1973

There's a dull wash of light over the room as he pries his eyes open, the February sun struggling to break through, and certainly bringing no warmth. He would shiver, if he had the energy; as it is, it's about all he can do to just keep his eyes open, and shift slightly further under the covers, as if that might banish the cold that lingers in his bones. He sighs, and blinks, and that's when he notices her.

Her head is lowered, glasses perched on the end of her nose as she reads. Parchment is held in one hand, a red-inked quill in the other. After a few seconds, she tuts, and shakes her head, scribbling something in the margin. He thinks he hears a mutter of, " – clearly not listening…"

His stomach feels like it has started twisting itself in intricate knots that might never untangle. He's never, in his eighteen months at this school, woken up to find his head of house sat at his bedside. Usually, he's alone; sometimes, if it's been a rough night, Madam Pomfrey might be hovering, busy with incantations and ointments. McGonagall's presence here has to be a harbinger of doom. It's only a matter of what has gone wrong, rather than if.

She casts the essay to one side, dropping it on top of an already-substantial pile – she must have been there for a while – before realising she is being watched. "Mr Lupin," she greets him, her voice as steady as ever. He's often thought she would be an excellent spy: she's almost impossible to read. "Good afternoon. How are you feeling?"

He blinks, and tried to consider the answer to that question. Only one thing forces itself to his lips, though. "What happened?"

She purses her lips a moment. "Madam Pomfrey asked me to sit with you," she answers carefully. "She's been called away to help with a rather nasty case of vomiting up in Ravenclaw tower."

This is torture. All he can think about is that he has hurt someone, or himself, or – or - killed someone, and he doesn't even know it. He's lying here, tucked up in an admittedly chilly hospital bed, and without realising it, he's ruined someone's life. Fear and nausea rush through him, unstoppable. "What happened?" he repeats, his voice now shaking. "Did I – has someone – "

"Everyone is fine," she interrupts. "You were in the shack, all night."

He could vomit right there and then, and isn't sure how he manages not to. "Oh," he draws in a broken breath, "oh, thank – "

"Yes," she raises an eyebrow before he can finish that thought. "And we can discuss the full situation later, but you need your rest. You were rather worse for wear when collected this morning."

That's hardly new, he thinks but doesn't say. A broken rib, maybe, the usual stripe of bruises, marks scraping down his torso and leg – he was able to catalogue them all as he woke up, part of a monthly ritual to make sure he was still in one piece, so automatic he doesn't even need to think about it anymore. He is more aware now, though, of a numb sensation that hovers over his face. Before, it didn't seem noteworthy; now, he's not so sure.

He tries to sit up a little, and finds himself struggling as if the sheets were made of lead. Evidently, the difficulty shows on his face, because she edges forward and gives a wordless wave of her wand: a sensation like being draped in a heated blanket sinks over him, a balm to his aching body. "There is no rush to be up and about, Mr Lupin," she reminds him archly. "We would all rather you rested and recuperated rather than setting yourself back in your recovery."

"My face," he murmurs, and he sees a flash of something like pity streak across her features before she resets her expression, unreadable again. "It feels – did something happen?"

"You…injured yourself there," she says, after a pause that feels like it lasts for hours. She is clearly weighing up each and every word. "Madam Pomfrey is still using a healing charm on it to stem the bleeding, so that could be why it feels odd."

There is a short silence while he takes in what she has said, and what this will mean. Maybe it's not too bad, he tells himself. Maybe it'll heal quickly under Pomfrey's care and he'll look just as he did before. "Can I… see it?" he asks at last, surprised to find his voice so steady.

"I'm not sure – " she starts, but shakes her head, seeing the expression on his face. "Fine. But remember, Mr Lupin, it's still fresh and undergoing treatment."

With an almost casual wave of her wand, a mirror appears; he reaches for it, tilting it until his own pale face comes into view. His pale face, and two red-raw slashes, reaching from his forehead on one side, across his brow and over the bridge of his nose to the cheek on the other side. Even though he knows it's not possible for wounds to convey emotions, they look angry. He swallows, hard.

"Remus," she says, and he looks over, startled – he'd forgotten she was there, so lost in his own disfigurement. "It will heal. You missed your eyes, which is a blessing. I know it looks – it's a lot to take in, at the moment, but it will heal."

Now he really thinks he might be sick, and he doesn't want it to happen all over the head of Gryffindor's shoes. He tries to swallow it down, to fight back the rising sense of panic and nausea like pushing back against the waves of an ocean. "How will I…" he shakes his head. "I said I was home with my mum. That she was poorly." He closes his eyes a moment. "I'm going to go back out there looking like I've been attacked with garden shears…"

"I can tell your dormitory that you were in an accident on the way back," she offers quietly. "And that you don't want to talk about it. That should stop any questions."

He isn't sure that's going to be enough for Sirius and James, who have never met a question they didn't want to ask, or a mystery that they didn't want to solve. But he nods, because it's better than nothing, and what else is there? Another lie to add to the collection, or he gets found out, and has to return home. This was the problem with letting himself make friends – it was getting harder and harder to hide who he really was, and he felt the day they found out, the day they hated him and feared him, was getting closer and closer. He wonders, distantly, how much longer he might have.

"You need more sleep." Her voice cuts through, and he nods, distracted, turning his face away from the mirror before it vanishes again. "When Madam Pomfrey returns, I will go and speak to your friends." There's a pause. "Don't worry about it for now, Mr Lupin. Just rest."

He nods again – it's all he's really capable of – and closes his eyes. He has never not followed one of McGonagall's instructions before.

1977

He scuffs his feet along the flagstones, fighting off the urge to shiver. When he'd ensconced himself in the library that morning, the sun was shining and the air had been pleasantly warm – he'd been fine in just his shirt sleeves. Now, the sun is long gone, and the heating charms in place in the Great Hall and classrooms don't seem to stretch to the corridors. Despite the fact that his fingers are starting to go numb, he's not going to hurry back to the tower.

He's been managing to spend only sleeping hours back in the dorm, slipping through the door when the others are already asleep or getting ready for bed. In the mornings, he's dropped his long lay-ins to get out as quickly as possible. Today, he'd been eating marmalade on toast at seven, the only person on the Gryffindor table, and then heading for the library before anyone else showed up.

"How long are you going to be able to keep this up?" Pete had asked rather bluntly, a few days ago. "Aren't you, y'know…fed up of being angry?"

But he isn't. His anger is still as fresh now as it was three weeks ago, when he'd woken up in the hospital wing to James' pale, anxious face, and Sirius trying to talk his way out of the gigantic fucking mess he'd created. It feels like he's never going to not be angry, ever again. It's better, anyway, because the anger holds back the sadness. The sense that if he stops, even for a second, and really thinks about what has happened, he will just crumble to the ground and sob like a baby. Because that's what this has reduced him to, hasn't it? A lonely, monstrous child without a bubble around him – trust and friendship so easily traded away for a laugh, for revenge, in the name of spite and with no thought of the consequences – because who cares about the consequences for Loony Lupin, the freak, the dark creature, the half-breed?

No. It's easier to be angry. Safer, to be furious, to let that fury simmer beneath the surface and hold everything else away. Others, away from him; him, away from himself.

So, even though he isn't the one who betrayed his friend and endangered the lives of others, he spends his days now moving between the library and empty classrooms and the grounds, not settling anywhere too populated, not wanting to feel the strange looks, the murmured conversations, or the outright-nosy questions of fellow students who've noticed the sudden fracture in what was surely one of the steadiest friendship groups at Hogwarts. In class, he arrives just as the lessons begin, sitting himself at the back, away from anyone who might try to draw him in to conversation. Once, in Transfiguration, Lily had switched seats to try and draw him out of his shell; she sat at his table in the library and tried to engage him in conversation about the legal ramifications of using love potions; she had followed him round the lake, hair tucked beneath her red and gold scarf, and asked if he was okay. He felt a grudging respect for her tenacity, but still, she had got precisely nowhere.

He's so lost in his thoughts, in the protection of his anger, that he doesn't even see another person in the corridor until he almost walks right into her. "Oh! Sorry, professor."

McGonagall casts her gaze over him, suspicion mixed with confusion. "Mr Lupin, I know for a fact that you are not on prefect duty this evening," she replies, "and I also know that you are an intelligent boy able to tell the time, so why, pray tell, are you wandering the halls after curfew?"

He shrugs – surely a patented Black move, not normally something in his own arsenal. He tries not to dwell on that. "Just…didn't want to go back to the dorm yet."

She pauses, narrowing her eyes slightly, then gestures to her right; he hadn't even realised they were right outside her office. "Tea," she says, an instruction, not a request. "I may even be able to drum up a biscuit."

He goes inside, immediately feeling the effects of the roaring fire, and sits in the chair on the other side of her desk. "Thank you," he murmurs, accepting the mug of tea, wrapping his cold fingers around it gratefully. "Sorry to interrupt your marking…"

She pours herself a cup, and tidies the stack of essays on her desk with a quick flick of her wand. "First years. Sadly, they have not quite got the grasp of the theory yet. It has been a painful evening, Mr Lupin."

He smiles faintly, taking a long sip of his tea. She watches him with a steady gaze. "I imagine," she says after a moment, "that you are idling around the halls in order to avoid interacting with Mr Black."

He almost flinches, looking down, away, shifting in his chair. He really, really doesn't want to talk about this. But it's not like with Lily, or Mary, or James – he can't just get up and walk away. Even the thought of doing that to McGonagall is enough to make him feel slightly queasy. "Look, professor – "

"No need to explain," she interrupts, but kindly. She slides a plate of biscuits across the desk, and he takes a shortbread; he's been having early dinners, to avoid the others, and finds himself starving again by mid-evening. "You are of course entitled to your frustration."

Frustration is putting it mildly, he thinks. He feels like he's always one false move away from punching a wall, or a person. Which would be a disaster – he's all elbows and knees, he's never been a fighter. He'd only embarrass himself. "I understand why I can't sleep elsewhere," he replies, keeping his voice as even as possible. "I do. I just…don't want to be there."

She dunks a biscuit into her tea thoughtfully. "I had a visit from Mr Black, offering to sleep in the greenhouses, every day last week," she tells him, and he looks up, surprised. "Naturally I told him that Professor Sprout would sooner he sleep on the roof of the Astronomy Tower."

He's not entirely sure why she is telling him this, but nods anyway. "Right."

"No one is rushing you into forgiveness," she adds, her voice quieter now. She can be quite soothing when she wants to be. "Or denying your right to your emotions. I'm sure you feel that in some way, by staying away, you are giving him only a fraction of the punishment he deserves." She pauses, and catches his eye. "My concern is that by bottling things up, and distancing yourself from those who care about you, you are only really punishing yourself."

He is quiet for a long moment, focusing on crumbling his biscuit into his drink. "I've never felt this angry before," he says at last. His voice is steady, but hollow-sounding; it could almost be a different person altogether. "This feels like the only way to keep it under control."

"Anger is best not directed inwards, Mr Lupin," she points out. "I am not advocating for you pummelling your friend with your fists, of course. But maybe letting it out would take some of the weight from your shoulders."

"James said I should shout at him," he half-smiles, and drains his cup. "That it would help everyone."

"Mr Potter has his flashes of inspiration," she agrees drily. "When he's not putting his mind to how best to lose house points." She sets down her cup. "Listen to the people who care about you. Even the ones who show their care in an unhelpful, dangerously thoughtless way. You have come an awfully long way in your time here, Remus. It would be a shame to lose ground now."

He sets his cup down on the edge of the desk, and meets her eyes again. "Thanks for the tea, professor," he says, standing up. "I appreciate it."

She levels him with a small, but warm, smile. "You're most welcome," she replies. "Back to the tower now, Mr Lupin. No dawdling."

"Yes, ma'am," he matches her smile, and heads back out into the cool of the corridor. As he walks back to the common room – with a much quicker pace than before – he finds he can't quite shake the sense that she had been waiting for him to walk past.

1981

He isn't aware of her sitting beside him straight away. The past twelve hours have been a blur, have left him feeling like he's behind a wall of soundproof, frosted glass, and maybe that would be a comfort, actually. He catches things at the edge of his vision, figures glancing his way, maybe even talking to him – but they drift on when he has nothing to offer. Because that's the truth of it, now. He has nothing left to give to these people, whoever they are and whatever they want. Nothing at all.

It was interesting how quickly life could change, he observes, clinically, as if from a distance. Even in a time of war – and this still feels like wartime, despite the celebration parties still raging outside – he had never really expected anything to happen. Feared it, yes, of course, because it was tempting fate not to. But deep down, he had just assumed that the close knot of people he loved would always be there.

He knows now that they're not, that there's no way to claw them back; Moody had come to break the news, and had watched with uncomfortable pity as Remus felt his knees give way beneath him, sinking on to the sofa as the world dropped away around him. He knows they're gone, dead or locked away, but has found that knowing that, and feeling that, are not one and the same. Because for the first hour or two, every time a door opened, he looked up, a sense in his gut, in his soul, that James would be there, grinning at him.

That has started to fade, thankfully. But it's left behind a haze of numbness, an empty space inside him that hurts so much it's blinding. It's all he can do to sit there, and breathe.

So he's not sure how long it is before he notices a cup being placed into his hand, the warmth waking his fingers, the scent of English breakfast bringing at least part of his brain back into the present. He looks down, then to his left, meeting the gaze of his former teacher. She has a way, he thinks, of looking right into a person. Of seeing the truth. At this moment, that feels like the last thing he wants.

"You're shivering, Mr Lupin," she notes, and nods to the cup. "Drink."

He isn't aware that he's trembling – isn't aware of much at all, in fairness, but still takes a sip, ever the teacher's pet.

She is still watching him, probably taking in his pale face, the fresh slash at his neck from the recent Full, the shabby state of his clothes. If he had the energy, he might feel embarrassed. "When did you last sleep, Mr Lupin?" Her voice is warm, gentle in a way that could easily push him off this precipice if he lets it. He desperately doesn't want to let it.

"Oh, um," he murmurs, and is surprised to find his voice so raw, like each word scratches and scrapes its way from his throat. "I'm not sure." He blinks, and sips his tea for want of something to do. His mind feels splintered: latching on to even one bit of information feels like a bridge too far. "Probably…a few days ago."

She purses her lips, quietly disapproving. "You must rest," she tells him, as if it were that easy. Maybe she reads this in his face, because she adds, "I know it's not as straightforward as all that. But there are sleeping draughts. Dreamless ones, if necessary." She sips her own tea, which he hadn't even noticed she was holding. "It wouldn't do for you to collapse, now, would it?"

"I'm not," he says, with a sound a mixture between a laugh and a sob, "I'm not sure it would matter much, now, if I did."

She looks so impossibly sad for a moment that it's as if she's an entirely different person. It's a flash of something that reminds him she isn't just a professor, someone who fades away during the school breaks and only comes back to life when term starts again. She's a real person, a person with feelings and thoughts and pain, like the rest of them. It should be reassuring, but isn't. "It would matter to a lot of people," she tells him, voice soft. "Please remember that."

He has to look away, his gaze moving unbidden to the other side of the room where Dumbledore stands, solemn but unbroken, quietly discussing where to bury Remus' best friends. He feels his breath hitch in his chest, has to take a moment to calm it, to slow himself. "I don't know what to do," he says, surprised at himself. When had he ever imagined pouring himself out to anyone who wasn't – he can't even think the names. Three, betrayed. One, betrayer. "I'm not – how can I – " He stops again, shakes his head. "I don't know how to..."

"Keep a calendar," she advises gently; it's all he can do to nod and clutch a mug in his hands, not take in anything around them, the too-heavy words murmured within hearing distance. "Don't just rely on the moon. Know the day, the month, the year. It can be an anchor, Remus."

An anchor, he thinks. Something to weigh him down. Something to drag him deeper, down, down to where the air would be squeezed from his lungs and he won't have to think about everything, everyone, that he has loved - gone, in a matter of hours.

But he nods nonetheless, because it is expected of him. "I will."

1982

- and I've heard that Harry is well settled with his family, now. Albus tells me you'd like to visit him, but perhaps it is best left for a while longer. It may unsettle him to have a reminder of –

He throws the parchment down, stands up with a scrape of his chair. Most of the time, he has succeeded in holding every errant feeling, every passing thought inside of him; only the slightest shake of his hand, or flick of his eyes, might give him away to someone who knew him well. But there aren't many of those left, now, of course. 'Merlin's sake, Moony,' he hears in his head, and clenches his fist. 'You could express a fucking emotion, you know.'

He grabs at the letter again – her third, apparently not having been joking when she said she would write to him once a month – and crumples it into a ball, kicks the chair out of the way in his haste to throw it into the fire. Every day, he waits for the rage to come, to sweep over him. He's not used to it, doesn't know how to act on it like – like others he once knew did. It's not instinct, not when he's in human form. It has to spend days, ripping and tearing its way out of him until he's punching the wall, or shouting himself hoarse, or systematically destroying every picture that he can fix his blurred gaze on. He can't seem to keep it inside.

Last month, he'd had it in mind that he would go, down to the Ministry holding cells, down into the depths where they kept the traitors and murderers and scum, and he would look him in the eye, and he would let the rage and grief come pouring out at the person it was best directed to. But he knew, too, that he would look him in the eye and be frozen, because it wouldn't be the person he thought he knew, the friend who had kept his secrets and healed his wounds and made him laugh until his stomach ached, the man who had wiped his eyes when holding new-born Harry in his arms and said, shakily, 'Is this how everyone feels?', and they'd all understood. It wouldn't be the companion who'd put in extra work – work, Moony, outside of lessons, of our own accord – to make it so that he wasn't alone once a month, so he wouldn't tear himself to pieces. The person who had helped him understand Potions theory when he'd felt like giving up, who had stood up at the wedding and talked about how deeply, deeply he loved his friends. That person never really existed. That person was not the same as the one who was now rotting, mind decaying, in the middle of the North Sea. So, what was the point? Why shout and rage at a shadow of a person wearing his friend's face? A mask, all along, to hide behind while he traded away everything good in his life for a brush with power.

The burst of rage is always followed by a period where it's all he can do to get up in the morning, to wash, to eat, to leave the flat. He lays in his bed, staring up at the ceiling, and wishes it was him as well, buried out there in Godric's Hollow. If he was there, too, then he wouldn't be here, alone, blanching at the sight of his old school robes in the wardrobe, or letting the wolf tear himself to pieces under the cold, unforgiving light of the moon.

Hardly any time has passed, not really, in the grand scheme of things. He isn't sure how long he can last, living in this cycle of anger and pain and emptiness, with no one to knock him off course, away from self-destruction. Maybe…maybe he doesn't want anyone to.

He watches the fire consume the letter, licking across the familiar handwriting that used to write things like, interesting ideas, Mr Lupin – expand on this point more, and now wrote things like, are you getting enough rest and please do drop by to visit, it would do us both good I think, as if Remus could bear to be anywhere near Hogwarts now, that place so crammed with memories that it was overwhelming. Going there would mean admitting that he once had people to talk to, people to share his heart with, people who cared about him as much as he cared about them. Admitting that now, all that was left were three coffins, one of them empty, because they had put their trust, they had all put their trust, in the wrong person.

He has to sit down, all of a sudden, his legs feeling weak as if someone has jinxed the back of his knees. Head in his hands, he closes his eyes, and draws in a slow, steady breath. One, two, three, four. Four, three, two, one.

This is all he can do now. Count, and breathe, and wait for something to change. To end.

1992

"Mr Lupin." It's a familiar voice that pulls his attention from the window display of Madam Malkin's, and for a moment he reflects on how can she look both exactly the same and so different, all at once.

"Professor," he greets her, the formality still automatic after all this time - a formality that brings a scolding frown to her face. "What a pleasant surprise."

She gives him a look, one of the old library of McGonagall Looks that he's seen many times before. It says, I can see through you. "It's been quite a while," she replies lightly. "Imagine my delight at finding you haven't fallen off the face of the earth after all."

The twist of guilt in his stomach echoes on his face. "Yes. Sorry. Thank you for your letters..."

She regards him quietly for what can only be a moment or two, but feels like forever. "Tea," she says, knowing full well he can't – won't – refuse. She gestures to the heavy grey sky above them, the looming threat of yet more rain. "Before we find ourselves caught in decidedly inclement weather?"

They fall into step together, moving further down Diagon Alley to a cafe that has recently opened next to the ice cream parlour. He can't pretend he's not grateful for the toasty warmth inside the place, nor for the pot of tea and wedge of cake that arrives at their table barely seconds after they sit down.

She pours milk into each cup, and slides the sugar pot to his side of the table. "The date?" she asks. Her tone is exactly as if he were back in Transfiguration lessons, being asked to turn a feather into a fountain pen.

It's a moment before he understands what she is getting at, and he nods. "April, 1992." He pauses, thinks. "The 9th? It must be the Easter break, for you to be away from school."

She nods, looking relieved for the briefest second, before she gathers herself again, picking up the teapot now to pour. "I'm not away long. There's rather a lot of OWL and NEWT students staying for the break this year, including some particularly rambunctious Gryffindors."

He smiles slightly, nodding his thanks as he picks up his cup. "No wonder you wanted to venture further away than Hogsmeade for your shopping, then."

She lets her gaze travel idly around the café; he wonders if it's a teacher's instinct, always looking out for troublemakers. "It seemed like the best thing to do, for my sanity," she agrees, then glances back at him. "It's Harry Potter's first year at Hogwarts."

He feels the name like a sting across his cheeks, tries desperately not to show it. "How's he getting on?" he asks, eventually, the easiest of a thousand questions that want to burst out.

She smiles that knowing smile, raising an arched eyebrow. "Very well. He seems to have inherited his father's proclivity for finding trouble." She sips her tea, before acknowledging, "Talented, too, across the board. A natural with a wand. As you might expect, with those genetics."

It hurts, far more than he expected it to. Probably because he's spent so much of the past decade desperately trying not to remember, to push everything deep inside him - knowing that there's enough weight there to drown him if he lets it. But at the same time, he smiles slightly, picturing a child with James' laugh, Lily's passion, their combined intelligence and generous hearts. "Gryffindor?"

"Of course," she replies, almost indignantly. "He's already on the house team. Seeker. Remarkably skilled given he hadn't known broomsticks could fly before September."

He frowns slightly. "His aunt and uncle...?"

"Not quite as we had hoped," she replies, and seems unwilling to say much more than that. "He has made a good group of friends. He seems happy, which is all we could hope for, isn't it?"

He nods, swallows against the lump in his throat. "I'm glad."

"Albus said he's been writing to you. Offering you the Defence job."

Remus shifts in his chair, drops another sugar cube into his tea. "Relentlessly, is the word I'd use."

"Well, maybe that should be seen as a sign of how much faith he has in your ability to take on the role." Her voice is a mixture of condemnation and fondness. Another shade that he has grown familiar with since the age of eleven. "We could do with someone halfway competent in that post."

"You flatter me, professor," he laughs - actually laughs. It feels odd.

"You know very well what I mean, Mr Lupin. You'd make an excellent addition." She slides the plate of cake his way. "As I understand it, your job prospects have been spotty at best these years past. Surely the constancy of a teaching role appeals?"

"Of course it does," he replies, digging his fork into the chocolate icing, needing to do something with his hands. "But it's not safe. I'm not safe."

She watches him, sadness and something else he can't quite identify shadowing her features. "There are ways to - "

"I'm sure you can pass on my thoughts to Professor Dumbledore," he interrupts, and scrapes his chair back. "Look at the time - I had better be going. It was lovely to bump into you, professor."

She sighs, and levels one last piercing gaze his way. "You, too, Remus," she says, and the change in address makes him meet her eyes. "Do write back one of these days, won't you?"

He gives her a faint smile, unwilling to lie to one of his favourite teachers. "Take care, professor."

He can feel her gaze following back out, and it seems appropriate that this is the moment the rain starts to fall.

1994

They stand side by side, gazes sweeping across the courtyard and the grass beyond. Remus had never quite appreciated just how mind-numbing it is to be on break duty. It's bitterly cold – surely these students would prefer to spend their break inside, in front of their common room fire, or in the Great Hall where there's hot cocoa on tap. Apparently not.

He sighs, taps his wand against the side of his coffee cup with a murmured heating charm before taking a sip. Over the rim of the cup, he watches for a moment as a head of messy black hair emerges into the courtyard, flanked by his two constant companions. They seem to be arguing about a cat. He looks away again, knowing too well what his colleagues will think if he spends every moment watching his dead best friend's son. "How much longer?"

She retrieves an ornate but battered-looking pocket watch from the depths of her robes. "Eight minutes," is her reply. "Or, should I say, two minutes less than the last time you asked."

He glances at her, a slight smile tugging at his lips. "Professor McGonagall, I get the feeling that you don't enjoy it when our break duties align like this."

"Whatever gives you that idea?" she replies drily. "I don't remember you being quite so impatient in your own school years."

True: that had been more his friends' role. He shifts his gaze, not wanting to think about them at this moment. "I think I'm just not as good at standing still as I thought I would be."

"Hmm." They both watch, eyebrows raised, as a fourth-year brandishes his wand at a friend – and promptly lowers it, seeing he is being observed. "How has your morning been?"

He lets his gaze flicker again, just for a moment, over to the three heads huddled together, now at the other end of the courtyard. Harry is laughing at something Ron has just said, and he feels a pang of sadness and joy to see it all. "Started with the third-years. They're a spirited bunch, aren't they?"

"That is one way to describe them," she agrees. "I believe the muggle term 'lairy' also applies."

He chuckles, burying it in another sip of coffee. "Very true."

She looks over at him, quiet for a moment. "I heard Potter has asked for private tuition," she says at last. "The Patronus charm?"

He doesn't know why he feels embarrassed, or that he shouldn't be doing it. Maybe it's that teacher voodoo that she has, that he still hasn't quite got the hang of himself, the way of instilling fear and guilt in the hearts of anyone who crosses her path. Even if he hasn't got a good reason to feel guilt, or fear. Pathetic, Lupin, he tells himself.

"Yes," he replies, voice calm and steady. "He wants to have the ability to protect himself from the dementors. I thought it a good idea."

"It is," she agrees, and he can't hide his look of surprise. "Perhaps there are a few other skills you could share with him, too. In case…"

She trails off, and they both know what she means. In case Sirius Black finally makes it into the castle, and tries to finish the job he started in 1981. He swallows hard, fighting against a sudden rise of nausea. "I will do everything in my power to help protect him," he says, holding her gaze.

She pats him gently on the arm, and he has to look away. He watches with detached interest as a group of first-years glance over, whispering excitedly at the sight of one teacher touching another, as if nothing could be more exciting. "I know you will," she agrees.

He drains his cup, half-listening as she breaks away for a moment to issue a stern warning in the direction of some wrestling Gryffindor boys. "Old enough to know better," she mutters, returning to his side and reaching for the pocket watch once more. "Oh, thank Merlin. It's time."

He watches the courtyard as she casts the chiming spell that announces the end of break, a sea of grumbling faces, for the most part heaving themselves as slowly as they can from the benches and wall-perches to head back inside. As they pass, Harry catches his eye and gives him a smile that spreads all the way to his familiar green eyes. He smiles back, doing his best not to let the memories start encroaching again, before glancing back at his colleague. She's watching him, her face inscrutable. "Till next time, Minerva."

"Till next time, Remus," she agrees.

1998

The battle is over. The sun has risen, when it seemed almost impossible that it might ever shine again. Many have fallen asleep; others sit quietly, eating, or drinking, trying to sort through the chaos in their minds. A few can't seem to bear the stillness, and have started trying to clear the rubble.

She stands, away from all this, and runs her finger down the hastily-scrawled list in her hand. A list of the casualties of this battle, of those who gave their lives for this morning's peace.

Her finger hovers over a name, and she blinks, draws in a slow, steadying breath.

She doesn't move for a while. Then, she neatly folds the list, straightens her shoulders, and moves to the next task. It is an anchor, to stay busy.

1998

"Remember the date, Minerva," he had said, pausing at her side, grim determination on his face. He fired off a curse behind her, and gripped her elbow for a moment. "Remember it. The end of the war."

"Yes, Mr Lupin," she met his gaze with a fierce one of her own. "I will."