A/N: It's been a while. My body decided to celebrate handing in my last assignment of 2011 by throwing me down with a case of food poisoning. Went down a clothes size, so every cloud, etc, but still, not fun. In better news, this chapter was the last that needed writing. I have now, technically, finished this story. It's all a bit exciting. I think I'll speed up the updating process big time, seeing as this one took so long to get out, and because I want you guys to get to the end. Would be nice to have it all out before the year ends. Anyway, I'm rambling. Hope you all had a lovely Christmas. Or if you're not of that persuasion, hope you've been having a lovely December with lovely telly (Matt Smith!) and lovely sales shopping (Topshop knitwear!). Over and out.


One by One.

by Flaignhan.


Naturally it's not the same. She doesn't let it upset her, though. Nothing much does upset her these days. Except perhaps the little things. Things like shaggy black dogs, or pairs of bright green eyes. The ruffle of a head of hair is enough to set her off, because all she can think about, quite selfishly, she realises, is what would have happened had she been braver.

Remus is the only one she has left. The only one who she's still prepared to talk to, that is. He says nothing about James and Lily, though there is always something behind those pale eyes of his. Something accusatory. Perhaps she's simply being paranoid, but she doesn't think so. She doesn't get the idea that Remus' visits are so frequent simply due to a desire to see her, or to keep her from being lonely.

"Dumbledore's concerned," he says, after one of their longest silences to date. He's fingering his crystal whiskey tumbler nervously, the amber liquid inside swirling gently around.

She says nothing, because her suspicions have been confirmed. He's here to spy on her. He's Dumbledore's own personal sneak. And yet it's another twelve years before Dumbledore will decide it's high time Remus ought to be repaid, and give him a job. Even then, his main reason for employment will be to protect Harry.

Poor Remus, always has a use to other people, but never simply wanted. Of the few that did want him around, two are dead, one is locked away, and the last is far too embittered to really do her bit for him.

Especially when he's only here to spy on her. She's not feeling particularly generous towards him today. Quite understandably, in her opinion.

"You can't expect yourself to know everything," he sighs. "He fooled all of us. Even James."

He flinches at the look she gives him, but continues, regardless, staring down into his Firewhiskey. It's a brave move, especially with her wand so close to hand, but, she supposes, it's the Gryffindor streak in him, treading that fine line of bravery and stupidity ever so indelicately.

"There was always a need," he continues, "No matter how hard he tried to hide it. There was always a need for him to be accepted by his mother and father, loved, even. Perhaps Regulus convinced him in the end, I don't know. He was his brother after all, perhaps Sirius - "

"He considered James to be more of a brother than Regulus! Don't you dare - " she's on her feet, though she has no memory of standing. Her chest is heaving with angry breaths. She can't stand it. She can't stand him talking about Sirius as though he's some sort of traitor. Remus is supposed to be his friend. No true friend ought to accept that his friend is a traitor so easily.

But, her brain reasons, what else is left to conclude when there are two other friends dead, and another believed dead? She knows she ought not to be angry with him, but it's difficult. Even more difficult is the fact that she can't tell him the truth. He has to wait twelve years for that, but that's not her doing. If it were left to her, Sirius would be free, Peter would be exterminated like the vermin he is, and Dumbledore would be eating humble pie for the rest of his life.

Unfortunately, it's not been left to her, and perhaps that's a good thing. Perhaps her time with Harry has influenced her more than she realises, even all these years later. She has a hotter head and a far shorter temper. She is also far more obsessed with vengeance and justice, but that might be the effect of living through two wars.

She's thought it before, and she knows she'll think it again - she's glad she won't live to see the second war break out. Again.

"I think you'd be better off moving out of here," Remus says eventually. His voice is quiet, broken, and he's not the man he was when they left school.

"I've been thinking the same," she replies, running a hand through her bushy hair.

"Fresh start," he adds, his voice growing stronger, perhaps out of relief that she's not shouting at him. "It'll do you good."

She hasn't really been considering a fresh start. She's more keen on the idea of hiding away until Sirius breaks out. She doesn't want to be in the city. She doesn't want to be around people, and she certainly doesn't want to be anywhere Dumbledore can find her.

She wants to be somewhere with an open fire, and a big comfy armchair where she can sit and do crosswords and think of Sirius. She wants to serve out her lonely sentence in the middle of nowhere. She wants to do it properly, make sure she's completely alone. Then, maybe if she's lucky, she might labour under the delusion that she's chosen to live that way. That will, perhaps, make the whole thing far more bearable.

She always did like to be in control of things.

"Sirius' animagus form is a dog," she says later, her fingers clutching onto her locket as she drowns the last of drop of Firewhiskey from her glass. Her voice is softer now, her words slightly slurred. "Dogs are loyal."

Remus looks back at her through alcohol glazed eyes, and even through the whiskey, she can see the pity, emanating from every inch of his expression.


She smiles for the first time in recent memory.

It's perfect.

The thatched roof is thick and heavy, with little windows peeping out on the upper floor. Half of the building is playing host to an expanse of ivy, clinging to the white stone and black woodwork. The garden is in a beautiful state of chaos, the little cobbled path just visible through the knee high grass.

She knows he'd love it.

And he will love it. She has to keep reminding herself of that. She has to keep giving herself a mental shake, because she keeps forgetting that she will see him again, and she will touch him again.

She bites her lip to keep it from trembling. She takes her new house key out of her pocket, unlocks the front door and goes inside.

She can't wait to have him back.