Remus awoke the next morning to the same thoughts and meditations which had so exhaustively plagued his sleeping hours. He had not yet recovered from the surprise of Black's proposal and their resulting argument — indeed, he found it nigh impossible to think of anything else.

Finding himself totally indisposed to be in the company of others, Remus resolved, soon after breakfast, to indulge himself in fresh air, and exercise, and solitude.

Remus trekked up a hill on the furthest boundary-line from Grimmauld, as he was eager to avoid any unexpected company. The sun had not yet fully warmed up, and an evening dew still clung to the grass. Remus breathed deep the scent of wet greenery and loamy earth, and felt some small measure of peace. Reaching the top, he turned around to see if anybody was in view.

Finding himself quite alone, he broke into a run.

He pumped his legs until his muscles ached, and the cold morning air stung in his throat and lungs. Gasping, and, for the first time in over a day, grinning, Remus eventually slowed his pace to a walk.

The brief-yet-profound relief from his emotional tumult that the activity provided was most welcome — the exercise was, however, a most inconvenient distraction from his wider surrounds.

For this reason, Remus did not notice Mr. Black until he was almost upon him. The gentleman stood in his riding gear, scanning the grove for somebody — him , most probably — and Remus was about to sneak away from the scene when his foot came down on a twig, which snapped.

Black spun abruptly, grey eyes widening in surprise at Remus' sudden appearance.

He approached before Remus had gathered himself enough to make any escape attempt. "Mr. Lupin." He said, with a look of haughty composure. "I have been walking in the grove some time in the hope of meeting you. Will you do me the honour of reading this?"

Black held out a letter, which Remus instinctively took. And then, with a slight bow, he turned again, and was soon out of sight.

With the strongest curiosity, Remus opened the letter, and, to his increasing wonder, found it contained two sheets of letter-paper, written double-sided, and in a very close hand. It was dated from Grimmauld, at eight o'clock that very morning, and read as follows:—

Dear Mr. Lupin,

Be not alarmed on receiving this letter that it may contain any repetition of those sentiments, or renewal of those offers, which were last night so disgusting to you. I write without any intention of upsetting you, or humbling myself, by dwelling on wishes which, for the happiness of both, cannot be too soon forgotten.

Indeed, the bequeathal of this letter might have been foregone altogether, had my honour and good name not been called into question by your accusations last night.

Two offenses of a very different nature, and by no means equal magnitude, were laid to my charge last night. The first, that — regardless of the sentiments of either party — I had detached Mr. Potter from your cousin, and the other, that I had unfairly obliterated the future prospects of one Barty Crouch Jr.

I shall hope, when the following account of my actions and their motives has been read and fully understood, that you will revise the severity of the blame which you have previously so liberally bestowed upon me.

If, in light of my explanation, you still find that I relate feelings which are offensive to you, I can only say that I am sorry to hear it — but I must be true to myself, and find the notion of offering any further apology with regards to either matter quite absurd.

I had not long been in Godric's Hollow before I saw that my friend delighted in the company of your cousin, Miss Lily Evans. I had little apprehension of his forming a serious attachment — I have seen James in love often enough over the years to weather his frequent crushes with equanimity. Even so, I resolved to observe his behaviour as their acquaintance grew more intimate; and discovered partiality for Miss Evans to be beyond anything I had ever before witnessed.

Your cousin I also watched. And though her manners were open, cheerful, and engaging, I recognised no symptom of any peculiar regard. I concluded that, though she received his attentions with pleasure, she did not invite them with any great measure of enthusiasm. The serenity of her countenance would lead even the most acute observer to the conclusion that, however amiable her temper, her heart was not likely to be easily touched. I did not believe her to be indifferent because I wished it; I believed it on impartial conviction.

I do concede that — if you yourself have not been mistaken as to the inner workings of your cousin's heart — I may have been in error with regards to this conclusion. I am willing to defer to your superior knowledge of Miss Evans, and if I have indeed been misled by such error to inflict pain on her, I can only conclude that your resentment of me has not been unreasonable.

However, it is worth noting that my objections to any potential association between James and Miss Evans are not merely those which I last night acknowledged. There were other causes of repugnance; causes which I had myself endeavored to forget, because I had feelings for you, and because they were not immediately before me at Grimmauld as they were in Godric's Hollow. These concerns must be stated, though briefly;

The situation of your Aunt's family, though objectionable, was nothing in comparison to the total want of propriety so frequently and almost uniformly betrayed by herself, by your three younger cousins, and occasionally even by your Uncle. It pains me to offend you, but let it give you consolation to consider that both you and Miss Evans have conducted yourselves so as to avoid any share of such censure. On this subject I will only vouch to say that I acted to preserve my friend from what I esteemed a most reprehensible connection.

As you well know, James left Peverell for London in early December. Miss McKinnon's uneasiness had been equally excited with my own; our coincidence of feeling was soon discovered, and, alike sensible that no time was to be lost in detaching James from Miss Evans, we shortly resolved on joining him in London directly. We accordingly went—and there I readily engaged in the office of pointing out to my friend the certain evils of such his plans to make an offer to your cousin.

I do not suppose that the expression of my misgivings would ultimately have prevented James, had it not been seconded by my assurance of Miss Evans' indifference to him. He had before believed that she reciprocated his affections with sincere, if not equal, regard.

But James has a great natural modesty, with a stronger dependence on my judgment than on his own. To convince him, therefore, that he had deceived himself, was no very difficult point. To persuade him against returning into Godric's Hollow once that conviction had been given was scarcely the work of a moment. I confess, I cannot blame myself for having done as much.

There is but one part of my conduct in the whole affair on which I do not reflect with satisfaction. That being; that I concealed from him Miss Evans' being in town. I knew it myself, as it was known to Miss McKinnon, but James remains ignorant of it to this day. Perhaps this concealment was beneath me; it is done, however, and it was done for the best. If I have wounded your sister's feelings, it was unknowingly done. On this subject I have nothing more to say, no other apology to offer.

With respect to the other, more weighty accusation, of having injured Mr. Barty Crouch Jr., I can only refute it by laying before you the whole of his connection with my family.

Barty is the son of a very respectable man, who had for many years the management of all the Pemberley estates. My father — Mr. Orion Black — supported him at school, and afterward at Cambridge. My father was fond of Barty's society — his manners were always engaging, even in childhood — and he had the highest opinion of the lad. My father had hoped that the church would be his profession, and intended to provide an appropriate living in line with this thought.

It must be said that my father, for all of his good intentions, was rather a severe man — his expectations of myself, and, to a lesser extent, of my younger brother Regulus, were almost astronomically high. It pains me to admit it, but though I admired him, I always struggled to enjoy his society. He never showed me much affection, even when I was a boy. His severity, however, was always dimmed and softened in the presence of Barty, and their relationship soon adopted a dynamic akin to a favourite nephew and a doting Uncle. Barty was subjected to none of the pressures of being son and heir, and it was evident that my father greatly enjoyed spoiling Barty. Perhaps it was agreeable to him to spend time with a child in whom he did not see his own obsolescence and death — my father always impressed upon me his certainty that I would somehow fail to adequately contribute to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black after he had died. In any case, Barty quickly grew irresolute in his habits under my father's regime of blind indulgence. Tales of excessive drinking and wild behavior at the local inns reached our ears at Pemberley with increasing frequency. My father, however, was determined to dismiss any such tale as little more than natural, youthful spiritedness — to his mind, Barty was everything a young man ought to be, and he would not hear a word against him. He maintained his belief in Barty's innocence until the very last. It is worth noting that Regulus, who was at that time very young, was also disposed to think well of Barty. Whenever he visited, Barty took the trouble of devoting himself exclusively and tirelessly to Regulus' amusement.

As for myself, it was not long into our peerage at Cambridge that I began to think of Barty in a very different manner. His more vicious propensities — his total want of principle, the drinking, the adultery, the gambling… They grew ever more severe once he was removed from my father's direct society, where even the most atrocious conduct might be concealed with ease. He could not, however, escape the observation of a young man nearly the same age as himself, who had opportunities of seeing him in unguarded moments.

He seduced a number of young men while at Cambridge — all being fine-featured, and in possession of light and pleasing figures. His tastes, in this regard, were not varied, and I viewed his amoral conduct with abhorrence. I quickly learnt to regard Barty as a lost cause, and any bonds of friendship lingering between us were soon dissolved. I had formed more favourable associations; James, as well as Miss McKinnon and Miss Meadowes, and was eager to relegate Barty to the role of disappointing childhood spectre. For the first time in my life, I had the luxury of honourable friends.

Barty and I contented ourselves with the appearance of civility — whenever we were jointly in the presence of my father, at least — and proceeded in this manner until about five years ago, when my father died unexpectedly. His attachment to Barty was, to the last, so steady, that in his will he particularly recommended that a valuable family living might be his as soon as it became vacant. There was also a legacy of one thousand pounds, which he was immediately granted.

Within half-a-year of these events, Barty wrote to inform me that he had resolved against taking orders, and hoped I should not think it unreasonable for him to expect some more immediate pecuniary advantage, in lieu of the living. He had some intention, he added, of studying law. I wished rather than believed him to be sincere. But, at any rate, I was perfectly ready to accede to his proposal. Suffice to say, I did not think Barty at all suited to the clergy.

The business was therefore soon settled—he resigned all claim to assistance in the church, and accepted in return a sum of three thousand pounds, on top of the one thousand he had already received upon my father's death. All connections between us seemed now dissolved. Being now free from all restraint, his life was one of idleness and dissipation.

For about three years I heard little of him; until he applied to me again by letter. His circumstances, he assured me — and I had no difficulty in believing it — were exceedingly bad. He found the law a most unprofitable study and was now absolutely resolved on being ordained, if I would present to him the living he had originally been promised. You will hardly blame me for refusing to comply with this entreaty, or for resisting every repetition to it. His resentment was in proportion to the distress of his circumstances—and he was doubtless as violent in his abuse of me to others as in his reproaches to myself. After this period every appearance of acquaintance was dropped.

I must now mention a circumstance which I would wish to forget myself. I can only ask the utmost discretion of you with regards to what follows, as it concerns my brother Regulus, who is more than ten years my junior.

Following the death of my father, Regulus was left to the guardianship of Colonel Longbottom and myself. About a year ago, he was taken from school to Ramsgate; and thither also went Barty, undoubtedly by design — for there proved to be a prior acquaintance between him and one Mrs. Winky, in whose character we were most unhappily deceived. By her connivance and aid, Barty had managed to recommend himself to Regulus, whose affectionate heart retained a strong impression of his kindness to him as a child. He was persuaded to believe himself in love, and to consent to an elopement. He was then but fifteen.

Thankfully, I joined them unexpectedly a day or two before the intended elopement, and then Regulus, unable to support the idea of grieving and offending a brother whom he almost looked up to as a father, acknowledged the whole plan to me at once.

You may imagine what I felt, and how I acted. Barty left the place immediately, and Mrs. Winky was, of course, removed from her charge. Barty's chief object was, unquestionably, my brother's fortune of thirty-thousand pounds; but I cannot help supposing that the hope of revenging himself on me proved to be a strong secondary motive.

I solemnly swear this to be a faithful narrative of my every dealing with Barty Crouch Jr; for its veracity I can appeal to the testimony of Colonel Longbottom, who, as the executor of my father's will, has been unavoidably acquainted with every particular of these transactions. You will, I hope, acquit me henceforth of cruelty towards Barty.

I know not in what manner and under what form of falsehood Barty imposed himself on you, but his success is, perhaps, not to be wondered at. Barty has always been very skilled at hoodwinking the unsuspecting, and you certainly had no prior cause for suspicion. I can only unequivocally caution you to avoid any sort of romantic entanglement with Barty in future — I say this not as a jealous suitor, but as someone possessing a genuine regard and concern for both your safety and your reputation. I remember enough of Cambridge to assure you that you would be used and discarded within a month of giving in to him, at most. Remus, if you believe only a single thing that I write then believe this — you deserve better than Barty Crouch Jr.

To the above I will add only the following — that my genuine best wishes for your future happiness and prosperity still, and will always, apply. The business between us has concluded most unhappily, but even so, I find that I cannot reprove myself for admiring you. I regret the words I spoke in anger yesterday, and wish to assure you of the warmth and constancy of my good opinion.

In the interests of your comfort, however, I will vow to do my utmost to forget you — please forgive me the not-insubstantial amount of time this may take.

Yours,

Sirius Orion Black

Remus read the letter, and then read it again.

Remus perfectly remembered everything that had passed in conversation between Barty and himself during their first evening at Mr. Lovegood's, but it was only now that he was struck with the impropriety of Barty's communications, and wondered how it had escaped his notice before. He saw the indelicacy of Barty airing his grievances as he had done, and the inconsistency of his actions with his words.

He remembered how Barty had boasted of having no fear of seeing Black — yet he had avoided the ball at Peverell the very next week. Remus realised that Barty had told the story of his many misfortunes to nobody but Remus until after Black and Potter had quit the country. He realised how, after their removal from society, that the business had been everywhere discussed; that Barty had then no reserves, no scruples in sinking Black's character, though he had previously assured Remus that respect for the father would always prevent his exposing the son.

How differently did everything now appear! His attentions to Miss King seemed now solely and hatefully mercenary, and his behaviour to Remus could have had no tolerable motive. Barty had either been deceived with regards to Remus' fortune (which was so desperately unlikely that Remus thought he might actually cry at the inevitable conclusion that then followed), or had been gratifying his vanity by encouraging Remus, and attempting to bed and abandon him without ceremony. Barty had professed alarmingly often, after all, a desire to have Remus, and Remus had been stupid enough to receive these attentions with pleasure. He had been so exceedingly diverted by Barty's manners that he had misjudged the man entirely.

Suffice to say, Remus felt a fool.

Remus remembered that Potter, when questioned by Lily, had long ago asserted Black's blamelessness in the affair. And Remus was forced to admit that, proud and repulsive as were his manners, he had never, in the whole course of their acquaintance, seen anything that betrayed Black to be unprincipled or unjust—anything that spoke of irreligious or immoral habits. Among his own connections, Black was esteemed and valued, and even Barty had allowed him merit as a brother. Indeed, Remus had heard Black speak affectionately of his brother so often as to prove him capable of generous and genuine love .

Remus grew absolutely ashamed of himself. He could think of neither Black nor Barty without feeling that he had been blind, partial, prejudiced, and absurd.

How despicably I have acted! He thought. Had I been in love, I could not have been more wretchedly blind! Pleased with the appearance of one, and offended by the neglect of the other… From the very beginning of our acquaintance, I have courted prepossession and ignorance, and driven reason away.

Never one for excessive self-flagellation, Remus' thoughts soon brought to his recollection that Black's explanation with regards to Lily and Potter had appeared very insufficient, and he read these passages again.

Alas, a second perusal did not bring the vindication Remus sought. Black declared himself to be totally unsuspicious of Lily's attachment, and Remus could not help remembering what Emmeline's opinion of the matter had always been. Nor could Remus deny the accuracy of Black's description of Lily. Remus was forced to admit that Lily's feelings, though fervent, were little displayed, and that there was a constant complacency in her air and manner not often associated with any deeper sentiment.

When Remus came to that part of the letter in which his family was mentioned — in terms of such mortifying yet merited reproach, no less — his sense of shame grew most severe. The justice of the charge struck him too forcibly for denial. His family was a source of ridicule and embarrassment, and had materially damaged both Remus and Lily's marriage prospects.

The compliment Black paid to himself and to Lily was not unfelt. It soothed, but it could not wholly console him. When he considered that Lily's heartbreak had in fact been the work of their nearest and most loved relations, Remus felt depressed beyond anything he had ever known before.

After wandering the grove for two hours—re-considering events, determining probabilities, and reconciling himself, as well as he could, to a change so sudden and so important—fatigue, and a recollection of his long absence from Hunsford, made Remus return home at last.

He entered the house with the wish of appearing cheerful, but was immediately told by Emmeline that the two gentlemen from Grimmauld had each called during his absence; Mr. Black, only for a few minutes, to take leave—and Colonel Longbottom, who had been sitting with them at least an hour, hoping for Remus' return, and had almost resolved to walk after him till he could be found. Remus made a reasonable attempt at pretending to be put-out at having missed the Colonel, but really he was glad to have avoided the distraction of his society.

Remus could think only of his letter, and the sudden way in which his feelings toward Black had entered into flux.

Dinner at Grimmauld the following night was strange indeed, for Remus at least.

He could not see Lord Phineas without recollecting that, had he chosen it, he might by this time have been presented to his Lordship as his future nephew by marriage; nor could he think, without a smile, of what his Lordship's indignation would have been at such a pronouncement.

At fortune would have it, Lord Phineas was preoccupied with bemoaning the loss of his nephew and required little from Remus in terms of conversation.

"I assure you, I feel it exceedingly," said he. "I believe no one feels the loss of friends so much as I do. And I am so particularly attached to these young men, and know them to be so much attached to me! They were excessively sorry to go! But so they always are. The dear Colonel rallied his spirits tolerably till just at last, but young Sirius seemed to feel it most acutely. More, I think, than last year. His attachment to Grimmauld certainly increases."

Remus did not miss the way that Lord Phineas eyed Miss Bellatrix at that. Remus rather thought he was fighting a losing battle in attempting to arrange a match between Black and Miss Bellatrix, but his Lordship seemed determined to try.

Lord Phineas observed, after dinner, that Remus seemed out of spirits, too, and immediately accounting for it by himself, supposing that Remus did not wish to go home again so soon, saying; "But if that is the case, you must write to your Aunt and beg that you may stay a little longer. Mrs. Pettigrew will be very glad of your company, I am sure."

"I am much obliged to your Lordship for your kind invitation," replied Remus, "but it is not in my power to accept it. I must be in town next Saturday."

"Why, at that rate, you will have been here only six weeks! I expected you to stay for two months. I told Mrs. Pettigrew so before you came. There can be no occasion for your going so soon. Mrs. Evans could certainly spare you for another fortnight."

"But Mr. Evans cannot. He wrote last week to hurry my return."

"Pah! Your Uncle may spare you if your Aunt can. And if you will stay another month complete, it will be in my power to take one of you as far as London myself, for I am going there early in June."

"You are all kindness, your Lordship, but I believe we must abide by our original plan."

Lord Phineas seemed resigned. "Where shall you change horses?" He immediately answered his own question; "Oh! Bromley, of course. If you mention my name at the Bell, you will be attended to."

Lord Phineas had many other questions to ask respecting their journey, and as he could not answer them all himself, Remus' attention was necessary. The night passed sluggishly, and when Remus, at last, departed he was more than eager for the quiet and solitude of his bed at Hunsford.

Remus believed he was in a fair way of soon knowing Black's letter by heart.

He studied every sentence, and his feelings towards its writer were at times widely different.

The greatest lingering source of vexation and regret was the brief account that Black provided of the many unhappy defects of his family. The more he ruminated on it, the more despondent he felt. They were hopeless of remedy. His Uncle, contented with laughing at them, would never exert himself to restrain the wild giddiness of his youngest daughters; and his Aunt, with manners so far from right herself, was entirely insensible of the evil. Remus had frequently united with Lily in an endeavor to check the imprudence of Kitty and Lydia; but while they were supported by their mother's indulgence, what chance could there be of improvement?

Kitty, weak-spirited, irritable, and completely under Lydia's guidance, had been always affronted by their advice; and Lydia, strong-willed and careless, would scarcely give them a hearing. They were ignorant, idle, and vain. While there was an officer in the Hollow, they would flirt with him; and while the Hollow was within an easy distance of Longbourn, they would be going there forever.

Anxiety on Lily's behalf was another prevailing concern, and Black's explanation heightened the sense of what Lily had lost. Potter's affection was proved to have been sincere, and his conduct cleared of all blame (excepting for the blindness with which he accepted the judgments of his esteemed friend over his own perfectly sensible instincts). How grievous then was the thought that, of a situation so desirable in every respect, so replete with advantage, so promising for happiness, Lily had been deprived solely by the folly and indecorum of her own family!

When he remembered the rude manner of Black's proposal, he was still full of indignation; but when he considered how unjustly he had condemned him, Remus' anger was turned against himself; and Black's disappointed feelings became the object of compassion. Black's attachment excited gratitude, his general character respect; but Remus could not wholly approve of him; nor could he regret having refused Black's hand in marriage, or feel the slightest inclination to ever see him again.

Their engagements at Grimmauld were as frequent during the last week of his stay as they had been at first.

The very last evening was spent there; and his Lordship again inquired minutely into the particulars of their journey, gave them directions as to the best method of packing, and was so urgent on the necessity of placing gowns in the only right way, that Maria thought herself obliged, on her return, to undo all the work of the morning, and pack her trunk afresh.

When they parted, Lord Phineas, with great condescension, wished them a good journey, and invited them to come to Hunsford again next year; and Miss Bellatrix exerted herself so far as to curtsey and hold out her hand.

"Good gracious!" cried Maria, after a few minutes' silence, "it seems but a day or two since we first came! and yet how many things have happened!"

"A great many indeed," said Remus with a sigh. "Though I confess I felt our visit was quite unending. I should be glad to go home."

Maria continued excitedly; "We have dined nine times at Grimmauld, besides drinking tea there twice! How much I shall have to tell!"

And how much I shall have to conceal! Remus thought.

Their journey passed without much conversation; and within four hours of their leaving Hunsford they reached the Weasley's residence in London, where they were to remain a few days.

Lily looked well, but Remus had little opportunity of studying her spirits amidst the various engagements which his Aunt Molly had arranged for them.

But Remus' impatience to acquaint Lily with what had happened could no longer be overcome; and at length, resolving to withhold every particular in which his cousin and Mr. Potter were concerned, Remus related to her what had transpired between Black and himself.

Lily's astonishment at discovering that Remus was the object of Black's affections was soon lessened by the strong familial partiality which made any admiration of Remus appear perfectly natural — "Well of course he loves you, Remus. Why wouldn't he?" — and all surprise was shortly lost in other feelings.

Lily was sorry that Black should have delivered his sentiments in a manner so little suited to recommend them, but still, more was she grieved for the unhappiness which Remus' refusal must have given him.

"His being so sure of succeeding was wrong," said Lily, "but consider how much it must increase his disappointment!"

"Indeed," said Remus dryly, "I am heartily sorry for him; but he has other feelings which will soon drive away his regard for me. You do not blame me for refusing him?"

"Blame you! Oh, no."

He then spoke of the letter, saying nothing of Black's interference with her's and Potter's budding romance, but repeating the whole of its contents as far as they concerned Barty Crouch Jr. What a stroke was this for poor Lily! She, who would willingly have gone through the world without believing that so much wickedness existed in the whole race of mankind as was here collected in one individual. Nor was Black's vindication capable of consoling her for such discovery. Most earnestly did Lily labour to prove the probability of error, and seek to clear one of wrong-doings without somehow implicating the other.

"This will not do," said Remus, "you will never be able to them both good. There is just enough merit between them to make one good sort of man; and for my part, I am inclined to believe it all Mr. Black."

"I do not know when I have ever been more shocked," said Lily. "It is almost past belief. And poor Mr. Black! Dear Remus, only consider what he must have suffered. Such a disappointment! And with the knowledge of your ill opinion, too! And having to relate such a thing of his brother! It is really too distressing. I am sure you must feel it so."

"Oh! No, my regret and compassion are all done away by seeing you so full of both." Remus could not help but smile. "I know you will do him such ample justice, that I am growing every moment more unconcerned and indifferent. If you lament over him much longer, my heart will be as light as a feather."

"Don't tease me, Remus." Lily said, before fretting once more; "Oh, but poor Barty — there is such an expression of goodness in his countenance. Such openness and gentleness in his manner."

"Aye." Remus sighed. "One has all the goodness, and the other all the appearance of it."

"I never thought Mr. Black so deficient in the appearance of it as you used to."

Remus conceded that this was a fair point. Lily had never been unjust towards Black — though, in view of the circumstances, she was perhaps the only person with any real right to, not that she was at all aware of why .

"Remus," Lily placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, her tone soothing. "When you first read that letter, I am sure you could not treat the matter as lightly as you do now."

"Indeed, I could not." Remus sighed. "I was miserable enough, and with no one to speak to about what I felt. No Lily to comfort me and assure me that I had not been as weak and vain and nonsensical as I know I have been. No, I confess it has all been rather awful." He thought a moment. "But enough of that. There is one point on which I want your advice — ought those in our general acquaintance be made aware of Barty's true character?"

Lily paused a moment, and then replied fretfully; "Surely there can be no occasion for exposing him so dreadfully."

"Perhaps it ought not to be attempted." Remus agreed, rubbing his eyes wearily. "Besides, Black has not authorised me to make his communication public. On the contrary, every particular relating to his brother is meant to be kept to myself as much as possible."

"Quite right." Lily nodded. "In any case, to have his errors made public might ruin Barty forever — he is now, perhaps, sorry for what he has done, and anxious to re-establish his character in the world. We must not make him desperate."

Remus could only laugh at Lily's resolute goodness.

The tumult of his mind had been allayed by their conversation — he had got rid of two of the secrets which had weighed on him for a fortnight, and was certain of a willing listener in Lily, whenever he might wish to talk again of either.