I wish that I was born a thousand years ago

I wish that I'd sail the darkened seas,

Away from the big city

Where a man can not be free

Of all of the evils of this town,

And of himself, and those around.

Later that evening, they arranged that Remus would have a day to get his things in order before apparating down to the cottage in Cornwall. It had taken an embarrassingly short amount of time to gather up his things; just a few jumpers, t-shirts and trousers, assorted books, and bits of tat he'd picked up from the flea markets and charity shops over the years.

Despite the fact that he hadn't played them in over a year, he also packed his records, alongside the old orange record player. He ran his fingertips over the casing. James had bought it for him back in '79, being the only one of the Marauders who understood anything vaguely Muggle-related, though Remus had a sneaking suspicion that Lily had been involved.

He smiled, despite himself. His cheeks felt stiff. Out of practice, he supposed.

All that stuff he packed within an hour. It was the old photo album he kept tucked beneath his bed, the one containing everything Remus had tried to push away since that November morning in 1981, that he spent the longest time poring over. He held the leather-bound album cautiously, like it was a ticking time bomb seconds away from spewing out the ghosts of Before.

Tentatively, he flipped open the first page and sucked in a sharp breath.

It was a photo of all the Marauders back in Third Year, the four of them arm in arm and laughing, standing in front of the Potters' house. Snow blanketed the floor and enchanted fairy lights glinted on the house's gable ends. The photo had been taken by a smiling Euphemia Potter. She had looked at all of them with the same kind, hazel eyes as James, looking at Remus, Sirius and Peter as if they were every bit her son as James was.

That had been the first Christmas he had spent with his friends, the first proper time he had celebrated Christmas. His father had been a distant man who cared more about his next bottle than Remus, let alone seasonal festivities. Shame burned in Remus's stomach as he thought of how similar he and his wastral father had become.

He scanned the faces of his friends. James was exactly as he had always been; messy-haired, hazel-eyed, and with the wholesome look of someone who had always been deeply loved. He had a confidence that bordered on arrogance but never completely crossed the line. His face was fuller and brighter than it had been in those last weeks Remus had seen him at the end of the War.

Then there was Peter, with his straw hair and watery blue eyes. He looked surprised and thrilled to have been included. He was shorter than any of the others, younger looking. Remus tried to imagine what Peter would have looked like had he lived longer. He quickly stopped; it hurt too much to ponder.

Remus's own face, cross-hatched with a tracery of thin white scars, looked just as surprised and pleased to have friends and to be loved.

Then… then there was Sirius Black. His face was aristocratic and bold, all smooth curves and elegant lines, as if carved from marble by some Greek sculptor. Even at thirteen, he held himself with all the grace and decor of a nobleman. Remus could see the man he had grown to be in the defiant tilt of his chin and the glamorous spark in his eyes.

Those fucking eyes.

Remus flipped the pages so hard, he almost ripped out half the album. When he opened it again, hoping to put as much distance between himself and the picture of young Sirius as he could, he found he had not escaped that Black gaze.

This was a photo of James and Sirius. Beneath the picture was written: april 1976, two quidditch tossers get to inflate their egos even more with a frankly spectacular victory! maybe a good enough win to finally get evans to say yes? Remus laughed a little, recognising it to be James's scrawling handwriting.

The photo showed the two of them in the Common Room at the centre of a crowd of cheering Gryffindors. Both of them were in their scarlet and gold Quidditch robes, their dark hair windswept, their grins bright. James was clutching the snitch and preening at Lily, who sat by the fire with Marlene and was rolling her eyes at James's antics.

Remus remembered that night; Queen's Brighton Rock had been blasting from Mary's magically amplified record player at the Quidditch victory party. The night had been a blur of laughter, dancing and Freddie Mercury. Remus had shouted the lyrics along with everyone else.

Oh Rock of Ages, do not crumble, love is breathing still

Oh Lady Moon, shine down a little people magic if you will

Jenny pines away, writes a letter everyday

"We must ever be together, nothing can my love erase"

That was when he spent the night watching Sirius move to the rhythm of the music, his dark hair wild, his grey eyes bright, his laugh louder than anyone else's.

He remembered thinking that Sirius Black, for all he was a posh twat at times, was maybe the most beautiful person Remus had ever seen.

Sirius in the photo looked to the camera, his eyes dancing. They were captivating, like smoke pressed against a mirror. It was almost impossible to believe that those were the eyes of a traitor, a killer.

Breathing hard, Remus flicked forward.

It was James and Lily's wedding photos. Lily was in an ivory silk dress that ended in a modest train, the sleeves trimmed with green lace that made her emerald eyes stand out. Her freckled skin was glowing with happiness as she faced James in front of a lake scattered with lily pads. Green fields and golden barley fields stretched out behind them and wisteria trees and rhododendron bushes edged the lake. It had been the summer after Seventh Year when the air was heavy and humid, the sky sun-burnished blue.

The two of them had wanted to get married as soon as possible. Remus wondered if it was because they didn't know how much time they would have together if the War continued to wage.

Lily's hair was pulled back from her face and woven with white lily petals. Stray copper curls escaped the hairpins and photo James reached forwards to tuck them behind her ear. This was the happiest Remus could remember him. His dark hair was messy as ever, his glasses crooked, but his black dress robes were sleek, and fitted his tall, broadened frame perfectly. Remus had sat right at front, thinking it was rather endearing that James had finally gained the love of a girl he had been devoted to since they were eleven.

He wished that Lily and James had had more time together, because if ever two people deserved to grow old together, it was them.

James looked down at his soon to be wife with an adoring expression that resonated with him. Remus knew exactly how it felt to look at someone and know they were your world.

Remus was glad James had never known the pain of having that person turn around and thrust a knife into your back.

Sirius stood beside James looking equally as handsome. He seemed to swell with pride for his best friend, watching them with that distinct Sirius Black smile.

There had been a time when Remus would have done anything to earn that smile. Now the sight made him feel nauseous, knowing that in the end, each one had been a lie.

Remus flicked ahead and saw himself and, with a jolt, realised Harry was in the photo too. It had been taken in Lily and James's bedroom in Godric's Hollow where she had given birth. The picture had been taken only hours after Harry's birth. Remus sat cross-legged on the bed, holding a bundle of swaddling with tufts of jet-black hair poking out from it, a chubby little fist sticking from the blankets. In the photo, he held Harry very carefully, his expression curious and pleased.

Everyone from Before was there. Lily was in bed in her nightgown, watching happily as Remus cradled her son. James was beside her with his arm around her shoulder, his expression very tender. Mary and Sirius cooed at baby Harry from over Remus's shoulder, Sirius pulling faces to make the baby wave his chubby little fists. Marlene and Dorcas were there too, their arms looped around each other's waists, Marlene's head resting on Dorcas's shoulder.

Harry's birth had been something all of them had clung to during the war; a respite from the darkness and danger that hung over their heads. New life being brought into the world had invigorated them with fresh hope, and no one was more pleased than Sirius, who had flaunted his position as godfather to anyone who would listen. He bragged about spoiling Harry and talked proudly about how his godson would be the next great Gryffindor beater, arguing with James, who insisted he would be a chaser.

Only now, Remus thought bitterly, could he appreciate just how good of an actor Black was.

Remus looked back down at the photo, focusing on his younger self and Harry. He was so used to thinking of himself as this violent monster, so much more well-versed in destruction and bloodshed than love or affection. The war had brought out the wolf in Remus, that violent, vicious part of his nature he so detested. He remembered how terrified he had been when Lily insisted on having him hold Harry for the first time. He had been so sure that he would hurt the newborn.

James found Remus's trepidation funny, saying that if he trusted his son with Mary, whose clumsiness was notorious, then Remus had nothing to worry about.

Harry was held in his arms, pink-faced and asleep. His tiny little fist had held onto Remus's thumb. Everything about the child was so alien, so small, so breakable. But Remus had found there was something comforting in the gentle pressure of Harry's tiny hand. His fingernails had been no bigger than grains of rice.

In the moments he had been holding Harry, the pit of dread in his stomach that had been evoked by the war eased, replace by an odd content as he held the son of two of his closest friends, surrounded by people who made up what was the closest thing to a family Remus had ever known.

If only he could find a way to tip forward into that photo and live in that moment and remember what it had felt like to have someone other than himself to turn to.

Remus looked hard at the photo, thinking about what Minerva had said to him before she left with Harry. I think Harry will help you see what you cannot on your own. You are still here and life goes on, and you will too.

Those words kindled something in Remus. Not a flame exactly, but a definite spark.

A star against a dark night sky, something he could follow.

With all of his worldly possessions crammed into his battered trunk, Remus gave the flat a last look. He was going to miss the place in an odd sort of way. As much as it had been a dingy pit of a home, it had been a sanctuary of sorts, with four walls solid enough to keep the rest of the world out, even if it meant keeping Remus trapped inside.

Still, maybe McGonagall was right; maybe some fresh air would do him good.

Though he was not sure of anything that was to come, for the first time in years he felt the faintest hint of hope as he turned on the spot and vanished into darkness.

After the suffocation of disapparition, his feet slammed back down to earth. He was standing on a rugged cliffside footpath overlooking the sea. Dune grass rose high either side of the path, interspersed with thickets of blackberry brambles and gorse bushes, though they were bare this time of year. The sharp wintry wind whipped about him, the scent of sea salt catching on the wind. The only sounds to be heard was the churning of the ocean as it crashed against the chalky cliffs, the rasp of shingle, and the cries of the seabirds as they flew overhead. It was early late afternoon, but the sun was already half set, setting the horizon in the west ablaze with streaks of red, gold and candyfloss pink.

It was so different from London, where the smell of acrid smoke and car exhausts polluted the air and the sounds of police sirens and raucous teenagers gave him no peace. It was nice just to stand there, head tipped back to take in the sunlight, the cool breeze lifting his hair as the sea ebbed and flowed.

From his vantage point at the top end of the cliff, he could see all the way down the sweeping valley below where a collection of buildings and a church spire sat. But they were so far away they were barely pinpricks.

Remembering Minerva's instruction, he turned to look in the opposite direction and sure enough, there sat a weather-beaten whitewash cottage. Flicking his wand at his trunk and levitating it, he began to walk towards it.

Up close, Remus could see wisteria, roses and honeysuckle climbing the front and gable ends of the cottage. No doubt it looked rather beautiful in summer. He hoped he made it to summer to see them bloom. The front garden was bustling with winter flowers; snowdrops and violas peaked up through the dark earth.

The windows were brightly lit so they spilled golden light into the front garden and smoke furled from the little stone chimney. It looked like something from a Christmas card.

Even though he'd washed, shaved and put on clothes that were not stained, torn or generally as shabby as his usual attire, Remus still felt out of place. This was the kind of place meant for normal, happy families. Not for him.

Not for monsters.

He was half considering turning back around and disapparating, when the door opened. McGonagall stood there in her usual tartan dress with an apron over the top. From behind her skirts, a little boy peaked around at Remus, blinking up at him with those bright green eyes.

"I'm so happy you could make it." McGonagall's voice shook slightly and he could tell she hadn't fully expected him to come. Neither had he, not really.

But he was here now.

"No need to wait out there in the cold. Come in and warm yourself up." She stepped aside and, steeling his nerves, Remus made his way up the garden path and into the cottage.

It was warm and cosy inside, mainly because of the fire that burnt low in the hearth, casting the room in a soft glow. An old fashioned stove stood in one corner, a whistling kettle perched on top. A scrubbed wooden table with four mismatched chairs was pushed against the window, which gave them a wonderful view of the cliffside verdure and the sea.

Remus had always pictured Minerva to own only straight-backed, expensive furniture, but everything in the little kitchen— from the Victorian crockery cupboard to the spindly hatstand— seemed used and with a history. He found he quite liked it.

With a pang, he realised it reminded him of Hogwarts.

"Harry," she said kindly to the little boy, "this is Remus."

Harry ducked his head shyly, still clinging to McGonagall's skirts.

This was the sort of thing Sirius had always been good at.

"Hiya," Remus smiled, crouching down in front of Harry. He did his best to look to look kind, hoping he could remember how. "We've met before."

The two-year-old lifted his head to meet Remus's eyes. The resemblance to Lily's eyes made his heart squeeze painfully. "Hello," he replied politely, though he still looked wary.

"Why don't you show Remus what you've been making, dear?" Minerva smiled down at him.

Harry seemed a lot more comfortable with McGonagall than with him. He supposed after how his uncle treated him, most grown men must scare him. It made Remus want to hit something. Preferably, Harry's uncle.

The boy toddled over to a little pile of cushions where he had clearly been playing, and came back holding a little salt dough decoration; a star Harry had painted gold with the endearing clumsiness of a small child.

He held it out to Remus shyly.

"For me?"

Harry nodded, ducking his head again.

A pang of sorrow shot through him. Here was a boy who had spent the past year being neglected and mistreated, a boy who had nothing and no one, but here he was giving Remus a star.

Well, he thought fiercely, Harry isn't alone anymore. And he'd make sure he wouldn't be ever again.

"This is lovely, Harry," Remus said, his voice a little choked. Harry smiled, looking pleased with himself.

But when Remus reached out to ruffle his black curls, he flinched back. He hid further behind McGonagall.

Remus thought back to the photo of himself holding Harry in Godric's Hollow. If James and Lily ever found out that their son was so scared to be touched or held—

Anger at the unfairness of the world rose in his chest once more.

Minerva turned around and knelt in front of Harry. "Why don't you go play with your little soldiers?"

Some colour returned back to the little boy's face as he scampered back to his little nest of blankets and pillows, happily picking up a set of little model cavalry soldiers in painted red uniforms, brandishing tiny sabers. It Remus a moment to realise that they were the same set James had owned when he was little. Someone must have rescued them from Godric's Hollow. Maybe Hagrid or Dumbledore.

With Harry suitably distracted, Minerva said, "He struggles with people coming near him. After everything with his uncle and aunt… well, I'm sure you can imagine the sort of effect that can have on a child." Her eyes crinkled sadly at the corners.

Remus straightened up, the lump in his throat more immovable than ever.

He swallowed and nodded. " 'Course. He's alright with you, though?"

"Yes, though I'm not entirely sure why. Maybe because I'm not a man? It was his uncle who hurt him, so naturally he is more panicked by men." A tear trickled from the corner of her eye and she wiped it away hastily with her apron. It was as Remus had thought. "You mustn't rush him, Remus. Not that you would, but these things take time." She smoothed down her apron, smiling a little too brightly. "Take a seat. I've been making carrot cake. My own recipe, you know."

Remus sat down at the wooden table, looking out of the window. The sun was below the horizon and twilight bathed the coast in dusky blue-black. He could hear the wind howling against the panes of glass. It was so warm and cosy inside. It felt safe.

McGonagall came and sat across from him, setting a tray down. She handed him a plate with a slice of carrot cake, then pouring him a mug of steaming blackberry tea. Though he wasn't particularly hungry, he took a bite. The cake was rich and sweet, much better than the pasta and jacket potatoes he'd practically been living off for a year now.

"The drinking has to stop." Her voice was low enough so that Harry couldn't hear and Remus's head snapped up. He opened his mouth to speak but she held up a hand. This was Hogwarts McGonagall speaking now. "I'm not trying to shame you for doing it. We all cope in different ways. But Harry needs you to be present. You can't be there for him if you're drunk."

"Right… yeah," he nodded, staring at his plate. Hot shame crept up his neck.

"Don't punish yourself for this," she said firmly. "Just work to overcome it." She paused and added, "No smoking either. At least not in the house, and definitely not in front of Harry."

He nodded again, hands knotted in his lap.

Her gaze bore into him.

"It's going to be okay, Remus."

After they'd finish their tea and cake, Minerva showed him around the cottage. Asides from the kitchen, there was a small living room with a low ceiling, exposed beams and a squashy red sofa like those in the Gryffindor common room. There was also a bathroom and pantry, and upstairs there were two bedrooms. One had been furnished for Harry with a little bed, a wardrobe, and a cupboard full of colouring books, crayons, toys and board games. The other room was Remus's; There was a neatly made bed, a washstand and a wardrobe. One wall was lined with bookshelves. Not just magical tomes sat on the shelves, but Muggle paperbacks too. There was Austen, Hemingway, Orwell, Steinbeck and Dickens. Remus even saw a Jackie Collins book, though thought it best not to ask McGonagall about that. He smiled a little at that.

"I am aware the room is rather bare, but I think it shall suffice," McGonagall said.

After the tour of the cottage, she explained that now that the deed of the house was in his name, her magical protection spells had broken and he would have to perform them himself.

"It is highly unlikely that anything will happen, but precautionary measures never go amiss. I asked Kingsley Shacklebolt to pop down at some point to assess the situation."

His stomach lurched. Remus was certain that Kingsley had thought he was the spy.

"But like I said," she continued. "Highly unlikely. Your biggest concern when it comes to Harry's wellbeing is making sure he eats enough vegetables." They both knew there was more to it than that, but neither were keen to re-examine the Dursleys' treatment of Harry.

Even so, Remus hadn't really thought of all the little things like that; making sure Harry ate his vegetables, brushed his teeth, drank enough water and got enough fresh air. This whole situation was beginning to feel so… domestic. So normal. That somehow made it completely abnormal.

When they returned downstairs, they found Harry curled up in a ball on the pillows. He was fast asleep. Remus checked the time on the carriage clock on the mantelpiece. Nine o'clock in the evening.

McGonagall picked Harry up and carried him to his room, just as Lily and James used to. He followed them to Harry's room where she tucked him into bed.

He opened his eyes and mumbled sleepily, "Story?"

"Remember what we talked about, dear? Remus is going to be looking after you now. He can read to you." She smiled, but he could see her sadness about leaving Harry.

"You leaving," Harry said quietly, his lower lip trembling.

"I'll see you again soon," she assured him, stroking back his hair. "You've been such a good little boy for me. Promise me you'll be just as good for Remus?"

Harry looked up at Remus, his green eyes wide, but not afraid. "Promise."

"Well then," McGonagall choked back a tear as she gave Harry a quick kiss on the forehead. "Night night, dear. You be good now."

Harry nodded and reached up for her. McGonagall hesitated slightly before giving him a hug and then straightening up. Minerva was not an outwardly emotional person, but it was obvious she had a soft spot for James and Lily's son.

"Night," Harry mumbled, curling up and drifting back to sleep.

Remus followed Minerva downstairs and watched her conjure her trunk and pull on her travelling cloak

"I'll be at Hogwarts until the Christmas holidays. I'll come and visit then." She opened the door and he walked with her to the end of the garden.

"Thank you for everything. Seriously, the house… getting Harry to me… it means a lot." He had never been much good with expressing such raw emotions. Unable to quite meet the sorrowful look she was undoubtedly directing at him, he looked out to the sea where moonlight rippled on the surface.

"You suffered more than any of us, Remus." He flinched slightly, though her voice was soft. "But I hope in time you will see that James and Lily live on in Harry. He has exactly—"

"Lily's eyes," Remus finished for her.

"I miss them, too," she sniffed, dabbing at the corners of her eyes with a handkerchief. "But we cannot change the past. We can, however, change what we do in the future. As long as you care for and love Harry, then we can prevent another innocent from falling victim to the War."

"And if I make a mistake?"

"Then you'll know you're still human."

"You realise I am a werewolf, Minerva?"

She raised an eyebrow. "I may not be your professor any more, but cheek will not be tolerated. Besides, you know what I mean."

He did, and he couldn't describe the comfort it gave him.

"Well then, I will be on my way." With all the briskness of the austere Transfiguration professor back in place, she clasped his hand briefly before stepping back and disapparating with a loud crack.

He looked around the stretch of cliffside wilderness, drawing his coat tighter around himself.

Night had drawn in fully now. The air was bitterly cold and sharp in his chest, but in a refreshing way. He breathed in great lungfuls. Above them stars scattered the black sky. They were easier to see out here in the countryside, without the light pollution or city fumes blurring them. As was Remus's unfortunate habit, his eyes moved to the familiar Canis Major constellation. The brightest star in the sky shone there. Most people mistakenly thought the North Star was the brightest, but they were wrong.

Sirius was, and would always be, the brightest star.

To distract himself from unwelcome thoughts, he set about casting the protective enchantments. Muggle repellants, silencing spells, basic shield charms and enchantments to make the place unplottable. They brought him back to his days during the War. His hands shook.

With the cottage magically fortified, he gave one last look at the moon and the stars before heading back inside.

It was still and silent but for the crackle of the fire and the sound of the wind outside. This was the part of his evening when he would crack open a bottle or make his way down to Soho.

Instead, he rummaged through his trunk and pulled out his copy of A Kestrel For a Knave by Barry Hines. It was a Muggle book Lily had given to him back in Second Year, a story about a boy in the industrial North of England, coping with life by nurturing a kestrel. The pages were creased and worn smooth, the spines cracked and front cover sun-bleached and faded from use. That was how Remus liked it.

Lily had liked it because she grew up in a mining town like the boy in the book. She and Remus used to laugh together about how the two of them, both working class kids from industrial towns, the werewolf and the Muggle-born, had gone on to fall in love with two wizards from the oldest and wealthiest Pureblood families. He remembered dancing with her one drunken night as Money, Money, Money by ABBA had played on Lily's record player.

In my dreams I have a plan

If I got me a wealthy man

I wouldn't have to work at all, I'd fool around and have a ball

Money, money, money

Must be funny

In the rich man's world

Money, money, money

Always sunny

In the rich man's world

James and Sirius had clutched each other and pretended to weep, with Sirius declaring dramatically, "They only want us for our gold, Prongs!"

"And our good looks," James added mournfully.

"Don't be silly. It's obviously the jewels we're after," Lily had chimed in sweetly. James lunged and picked her up over his shoulder while she squealed and laughed for him to put her down. He refused to until she'd shouted over the music: "Fine, fine, fine! I love you, Potter! You hear me?!" James had grinned cockily and kissed her.

"Of course you do, Lilypad. I'm irresistible."

Sirius had grinned at Remus and leaned in so close that his silky hair stroked Remus's cheeks. "If you want my gold, you can have it. Just don't take the ABBA records."

Remus had grinned back, taking Sirius's face in his hands. "Trust me, you really don't have to worry about me taking ABBA records."

Sirius had let out a horrified exclamation. "Say what you will about me, Moony, but don't you dare say a word against ABBA!" Sirius had said with mock offence. Remus had shut him up with a kiss that turned his bones to jelly.

He would tell Harry about that night when he was older, leaving out the parts about Sirius. There were so many stories like that, so many good memories with James and Lily. The parts with Sirius were harder; he never knew which had been real and which had been an act.

Perhaps because of the approaching full moon, perhaps because it was his first night away from his life in London, Remus got up and stretched and walked up the stairs to Harry's bedroom with the paperback tucked under one arm.

He opened the door quietly and settled in the armchair by the door, watching Harry sleep on. He slept in a tight little ball, like he was trying to shield himself from the outside world. Feeding, clothing and housing Harry was only half of what Remus would have to do to care for him. More than anything, he needed to make sure he would feel safe and know that there were people who cared for him.

Remus wanted to tell Harry he was loved, though he wasn't sure if he still knew how to. The War had taken so much from him.

When his eyes felt too heavy to read anymore, he went to his own room and fell into bed. He was too tired to do anything more than kick off his boots and shrug off his coat.

Just before he drifted into sleep, he pulled the salt dough star Harry had given him from his pocket. He held it close to him and succumbed to his exhaustion.

He dreamed of memories past, but also of the future that was to come.