Author's Note: Well, here's part two at last! It's not the conclusion yet . . . I thought this was only going to have two parts, but it's turning out a lot longer than I had anticipated . . . these stories do tend to take on a life of their own . . . Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed the first part, and I hope you enjoy the next chapter!

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 rode the train north for several days, finally getting off somewhere in Scotland. For several years afterwards, I drifted around Scotland, searching for work, any work that would pay me enough to get by. It was never long, however, before my employers found out my secret, and as soon as they did I was always fired and told to move far away. No self-respecting witch or wizard would think of hiring a starving werewolf, and so two years later I decided to leave it all behind, forget I'd ever known anything about magic. After that, for the next ten years, I worked at various low-paying Muggle jobs, in factories and on construction sites. The work was hard, and the pay barely enough to live off of, but still I was grateful for it. It was a grueling routine, but it kept me from thinking too much. The long hours spent working used up all my time and energy, and left me little leisure for unrelated thoughts--and there was much, in those days, that I didn't want to think about.

In the Muggle world, while my monthly disappearances often led to questions from my employers, none of them came near to guessing the truth. Werewolves, according to Muggles, did not exist. Thus during my self-imposed exile from the wizarding world, I was spared for a few years the fear and prejudice I had always encountered in non-Muggles.

That wasn't the only reason, though, that I forsook the magical world during that period of my life. Hogwarts School, the Ministry of Magic, and all those places whose existence the Muggles knew nothing of--all of them were surrounded, then, by too many painful memories. Anything related magic invariably reminded me of James and Lily, and Peter . . . and Sirius. And during those years, all I wanted to do was forget.

It was ten years before I encountered another wizard. I had been doing my best to avoid anyone remotely connected with the magical community, and so naturally I was rather irritated when I was finally found.

I was working on a construction project, drilling holes in a road outside Edinburgh. It was mid-July, and unusually hot, with not a breath of wind as we worked under the broiling sun. Nearby, over the roar of my road-drill, I could hear a few of the other men grumbling to each other, cursing the weather. I didn't say anything, concentrating on the task before me as the road-drill bit into the pavement with an earsplitting clangor--to my mind it was better to work as quickly as possible, in the hopes of finishing sooner and getting out of the heat.

Even without the heat, though, I had never been one for socializing with other workers in any of the jobs I had held. I had already acquired a reputation, among the men at this particular project, for being rather a solitary character, and no one much tried to be friendly anymore. That was the way I liked it--I wasn't looking for friends. My only object was to get enough money to live off of--and, at this moment, to get finished soon and inside the shabby (but hopefully cooler) apartment I had rented in the city for the past month.

It was nearing the end of the day when I saw the car pull up across the street. It stood out quite sharply against the construction workers' drab, somewhat weathered-looking pick-up trucks. A small car, new and shiny-looking, it was painted a startling, dazzling shade of turquoise. I watched idly as through the window I saw the driver open a newspaper. His features were indistinguishable, but every now and then, as the sun gradually dipped lower in the sky, I glanced over to see him still sitting there, reading his paper and showing no sign of going anywhere.

Nearly an hour later, when the foreman's whistle finally blew and I shut off my road-drill, mopping the sweat from my forehead with a large handkerchief, the car was still there. I had just put away my equipment, and was preparing to walk back to my apartment when I heard the foreman yelling my name.

"Lupin!" I looked up, to see him waving at me. "Hey, Lupin! Someone over 'ere wants to talk t'ye!"

Walking over, I saw that the driver had gotten out of his little turquoise car, and was standing beside the foreman. He was a tall man, and despite the heat he was wearing a long gray trench coat, with a bowler hat pulled down over his eyes. As I approached, he took off the hat, and I stopped, my mouth open.

"Remus," Albus Dumbledore greeted me pleasantly. "Long time, no see." His blue eyes twinkled as he held out his hand.

I took the hand by reflex, closing my mouth when I realized that the foreman was looking at me with a confused expression.

"Headmaster," I managed. "What brings you here?"

"You," he told me, with an enigmatic smile. "Had a devil of a time finding you, I must say."

"I didn't want to be found," I said shortly, somewhat annoyed now that my initial surprise had faded.

"Oh, I know that," Dumbledore agreed, smiling. "And, of course, I can see why--you look like you're doing very well here, as a Muggle. I hardly recognized you." His gaze took in my heavy construction books, my brilliant orange vest and hard hat, and I thought I detected a hint of sarcasm in his voice. "Do you have a place to stay, or shall we go to my hotel?"

"I do have an apartment," I informed him stiffly. "To which I was about to return, just now. If you'll excuse me." I turned to leave, but he refused to take the hint, placing a hand on my arm to stop me.

"I came all the way up here hoping I'd get a chance to speak to you about something," he said quietly. He met my annoyed glare calmly, then waved a hand at the car.

"Do you like this odd little contraption I've found?" he asked, as we walked toward it.

"It's called a car, Headmaster," I informed him sourly as I opened the passenger side door and got in. Dumbledore only smiled and nodded happily.

"Lovely, isn't it?" he said, turning the key in the ignition and pulling away from the curb far faster than any sensible person would have done. I did not respond, but sat in silence as the little car tore along the road back to the city.

"So," Dumbledore began, steering around a sharp curve with one hand, while playing idly with the controls to the front windows with the other. "Aren't you going to ask me what the news is from the magical community?" He looked at me curiously, blue eyes twinkling enigmatically, and the car began to drift into the wrong lane.

"No," I said flatly. Then, as he continued to watch me quizzically, I went on, "You know, these little contraptions generally tend to work better if you look at the road."

He raised one eyebrow, then turned back to the road, swerving suddenly to avoid hitting an oncoming car.

"Harry's started school," he informed me abruptly.

I looked at him blankly. "Harry who?"

"Harry Potter," he clarified. I started violently, gripping the handle of the door very hard.

"And?" I inquired, straining to keep my voice level.

"He's doing very well, actually," Dumbledore continued, in a conversational tone. "Almost as well as his father."

I shut my eyes briefly, turning away toward the window so he couldn't see my face as he glanced swiftly over at me again.

"He's gotten glowing reports from all his teachers," he went on. "Except for Severus Snape, of course. . . ."

"Snape's a teacher now?" I demanded in spite of myself, frowning at him.

"Oh, yes," he replied. "He teaches Potions, and he's the terror of all the students, not just Harry. Poor Severus . . . he's not been very popular, I'm afraid. . . ."

I snorted. "Poor Harry! Whatever possessed you to hire him, anyway?"

Dumbledore's smile widened. "Well, even you'll have to admit he always was brilliant at Potions. What he really wanted was the Defense Against the Dark Arts post . . . didn't get it, though, and he's spent the past few years terrorizing whoever did. . . ."

I tried to imagine Severus Snape as a teacher, and failed. Either the man must have mellowed a great deal since the last time I'd seen him, or . . . I shuddered briefly. He'd been terrifying enough to me when we were both students. But Professor Snape . . . those poor students, I thought to myself. And little Harry Potter most of all . . . how would Snape treat him? I didn't even want to think about it. . . .

Dumbledore slowed down slightly as we entered the city . . . though not by much. A chorus of angry horns blared behind us as the little turquoise car sped along the street.

"Where's your place?" the Headmaster inquired.

I pointed to a street sign just ahead. "Left, here." We turned onto a quieter street, and within a few minutes pulled up in front of the rather drab old building where I had rented an apartment for the past month. It was a small place, I thought as I opened the door and showed Dumbledore inside, and rather shabby. Dumbledore looked around appraisingly before sitting down on the old sofa by the window.

"Tea?" I inquired, out of politeness. What I really wanted was to tell him to get lost--ten years ago, by my own choice, I had severed all the ties that had once bound me to the wizarding world, and I had no desire to be reminded of my past now. But I still had too much respect for Albus Dumbledore to throw him out, and I sincerely doubt it would have made any difference if I had attempted it.

He waved a hand indicating I should sit down. I sat opposite him in an ancient armchair, leaning back and watching his face carefully, waiting for him to begin, to say whatever it was he had come to say.

"Lovely place you've got here," he remarked, his tone that of a man making small talk about inconsequential things, but I thought I detected the sarcasm that didn't make it into his voice. He ignored my sudden scowl, and asked pleasantly, "Are you happy here?"

An innocent question, I thought darkly, but by the expression in his blue eyes I could see he already knew the answer, and that he had some other purpose in asking.

"I'm very happy here, thank you very much," I responded curtly. I had an unpleasant feeling that I knew where he was going with this line of inquiry, and by his face I could tell my answer hadn't fooled him for a second.

"Really?" was his only response, and he raised one eyebrow.

"What do you want from me, anyway?" I demanded, rather more harshly than I had intended.

He looked at me thoughtfully for a moment. "To find out how you're getting along," he answered finally. "No one's heard anything of you in years."

"It's not like anyone misses me terribly," I pointed out bitterly. "You may not believe this, but a lot of us at Hogwarts worry about you," he said. "Hagrid was keeping an eye on you for a little while, when you were still in London, but then you disappeared. For the longest time, he was furious with himself for letting you get away . . . convinced you were going to shoot yourself or something. . . ."

I looked away briefly, wondering how much Hagrid had told him of our last meeting.

"You know," Dumbledore began in a more serious tone, "there's no reason you have to live here, as a Muggle. There are plenty of jobs available these days for a trained wizard . . . a lot more interesting, and I dare say a lot more profitable than what you're doing now."

I shook my head. "I'm fine where I am," I said. "There's no reason for me to go back."

"Remus," said Dumbledore, his voice gentler, "it's been twelve years. It's about time you . . ."

"It's not just that," I cut him off. "Muggles . . . are a lot more tolerant, I've found."

He almost laughed. "Muggles, tolerant? Most of the ones I've met have a positively medieval attitude towards our kind."

"You know what I mean," I said with a sudden glare. "They're less . . . suspicious, at least. Muggles refuse to believe that . . . that . . . creatures like me . . . even exist. It makes life a lot easier, not having to . . . to deal with that. . . ." My voice trailed off, and I turned away from the expression of pity Dumbledore could not quite conceal.

"There's no reason for me to go back," I repeated. "There's no way any wizard would hire me, not if he knew . . . We're monsters, Headmaster, and we can't be trusted, you know that. The only ones who ever did . . . who ever did trust me . . ."

I jumped out of my chair, suddenly unable to sit still any longer, and began to pace around the small room. Dumbledore's blue eyes followed me soberly as I moved back and forth, with quick, jerky strides, struggling against the painful emotions which the memory of those three still evoked. I stopped in front of him now, filled with a sudden, unreasoning anger at him for bringing it all back, just at a time when I'd almost begun to forget.

"What do you want from me?" I asked again fiercely. "Why did you come here? Why couldn't you have left me in peace?"

He looked up at me, calm and patient in the face of my anger. "I wanted to offer you a job," he said quietly. I blinked, staring at him in blank surprise for a few seconds before shaking my head with a sigh and sinking once more into my chair.

"I told you, I don't want anything to do with magic anymore. I don't need your help, and I don't need you hunting up wizards who could be persuaded to take in a poor, lonely, starving werewolf because they feel sorry for him. I'm fine where I am, thank you very much, and I . . ."

He cut me off with a brief wave of his hand. "You misunderstand me," he said. "I need your help, Remus." A faint hint of a smile flickered across his face at my look of confusion. "I was wondering if you'd accept a position at Hogwarts."

"You've got to be joking," I said, finally. "Me, a teacher? What would the rest of the staff say? That's . . . outrageous. . . ."

"No more outrageous than your becoming a student, twenty years ago," Dumbledore reminded me.

I stared out the window, my mind filled with conflicting emotions, saying nothing for several minutes.

"What subject would I teach?" I inquired softly, not looking at him.

"Defense Against the Dark Arts," he replied. I turned back toward him with a bitter laugh.

"How ironic that would be. Me, teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts? Headmaster, I'm what they're supposed to be defending themselves against!

"Why don't you give Snape the Dark Arts job," I continued, "since you said he wants it so much? Why come to me?"

"I like Severus where he is," Dumbledore said. "He's better at Potions, whether he wants to admit it or not. You, on the other hand, were always near the top of the Dark Arts classes, if you recall."

Come to think of it, I had been, though I was surprised that he remembered it still, after all these years.

"Who'd you have before?" I inquired. "And what happened to him?"

The Headmaster sighed. "Don't ask," he told me wearily. "You wouldn't believe the problems I've had . . . I should warn you, I suppose, Remus--there are rumors beginning to fly around Hogwarts that this job is jinxed. Two teachers, in the last two years . . . neither of them lasted." He shook his head. "Neither of them were much good, either. Last year's . . . surely you've heard of--no, you wouldn't have. Gilderoy Lockhart was a rather prolific and quite well-known author of several adventurous--and, as it turned out, not entirely truthful--memoirs, before he decided to grace us with his presence at the school. Completely incompetent, knew nothing about the subject, and when the school was attacked last year by a giant basilisk--long story, I'll tell you later--he tried to run away and then accidentally wiped his own memory. And before that . . ." His face became more serious.

"The teacher two years ago, Professor Quirrell, was in league with Lord Voldemort." I started, and he continued. "Tried to steal the Sorcerer's Stone--you do know what that is, don't you?" I nodded. "Well, he would have succeeded, if it hadn't been for young Harry Potter, once again." I sat in silence, staring at my hands and fighting to keep my emotions hidden as he recounted the tale of how Quirrell and the Dark Lord had been stopped.

When he had finished, I asked, in a strained voice, "What year is he in, now?"

"Third," he said. "He plays Quidditch for Gryffindor--youngest Seeker in the history of the school." I made a strangled-sounding noise, which he mercifully ignored as I blinked furiously, recalling all the times I had stood with Peter in the Hogwarts Quidditch stadium, watching while James and Sirius played. "He's a wonderful boy," Dumbledore continued. "You'll get on very well with him, I'm sure."

"I haven't said I'm taking the position," I reminded him, my eyes narrowing. "How are you going to convince the school governors that I'm safe?"

"The same way I convinced them twenty years ago," he replied mildly.

"You still have the Whomping Willow?" I asked him, thinking with a painful twist of nostalgia that this time I would actually have to stay in the Shrieking Shack, like I'd always been supposed to, instead of roaming the grounds in secret with three unregistered Animagi. . . .

"Oh, yes, it's still there," he said, with the faintest beginning of a smile. "And quite as--er--energetic as ever. Harry and a friend of his accidentally flew a car into it last year--" this time with a definite, though small, smile "--and it retaliated with its usual vigor. The boys weren't hurt, but the car was smashed."

A flying car . . . the image flashed unbidden into my mind of the enormous flying motorcycle Sirius used to ride. He'd loved that motorcycle, I remembered, clenching one hand hard on the arm of the chair at the memory. He'd found it by the side of the road, crashed and bent all out of shape, and after repairing it painstakingly, he'd enchanted it in secret, with James' help of course, so that it would fly faster than the fastest broomstick. Peter and I both thought the idea extremely dangerous--so had James, in fact, though he'd helped anyway--but then when had the word danger ever meant anything to Sirius?

I could still see him, sitting on that bike, dressed like a Muggle in black pants and a black leather jacket, all except for his high black wizard boots and brilliant green cloak, grinning down at me with that reckless, devil-may-care expression that I knew so well. How many times had he tried to persuade me to take a ride on that contraption? I could hear him now, shouting above the roar of the engine, his face flushed with excitement and his shaggy black hair blowing back in the wind . . . "Come on, Moony, she'll carry two of us! It's a thousand times better than a broomstick--you can't even imagine! What're you, scared?"

I saw Dumbledore looking at me strangely, and shook my head abruptly to clear it, bringing my thoughts back to the present with an effort.

"So you'll tell the governors . . . what I am?" I said, forcing my memories of Sirius out of my mind for the moment. "They might not agree, this time. . . ."

"I can bring them around," he assured me.

"Well, Severus won't like it, that's for sure," I told him.

"Well, then," he said, and smiled. "What more incentive to come could you possibly need?" I stared at him in surprise, until with a self-deprecating laugh, he continued. "Severus'll get over it."

No, he won't, I thought darkly, but didn't press the matter further.

"Actually," he remarked, "we wouldn't need the Whomping Willow now, if you decided to come." I frowned at him, as he went on in the same offhand tone. "Not since the invention of the Wolfsbane Potion three years ago . . ."

"The what Potion?" I demanded, sitting up abruptly and gripping the arms of the chair very hard. He looked at me with an expression of faint surprise, which might or might not have been feigned.

"Oh, I thought surely you'd have heard . . . But of course, you've been out of touch for so long . . . you really should keep up with these things, Remus. You miss an awful lot, living as a Muggle for ten years. It was all over the Daily Prophet . . ."

"What--Potion?" I repeated dangerously, through clenched teeth, struggling not to hope.

"It's not a cure," Dumbledore said quickly, holding up a hand and becoming serious once more. "But it's something . . . a major breakthrough, in fact, the first in centuries . . ." I listened breathlessly, leaning forward, as he explained the capabilities of the Wolfsbane Potion. "It's a very complicated formula," he concluded, "and there are very few wizards who know how to brew it. However, we at Hogwarts are lucky enough to have with us one of these few, and I'm sure he would be only too happy to assist us." This last sentence was uttered with an ironic half-smile.

"Let me guess," I said. "Snape?"

He nodded, and I grimaced. I didn't like being beholden to Snape for anything--but if this potion really worked . . . ! My excitement at the thought almost overrode my misgivings about re-entering the magical world.

"I haven't thought about magic in years," I warned him, a final protest despite the fact that I was almost convinced. "I don't know whether I'll still remember enough to teach it."

Dumbledore smiled, his blue eyes twinkling in satisfaction as he stood up. "You've got a month and a half to relearn it all," he reminded me. He shook my hand, then moved toward the door. Stopping in the doorway, he said, "The Hogwarts Express will leave from Platform Nine and Three-Quarters on September first, as usual. I'll look forward to seeing you there." And with a cheerful nod, he left the apartment. I watched his little turquoise car zoom away, standing at the window and wondering at the strange and unexpected turn my life had suddenly taken.

And so it was that I found myself, little more than a month later, stepping through the magical barrier onto Platform Nine and Three-Quarters for the first time in fifteen years.

The platform hadn't changed much--the milling crowd of parents and children, dressed in robes, carrying wands and owl cages--the bright scarlet train sitting on the track, with the familiar sign, "Hogwarts Express"--all were just as I remembered them. Except that this time, all the faces were strangers. As I looked around, I could see everywhere young witches and wizards saying good-bye to their parents--none, however, students or parents, were familiar to me. For just a second, staring around at all the young faces, I almost expected to see James and Sirius and Peter pushing through the crowd toward me, all grinning at the thought of whatever new plans they'd dreamed up to cause chaos during the new school year.

I shook myself back to the present with an effort. They were gone, I reminded myself sternly. I'd never see any of them again, so it didn't do any good to keep thinking about them all the time. I picked up my battered old suitcase and began to make my way slowly toward the train.

I remember little of that journey to Hogwarts, save for the last stage when we were nearly there. It was the morning after the full moon when I set out, and I was so exhausted when dawn came that all I wanted to do was curl up in bed and forget about the rest of the world for several weeks. Only the thought of Hogwarts, and the Wolfsbane Potion--the thought that last night's transformation would be my last--enabled me to drag myself out of bed.

My mirror was rather critical when I consulted it just before leaving my apartment. I hadn't worn my old black wizard's robes in more than a decade, and they looked moth-eaten and rather shabby. Patched and darned in many places, they seemed hardly fit for a teacher to wear. Still, it was either that, or my Muggle clothes, and I didn't think Dumbledore would want me to show up dressed as a Muggle.

My hair had begun to turn gray, as well. I'd been aware of this for some time, but I'd never really thought about it before. I combed it quickly, wondering vaguely whether werewolves aged more quickly than normal people, or if it was just a result of too much stress and grief at an early age. But I didn't want to think about that.

My face, in the mirror, looked pale and drawn, and altogether I probably looked about ready to fall apart--which that was kind of how I felt that morning. Still, I somehow managed to drag myself down to King's Cross Station.

Boarding the train, I immediately sought out an empty compartment near the back, where I hoped I wouldn't be disturbed. A plump, smiling witch in brand new robes and a shiny, pointed hat accosted me in the corridor, handing me a newspaper and advising me brightly that there was a compartment reserved for the teachers at the front. I thanked her politely and continued toward the back. I didn't feel like socializing with the other professors--especially not if Severus Snape was there. I really didn't feel up to dealing with him, not now.

Sinking gratefully into a seat by the window, I leaned my head back and closed my eyes. After only a few moments, though, I shook myself awake, smoothing the newspaper on my lap, figuring that now I was back in the wizarding world, I really ought to catch up on the news and find out what was going on.

The black and white picture dominating the front page was completely unfamiliar at first glance, a second before my eye was caught by the big, bold headline just above it.

BLACK STILL AT LARGE

Sirius Black, possibly the most infamous prisoner ever to be held in Azkaban fortress, is still eluding capture, the Ministry of Magic confirmed today. . . .

Stunned, I dropped the paper on the floor, and it was a few moments before I recovered enough presence of mind to pick it up again. The first coherent though that crossed my mind was, That's impossible. And then, If anyone could manage something like that, it would be Sirius. I retrieved the paper from the floor, and scanned the article. The paper was dated more than a week ago--where was he now? I wondered. The Ministry, it said, had so far had no luck in finding him. Even the feared Azkaban guards, the article went on, were baffled as to how he had escaped.

I stared at the black-and-white photo, trying to discern, in that starved, skull-like visage, the features of the man who had been one of my closest friends. He was almost unrecognizable. His hair, always shaggy and nearly down to his shoulders, had grown far longer, and appeared wild and matted. His gaunt face might have been that of a corpse save for those sunken eyes, which blinked slowly at me. It seemed nearly as if he was looking straight at me, with an expression that was almost frightening. I had heard many stories, over the years, of the fortress of Azkaban--it was said that most of the prisoners there went mad within a few weeks, and after my own brief encounters with dementors many years ago, I could easily understand why. Sirius appeared mad, in that photo. He no longer resembled in any way the reckless, laughing, mischievous young man who had been my friend for nearly ten years.

But then, Sirius had never been what he had seemed to be in those days, I thought, and my heart twisted painfully as I shoved the paper aside, not wanting to think about it anymore. Still, the question nagged incessantly at me: How had Sirius escaped from Azkaban? And another, perhaps even more troubling thought . . . why had he broken out? Where was he headed, and what were his intentions?

I leaned back wearily in my seat, closing my eyes and trying to banish the memories of Sirius which now returned, with agonizing clarity, as though we had parted for the last time only yesterday.

I heard then, far away above the noise of parents' shouted farewells and students' excited chattering, the chugging of the engines as the train began to move. The car began to sway as we pulled away from the platform. I rested my head against the cold glass of the window, not even looking up when I heard the door to the compartment open. Within minutes I was fast asleep.

To be continued . . .