Author's Note:

Hello! I don't typically include author's notes at the beginning of chapters, but I feel inclined to mention that this chapter deals with some pretty heavy themes and emotions, exploring what I believe to be the darkest period of Remus's life. Please do take note of this before reading. Thanks, lovelies!

12 June 1982

"Your new keys, ma'am," Remus handed Shell Cottage's keys over to the tall, elderly, silver-haired witch in front of him. "And I believe my dad already Owled you the deed?"

"He did, yes," Madam Prewett said, smiling warmly at Remus. "What a terribly nice gentleman, your father. Where did you say he was living now?"

"Upper Flagley," Remus said, shifting awkwardly. "He…he's in St. Oswald's."

Madam Prewett raised her eyebrows. "St. Oswald's? The home for elderly wizards?"

Remus nodded without meeting Madam Prewett's eyes. "That's the one."

"Oh—well, he didn't strike me as particularly old," Madam Prewett said in surprise. But then, catching Remus's eye, she added gently, "But you know, perhaps that was his youthful spirit."

Remus gave her a slightly strained smile, shifting his feet again.

Just then— "Therese!" shrilled a voice from Shell Cottage's front porch, and both Remus and Madam Prewett looked up from where they were standing in the front yard to see Madam Prewett's imperious, haughty-faced sister hobbling down the garden path towards them. She panted slightly as made her way down the grassy slope. "Therese, are you quite certain about this property?" she puffed, once she had reached her sister. "It's a little—well—" she glanced disparagingly at Remus, "—quaint."

"I've already bought it, Muriel, as you very well know," Madam Prewett told her sister patiently, though there was an edge to her voice. "Besides, I think it's beautiful. Molly and Arthur will love bringing the children here in the summertime."

Muriel Prewett snorted. "An excuse for them to dump their constantly multiplying brood of redheaded demons on you, more like," she muttered. "I'm sure baby number eight will be announced any day now."

Therese gave her sister a sharp look, but Muriel just harrumphed, before rounding on Remus.

"What's that odd little cellar in the backyard?" Muriel demanded.

Therese frowned, turning to Remus as well. "Cellar?"

"Oh—er—I think it's a shelter of sorts," Remus invented quickly. "You know…in case—er—in case the tide gets too high."

"Hmph," Muriel said, nostrils flaring. "See, Tessie, I told you this place seemed suspicious—"

"Muriel, that's quite enough," Therese interrupted, plainly exasperated. "Please, for the love of Merlin, go back inside. I'm going to need your advice for decorating."

At this, Muriel looked slightly mollified. With one last distrustful look at Remus, she sniffed, then turned and began tottering back in the direction of the house.

Therese looked at Remus. "I'm sorry," she said in a low voice. "My younger sister has never much been one for tact."

Remus blushed. "It's all right, Madam Prewett," he said.

"Oh, please, just call me Tessie, dear," Therese said, her eyes crinkling as she smiled—in a way that was suddenly very familiar to Remus. His heart gave a jolt in his chest.

"Ma'am, I-I'm sorry—I don't mean to be intrusive," he stammered. "But were you…were you by any chance related to Gideon and Fabian Prewett?"

Therese looked at Remus in surprise. Then, after a moment, her face melted into a sad smile. "They were my great-nephews," she said softly. "I miss them terribly."

Remus swallowed. "I worked with them for a few years," he said quietly. "They were…quite a presence."

"That, they were," Therese said warmly, beaming at Remus. "So, you're a curse-breaker, too?"

"Oh—no," Remus shook his head. "I worked with them more…tangentially. They're rather hard to forget though."

Therese laughed. Then, with a glance over her shoulder at the cottage, she lowered her voice. "They drove their auntie Muriel positively barmy."

Remus grinned.

As if on cue, Muriel's impatient squawk floated down from one of the second floor windows.

"Tessie Prewett! I haven't got all day, you know!"

"Oh, all right, all right!" Therese called back. She looked at Remus. "Did you want to have a last look at the place, dear?" she asked kindly. "To say goodbye?"

Remus opened his mouth to answer, then closed it again, blinking rapidly. Flashes of disjointed memories flitted across his mind…all the holidays he had spent here with his parents…the summers he'd spent exploring the village with Mum…the Christmas Eves he'd spent reading by the fireplace with his father…finding out that his friends had mastered their Animagus transformations…ripping open his O.W.L. results on the porch swing…celebrating his N.E.W.T. results on the seaside cliffs with Dad—the first Firewhisky they had ever shared together…

But there were also the full moons he had spent, alone, in that dark, horrible outdoor cellar…and the afternoon his father had finally told him why Fenrir Greyback had bitten him as a toddler…and the weeks after Mum had died, when Dad had turned into a mere shell of himself, barely able to pull himself out of bed in the mornings…

And, worst of all, there was the day, almost a year ago now, when Remus had collapsed in his old bedroom—sobbed like a baby in his father's arms—after his entire world had fallen apart…

Remus swallowed heavily, looking at Therese. "I—uhm—" he cleared his throat, trying to unstick his voice. "I think…I think I need to be going, ma'am."

Therese smiled understandingly. "Well, then, you have a good day, dear," she said, grasping Remus's arms and leaning forward to kiss both his cheeks. "And please do drop me a line if you ever want to visit—you're welcome anytime."

Remus tried to return her smile, but he couldn't quite manage it. Fortunately, Therese didn't seem to notice, as she turned and glided up the slope to the cottage's front porch.

Remus waited for her to disappear into the doorframe and for the front door to close behind her, before he turned his back on Shell Cottage—on his childhood—for good.

17 January 1986

"'Mcoming, 'mcoming…hold y'hippogriffs…" Remus muttered groggily, staggering down the hallway from his bedroom to the kitchen, where he found a screech owl tapping vigorously and insistently at his kitchen window. Tied to the owl's foot was a copy of the Daily Prophet.

Remus rubbed his eyes and grimaced, before stepping forward to wrench open the window. Whichever damned fool had dispatched the Prophet owls at five o'clock on a Friday morning would soon be suffering a very tragic demise at the hands of the greater Wizarding community, Remus was certain.

Tossing the newspaper on his kitchen table, Remus found a near-empty can of owl treats in one of his kitchen cupboards and set it on the windowsill for the screech owl. Then, yawning widely, he trudged over to the stove to put the kettle on.

Remus forgot about the newspaper until nearly two hours later, as he was getting ready to head down to the village school. When he wasn't waiting tables at the local tavern, he was often called upon by the local Muggle school to substitute for teachers when they took ill. It was a rather bittersweet thing—Remus had always imagined being a teacher one day, but somehow, he had allowed himself to believe that it would be in the Wizarding world…

Drawing his Muggle coat over his threadbare jumper, Remus tucked his wand safely away in his pocket. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the copy of the Prophet that he'd left lying on the kitchen table.

Remus glanced at his wristwatch; he had a few minutes to kill until he was due at the school. Shrugging, Remus picked up the newspaper and unrolled it, smoothing out the front page.

He almost dropped it.

CURE FOR LYCANTHROPY FOUND? YOUNG POTIONEER TALKS YEARS-LONG PROCESS

Remus's hands shook violently. Heart thumping, he scanned the articled: Wolfsbane…developed by potions extraordinaire Damocles Belby—Remus's heart stopped…Belby…Belby…Professor Belby, his very first Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts…who had taken such a keen interest in Remus from the start…

"It is not a real cure. Not in the traditional sense," Mr. Belby clarified at a press conference late Thursday evening. "It merely regulates the monthly symptoms of lycanthropy. It should, essentially, allow the consumer to lead a normal life."

Ingredients and brewing instructions can be found on page 7.

Remus finished reading, his heart lodged somewhere between his throat and his chest. For several moments, he could do no more than stare down at the article—at Damocles Belby's beaming face, as he shook hands with Minister for Magic Millicent Bagnold at the press conference, cameras flashing all around them…

Then, in a rush, Remus tore the newspaper open to page seven, quickly locating the subheading 'Ingredients and Instructions.' And just as quickly as his heart had lodged itself in his throat, it plummeted to his feet like a stone.

The cheapest ingredient was worth more than all of Remus's savings.

Burning disappointment crashed over Remus, welling up inside him like bile. But before he could allow himself to process what he was feeling, he quickly tossed the newspaper aside—it landed on the kitchen floor and skidded somewhere under the stove—and Remus stalked out through the back door of his cottage, slamming it closed behind him.

5 June 1992

Dear Remus,

How are you? It's been some time since I last heard from you. I hope you're doing all right.

I'm writing to ask a favor. Harry got into a spot of trouble here at Hogwarts and it looks like he'll be stuck in the Hospital Wing for a couple of days. Do you think you might have any photos of his parents that you wouldn't mind giving up? I thought I might put something special together to cheer him up.

Thanks,
Hagrid

Remus read the letter nearly twenty times, from beginning to end, before he put it back down on his kitchen table and closed his eyes, his heart filling with a wave of nostalgia that seemed to make every nerve in his body ache. Remus's contact with the Wizarding world over the last few years had become almost exclusively limited to the monthly visits he paid his father in St. Oswald's and the occasional trip he made to Diagon Alley; it had been nearly a whole decade since the last time he had corresponded with anyone in the Order. Dumbledore had written sporadically in the months following the end of the war, but between everything else that he'd been dealing with at the time, Remus had not made the effort to stay in touch.

Harry was at Hogwarts. And he'd gotten himself into 'a spot of trouble,' it seemed. Remus's heart gave a little jolt. Had he inherited his father's penchant for inciting chaos, then, just as James had always dreamed? Picking up the letter again, Remus reduced himself to staring at the words 'Harry' and 'Hogwarts,' both so familiar—and yet, they could have been a million miles away…

Photos. Hagrid needed photos. For Harry. Still clutching Hagrid's letter tightly in his hand, Remus scrambled to his feet and hurried out of the kitchen, down the hallway to his bedroom. Then, kneeling down on his bedroom floor, Remus crouched under his bed and began rummaging through the clutter of contents until he found what he was looking for—a musty old snuffbox of photographs he'd taken of his friends over the years, the very select few he'd allowed himself to keep, instead of handing over to James to plaster his dormitory walls with—or to Lily, for her countless photo albums…

Swallowing the lump that had already swelled painfully in his throat, Remus reached out a trembling hand and unclasped the snuffbox—and his breath caught in his throat as his eyes landed on the first photograph.

It was from James and Lily's wedding reception—one of Remus's favorites, one that he'd loved so much he'd rather selfishly neglected to pass it along to Lily with the rest of the photos he'd taken that day. In it, James, grinning foolishly, was embracing Lily, whose face was positively glowing with happiness. But Remus wasn't looking at James or Lily—he was too busy staring at the third occupant of the photograph, who stood with his arm slung around James's shoulders, his handsome face radiant, roaring with laughter at the newlyweds. Was he already planning their demise? Had he already become the traitor that no one, least of all Remus, had ever, ever suspected he could be?

Hot, furious tears burned Remus's eyes—it had been so long since the last time he had felt this way; he thought had buried these feelings years ago—but suddenly, the thought of going through the rest of the photos was unbearable…

Remus swiped a hand under his nose, then reached into the snuffbox and roughly scooped the entire stack of photographs out. A second later, he was back in his kitchen, shoving the stack of photos into the same envelope that Hagrid's letter had arrived in, sealing the envelope shut…

Dear Hagrid,

Here's everything I have.

Remus

14 February 1993

"A gillywater, please. Neat. And make it a strong one."

Remus startled at the familiar voice, unmistakably sharp and Scottish. Sure enough, looking up from his dark, corner booth in the Hog's Head Inn, he saw his old deputy headmistress standing at the bar, looking disgruntled as she yanked off her tartan traveling cloak and took a seat on a barstool.

Remus stared at her, frozen in time. He couldn't even remember the last he'd seen her—and seeing her in the Hog's Head now, the site of so many Order meetings past, was especially disorienting…

He watched as Aberforth plunked a dusty glass of gillywater down on the bar counter in front of Professor McGonagall. Then, Aberforth leaned forward and muttered something in her ear. She frowned, turning around in her barstool and scanning the pub—and by the time Remus had registered exactly what Aberforth must have told her, it was too late: Her sharp green eyes had landed on where Remus was sitting, half-hidden in the shadows of his corner booth.

He couldn't have looked away if he wanted to. His old professor's gaze had rendered him motionless.

For several moments, the two of them simply looked at one another. Then, slowly, McGonagall picked up her glass of gillywater and her traveling cloak and strode across the grimy pub floor to his table.

"Mr. Lupin," she said quietly. "It's been a long time."

Remus opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. McGonagall didn't seem to notice. Setting her gillywater down on the table, she lowered herself into the seat opposite Remus's.

"It's a little early in the day to be drinking, isn't it?" she asked, raising her eyebrows at Remus's nearly-empty glass of Firewhisky.

"I could say the same to you," Remus responded before he could stop himself. Then, once he'd realized what he'd said—and to just whom exactly he'd said it—he gasped. "I—Professor—I'm so sorry—I didn't mean—"

Professor McGonagall waved a hand. "I'm not your professor anymore," she said tartly. "Please, say of my drinking habits what you will."

"I didn't mean to—it wasn't—" Remus spluttered, face flushing. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath in an attempt to collect himself. "I just meant…well, it is early."

McGonagall's lips twitched. "Yes. I suppose it is." She considered him closely for a second. Then, taking a sip of her gillywater, she leaned back slightly in her chair. "How are you, Mr. Lupin?"

In spite of himself, Remus laughed hoarsely. "You can call me Remus now, you know," he said. "You said it yourself—you're not my professor anymore." He shrugged, fiddling with the rim of his scotch glass. "I'm doing fine. Had a bit of a rough week, but I'm recovering."

McGonagall's lips tightened with understanding. She frowned. "Surely…" she began quietly. "Surely, it isn't as painful anymore? With—with the Wolfsbane Potion?"

Remus smiled humorlessly. "Perhaps it wouldn't be, if I had the means to make it."

McGonagall stared at him, her expression unreadable—but Remus could practically feel the pity that was radiating off of her in waves. He cleared his throat, averting his gaze from hers. "I get by all right," he said, picking up his scotch glass. "I've been working as a teacher, the past few years—at a Muggle school in Yorkshire."

McGonagall blinked. "Muggle school—?"

"Muggles ask fewer questions when you take sick days around the full moon every month. I learned that early on," Remus shrugged, swilling his Firewhisky around in his glass. "Mind you, it was hard to get a footing in the Muggle world—you can't exactly tell Muggles that you completed most of your education in a magical boarding school for wizards in Scotland." He raised his glass to his lips and took a sip, still determinedly avoiding McGonagall's eyes.

For several long moments, McGonagall was silent. Then, finally— "Remus, I…I'm so sorry," she said heavily. "Between everything with the Potters—and Pettigrew, and Black—I…I should have reached out—"

"No—Professor, please don't apologize," Remus met McGonagall's gaze at last, startled by her tone. "I—after James and Lily…well, I appreciated being left alone, to be honest." He paused, swallowing. "My only regret is that I wasn't there for their son."

McGonagall looked at him—and it was clear from her expression that she wanted to say more. But Remus shook his head, forcing a smile onto his face. "You know, you never did explain why you were getting a drink in the middle of a Sunday afternoon," he said, raising his eyebrows.

McGonagall snorted, picking up her glass again. "Our Defense Against the Dark Arts professor decided to do a little decorating for Valentine's Day," she said acidly. "The Great Hall currently looks like Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop."

"What?" Remus laughed. "You're joking."

"If only," McGonagall sighed, shaking her head. "The last several Defense professors have been nothing short of a parade of buffoons, but Gilderoy Lockhart certainly takes the cake."

"Wait a minute—Gilderoy Lockhart?" Remus asked in disbelief. "You…you don't mean that idiot Ravenclaw who carved his name into the Quidditch pitch my seventh year? James nearly hexed him! He's teaching at Hogwarts?"

"Applications for the Defense post are few and far between these days—most everyone is convinced that the job is jinxed," McGonagall explained in a tired voice. "Lockhart was the only one who applied this year—but believe me, had I known I'd be dealing with heart-shaped confetti and Valentine card-delivering dwarfs, I might have thought harder about choosing him. If Professor Dumbledore doesn't find a new Defense professor by next term, I might explode—although Merlin knows if we'll even be able to find a replacement…" McGonagall trailed off, staring at Remus. Her gaze had become slightly unfocused.

Remus frowned at her. "Professor? Is everything all right?"

"I—yes," McGonagall stood up suddenly, and Remus jumped, startled. "I've just realized—I have to meet with Professor Dumbledore right away."

Remus watched, perplexed, as McGonagall hurriedly gathered up her traveling cloak and banished her half-finished glass of Gillywater back to the bar counter. "Er—Professor—?"

"You'll hear from me soon, Remus," McGonagall said briskly, already halfway across the bar. And then, she was gone, the door to the Hog's Head swinging shut in her wake, leaving Remus staring after her in bewilderment.

27 May 1993

"This is everything he had on him," said the St. Oswald's caregiver whose name Remus hadn't registered, as he pressed a small cardboard box of arbitrary items—a few gold galleons, a wedding band, several small photographs—into Remus's hands. "You can come back another week to pick up the bigger items, like his clothes and furniture, if you'd like."

"Thank you," Remus murmured, accepting the box almost robotically. He was having a hard time putting thoughts together; his mind felt completely detached from his body.

"Er—we're going to send a letter to the mortuary now, to let them know they can pick your father up," the caregiver continued in a low voice, shifting his feet. "You can contact them directly to arrange funeral details."

Remus nodded tightly. "I appreciate that."

"Of course," the caregiver said quietly, glancing at Remus. "Erm—did you…did you want to see him one more time, before I write the mortuary?"

Remus stared past the caregiver's shoulder, at the closed door to his father's spacious room in St Oswald's Home for Old Witches and Wizards. Though Remus and his father had corresponded regularly by owl post, Remus had only visited the home a few times per year since his father had moved there, nearly eleven years ago. Remus swallowed.

"No, I…it's all right," Remus told the caregiver. "Let the mortuary know I'll be in contact with them."

The caregiver nodded. Then, with a sad half-smile at Remus, he turned around and headed down the hallway to his office. Remus stared after him for several, long moments. Finally, stomach churning, he looked down at the cardboard box in his arms—and his eyes landed on the photograph at the top of the pile of odd artifacts. It was a Muggle photograph—so Remus knew his mother must have developed it—of Remus and his father on the night Remus was born. In it, Dad was cradling Remus tenderly to his chest, his face glowing.

Slowly, his fingers trembling, Remus reached down and picked up the photograph before he could stop himself, gazing down at his young father, so familiar—and yet, so different from the tired, ill, guilt-ridden man that Remus had watched him become in the last years of his life. Swallowing the burning in his throat, Remus turned the photograph over in his palm—and his breath caught.

There were words written on the back. Remus immediately recognized his father's pointy scrawl: '10 March 1960. Remus John Lupin. A great wizard in the making.'

Remus stared down at the handwritten note for a long while. Then, with a shuddering breath, Remus dropped the photograph back into the cardboard box, squeezing his eyes shut.

They were all gone now. His mother, James, Lily…Peter…Sirius…and now, his father, the last person in the world who had loved him through it all.

Hot tears burned Remus's face as they rolled down his cheeks, but Remus barely noticed, feeling numb as he turned and walked away from the wooden door to his father's St. Oswald's quarters—down the home's rickety, old staircase—out the front gates—and into a future that, for the first time in his entire life, Remus had no desire to face.

Author's Note:

SO. It's been a HOT minute since my last chapter, am I right? More than a year, in fact! My sincerest, sincerest apologies to all of my readers. I promise, I plan to do a MUCH better job with updates this year. Thanks to everyone who stuck with this story and to everyone who is reading it for the first time now. I appreciate you all :)

Ari