had to listen to patients recount the sexual misadventures that had landed them there. Most of them were lonely and had no filter, often forcing Peregrin to wonder why Mungo's didn't have therapists, or why over-sharing wasn't enough of a reason to send people to Azkaban. Thrice, she had nearly been driven to hand in her resignation letter. (A letter that had been composed four years ago, and always kept within Summoning distance). It was nothing but the memory of previous jobs and the thought of having to face her mother again that had kept her going.

Spell Damage was a huge improvement. She now worked on a wider range of cases, many of which were interesting enough to keep her brain from dying of disuse. There were jinxes which required innovative magic to counter, and curses for which new cures had to be researched, patients were occasionally in mortal danger, which made their whining more palatable, and most importantly, her new supervisor was Healer Pye.

Healer Pye was unlike most other Healers at the hospital. For one thing, he was 33 - a normal, respectable age. The average age among Healers was 110. While this might signal good health to some people, Peregrin found it off-putting. Old age just meant that a person's sanity, their ability to see the world for what it really was, was slowly tapering off. In her opinion, the Healing community was a barmy lot.

Another good thing about Pye - he was willing to toy with the boundaries of traditional Healing magic. He thrived on experimentation. After repeated demonstrations, and months of advocacy, he had got the hospital to start using Muggle stitches as a routine remedy for non-magical wounds. He had also introduced basic Muggle medical education into the Healing curriculum. These were considerable achievements for someone as young as him. He spent all his spare time reading Muggle health journals and was constantly talking about advances in 'neurology' and 'cardiovascular diseases'. While Peregrin respected his spirit, she had also learnt to tune him out when he started prattling about the wonder of x-ray machines, whatever they were.

Peregrin had rounded up the Hiccupping group, made mostly of pre-adolescent children, into a small room near the main ward, where she was trying to assure them that they would be treated once the more serious injuries had been administered. It wasn't going over well; one irate parent, a mother, (the only one there, it seemed) was already threatening to get her fired.

It wouldn't be the worst thing in the world, Peregrin thought, as she collected the badly scribbled, half-filled forms from the Hiccuppers.

"Alright, Perry?" said a low voice near her. It was a young witch in bright blue robes with the St. Mungo's logo and a white 'T' embroidered on them, a wand tucked behind the ear, clipboard and quill hovering on her side.

The name tag on her robes said Leah Strout, Trainee Healer.

"Hello Leah," greeted Peregrin, as she returned two of the forms to the Hiccuppers, who had started hitting and poking each other, all of them except the parent, who continued to glare at her. "Just write your full names and ages," she told the children. "You don't have to write your pet names. Or your school houses." She glanced at the forms again. "Or Quidditch teams, bloody hell..."

"Pye and Spleen are undoing a rogue Petrificus in there," she explained to Leah. "The patient hasn't moved in two days. Counter-curse isn't working. Don't know how it happened either. No family has come for him. He was brought in by a co-worker, works at the Ministry. She found him like this, lying near the fountain."

"How do they know it's a Petrificus then?" asked Leah, her eyebrows raised. "Couldn't have been a Dark spell?"

"Don't worry, Pye is sure he's petrified," replied Peregrin, inwardly rolling her eyes. According to Leah, everyone who came into Mungo's had been attacked by Dark Magic.

"Why can't – hic – you fix us – hic – Miss?" asked one of the girls, waving her form in her face.

"Because it's a Permanent Jinx," she replied, taking the form from the girl. "They'll have to examine for potential side effects before Reversing. I can't do that on my own."

She looked at the form and swore under her breath. "What's 'Billy lurves Connie'?"

The girl giggled, and pointed at one of the boy Hiccuppers. "Him. He – hic – lurrrves – hic – Connie. Don't you Billy? Don't you – hic – lurrve her?"

"Shut up Tess - hic!" yelled Billy, his face completely purple, though it was hard to tell whether it was from embarrassment or the hiccups.

"Don't you – hic – start again," shouted the mother, clearly out of patience by now. "You!" she yelled at Peregrin and Leah. "Hic - Do something! What kind of – hic – hospital – hic – is this? Do you know – hic – who I am?"

Peregrin looked at the forms in her hand again. She grinned. Children did have some use after all.

"Yes. According to this, you are Lady Barks-a-Lot."

Five or six of the children burst out laughing, while the mother turned red with rage.

"Shut up!" she yelled at them, and then turning to Peregrin, "You are fired Missy – hic! I'm going – hic – to the Ministry on this one! Abso – hic – lutely impertinent!"

Peregrin exchanged a look with Leah, one they must have exchanged a hundred times

She forced on a smile. "Here, you might want to fill up these forms again. I'll be back to collect them. In the meantime, just sit and wait till Healer Pye calls you in." She turned to Leah. "Pumpkin juice?"

"Sure," said Leah, looking a little stunned, "I'm on break anyway." They started walking towards the exit.

"If she ends up murdering a kid, Perry…"

"Good, right? It's been a while since I visited the morgue!"

They exited through the double doors, out into the corridor, then started climbing the stairs to the fifth floor. Halfway up, they ran into Healer Smethwyck who headed Creature-Induced Injuries on the second floor. He was looking dazed, as he stared at a portrait on the wall, and didn't seem to hear Leah when she greeted him.

At the cafeteria, Peregrin ordered Pumpkin Juice, pushing a few Sickles across the counter. Most Healers kept a running tab, but she preferred not to spend large sums of money at a time. It was better to be alert about her expenses on a daily basis, it gave her the illusion of financial security. Trainee Healers worked long hours, but earned very little. Especially now, when the hospital was short on funds.

Leah had taken a seat at a small table. She sat there, tapping her foot against the leg of the chair. She wasn't eating or drinking anything. It was normal for Healers to eat at odd hours, but Leah was a different case altogether. Peregrin was convinced she was on a weird diet, most likely at the suggestion of a friend or relative. Leah was terribly impressionable. Peregrin was sure she could tell her that dragon bile was a good conditioner and she would immediately get some for her hair.

Leah was alright. She wasn't a friend, as far as Peregrin was concerned, but she wasn't the worst company in a place like this. In fact, she was just the right amount of social contact Peregrin needed to get through the day – not too much and better than none at all.

Peregrin was used to not having friends. Since Hogwarts, she had not stayed at a place or a job long enough to really get to know anyone, and have them become part of her life. After finishing seventh-year, she had spent eighteen months working as an assistant at various shops in Diagon Alley, while on the constant lookout for something more meaningful and permanent. But that something had not come along.

She had got only four N.E.W.T.s. It was nowhere near enough for a respectable career. She had never wanted to be an Auror, but it had hurt to realise that she had squandered her chance at professions like Healing and Curse-Breaking.

She had been working at Eyelop's Owl Emporium, when one day, she chanced upon a flyer for another job. Bored out of her mind with shop-keeping, she had applied.

It was a teaching post at Urquart's Institute for Squibs and Dullards, colloquially known as Hoggy Warty. It was a small enterprise established by a business-wizard named Loam Urquart. The institute offered evening classes in practical magic for squibs and wizards who had done badly at Hogwarts (usually Troll-grade students, or in some rare cases, dropouts). It wasn't, strictly speaking, recognised by the Ministry, but everyone understood that Urquart had bribed Ministry officials, and that some manner of paperwork existed somewhere.

Peregrin had never met Urquart in person. She had only met the other employees – young people like herself, employed for short durations, all of them eager to make a quick Galleon and then leave.

Peregrin had taught everything – Charms, Transfiguration, Herbology and Defence Against the Dark Arts – but it was all first and second-year stuff. When she realized the content wasn't challenging or interesting, she had thought she might grow to enjoy the teaching process. She had, after all, studied under teachers like Minerva McGonagall and Septima Vector (and Remus Lupin, for one happy year).

But classes at Hoggy Warty were nothing like classes at Hogwarts.

The students were slow and disinterested, and quickly turned violent when they couldn't master a spell. Most of them were over-age and unwilling to learn from someone who was their peer, or worse, younger to them. Thinking back, Peregrin found it hard to believe that she had stuck at that job for two full years.

Next had been a research assistantship with Violeta Spangle, an authority on rarely used Charms, who was trying to make a comeback in the world of magical academia with a new book. The work had been interesting, but it paid next to nothing.

When she had finally had enough, thoroughly disillusioned with how adulthood was turning out, she had returned home. The next ten months had been the hardest of her life.

Her mother was not an easy person to live with. She was a pureblood witch with no great magical talent, a husband who had left her two years into marriage, and no wealth. In other words, a complete outlier whichever way one looked at it. She survived on selling recipes of cauldron cakes to magazines, and other such odd ventures, plus whatever little Peregrin could save. A veneer of pride had prevented her from turning to her family. The Fawleys were one of the Sacred Twenty Eight, after all, and some relation somewhere could have been persuaded to help pay the bills. But her mother had been adamant. When she realized that Peregrin was not going to have a flourishing career, she had resigned herself to a life of modest means and bitterness.

Peregrin thought she would forever resent her mother for not taking help from her family. Her mother's lack of pragmatism (and her ignorance of the finer aspects of magic) had forged a distance between them, and it was not one Peregrin thought they could ever bridge. She had adopted her mother's maiden name, but there was nothing else to indicate that they were mother and daughter.

After five months of enduring hell, living with her mother, Peregrin had somehow managed to accomplish what she considered the greatest success of her life, something she thought she would be proud of till her dying day. Half-heartedly exploring career options, she had come across a biography of Mungo Bonham, the founder of the eponymous hospital. His views about helping people and upholding principles of fraternity and such, had seemed unbearably trite to her, but the work of Healing itself caught her imagination.

In one inspired, life-turning moment, she had dashed off a long letter to her former head of house, Professor Flitwick, explaining that she needed to reappear for her D.A.D.A., Potions and Arithmancy N.E.W.T.s, so she could get the right grades and become a Healer. She had not been able to give it her full attention at Hogwarts, she was ready now, she was going to study day and night, and she desperately needed his help.

Flitwick had not agreed immediately. After all, Hogwarts (and the whole wizarding world) was under unprecedented turmoil at the time. Voldemort and his Death Eaters were at large. Innocent Muggle-borns were being prosecuted. People were dying. But Peregrin had persisted, and Flitwick had given in. He had written back, telling her to study and be patient, assuring her that he would find a way to help.

It was in August, 1998, two months after the War ended, that she had gone back to Hogwarts to take the exams.

The castle was a miserable shadow of its former self. It was by special arrangement; the examiners had been called in in just for her. But they had come. She knew that they had agreed because it was in the aftermath of the War. A poor, young girl who dreamt of becoming a Healer – she was the perfect project for a community desperately trying to rebuild itself.

"You have a lot of spirit, you know," one of the examiners had told her tearfully. "Dumbledore would have encouraged a student like you, I know he would have."

Professor McGonagall, headmistress then, had also been supportive. Months of tireless preparation had paid off, and by August, aided in part by the shortage of Healers and the increased number of long-term patients at St. Mungo's, Peregrin had qualified for an apprenticeship under Healer Jones. She moved out of her mother's house, and into a small flat in Diagon Alley, where rents had plummeted because memories of the wartime disappearances and violence were still fresh.

It had worked out. Somehow, she had made it.

"Have you seen this Perry?" Leah asked her, as Peregrin joined her at the table, glass of juice in hand.

Leah was pointing to a copy of the Daily Prophet. The headline read, 'PORTKEY MENACE NOT WORTH INVESTIGATING FOR CLEAN-UP COUNCIL?' This was followed by a rather long subheading, 'Harry Potter says, "Trick Portkeys are as important as escaped Garden Gnomes, now leave me the *expletive deleted* alone!"'

"He's being naïve, if you ask me," said Leah, her eyes widened. "These portkeys are transporting people to unknown places instead of the pre-decided destination! Dangerous places! Why can't they put an Auror on the case?"

Peregrin was sure Harry Potter had not, in fact, said anything of the sort; the Prophet was notorious for provocative headlines which had little basis in truth. But she also didn't think that Trick Portkeys were an issue for the Ministry to prioritise.

"If you ask me," she said, "the only place he needs to investigate is his girlfriend's brother's joke shop."

Just then, her eyes fell on a small story on one of the other pages which lay strewn on the table.

"Muggles turn Clown Monument into Amusement Park." It was an update on a strange incident from two months ago, which most people had already forgotten about.

'The Muggle Prime Minister has agreed to a suggestion of the 'Parliament' that the curious 'clown monument' be turned into an amusement park. An amusement park is a bigger version of a children's park that Muggles visit for recreation. This decision appears to have been welcomed by most of the Muggle public, though a group of angry mothers still gathers outside the Minister's residence daily, complaining that the monument is giving their children nightmares.

It has now been over two months since Muggles in London woke up one day and found themselves staring at a grotesque object in place of their beloved Big Ben clock. It appeared that the clocktower had been charmed to look like a giant version of a popular Muggle toy called 'Jack-in-the-Box'.

The Misuse of Muggle Artefacts team has not yet identified the source of this mishap. Meanwhile, Minister Shacklebolt assures us that he and the Muggle Prime Minister have worked out an arrangement, and that it isn't necessary to obliviate Muggle witnesses who see this object every day…'

"No one in the Prophet ever passed an exam!" Peregrin exclaimed, irritated. "The monument wasn't charmed, it was Transfigured! The material it's constructed from is completely different!"

Leah wasn't listening, she had started talking to another Mediwitch, both of them probably berating Harry Potter together.

Peregrin had seen the giant Jack-in-the-Box up close. She wasn't surprised to hear that children were having nightmares. That thing was terrifying. She sipped her juice in silence, wondering what story the Muggle Prime Minister could possibly have put out to explain this bizarre occurrence to his public…

5th August, 2000

From outside, the profile of the witch sitting at the desk was visible through the study window.

The lamplight in the room produced a clear silhouette: a tall woman with thick, long hair, half of it made up into a bun, held in place by a long, distinctive hair pin, a shawl draped around her shoulders, hands with thin fingers, several rings on them, gently rested on the pages in front of her.

In the garden outside, there was a low humming (Chizpurfles, maybe), but otherwise, it was a quiet night.

The witch closed the leather bound diary she had been reading and placed her hands under her chin, staring into space.

The leather on the diary was peeling off and the pages were yellowed. The words inscribed on the cover, neatly lettered and tightly spaced, were barely legible now.

The Memoirs of Remus John Lupin

Beneath, in cruder letters, a different hand, one word – Moony.

The witch at the desk was trying to calculate where Remus would have been at the time of the entry she had just read. 16th January. So that was after… after the first one. That was how she referred to it in her head. He and Nymphadora must have been at their hideout.

Was it anger she was feeling right now? Was that the reason she had closed the diary, unable to read further? How casually he had mentioned his wife and child, and then dismissed them, as if they did nothing to assuage his life's troubles. Had they brought him no joy at all?

That wasn't true. She had seen him with Teddy, he had looked every inch a proud, doting father. But she had also seen Nymphadora during their period of separation, sobbing uncontrollably, refusing to divulge details, but blurting out things like, 'He's never coming back… he's putting himself in danger… Teddy needs a father… what will I do…'

Nymphadora wore her emotions on her sleeve. But Remus… Remus had always been a difficult man to read.

The witch put the diary away in one of the desk drawers, but she didn't get up. Her wandering gaze has landed on the photo frame on one corner of the desk, near the windowsill. An unfathomable curiosity, surely, for anyone who happened to see it.

It was a simple, silver frame containing a glass-encased photograph of five children.

On the extreme left in the photo, there was a girl with brown hair tied back in a neat ponytail, smiling and waving. She must have been around twelve. She was the only one whose face was clearly visible, it bore no marks of having been tampered through the glass. Beside her was a younger girl, with blonde hair and a sulky expression. At some point her face had been crossed out with a fiery red 'X', but about a year ago, it had been restored, though it still looked blurry and a little smoked.

In the centre of the photo was the youngest boy, dark-haired, slightly nervous, but smiling. His face too had been crossed out once, and had remained like that for a long time. It had been restored some time after the blonde girl's. Beside him was a slightly older boy with matching features, who had his arm around the younger boy in a mock stranglehold. His eyes were lit up with mischief and he was smiling widely. Crossed out once, and restored four years ago.

On the extreme right was the fifth and the oldest child. The fiery 'X' still hovered over her face. It had never been removed. Behind it, there had once been a pair of heavy-lidded eyes, shiny, black hair, and a smile very unlike that of the others.

Between the acts of crossing out faces and restoring them, there lay years of misunderstandings and ignorance, of redemption, of hard-won forgiveness.

The witch stared at the photograph, pondering the stories she had been told, the explanations she had been given… switched Secret Keepers… a man presumed dead living as a rat for twelve years… a hidden lake full of Inferi… the House-elf who had escaped with a locket… the wife of a Death Eater kneeling down, feeling the pulse of a dead boy and lying to her master...

She still wasn't sure if she believed all of them, but then, did she really have a choice?

There was no good reason why she still had this photograph. At best, it was an encumbrance, a proof of blood ties to a family she had cut herself out of, a long time ago. At worst, it was a brutal reminder of the violence, the madness, which had wiped out almost everything and everyone she had held dear.

The first one. The second one. She felt the two memories jab at her like real, physical wounds.

Her eyes lingered on the 'X' on the right for a few more seconds, then she looked away. The past must be remembered, she thought to herself. She could cross out faces in a photograph, but she couldn't erase the reality of what had happened.

She looked back at the diary now. Another past, carefully preserved, not her own. Remus may have written that he was no longer interested in the diary, but she had known enough about him to understand that he too had painful ties to his past, that he had been unable to cut loose.

If it had been anyone else, she would have respected their privacy. But she could intuit that Remus, for all his efforts at being guarded and reclusive, had badly wanted to connect to people, and share something of himself with others. It would be a shame if no one ever read his not-so-carefully preserved memoirs.

What were these secrets he was so keen to hide from everyone anyway? Surely, all was out in the open now, either with the Ministry's sanction or through all those rumours which had spread like fire after the War…

She had kept the diary unopened for seven months, since the time it had arrived in the box of belongings found at the hideout, sent over by the Ministry. But tonight, having run out of distractions, and unable to suppress the morbid curiosity with which she regarded all evidence of the past, she had fished it out.

She would read the rest of it another day, when she was feeling less maudlin perhaps.

The cries of the baby shook her out of her reverie. As she got up to go check on him, she took several deep breaths to steady herself. Things had been getting better. She couldn't afford to lose herself for hours at a stretch any longer.

She went into the baby's room, where he lay in a crib, crying loudly and holding up his tiny fists. She picked him up and then smiled, in spite of herself.

The tuft of hair on his head was bright pink.

Holding him in her arms and muttering a soft lullaby, she walked around the house, making mental notes of grocery items to buy, things to be repaired, things to be organised. These last few weeks, she had been at her busiest in two years. She had been making plans to get back to her old job at St. Mungo's, and it involved a lot of correspondence, sorting out her old records, catching up on current Healing practices, studying and revising techniques that she had forgotten.

On a wall in her study, there was a to-do list. She picked up a quill, added the new items and started marking off the things that had been done. Only three of the old items remained.

- Collect old files for Smethwyck

- Tuesday, tea with Harry Potter

- Letter (prank?)

She stared at the last one. She had completely forgotten about her plan to do something about the strange letter which had arrived a week ago. A small brown owl had delivered it. It had stuck around for two days, demanding treats and hooting loudly, evidently waiting for her reply. When she had shown no sign of writing one, it had flown away.

She opened her cabinet and took out the letter. On the envelope, it just said 'Miss Black'. When she had first read it, she thought it was some sort of joke, someone trying to annoy her by mocking her disreputable former family name.

The letter itself hadn't been very sensible either. But funny things were happening these days, and preferring to err on the side of caution, she had decided to show it to someone who might be able to make sense of it. Someone she could trust and someone who wouldn't think she was losing her marbles. Maybe Minerva, or someone at the hospital…

Holding the baby in one hand, she unfolded the letter and read it again.

Dear Miss Black,

I hope all is well with you.

I am writing to you because I think it is my solemn duty to inform you that the wizarding world is in grave imminent danger. A deadly magical object has resurfaced. Trust me when I say Voldemort is nothing compared to what might happen if the object I am talking about finds its way into the wrong hands.

It is my belief that you might be able to help me locate this object. I believe you have exemplary knowledge about wizarding family trees and ancient heirlooms. I would like to meet you in person. Please confirm by return owl a time and place of your convenience, and be discreet. I will find you.

I cannot tell you everything in this letter. But you see, we have all grown up reading the wrong fairy tales, and no one seems to have realised the peril in which that puts us.

I'm talking about the Tale of the Three Brothers. I am sure you know the story. Three brothers and three gifts from Death – wand, stone and cloak.

This story was a shameful lie. These three things may or may not make one the Master of Death, I cannot be sure. I know there are some who believe they do and are on a Quest to find the 'Deathly Hallows', as they call them. I know, from credible sources, that at least two of these Hallows have seemingly resurfaced at different points in history (one of them more recently than you might think)

But what's important is what the story leaves out.

The story says nothing about the most terrible object that was ever fashioned to master Death. This object has eluded even the enthusiastic loonies on the so-called Quest. And its existence has never been confirmed. Until now.

A fourth Hallow exists. I have proof, but I need your help to find it. Please send your reply soon.

Yours,

Just like the first time she had read the letter, Andromeda Tonks was left staring in puzzlement at the signature. It was a small phoenix.