AN: If I was JKR, I wouldn't have killed off Sirius, Tonks or Remus. Or James, for that matter. Therefore, I'm not JKR, and if you recognise it, it's not mine.
Remus J. Lupin sat alone, ensconced in his favourite worn and slightly threadbare, but undeniably comfortable, armchair in the small, cosy sitting room of his cottage. With a flick of his wand flames blazed in the hearth and he stared into them, unseeing, as the logs crackled and sparks spat onto the stone surround. Even with the Wolfsbane and the ministrations of Molly Weasley, the previous night's full moon had been hellish; the first he had endured alone in two short, far too short, years. Even while he was on the run, Sirius had made the effort to be there for him.
With two further flicks of his wand, he summoned a bottle of Firewhisky and a glass from the well-stocked drinks cabinet in the corner of the room. He had Sirius to thank for the vast number of different bottles in the cupboard; it had been one of the first things his friend had insisted be remedied when he came to the cottage two years ago.
Blinking to rid himself of the image of his closest friend falling backwards through the veil in slow motion, he poured himself a generous measure of the amber liquid and took a sip before setting the slightly chipped glass and bottle on the wooden table to the right of his chair. With an air of reverence he picked up the leather bound photo album from the table and rested it against the arm of the chair, idly turning the pages, pausing every now and then as a particular image stirred forgotten memories.
Even after that nightmare week almost fifteen years ago, when two of his best friends had been murdered as a result of the betrayal of a third, he hadn't been able to bring himself to burn, or at least remove, the images of the supposed betrayer, as much as he had wanted to do so. Now though, he was glad he hadn't, and even the horrific truth could not make him remove the photographs containing Wormtail, the true betrayer. Taking another sip of whisky, he snorted. A rat animagus. They should have known.
But, the four of them went together; Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs. The Marauders.
Back when these photos were taken, over two decades ago, they had been almost inseparable. James, the leader; Sirius, the mischievous rebel; Remus, the brains; Peter, the watchman and support. Sometimes, he and Sirius had spent long evenings wondering if there was something they could have done differently, preventing Peter's turn to Voldemort. He was a Gryffindor, damn it. They weren't meant to betray their friends, people who, as Sirius had once said, would die, rather than betray their friends. They both would have rather died, and neither had any hesitation in saying that James would have done the same. So why was Peter any different?
But really, when it came down to it, it was Remus' own fault the way things had turned out. He was the brains of the group; he should have been the one to notice something was amiss with Peter's increasingly feeble excuses for sudden disappearances and missed nights out. He should have been the one to know that Sirius would never have betrayed James, his brother in all but blood.
He shook off his increasingly melancholy thoughts with another swig of Firewhisky; in the days after Remus' discovery of Sirius' innocence, the pair had frequently blamed themselves, tried to convince the other of their own guilt and responsibility for the events and aftermath of that Halloween night so long ago. Sirius blamed himself for suspecting Remus, for letting his reckless desire for revenge get the better of him, instead of staying with Harry, as he believed he should have done, for being cowardly and unsure of himself enough to change Secret Keepers.
Remus blamed himself for not fighting harder for custody of Harry, impractical though it would have been, for allowing himself to wallow in self-pity instead of trying to prove his friend's innocence, for doing nothing but watch as his friend was hauled away to Azkaban without a trial, screaming his innocence with increasing desperation. That particular memory, he knew, would haunt the rest of his days. They had known each other for two months over the decade; he should have known Sirius' fierce loyalty to his friends would take more than the impending threat of torture to break, or even sway.
Draining the rest of Firewhisky, he sighed; there was no point crying over spilled Butterbeer. What had passed was past. There was nothing he could do about it, much as he might like to. He turned another page of the album with his left hand as he poured another, equally generous, glass of Firewhisky with his right. He smirked to himself; James and Sirius would have been proud of his ability to multi-task. The two of them were notoriously bad at multi-tasking, and when it didn't involve Quidditch, were ridiculously cack-handed.
What a waste it was though; one small mistake and so much had been lost. James had lost his life, Sirius had lost any chance of a life with twelve years false imprisonment in Azkaban, and he had lost his best friends, his brothers; had spent twelve years trying to convince himself of Sirius' guilt, though deep down, he knew he couldn't believe it. And Peter… he snorted again, no matter what that rat might believe, he had lost all his friends; Death Eaters and Voldemort just did not have friends, and no matter the outcome of the war, he would end up dead, though whether by Voldemort's wand, Harry's, or his, Remus didn't particularly care.
The four of them had had so many dreams; James and Sirius had dreamed of becoming Aurors. When the war had put a stop to that dream they had devoted themselves to the Order. Then, James had been forced into hiding. The unfortunate combination of Fenrir Greyback and the old toad Dolores Umbridge had put a firm stop to any hope Remus might have had of a life in the Wizarding world, and he had taken what odd jobs he could, mostly within the Muggle world. And Peter… Remus wasn't really sure what dreams Peter had had, beyond surviving the war with his friends. Remus took another sip of the amber liquid and chuckled softly, oh the irony.
His Lycanthropy meant Remus had never really thought about having dreams, hopes, wishes, or thoughts of a future. Not until midway through the autumn term of his second year, anyway. That was when his three friends had discovered his closely guarded secret. He'd been terrified that they'd reject him because of it, but, to his utmost surprise, they hadn't. They'd stood by him, told him they didn't care that he was a werewolf; it didn't change the fact that he was still Remus, still their friend. From that moment on, they'd done everything they could to make his transformations easier, culminating in them becoming illegal animagi in their fifth year. For the next five years, he hadn't spent a full moon alone, and it had made the pain so much more bearable, and the injuries lessened.
Remus had always loved photography, and despite their teasing, he knew his friends had appreciated it. Now, he had eight completed albums, and one unfinished. The first seven albums, one for each year of Hogwarts, chronicled each and every prank the Marauders had played, regardless of whether or not it was successful. He supposed it was testament to the brilliantly mischievous minds of James and Sirius that they had pulled enough pranks every year to complete each album. The eighth album, the one he was currently perusing, contained a hodgepodge of other photos from their Hogwarts years, more often than not, of the four of them all together, interspersed with a few of a pair or trio. Quidditch games, Hogsmeade visits, animagus transformations, Christmases and birthdays all recorded for eternity. It had been his seventeenth birthday gift from his friends, though how the three of them had managed it, because none of them were particularly organised, he wasn't entirely sure. The incomplete final album told the story of their lives after Hogwarts. That one he would leave unfinished, in memoriam.
One particular page caught his eye; the first of the two photos had been taken during the Quidditch final of their seventh year. He supposed Peter had taken it, Remus himself had been commentating and the other two playing. James was in the process of hurling the Quaffle into an unguarded goal as Sirius whacked a Bludger towards the opposing Chaser, who was flying to intercept the ball. Both shots met their target. In the lower right hand corner, the Golden Snitch cheekily reflected the sunlight before a red robed blur caught up with it, and a gloved hand closed around its struggling wings. They had trounced the other team 270 to 10. The picture below it was of the exhilarated Gryffindor team, James and Sirius triumphant in the centre, holding the Quidditch cup aloft. The after party had lasted well into the early hours of the morning.
Remus could only remember seeing that particular look on James' face one other time, a moment remembered in the post-Hogwarts album. James had been away on an Order mission for two days, and on his return had been confronted by a distraught Lily and a bawling Harry. His son was cutting his first teeth, and nothing Lily had done had been able to calm him, and as a result, she hadn't slept for more than half an hour since he'd left, and she was convinced she was a failure as a mother. It was a warm spring day, and after banishing Lily to bed, the four men had taken Harry out into the cottage garden.
Chancing his luck that Lily was asleep, and would remain so for the duration of his experiment, James had proceeded to put cushioning charms on the entire garden, strap Harry tightly to his chest in a baby harness, collect his broomstick from the backdoor, and had taken Harry for his first flight. He hadn't flown particularly high, or particularly fast, but in the essentials, his plan had succeeded; moments after he had taken off, Harry had calmed down, though he hadn't fallen asleep, and had remained calm after James had landed, cooing and gurgling softly. What he hadn't counted on, however, was Lily becoming unnerved by the sudden ceasing of Harry's cries, and looking out of the window. Apparently, she'd thought James had put a silencing charm on their son. James' victorious grin had been replaced by a look of abject horror on realising Lily had seen him. It was only the fear of unsettling Harry that had prevented her screaming at James, as was her usual reaction when he did something particularly stupid. James had later confessed to them that that was a whole lot more troublesome than her shouting, and he had been banished to the couch for the next two nights.
The final photograph in the album was almost an exact replica of the first. Peter on the far left, Sirius and James in the centre, and himself on the far right. Their arms were slung carelessly over the others' shoulders, trademark impish grins across their faces. The only difference was the passing of years; the first taken on the first weekend of their first year, under an old oak tree by the lake, the last taken on their graduation day in the same location.
James was the most easy going of his three friends; he had managed to befriend the haughty, indifferent Sirius Black on the Hogwarts Express, had done his utmost to bring Remus and Peter out of their shells, and, for the most part, he had succeeded. Before the deaths of his parents and that wretched prophecy had brought the war to his doorstep, for all his arrogance, James had rarely been without a smile or a joke. His ability to create untold mayhem with only a dungbomb, a decent aim and a grin had astounded even Sirius. Perhaps the most open of the four, James had been the one to discover Remus' secret, and the first to assure him that it changed nothing. Fiercely loyal to, and protective of his friends, James had never seemed to trust Madam Pomfrey's ability to patch up his friends after the full moon, or a prank gone wrong, and had always insisted that the invalid be waited upon hand and foot, until he deemed them fully recuperated. Sirius had teased him mercilessly about it.
Though brasher, more insensitive and more reckless than his partner in crime, Sirius was equally loyal to his friends, perhaps more so, though he had a different way of showing it, and was always ready with a hex, should a friend be challenged. Despite the incident with Snape in their sixth year, Remus knew Sirius had never intended to hurt him, knew that in a slightly illogical way, as was the way Sirius' mind worked, it had been retaliation to Snape's hurtful taunts, jibes and persistent nosiness. It had been his idea to become animagi so they could be with Remus during his transformations, and it was his determination that ensured they succeeded.
And then, there was Peter. It was on nights like this that Remus wondered if their friendship had ever meant anything to Peter; they had done seemingly everything they could to include him, but it seemed to have never been enough. But, back then, in their youthful innocence, Remus knew that it had been enough. Though the most quiet of the four friends, Peter had had his witty moments, and the occasional bright idea. He had always been grateful to be included by them, and though he had always needed the most help academically, he had always been ready and willing to offer his help. Somehow, Remus thought that was what Peter had been trying to do when he became a Death Eater and spy; when Voldemort won, he could then do his best to save his friends lives. Though how he thought he'd accomplish that by betraying James and framing Sirius remained a mystery. At times, Peter's logic was worse than Sirius'. He'd probably tried, but failed, to do as Severus Snape had later done. At least, that was what Remus hoped Peter had tried to do. Just as he could never bring himself to believe in Sirius' guilt, Remus couldn't bring himself to believe that Peter had set out to betray them. True, he hated him, and would never forgive him for what his actions had cost them, but he could only remember him as the boy they'd taken under their wing, and been best friends with. Maybe he was being delusional, but even if he was, Remus would, and could, only remember Peter as the boy who'd been their friend.
Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs. The Marauders were a quartet, not a trio or a duo. Once, they believed themselves and their friendship immortal and invincible. The Marauders' Map was testament to that, and Remus knew that given the chance, he wouldn't hesitate to reunite them once again.
His eyes dry and scratchy from staring unblinkingly at the dying flames, he turned his attention to the remaining centimetre of amber liquid in the glass. With a slight flick of his wrist, he swirled it around, watching as it rocked from side to side, once, twice, three times. In a silent toast to departed friends and the dreams of youth he raised the glass to the final embers in the fireplace and drained the contents.
Well, there it is. My first HP fic. I hope you liked it, and please review!