Reunion

Author's Note: When I originally started this fanfic, a little while after I finished reading Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, I intended for it to be merely a retelling of the scene in the Shrieking Shack, from Lupin's point of view. However, these stories have a way of taking on a life of their own, sometimes . . . I ended up writing a lot more than I had intended to, going all the way back to the night James and Lily died. But it was fun, and I hope you like it!

Disclaimer: These characters all belong to J.K. Rowling. I am not making any money off of this story, so please don't sue me!

I knew it was too good to be true.

I felt it when I first came here, could feel it nagging at the back of my mind throughout the whole year.

Then why do I feel so disappointed? Why can't I shake this emptiness that lingers in my heart, as the castle slips out of slight past my carriage window? Did I actually allow myself to believe that it would work out, that this would last?

No. Nearly thirty years after that fateful night, when I was only a small child . . . I've learned not to expect happy endings. Other people sail off into the sunset, or settle down and live happily ever after. Other people find a place, at last, after all their trials . . . a place where they belong. I was foolish enough--not to believe, never entirely--but to hope, at least, that maybe I would find such a place here.

But then, as Severus (and many others as well) would remind me, I am not like other people. I am not even a person, truly, nor have I been for nearly thirty years. . . . For a year I thought that I had found it at last . . . a steady job, a life that meant something, striving to inspire and teach a new generation of young witches and wizards. For the first time since that terrible night twelve years ago, I was accepted, back at Hogwarts, the only place I have ever called home. I was respected, even liked by my students, after twelve years of wandering.

Ever since the deaths of James and Lily, I had roamed the country, searching for work, living off of what little money I could make. I moved from job to job, never staying too long in any one position, and always enduring the same looks of thinly disguised fear and loathing. I was lucky, during those years, to even be tolerated; no one wanted to be friendly or get to know me. As long as I was paid, I was grateful. I was not like any of the witches and wizards I worked with, in any of the many jobs I held, sometimes for a few days, or weeks, or at most a few months. I was . . . I am . . . something less than human, and I have never been allowed to forget it.

I should have known better. For a while I thought--I hoped desperately--that here in the halls of my old school I might reach the end of my search. But now the castle has disappeared, and the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest slide past my window on the way to the station, where the train waits to take me away.

Good-bye, Hogwarts.

Good-bye, Albus Dumbledore. You tried, once again, to give me a chance when no one else would, when no one else cared. I betrayed your trust the first time, and now I've blown it again. Maybe you'll forgive me one day. But I should have known Severus never would. . . .

Good-bye, Harry Potter. I wish I could have seen your Patronus, that night when you drove back the dementors. For just a few seconds, Prongs rode again that night. . . . You are truly your father's son, and of all those I leave behind, I owe you the most. It is only thanks to you that the tragedy I almost caused by my own negligence was avoided.

I shouldn't complain. I should be used to it by now, this life of wandering, distrust and fear on every side. For I have, in fact, been extraordinarily lucky--there are those for whom these last twelve years have been far more hellish than than anything I have ever known.

I am leaving, but what I have found in the last few days far outweighs whatever I have lost.

For twelve years I have been alone, without any friends in the world, ever since that terrible night.

It was on a stormy Halloween night that the only four people who had ever called me friend--who had ever even considered me human--were all taken from me at once, by a single tragedy. I shall never forget the day Professor Dumbledore brought me the news. Lily and James . . . dead. It was impossible. And yet it had happened. Despite all our precautions, our loyalty and our blind faith in each other, Voldemort had penetrated our inner circle and murdered the Potters.

And that wasn't the worst of it. James had told me, before, how they had protected themselves, and I knew who had to be to blame if that protection had failed. The news of Peter and Sirius didn't reach me until later, but already, as soon as Dumbledore told me the Potters were dead, it was devastatingly clear what must have happened.

A few days later, the bodies of Lily and James Potter were laid to rest in Godric's Hollow, and on the same day Sirius Black was tried and convicted of murder, sentenced to life imprisonment in the dread wizard fortress of Azkaban. All that they found of Peter Pettigrew was his finger, which was sent to his mother along with the Order of Merlin, First Class, for his hopeless attempt to single-handedly track down and capture a powerful Dark Side wizard. . . .

I never saw Sirius after the murders. Two days after the trial, he was taken to the grim, rocky island where he was to spend the rest of his days. His name and face were plastered all over the front pages of the Daily Prophet for several days, though . . . along with James' old Hogwarts photos and pictures of his sleeping son, Harry ("The Boy Who Lived!" the Prophet triumphantly declared) with a bleeding cut in the shape of a lightning bolt on his forehead. Sirius looked half-crazy in those black-and-white photos, his eyes wild in his pale face. But whenever I thought of him all I saw was the tense but determined expression he had worn, the last night we were together.

We had all come down to Godric's Hollow for one last evening together before the Fidelius Charm was performed and we parted company, for how long we didn't know. James and Lily would have to lie low, until Voldemort gave up looking for them or his power declined. Sirius would have to flee, leaving everything behind, pursued by Voldemort's agents, who undoubtedly would guess that he would be chosen as Secret-Keeper. As for Peter and myself . . . we had made up our minds to go into hiding as well, somewhere nearby. While we were not his prime targets, it was still likely that Voldemort would love to kill us, or to capture either of us for any number of equally unpleasant purposes.

The last meeting of Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs was a solemn affair indeed. James looked tired, I remember, the result of too many anxious, sleepless nights. Peter looked as nervous as I felt; he sat near the window rubbing his hands together, darting a glance outside every few minutes as though he expected to see Voldemort come strolling up the front walk at any second.

Sirius, on the other hand, seemed to deal with the tension with a forced, almost manic cheerfulness. Reminiscing about the old days at Hogwarts, he proceeded to recount some of the more amusing (in retrospect) scrapes he had gotten into during our school years. No one felt much like laughing, though. The knowledge that the most evil wizard who had existed in more than a century was bending all his considerable resources to finding us weighed heavily on all our minds. Only Lily, rocking Harry in her chair by the fire, seemed outwardly calm. Though tired, she looked as beautiful as always, with the firelight shining on her long red hair. She sat silently while the rest of us attempted to make conversation, holding James' hand and smiling gently at Sirius' jokes.

For a few hours after dinner we tried to chat about old times, but it eventually became obvious, even to Sirius, that our hearts weren't in it. Silence gradually descended, and we stared into the crackling flames, or gazed thoughtfully at the faces of the friends we might never see again. It was getting late, but none of us wanted to be the first to say good-bye.

Finally, Sirius stood up. He pulled out his pocket watch and looked at it briefly. We all looked at him as he snapped it shut.

"I should be leaving soon," he said into the silence. We regarded him for a moment without speaking, as men regard one condemned to death. He seemed to sense that none of us expected to see him again, for he forced a laugh and said, "Come on, surely you don't think Voldemort can catch me?" He emphasized the last word with his familiar bravado--an attempt to make us all laugh, but it failed miserably. We only looked at him somberly, except for Peter, who flinched at the sound of the Dark Lord's name.

"Well," James said at last, standing up also, "I guess . . . this is it." He glanced round quickly at all of us, then back to Sirius.

Sirius nodded, and stuck out his hand. As they shook hands, James cleared his throat awkwardly.

"Padfoot, I'll never be able to tell you. . . ." He stopped, began again. "What I mean to say is . . . how can I ever--ever begin to thank you for everything you've done for us . . . ?"

"Forget it, Prongs," Sirius told him, with a quick shake of his head. "You'd do the same for me and you know it."

A ghost of smile, the first I'd seen from him all evening, crossed James' face for an instant. He and Sirius had not stopped shaking hands, nor did they stop now, continuing for a while longer until it would have seemed quite ridiculous had the situation not been so grave. Neither one wanted to be the one to let go, to say good-bye.

"Oh, hang it all!" Sirius exclaimed suddenly, dropping James' hand and pulling his friend into a bear hug. "You take care, buddy," he said as he pulled away, and for just a second his voice caught.

James' eyes were wet as he stepped back, punching Sirius' arm in a playful gesture reminiscent of happier times. "You, too, old fellow," he said in a half-choked voice. "You, too."

"Hey, don't ever worry about me." Sirius turned to Lily, who had risen with Harry in her arms, and when he bent to kiss her there were tears on her cheeks. He then looked for a long time at his godson, before briefly touching Harry's black hair. He looked like he wanted to say something more, but instead he merely smiled sadly.

He shook my hand warmly, then Peter's, and though he said nothing to either of us I noticed a look pass between him and Peter that I could not interpret. But it seemed to communicate volumes, as he held Peter's eyes until Peter nodded.

He crossed the room then in quick strides, without looking back as he opened the door.

Abruptly I rose from my seat, not knowing what I would say, but knowing that I had to say it just the same. Hurrying toward the door, I called after him.

"Sirius!"

Standing in the doorway, the cold autumn wind blowing his shaggy black hair into his face, he glanced back at me. Those burning gray eyes fixed on mine, waiting, and suddenly the words were gone. So I only said, "Be careful."

"Always, Remus," he assured me.

I wasn't at all reassured; long acquaintance with Sirius Black had taught me that the word careful had never been a part of his vocabulary.

"I mean it, Sirius," I insisted, my eyes pleading. For once in your life, use a little caution. Just a little common sense, if you ever had any. "I don't want to wake up tomorrow morning and read in the paper that you've done something stupid, and gotten yourself killed."

His face softened, and I could tell he was struggling for words, like there was something he wanted to tell me but he wasn't sure how. With a sudden swift motion, he reached out and gripped my shoulder. He gave me a long, intense look, as if begging me to understand that which he could not say aloud. I nodded slowly, my throat too tight to speak. There are some things you simply cannot put into words.

For a second more we stood thus, during which a strange expression flickered across his face, one I didn't understand then. Afterwards I would wonder if it had been guilt. But there was no more time to puzzle over it, for at that moment he turned away. James and Lily and Peter stood behind me in the doorway, watching as he walked slowly down the path. A dark silhouette in the light of a nearly full moon, his robes billowed out around him in the biting wind. Faintly I heard the sound of the dead leaves crunching beneath his boots.

It would be twelve years before I saw him again.

Barely a week later, I knew something was up. Two days after that last evening, I had found myself an abandoned, rather dilapidated cottage, secluded in a forest some ten miles from Godric's Hollow, and gone into hiding myself. For the next few days I had stayed inside the house for most of the time, waiting. Waiting for news, good or bad. Tidings from Dumbledore that the coast was clear and I could come out. A visit from Sirius perhaps, to say that he had successfully drawn the Dark Lord's agents away from Godric's Hollow, and shaken off pursuit. Or that which I dreaded--the front page of the Prophet, saying that Sirius had done something foolish, and been killed or captured.

Never in my wildest nightmares did I imagine what the news would actually be, when it finally arrived.

I knew something was going on when five owls flew overhead past my bedroom window, headed in the same direction, fairly low and in broad daylight with no attempt to conceal themselves. It was the morning after the full moon, and after a long night spent locked in the cottage, ripping up the furniture and doing my very best to knock the walls down, I awoke feeling very ill and so exhausted I could hardly crawl out of bed. My mind, however, was clear enough to register this profusion of owls as being highly unusual, so I dragged myself into the kitchen and sat down by the window, in one of two chairs that were still intact. What I really wanted to do was curl up in bed and sleep for about a week, but instead I sat there all day, keeping a lookout for any more such strange occurances. Sure enough, three more owls appeared minutes later, heading in a different direction. I watched them as they approached, both hoping and dreading that one of them carried a message for me. They all disappeared quickly, though. But more soon arrived to take their place, until I could hardly look out my window at any moment that day without seeing at least one in the sky. What, I wondered frantically, was going on? Things grew even stranger with the coming of night. For several hours, before I finally fell asleep, I stared out my window in perplexity at the blue and gold and crimson wizard fireworks that kept exploding, flinging showers of sparks across the heavens. What was being celebrated? This isolation was unbearable, and the lack of news was driving me mad. I was not given to know why until midmorning the next day, when I heard the knock on my door, which jerked me out of an unpleasant dream to find that I had fallen asleep in my chair. I was still feeling poorly as a result of two nights ago, and staying up last night to watch the fireworks hadn't helped any. Still, when I heard the knock I jumped to my feet, going to the door as quickly as I could, all the fears and uncertainties that had tormented me throughout the past week clamoring in my mind. I had wrenched the door halfway open in my impatience before remembering that I was in hiding and should use more caution, but it turned out there was no need. The man outside was none other than Albus Dumbledore . . . and he did not look as if he had been celebrating. I held the door open silently as he came in, waving him to one of the rickety old chairs, and waited breathlessly for him to speak. He declined the chair and stood stroking his long, silver beard, saying nothing as my apprehensions grew.

"Well?" I finally demanded. "What's going on, Professor? What are all the fireworks about?"

He seemed to focus, his eyes behind their half-moon spectacles fixing on me for the first time. I couldn't help noticing that those eyes, normally alight with good humor, were not twinkling now.

"Oh, the fireworks?" he said absent-mindedly. "The entire magical community has been celebrating since yesterday morning--you won't have heard, I forgot. Voldemort's been defeated. He's gone."

I stood there for several seconds with my mouth hanging foolishly open. Voldemort gone? A wan smile broke out across my face . . . only to die quickly when I realized that Dumbledore was still looking at me gravely.

"What else?" I asked, fearing the answer. Sirius, I thought. He was captured before Voldemort was defeated, and executed . . . or he went after Voldemort himself, and they both killed each other . . . it was just the sort of thing he would do. . . . Dumbledore was silent, and I demanded impatiently, "What is it?"

"I'm very sorry, Remus," he began, and my breath froze in my chest.

"Sirius?" I whispered.

"How do you know?" Dumbledore frowned.

"He was Secret-Keeper," I said numbly. "I knew Voldemort would be after him . . . he always was too reckless. . . . How did he die?"

Now Dumbledore looked puzzled. "Sirius? He's not dead. It's Lily and James."

"But . . . but that's impossible!" I exclaimed. "How could he have found them? I thought the Fidelius Charm was unbreakable!"

"It is," Dumbledore said grimly. Confused, I was shaking my head in disbelief. It couldn't be true.

"But you said . . ." I protested. "You said when you suggested it that when the Fidelius Charm is performed . . . the secret can't be found. There's no way even Voldemort could break the spell! You said it yourself, that the secret would be impossible to find once the charm was performed, unless . . . unless the . . ." I felt the blood drain suddenly from my face as I took a step back, shaking my head violently at the expression that appeared just then in the Headmaster's eyes.

"No . . . oh, dear God, no . . ." I swayed backward, trembling, the old wizard's face blurring before my eyes as my mind screamed in denial. "It's not true. . . ."

"Here . . ." Dumbledore's voice, sounding very far away, reached me through a whirl of anguished disbelief. "Sit down." Firm hands guided me to a chair, and I allowed myself to sink into it without protesting. My head was spinning as I buried my face in my hands.

"It's not possible," I said weakly. "He wouldn't . . . he couldn't . . . he would have died first, I know it. . . ." It couldn't be, I cried silently. This has to be some kind of horrible mistake . . . no one loved James more than he did . . . I knew him, we went to school together . . . he was my friend . . . he committed a crime, risked expulsion from the school, all on account of me . . . he wouldn't betray us, I know it!

Dumbledore was saying something, words of comfort, perhaps, but I didn't hear. All I could see, though I squeezed my eyes shut to block the memory, were those burning gray eyes as they had last held mine, seconds before he had turned away--and that swift, unidentifiable flicker of emotion that had crossed his face for only a second. Had it been guilt?

I didn't hear the rest of it until the next morning, when the owl flew in with the Daily Prophet, and I saw the faces of my three best friends staring at me from the front page, along with a picture of a street that looked like a bomb had it it. Already numb with shock, I read the article slowly . . . how Peter had somehow found out days ago what had happened, and tracked Sirius down . . . the duel in the street, surrounded by a crowd of Muggles . . . Peter's last words . . . how Sirius had blown him to smithereens, and how twelve Muggles were caught in the blast.

Sitting at the table in the kitchen, I read it over several times, while Peter and James smiled brightly at me from pictures that had been printed of our graduation day. Sirius' picture, taken after his capture, showed him looking wild-eyed, almost crazy, and my last words to him sprang then, unbidden, to my mind.

"I don't want to read in the paper tomorrow that you've gone and done something stupid. . . ."

I picked up the paper and flung it across the room with a violent motion, staring after it as it skidded across the dusty wood floor to lie, a tumbled pile of parchment, in the corner of the tiny kitchen.

"Why?" I whispered brokenly to the empty room. "Why?"

I stood up, and in a burst of sudden rage such as I had never experienced save during my transformations, I seized one of the rickety wooden chairs, and lifting it over my head I hurled it into the wall. One of the legs struck the window, and as the chair rebounded from the wall, the crash was accompanied by the tinkle of breaking glass.

For a moment I stared blankly at the jagged hole in the window, feeling the cold breeze blowing in, hitting my face. All my energy seemed suddenly drained away, and I sank weakly into the other chair, slumped forward across the table with my head buried in my arms.

And then the tears came, for the first time since the terrible news had reached me, a flood of grief pouring out unchecked as the realization hit me that I was alone--truly alone in the world, for the first time since I was only eleven years old. For a long time I stayed thus, sobbing bitterly, uncontrollably, while the chill wind blew through the broken window, rustling the pages of the Prophet which lay abandoned on the floor.

Of the months following the deaths of James and Lily, I remember very little clearly, though I believe I spent much of that time sitting alone in various dingy pubs around London. What dim memories I have of those days, I do not usually care to recall in great detail. During the time immediately following those horrible events, I felt adrift in the world, cut loose from everything that had once tied me to life, bereft of all that had ever mattered. I was like a leaf--dry, brittle, fragile--tumbling over and over in a strong wind, out of control, with no one and nothing to cling to break my fall.

It was almost two months later that I found myself standing all alone on London Bridge, several hours after night had fallen. I believe it was Christmas Eve, although I can't be sure. Along all the streets, garlands and wreaths and cherry-red bows adorned every door. It was raining, a slow, dismal drizzle drifting down from clouds that covered up the stars. The only illumination was from the dim yellow streetlamps, and in their faint light I could see the raindrops splashing into the dark waters of the Thames.

I was drunk, though less so than I had been in recent days--not enough, this time, to block the pain from which I'd been trying to hide. Leaning against the bridge rail, I searched my pockets, finding only a few bronze knuts and a handful of Muggle money. I shivered, pulling my wet, worn robes more tightly around me. Somewhere, from a Muggle house, I could hear music faintly--a piano was playing "Silent Night," almost drowned out by the rain. All is calm, I thought, glancing up and down the darkened, deserted bridge. Not too bright, though. I looked up, staring at the black sky, blanketed by impenetrable clouds, with not a star in sight. I swayed slightly, the raindrops sliding down my face as I gripped the rail for support, gazing down once again at the water. The river was rough tonight, ruffled by the wind into little whitecaps, contrasting sharply with the blackness of the waters, which seemed that night to hold an almost hypnotic fascination for me. Coming swiftly toward me, then disappearing beneath my feet, the river flowed on, never slowing. Something about the river drew me that night, so like the dark flow of painful emotion in my heart, until I could almost imagine myself being carried along with it, gliding onward to wherever was its eventual destination, enfolded in its freezing cold embrace. . . . Something grasped my shoulders then, hands pulling me away from the rail, and I looked up, befuddled, shaking my head in an attempt to clear it.

"Lupin? Remus Lupin?"

Blinking in the rain, I could make out, vaguely, a darker silhouette in front of me. It was impossible to make out the man's features, but the sheer size of him gave away his identity.

"What're yeh doin' out here, boy?" Rubeus Hagrid's voice was sharp, almost angry, as he pulled me unceremoniously after him, off the bridge and onto the dimly lit street. I could only shake my head, as in the dim light under a streetlamp, he paused and peered closely at me.

"Good God, lad, yer soaked ter th' skin," he said, shrugging out of his enormous greatcoat and draping it over my shoulders. "Of all th' crazy, insane. . . ." he muttered, and I wasn't sure if he was talking to me or to himself. "You, of all people . . . I'd've expected yeh ter have more sense 'n that." He scowled at me fiercely for a second before lapsing into silence again, seizing my arm and hustling me along the street. Confused, I had no choice but to follow.

The Leaky Cauldron was nearly empty when Hagrid flung open the door, shoving me inside and shouting in a stentorian voice for the bartender. The sudden warmth inside the pub hit me in wave, a sharp contrast to the chill of the outside, and I stumbled as he dragged me toward a table near the back and pushed me into a chair. The bartender, a little, balding wizard in a battered top hat, appeared beside the table, and scuttled away again to fill Hagrid's curt order. Seconds later he returned, banging two large tankards down on the grimy table.

Hagrid pushed one at me, taking a gulp from the other and setting it down with a thump, his beetle-black eyes flashing under his dark brows as he fixed me with a sharp look.

"Now," he began, wearing an expression I hadn't seen on him since the last time he had chased Sirius and me out of the Forbidden Forest, "jus' what in the 'ell did yeh think yeh were doin' out there, jus' now?"

I could not meet his eyes; instead, I reached for the tankard. The ale was very strong and tasted terrible, but still I drained half of it in one gulp, setting it down again amid a flurry of coughing. Hagrid narrowed his eyes, folding his hands on the table and leaning forward.

"Dumbledore asked me ter keep an eye on yeh," he confided, "an' now I can see why. I always thought yeh were a sensible lad--mos' sensible o' the four o' yeh, but . . . I suppose this is abou' yer friends?"

I stared at the dirty tabletop and nodded miserably. He stroked his bushy black beard as I raised my tankard once again. His voice, when he spoke, was still sharp, but kindly.

"An' I suppose yer wonderin' why it is that yer alive when them all is dead, is that it?"

I glanced quickly up at him, and saw that his fierce face had softened. That had indeed been one of the questions I'd asked myself over and over these past few months, though even that was not the one that tormented me the most.

As though he understood my thoughts, Hagrid nodded. "I know what else yer wonderin', too, lad. . . ." His expression was sympathetic as he reached out to clap me on the shoulder. "An' I can't give yeh th' answer to that one, either. . . ." Taking another long swig of ale, he let out a long sigh. "I tell yeh, never woulda thought it . . . never woulda thought he'd. . . ." He broke off, shaking his head, and then he glared at me again. "Now listen here, lad, what happened ain't yer fault, and there weren't nothin' yeh could've done abou' it." He waved a hand sharply when I would have interrupted. "I said," and he scowled at me "there weren't nothin' yeh could've done, an' sooner or later yer gonna have ter realize that an' get on with yer life! No, I don't want ter hear it--you listen ter me. What d'yeh think yer three friends--what d'yeh think James 'n' Lily 'n' Peter would want fer yeh ter do, eh? D'yeh think any o' them would want ter see yeh mopin' abou' fer months, an' tryin' ter jump off bridges? If James was here, he'd have plenty ter say abou' that, make no mistake! But he ain't, so seems like it's up ter me t' knock some sense into that thick 'ead o' yours." He gave me another fierce glare. I finished the tankard before me and waved to the bartender for more. My hand shook as I knocked back several swallows. "What's the point?" I burst out angrily, slamming my fist down on the table. "They were all I had in the world, the only people who ever called me friend, who accepted me in spite of . . . in spite of everything! An' where was I, when they needed me?" There were tears gathering in my eyes now, but I did nothing to stop them. "What should I do, then?" I demanded. "What can I do? Nobody else wants anything to do with me . . . I'll never find any other friends . . . or even a bloody job, damn it! What would you have me do, since you're so convinced my life is still worth living?"

"Now jus' what in 'ell d'yeh mean, never find no friends . . . or a job?" He shook his shaggy head exasperatedly. "Well, naturally yeh ain't gonna impress nobody hangin' aroun' drunk all day, but once yeh quit this foolishness. . . ."

"Isn't it obvious? Who the hell wants to be friends with a . . . with a . . ." Some part of my ale-fogged brain registered the fact that Hagrid was frowning at me in confusion, and I remembered just in time that he would, of course, have no idea why I would have trouble finding friends, or a job. I shut my mouth and reached once again for a drink, draining the rest of the tankard quickly. "Why?" I demanded suddenly, blinking furiously as more tears stung my eyes. "Why did this have to happen?" My voice broke, and I could only stare at him as the tears streamed down my face. Hagrid's black eyes now held only a vast pity, as he patted my shoulder awkwardly. "It . . . it was supposed . . . to be a . . . to be a perfect plan," I choked out. "Dumbledore said . . . an unbreakable charm . . . as long as the Secret-Keeper kept silent . . . my God, I still can't . . . can't believe it. . . ." I shook my head, looking at him as though expecting him to have the answer to the question that burned in my tortured mind. "Why did he do it? Why . . . why would he do such a . . . such a thing? I never . . . can't believe it, I just . . . can't believe it. . . ." "I know," Hagrid said quietly, sympathetically. "Of all th' people to turn ter the Dark Side . . . but there's no explainin' why, when a wizard turns bad, there ain't no tellin' what he'll do . . . ain't nothin', ain't no one that'll matter to 'im anymore. . . ."

I covered my face with my hands, slumping forward over the table, not even trying to stifle my sobs. I was hardly aware of Hagrid's hand on my shoulder, or his voice murmuring something unintelligible, as my tears fell on the grubby tabletop.

I will never know how long I cried then, or how many of the Leaky Cauldron's other patrons were staring at me. After an indeterminable period of time, however, I looked up, blinking my reddened, puffy eyes, and waving an unsteady hand at the bartender. Hagrid, however, shook his head firmly.

"I think yeh've had enough ter drink, lad," he told me, and from his voice I knew there would be no arguing with him. "C'mon now, le's get yeh ter bed."

And that is the last I remember of that night. The next morning, some few hours after dawn, I awoke in one of the upstairs rooms in the Leaky Cauldron, with the worst hangover of my life.

Squeezing my eyes shut tight against the light pouring in through the window, I lay still, waiting for the pounding in my head to cease, and feeling as if someone was trying to drive a metal spike into the base of my skull. When it became obvious that the pain was not going to go away no matter what I did, I slowly sat up, blinking rapidly and squinting in the bright morning sunlight. A quick glance around the room revealed Hagrid, lying on the other bed, still asleep and snoring loudly.

It took me several minutes to recall how I had gotten there, and when I finally did the memory of my behavior the night before was so mortifying that I could not stay and face Hagrid. I resolved to leave before he awoke, dressing as quietly as I could and scribbling a brief note on a scrap of parchment.

Dear Hagrid,

I squeezed the quill between my still-trembling fingers, casting about unsuccessfully for something appropriate to write. Dipping the quill once more, and nearly spilling green ink all over the bedside table, I penned a few more words.

I don't know how to thank you for all you've done for me. Maybe we'll meet again someday, but for right now I can't stay here any longer. I'm sorry to leave without saying good-bye, and I'm sorry I made such a fool of myself last night.

Please give my regards to Professor Dumbledore if you see him.

R. J. Lupin

I signed my name, and read over the brief note, wincing at the blatant inadequacy of the words. Then, remembering with a start what day it was, I dipped my quill a third time and scrawled a postscript at the bottom.

Merry Christmas!

I couldn't think what else to write, and I hadn't time to puzzle over a longer letter. Hagrid would be waking up soon, and I wanted to be long gone when he did. Searching through the pockets of my still-damp robes, I found the last of my wizard money, a few bronze knuts, and set them on the bedside table with the note. Then, carrying nothing except my old top hat and a handful of Muggle money, I tiptoed quietly out of the room and down the stairs.

After leaving the Leaky Cauldron, I walked for a long time, not knowing precisely where I was going, until finally I found myself at King's Cross Station. After staring for a long moment, my heart seized with a painful nostalgia, at the barrier between platforms Nine and Ten, I eventually found my way to one of the Muggle officials and bought myself a ticket. Walking away toward the waiting train, I wasn't even sure where I'd just bought a ticket to, and at that moment I didn't really care. I just put it in my pocket without looking at it, and in a few minutes found myself seated by the window in an empty compartment, as the train rocked steadily along the tracks, speeding northward into the unknown.

To be continued . . .