Disclaimer: See first chapter

"Evil is always devising more corrosive misery through man's restless need to exact revenge out of his hate." - Ralph Steadman.

"I gave him injuries he will never fully cure, scars that will never fully heal, and nightmares that will never fully leave him." - Daring, Nerve and Chivalry. Chapter 44.

August 20th 1978. Milton Sands. South Devon. 23:18.

"Follow."

Travers stumbled across the jagged rocks, slippery with still damp seaweed, though the tide was out.

"Follow."

His guide leapt over the rocks with practiced grace and Travers began to wonder where in Germany this man might have become familiar with rock pools. He had been approached less than an hour ago by this cloaked stranger. He'd been told there was something of interest in the caves beside the sea - somewhere the smugglers used to leave things of little interest to them. Unsure whether such a misunderstood treasure might be of use to the Dark Lord, whose longing for Gryffindor's sword had produced no results, he followed willingly. Now that he had abandoned the protection of the streetlights, Travers' mind began to wander. The German man who had tugged on his sleeve in the gloom of an alley, seemed to know a lot about the area. Still, his accent was all right and Travers supposed that any unease he felt was entirely related to his ominous surroundings.

They stood at the entrance to a cave. His guide pointed inside, his face entirely covered by his cloak. Travers stepped into the unending darkness and cried out as the stranger followed close behind him and blocked the entrance.

"What are you doing, man?"

The stranger dropped his accent. His voice, deep and raspy, echoed around the walls.

"You are Travers, are you not?"

Travers nodded and, realising that he could not be seen, replied in the affirmative.

"Excellent. We don't need light." The stranger said no more and pushed him firmly, but not enough to hurt him, forward. "Follow a nice straight line now."

"I can't see," Travers protested, a tremor in his voice.

"You don't need to see. You need to walk."

Travers reached out with both long arms. His hands shook and he was relieved that the stranger could not see him. He attempted to grope the walls and maintain a firm footing, but his fingers clutched only at damp and heavy air.

"We don't appear to be walking, Mr. Travers."

Gingerly, he put one foot in front of the other and hit solid ground. With less caution, he began to move forwards. The stranger's footsteps echoed behind him.

"What is it anyway?"

"You'll see."

Travers' eyes had not yet accustomed the gloom and he thought this might be debatable, but he was unnerved and decided to keep the thought to himself.

"All right. Stop."

Travers came to an immediate halt and glanced at his surroundings. There was still nothing but all consuming blackness around him.

"Lumos."

The cave was empty but for a rickety wooden chair in the centre of it.

"Sit."

The stranger's hood had not been pulled from his face. Travers frowned deeply.

"I do believe I asked you to sit."

The hair on the back of Travers' neck stood to attention. A small shiver crept up his spine. "There's nothing here," he said, more to himself than to the stranger.

"There is a chair," the stranger replied. "That's all you need."

Travers reluctantly took a seat.

"Incarcerous." It was almost a whisper and Travers had barely had time to decipher what he had heard before his hands and ankles were bound tightly to the creaking wood.

The cloaked figure had not revealed himself and stood in shadow, taking in the sight before him as though admiring his work.

"What do you want?"

"I don't want anything from you. There is nothing you can give me." His voice cracked. "You took him from me and nothing can bring him back." He took a deep breath and composed himself. "I might leave you here. I might leave you to die slowly as you left him, but that wouldn't give me half the satisfaction. I had this curse performed on me and I think it's very fitting." He strode over to the chair where Travers remained silent, his face frozen as though petrified by fright.

"Sectumsempra."

It spurted from him. Travers' silver beard was tinged and clogged with blood. His eyes had glazed over where he had passed out. The cloaked stranger removed the bonds and Apparated out onto the rocks where he washed his blood stained hands and sobbed violently, retching into the pools of water that gathered there.

He arrived in Fulham with the intention of visiting James, but a glance at his watch told him that it was now quarter-past-midnight and while James was an extremely accepting individual, Lupin didn't think he would relish being dragged out of bed at this hour.

If he hadn't the nerve to call on one of his dearest friends, Lupin wasn't sure from where he managed to gather enough courage to Apparate to Godric's Hollow and stand outside Dumbledore's door, but before he had time to re-think his strategy, he found himself slamming the knocker against the wood.

It was answered immediately and Lupin, still shaking, was taken aback. His former headmaster was wearing a blue paisley dressing gown and matching nightcap.

"Why, hello, Mr. Lupin. To what do I owe the pleasure?" He did not comment on Lupin's bizarre attire, nor the hours he kept. He ignored his swollen tear ducts, his bloodstained cloak, and shaking hands. "Do come in. It's quite cold." It might as well have been half-past-four in the afternoon.

Lupin was ushered into a chair beside the fireplace and handed a cup of sweet tea. Dumbledore took the seat opposite him and crossed his legs, leaning back in the chair. He did not remove his nightcap and Lupin was slightly unsettled by this.

"I'm so sorry," he stammered. "I know that it's late and-"

Dumbledore silenced him with a gesture. "I very rarely sleep."

"Oh," said Lupin. He managed a weak smile. "Excellent. Well, not excellent, but-"

Dumbledore peered at him over his half-moon spectacles. "What was it that you wished to see me about? Or is this a social visit?"

Lupin managed a weak smile. "I…actually…" He trailed off and took a deep breath, choking back his tears. "I'm frightened I'll be sent to prison," he said, quite matter-of-factly.

"Well," replied Dumbledore, " people aren't just sent to prison, you know. Why would you be?"

Lupin averted his eyes. "I did something terrible," he murmured in response. Without much prompting, he informed Dumbledore of the reason for his fears. "He killed my father. If he had snatched him from me with a killing curse, I might have let him live his life never knowing I even existed, but he sent him back to me and my mother as an empty shell. He wasn't my dad. He was my dad's shadow and for that, I hate him. I hate him so much I'd do it again. I am a monster."

Dumbledore thought that he had made a grievous error in underestimating Remus Lupin's temper. "When I was a boy, we had something called a crime passionnel. He doesn't know who you are?"

Lupin shook his head.

"Then I imagine you're quite safe." He sat forward in his seat. "So long as you don't make a habit of it. Revenge brings out a monster in the best of us, Mr. Lupin. You're in good company. I think I might have done the same, but age mellows you. Experience has mellowed you, hasn't it? You're not a monster, Remus. You have clearly not enjoyed yourself." He cleared his throat. "How did you get him to agree to accompany you?"

"I put a hood over my face and affected a German accent."

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. "You didn't Confund him, or…?"

Lupin understood the inference. "Nor did I put the Imperius curse on him. I thought that if I could get him to come with me without magic, then fate would step in. So I told him I had something the smugglers had left behind, something of 'much worth', and he followed me."

Dumbledore nodded. "He suspected nothing?"

Lupin shrugged. "Not that I know of."

Dumbledore hummed, evidently pleased. "I know you're obviously under a great deal of strain, but I wonder if I might ask you a few questions?"

Lupin gestured for him to go ahead.

"What colour were his eyes?"

"Green."

"What accent did he speak in?"

"South London. He sounded like James."

"Where was the parting in his hair?"

"Just off centre - to the right. He must think it hides his widow's peak, but it doesn't."

Dumbledore smiled. "There is an organisation, Mr. Lupin, that attempts to fight against Voldemort. You may have heard me refer to it in the past. It is called the Order of the Phoenix. We're in need of a spy."

Lupin's jaw dropped. "Me? A spy? What would you want with me? I'm not exactly James Bond material."

Dumbledore frowned. "You're not what?"

"Oh. Nevermind."

"Under extreme duress or strain, you remember minor details. You are clearly quite a skilled actor. How could you not be perfect?"

Lupin offered him a half-smile. "Are you…commissioning me?"

Dumbledore nodded. "Well, yes, of course. Thursday evening. Seven o'clock. See you then."

Lupin got to his feet, taking this as his cue to leave. "Can I tell my friends?"

"Naturally it is an invitation extended to anyone you think can be trusted. Bring them. I was going to write-"

Lupin nodded. "You did. That's how I got your address."

Dumbledore smiled at him. "And to think you told me you wouldn't make a spy."