(Note from the author: These are not my characters, my world, or my situations. They all belong to J. K. Rowling, and are protected by copyrights.)

(Disclaimer: "The Boy Who Lived" is a phrase that originated from J.K. Rowling. I do not take credit for it in any way.)

(Note from the author: Here's a new long awaited chapter. I hope you guys enjoy it.)

Remus had been walking all night. He had heard the rustling of the leaves, the quietness of the forest. Nothing had touched him through the entire evening and morning. At night, the wolf had laughed loud, and had howled at the moon above them. But Remus hadn't stirred. He hadn't heard the wolf's call. He hadn't wanted to.
In the morning, he had risen from his rock near the creek, and had continued walking. It had been a very long stroll. He hadn't wanted to go home. He had to figure this out. What was he going to do. He had to kill off the wolf somehow. He had to get rid of it. But how could he. How could he just rid himself of something that had been there for so long, no matter what he had done.
"You would be lost without me," the wolf said, "Without me, you are nothing. You are a boneless, spineless, shred of emptiness without me. Who would you hate if I was not here?"
There was no answer from the wolf's victim, and they continued to walk.
"Yourself," the wolf replied for the both of them, "You would hate yourself. You couldn't blame anything on me any longer. Every single action you made would be blamed upon you. Not your body. Not me. But your own soul. Your very own soul. When this war is over, you won't take the responsibility for that man you killed in the field that night. Or the countless others that you murdered with your own wand. Your own conscience."
"Shut up," Remus hissed.
"You are a murderer," the wolf said, "You were born to be a murderer. And you will always be a murderer. That is why Dumbledore chose you for the Order. He knew what you were capable of."
"Shut up."
"That's why your friends feared you so."
"I said shut up."
"That's why James didn't choose you."
"I SAID ..."
"Remus," a voice called from the outskirts of the forest. Remus stopped, and looked around to see where he had found himself. His cabin was in sight. And a figure was posted outside of it, his arms crossed and staring out into the woods to see where the screaming was coming from. His first thought was James when he saw the stance. The arrogant way of posing for the world to see, and aware that he was in charge of the situation.
Yet, when he came closer, he realized that the back was hunched lower, and the figure wore a dark purple robe and long white hair. It was Dumbledore.
He walked forward, unaware of why the Headmaster would be at his home. Dumbledore never made house calls. He would have expected Moody or Frank or . . .
Not Dumbledore.
From the eyes in the forest, one could see Remus walk to the Headmaster. Any neighbor that may have happened to be watching this scene carrying on from a far off window or kitchen or possibly even the woods itself would have not heard a word uttered between the two men. They would have just seen the back of Lupin, and the unfaltering stance of the older gentleman.
If they had continued to watch, they would have seen Lupin fall to the ground; first on his knees, and then kneeling to the ground, his hands clenched together in a tight fist. They then would have seen him grab the purple cloak and ball it into his hands. And if they had continued to watch after this episode, enlightened by the drama and unknown story (as the present reader would be), they would have seen the two men walk to the front door, the elder one supporting the boy, and continue on inside.
It would be hours later that the boy would return to the outside, rip down his sign that read "JE NE MOURRAI PAS," and throw it into the woods with a defiant scream. The old man never exited the house, but surely was not there to hear this tantrum.

Azkaban was cold and dark that night. The guard, Jerry, who seemed to be chewing away at ice, waited for the oncoming boat to arrive at his port. He had become accustomed to these noises around him. The quiet pleading of the women, the screaming and howling of the men, and the dead silence of the crazed and forgotten.
They were expecting a late shipment that night. All of the guards were on duty, and all of the returned dementors had found their place once more on their respectable stations. They had returned at the dawn as soon as the world found out what had taken place that Halloween night.
It was a miracle, and everyone said so.
The Potters, a respectable Ministry family, had been found dead early that morning. But their son still lived. And the Dark Lord was no where to be found. All had returned to Order. Most of the prisoners imprisoned did not know of the gracious day. To them it was just like every other day: cold and empty.
Jerry checked his watch, and saw that the cargo was late. They were supposed to arrive at least a half an hour ago. He looked through the dim darkness of the underground tunnel, and tried to picture a boat there. Try to see the men clambering out and then running off through the tunnel as fast as they could. But no one came.
The darkness had started to seep over the island of Azkaban, and as the time rolled on, the more impatient Jerry became.
It must have been around eleven o' clock that the boat finally arrived. Of course, it wasn't the sight of the boat that told Jerry that it had come at last. He heard the cargo before he saw it.
It was laughing.
Laughing in an uncontrollable manner. It pierced through the tunnel, and Jerry felt his skin grow cold and his blood turn to ice. For a man who had spent his adult life near the dementors and had not stepped foot off of the island for a good ten years ... it wasn't easy for him to become fearful for his life.
What sort of a monster were they bringing him?
The laughing continued. It was a murderous laugh, high pitched at times and then as low as a rumbling bass. It was uncontrolled, without rhythm or any sort of pattern. Fluxuations and bursts of screaming. And the whole while, no words were spoken. No words came from the prisoner's mouth. Just the ill-minded howling from this beast of a man.
The boat hit the side of the dock, and the boat drivers picked up the shackled man by the arms and threw him onto the deck. The man's hair was longer, blacker. His eyes were dark and as empty as the blackest night's sky. The skin was pale and sweaty. And he was covered in chains. From his face to his ankles, chains covered him, caging him within his own body.
The man had no name. He had no origins. He just lay in front of Jerry, still cackling and not even aware that he had been thrown with much force onto a stone floor. He didn't care that he was bleeding from many gashes on his body, or that his left eye was so bruised that he couldn't open it. It didn't cross Jerry's mind that these abusive marks could have been caused by the imprisoners or the jailers before him. It seemed as if maybe he had done it to himself. It was the only explanation. Maybe the chains weren't to keep him (Jerry) safe, but more for the chains' owner himself's sake.
Jerry, lost for words, looked to the boatmen.
The first shrugged, a cold feeling of depression falling on him.
"He came to us like this," he explained, "He was the one who killed all them people this morning. Said to be You-Know-Who's top man."
"There's no one with him? No family? No friends?"
"Don't think he's got any," the second boatman said, "Who would befriend something like that?"
"Can I have his name?" Jerry asked, as the dementors glided down the stone steps and grabbed the prisoner by his arms. The man's laughter became screaming and his good eye grew wide as if something was playing out in front of him.
"No ... n-n-no!" he shrieked, "NOOO! DON'T KILL HIM!"
"That's the first we've heard him speak," the first boatman said to Jerry, "He's had a few too many bolts removed from the head, if you know what I mean."
"Bolts ..." Jerry thought, and then decided that this boatman must be a Mudblood.
"All we know is his name is Black," the second boatman said, now seeing the look of disgust Jerry had given his colleague, "Sirius Black. Was the one to turn in Potter, he was. The one to go a squealin' to You- Know-Who."
"Ah, is he now," Jerry said, finishing his ice, "Well, we have a good place for him. Don't worry. We take good care of our guests here."
And as predicted, the boatmen flew off through the tunnel as fast as they could.
Jerry sighed, and followed his prisoner up the stairs. The prisoner continued screaming, and Jerry kicked him.
"Oh, shut up!" he sighed, and then decided that it was best he didn't do that again. The first impression of this crazed man came back to him, and he thought it would be for the better of both of them if he let his dementors do the work for him.
It was in this next hallway that the dementors stopped at a iron door, and waited for their jailer to open the latch with his key. Jerry did so, and the floating demons threw their lost prisoner into the cold, brick room.
Sirius didn't feel any of this. The sheer presence of the dementors had deepened his insanity. All he could make out through his eye is the light diminishing as he was left in the dark.
Forever.
"NOOOOOOO!" he screamed, and he struggled with his chains. A chain cut into his face, breaking his skin and making him bleed. But he felt no pain.
In front of him, in the darkness, he saw the Dark Mark. He saw the dead body of James. He saw Remus as a monster. He saw Elise. He saw Lily.
And he saw Peter.
"PEETTTTTEEERR!" he screamed, and then found himself on the floor crying. Crying. And then laughing. And then screaming.
Who was Peter. Who was James?
Who was Voldemort?
What is my name?
Who am I?
What am I doing here?
Everything was a blur. And these shadows of things gone past ... of people he didn't know but remembered ... flew in front of his face. Everything fell into place for instances and he'd scream, remembering he was the cause for James's death.
And then he'd forget again.
He'd forget himself.
He was just a little boy.
Or was he even that.
He was just a thing. Somewhere. Sometime. And nothing registered with him.
He tugged at his chains.
And he hit his head against the floor.
Make them stop! Make this feeling stop! Make it stop! Make it stop!
BAM!
"AAAAA!"
BAM!
"NOOOO!"
BAM!
And then peace. Blackness. Silence.
But the nightmares remained, lurking in the dark.

November 1st. Peter had woken knowing what had happened. He had made himself comfortable in an inn in London, and had decided to make the rest of his trek to the country the following day. Sirius would never know where he was.
Oh, how he had been wrong.
BAM!
Pavement exploded all around him in a frenzy of concrete and wires. Into the sewers he fell, his hands behind his back, and screaming in pain. He cut off his finger as he fell into the ground, farther and farther and farther.
Now the night sky shone down upon him. Through the hole of an unknown manhole above him that he had scurried to, he could see the moon. It was almost full. And he thought of himself thinking of Remus.
He would never see Remus again.
Or James.
But James had bullied him. James had always been the smart one with the pretty girl and the perfect family. He deserved what he got. He thought too much of himself. And so did Lily.
"What have I done," he whispered, coming out of rat form and settling down next to the damp water rushing through the tunnel of iron and concrete tubes, "What have I done."
James was gone because of him. He remembered He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named towering over him, demanding to know or he'd kill him.
"I have given you everything you could dream of!" the Dark Lord had said, "And you are becoming a nuisance. You shall do as I say or I will kill you without another thought about it."
And so Peter had told him.
"What have I done," he whispered again, "What have I done."

Privet Drive was a quiet street. All had been well the following day, and everything had gone well (as it always did) with the families that lived on the small road leading the suburbs almost exactly identical to their own. One of these houses was especially normal and prim and proper. For a woman by the name of Petunia Dursley lived there, enraveled in her own grief from the loss of her parents and the hatred towards her only living relative: her sister.
It had been months since they had spoken. Or had it been years? It didn't matter to her. She despised her sister. For all she cared she could be dead.
And sadly, her sister had died.
The morning of November the Second arrived with a quiet sunrise. The cars outside the houses started up to go into town and begin their day of work. Petunia's husband was on his way out the door when he realized there was something laying in the middle of his path.
It was sleeping quietly and soundly, wrapped up in a small bundle and accompanied by a note that was written in sparkling ink. Upon reading the note, he called inside for his wife, Petunia. Petunia arrived outside and upon seeing the little bundle, screamed.
For she had recognized the black hair. And as soon as the little boy opened his eyes, she recognized the green eyes.
They were her sister's.
All of this was seen from a lamppost across the street. Frank was standing, not seen, under an invisibility cloak. Dumbledore had asked him to wait to make sure that all went well. And it certainly had taken a turn for the worse.
Well, James, Frank thought to himself, At least he's alive and safe.
He imagined James standing next to him, saying something or other about how his son would be as strong as his father, and how he would do anything to be alive right now.
Yes, I know, James, Frank said, You were a good father to him. We both were. We tried to protect our children, but sometimes the world has different plans.
James then would have said something about how he didn't care if the world had different plans, he would change them if they didn't suit him.
"So would I," Frank sighed, and leaned against the lamppost, "So would I."
Neville was alive. That ... over there, across the street ... that was Harry. Not his son. Neville was safe.
And he would die before letting that fact be changed.
James would then have shrugged and then said some smart remark about how he would as well.
"Harry Potter," Frank sighed again, turning away from the house that was now filled with shrieking and commotion, "The boy who lived."