Disclaimer: all of the characters belong to J. K. Rowling, as does the general premises for this story, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. I'm doing this only for entertainment, not for profit. This story, though, is mine; please don't use it without asking first.

Author's Note: This story was loosely inspired by X-Men Unlimited #47, part of which runs on a "no more war stories" theme. This is a post-OotP story, so if you don't want that spoiled for you, don't read on.

Last Left Standing

Firewhisky burns the throat, the stomach, and the mind, but that doesn't stop me from pouring myself another glass and sipping at it, glaring off into the dark.

The part of me that is completely in control for most of my life, the reasonable, sensible, logical part, nags annoyingly, Werewolves shouldn't drink firewhisky. Bad things could happen. You must be in complete control at every moment, just in case.

I staunchly ignore it. For the first time in my life, I don't give a shit about what time of the month it is or what might happen if I get too drunk too close to the full moon. And I've been swearing rather a lot, though to myself. I hardly ever swear. That honor always belonged to James and Sirius.

James and Sirius.

I take another drink of the firewhisky, this time a swallow so large I nearly choke on it. Then I look back out into the dark again, feeling it roaring merrily down my throat and into my stomach, quietly poisoning my insides. I don't care. I want to be poisoned.

Again, the nagging voice in my head says, Just think what you might do if you drink too much. If you get so bloody wasted that you can't possibly separate human from animal and just go mad.

I don't care. I drink down the rest of the glass, flinching once I finish it. I don't care if I turn into a snarling, growling, stalking man who pounces on his friends and tries to rip out their throats with human teeth. I don't care if I act like a monster before it's even my time. I don't care if I rip off my clothes and go racing through the house on all fours, breaking furniture and acting like the animal I can be.

I don't even know if those things would happen. People say that when werewolves get drunk--when they lose control--then they start acting like animals, even if the full moon isn't out. Could it happen to me? I've only ever gotten that drunk once before, and I had been with the others, so they were acting just as much like animals as I was. Or, I am sure they would have been, if I could remember it.

The others.

James and Sirius and Peter. And me.

My breath is shaking. I pour myself another glass of firewhisky, my hands trembling, dribbling the liquor on the porch railing as I do so. I hold the glass and think of Harry, off at his aunt and uncle's for the summer, who lost the closest thing he'd ever had to a father. I think of Molly, who lost her cousin-by-marriage. I think of all the rest of us involved with the Order--Ron and Hermoine and Ginny, Moody and Tonks and Dung, even Snape--and think that for all of them, I have to keep control.

I sneer at that, and sip my drink. Keep control.

Don't let them see you cracking. I have to be strong. For Harry, most of all, but for all the rest of them, who don't know Sirius as well as I did. Who never will, now.

Stop thinking of that! Stop thinking of that! I hastily gulp down the rest of the glass, reminding myself that half the purpose of getting flaming drunk is to forget your troubles. And I have a lot of troubles to forget.

I pour another glass, this time pouring half of what I intend to in the glass, and the other half on the porch railing. My hand is shaking so badly that I consider going inside and getting a straw, but I decide that I'm not that pathetic.

Not yet.

I drink this glass slowly but steadily, not stopping even when the firewhisky burns my mouth and throat, making me wince and drip it down my chin. I don't care. I am determined to drown my sorrows.

That's what ordinary people do when they're depressed, isn't it? They have a few drinks.

I keep thinking, what do I do when I'm depressed? Once I thought I'd never be happy, or ordinary, for that matter. I'd always be separated from everyone else, by the beast that lived inside of me. They saved me. They made me happy. I never had to think about depression after that. There was always an answer. Things could always get better. There were always ways to fix my problem, though temporarily.

Nothing else had mattered, as long as they were around.

James and Sirius and Peter.

More. I have to drink more. I drink faster now, but carefully, not wanting to spill any more. I need as much of this liquor as I can get.

Even as I set the empty glass down on the railing, gripping it tightly and clenching my teeth, I start to remember. And to think.

It should never have been me.

Once, the four of us were lazing around at Hogwarts. I don't remember why, or where, exactly, but that was what we were doing. It was nearly summer, and we were just relaxing. And James said, suddenly, "Which one of us do you think will die last?"

We were all awkwardly silent. I was leaning against a tree, and exchanged a glance with Peter, who was sitting nearest to me. Sirius propped himself up on his elbows, giving James a suspicious look.

"That isn't funny," Peter said, a frown twisting onto his face.

"No, I'm serious," James said. He and Sirius had been lying on the grass, and now he sat up.

Sirius cracked a grin. "No, I'm Sirius," he said.

I groaned. "That was awful, Padfoot," I protested.

"No, really," James said. "I was just thinking about it. We're not all going to die at the same time. Which one of us do you think is going to outlive the others?"

"That's really morbid," I said, frowning at him.

"Yeah, but what do you think?" he pressed.

Sirius, Peter, and I looked at one another. Peter screwed up his face in thought. Sirius adopted a blank, faintly thoughtful, but mostly confused expression. I already knew the answer but didn't want to say it. It didn't even take a second of thought--there was no question.

Sirius was the first to answer. "James," he said.

"James," I agreed immediately.

"Definitely James," Peter said, nodding enthusiastically.

James made a face. "Me? Why?"

"I don't know," Sirius said. "You have a better knack for getting out of trouble than the rest of us put together do for getting into it."

"Yeah," Peter said, nodding again. "It'd be you, Prongs."

"I'd think it would be you," James said to Peter. At Peter's shock, he said, "You'd never get any trouble if it weren't for us. I'd say Moony, but..." He shrugged at me, apologetically. "He's a werewolf. And Padfoot..." He looked at Sirius.

"I'll be the first to die," Sirius predicted dramatically. "All the teachers say I'm too reckless."

"I'd be next," I said. Morbid as it was, I was warming to the subject. With a wry grin, I said, "I'll be hunted down by a coat-maker for my pelt."

Peter was grimacing, and James looked thoughtful--almost smiling--but Sirius was grinning as well.

It should never have been me.

I am shaking so hard that only a few rivulets of firewhisky make it into the glass this time. I give up, grip the bottle by its neck, and drink straight from the lips. I want to stop remembering. I want to drown out the memories and the pain and the utter unfairness of it all. It shouldn't have been me. I shouldn't have outlived them all.

I'd lost them all. My closest friends had all been lost to the Dark Lord, to Voldemort, to the feared He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

Peter had been first. We should have expected that, back on that day at Hogwarts. He had been the weakest of us all, the least likely to take a risk unless someone was going to back him up on it. He is still alive, but...

I shake my head. To me, he is dead. Wormtail is gone forever. I drink briefly to his memory.

James had been next. It was definitely he who should have outlived the rest of us. He had been the bravest, the smartest, the fastest, the cleverest. It had been his idea for the rest of them to become Animagi, to help me. He had had the most to live for--a wife and son, a family that loved him. He hadn't deserved to die, in any way.

Again, I raise the bottle and drink. Cheers to Prongs.

And Sirius...

I can't drink to his memory yet. It hasn't been long enough. It's still a horrible, searing pain, not just because he's gone, but because with his death I've suddenly realized:

I'm the last left standing.

I wish, more than anything, that it hadn't been me, but I don't know which one of them I would have chosen instead. To live on, alone. To feel the guilt and the pain and wonder if perhaps there was something I could have done. To not be with them anymore.

To think back on all of the days we were together, all the fun we had. The nights we spent wandering around Hogsmeade in animal form. The months we spent making the Marauder's Map. The years we spent together, brothers in arms, friends for life, joking and laughing and having the time of our lives.

To know that it will never happen again.

I clench my teeth even tighter, gripping the bottle's neck. They had always been there for me. Always. I remember my first change, after they found out. They sneaked down to Hogsmeade and stood outside the Shrieking Shack the entire night. When I had emerged the next day, exhausted and scruffy, the looks on their faces had terrified me. "I thought you'd killed yourself," Peter said, "or that you were trying to." But they'd endured it, just as I'd endured it. They'd helped me. A better set of friends I could never ask for.

I drink some more, wanting to forget it all. Who will be there for me now? Who will help me through my changes? Without Sirius to keep me in check, to push me around, who will help me? I only have Snape for that, and a potion. A fine replacement.

Keep drinking, I tell myself. Just forget it all.

It is so absurd. Why should I have outlived them? Why am I the last left standing? Why am I the lucky one, the one the Dark Lord didn't touch? I, the least deserving, the one who had to fight for his own existence once a month, the one who was just as likely to die from the pain of transforming as anything else?

It should never have been me.

I always liked Padfoot. He and I were never as close as he and James, but we had a strange sort of bond. We were both dogs, when we transformed. We both understood something of what we felt. The need to hunt, to run, to frolic. We were of a kind, perhaps.

Why did it have to be him?

I need more firewhisky. I drink it down in huge swallows, until my throat burns so much that I can't stand it any longer and I cough, spilling more of it on the porch railing and on my shirt.

Sometimes I try to console myself. At least he died doing something he enjoyed--trying to kill his cousin Bellatrix.

I put the bottle down on the railing harder than I mean to. I use my free hand to grip the railing, feeling the wood under my fingers, feeling as though I could squeeze just a little harder and it would shatter. And I think:

I'd like to kill Bellatrix.

Yes. It sounds fair, to me. I'd like to be let loose on a full moon, allowed to track her down as wolves to. I'd like to play with her first, hunting her, chasing her, until she's so terrified she can't even scream. Then I'd pounce on her, pinning her with my weight, and sink my jaws into her neck and eat her alive. I want to kill her.

More firewhisky. Need more firewhisky.

As I take another swallow, I indulge myself and try to play out a scene of hunting down Bellatrix. Would I let her know it was me hunting her? Would I even succeed? She was an agent of the Dark Lord, after all.

My blood runs hot at the thought of killing her. I want to hunt her.

When I realize it's not even the thought of revenge anymore, it's just an animalistic instinct, I drink down more of the firewhisky. Try to drown it out, Remus. Forget about it all. That's what I'd love to do.

It isn't fair that she killed Sirius. And it isn't fair that I should have to deal with it on my own. If James were here, we'd mourn together. If Peter were here, we'd mourn together. Instead, I just have to hold myself together, mourning inside, because the Order of the Phoenix needs to be strong right now. If we break every time we lose a member, we will surely be defeated.

I want to forget everything. I am standing on the porch of the house where Sirius grew up, and I want to forget that too. I want to forget the fact that I'm a monster. I want to forget the Marauder's Map, I want to forget Voldemort and Padfoot and Prongs and Wormtail. I want to forget all the kindness they gave me. I want to forget that there won't be any more again, ever, that if I ever forget my potion, or if something bad happens, I'll be rampant and they won't be able to stop me.

I drink more, taking greedy gulps of it. When I'm through with this round, I try to put the bottle back on the railing. It takes several tries to get it there, and it occurs to me that I must be fairly drunk by now.

Then why haven't I forgotten yet?

For a long time, I stare into the dark, obsessed with the thought of Bellatrix. I spend an hour imagining my long, sharp claws sinking into her skin, of my cursed teeth scraping her neck. I imagine the blood running and tasting the flesh, of reveling in a true hunt.

When I come back to myself, I drink some more. I look around, taking in the scents of the night air, the breeze, the smells of Muggle cars and plants and woodsmoke. I think of what a pleasant night it is, and think of similar nights, twenty years ago, spent strolling through Hogsmeade with them.

With James and Sirius and Peter.

I down what must be half the bottle in a single go. I put the bottle down and think of how nice it is out here, much better than inside, where in some places Sirius' scent still lingers, especially in his room--

I take another drink. Have to keep drinking. Have to forget it. I wonder how long it takes most people, or how much firewhisky, before they pass out. The bottle feels much lighter than it did when I had first discovered it--shouldn't I be in oblivion by now? Or is that another side to the wretchedness of being a werewolf--an immunity to alcohol?

The thought is heavy and staggering. I drink some more to chase it away.

It should never have been me.

Another drink.

I shouldn't be the last left standing.

Another drink.

I'd like to kill Bellatrix.

Another drink.

I want to forget.

Another drink. It's the last one in the bottle. I hold it to my mouth for a long time, letting the last few drops trickle into my mouth, as though they can accomplish what the rest of the bottle couldn't. I lower the bottle at last and look at it, astounded. I realize that I've drunk the whole thing just tonight. I'd found it stashed away in a cabinet somewhere--Moody's probably, or Arthur's, saving it for a special occasion--and shamelessly stole it.

Sirius would have been proud of me.

I go to take another drink before remembering that the bottle is empty. I want to hurl it away until it shatters, to take wolf form and let my actions speak for how I feel. I don't. I stand there on the front porch of the Black house, holding the empty firewhisky bottle in my hand.

Wishing I didn't have this burden. Wishing I could stop thinking. Wishing I had them back.

I sigh and decide it's probably time to go in now. I should throw the bottle away after all, so they don't see me carrying it around. I should find one of those Muggle candies Arthur likes to carry around, a breath mint, and eat dozens until my breath doesn't smell like firewhisky anymore. I should go back to pretending that I'm just fine. I sigh again and go to do just that.

But I take one step and feel my legs shaking, and stop, grabbing the porch railing. I realize that I can't walk enough to get to the front door, much less inside the house and to the kitchen. At the very least, I'd trip over everything, make Tonks look graceful, and wake Sirius' cursed mother-portrait.

I laugh suddenly, feeling ridiculous. A fine mess I'm in. Mourning because I'm alive. Trying to get drunk and failing. Wishing for things I can't have. Wanting to be the beast. "It must be the drink," I say aloud, looking at the bottle. Then, frowning, I wonder who I'm talking to.

I have to try to get inside. Moody's all right, and so is Dung. If I find them first, they'll get me to bed without letting Molly know. Molly would just kill me. Getting drunk like that with children in the house, she'd say. What kind of example are you setting for them?

So I let go of the railing but collapse almost immediately. I lie on my back, sprawled on the porch, and discover that I'm perfectly happy to stay there. I don't feel like getting up. I don't feel like pretending to be strong. James was strong. Sirius was strong. I'm just drunk.

At least, I think I'm drunk.

I think suddenly of what might happen tomorrow morning. Who would find me? I imagine it would be Molly, she was usually up first and checked the premises before the others woke. I think of her reaction when she finds me here, unconscious, with a bottle of firewhisky lying empty next to me. I think that she'd probably scream, startled, and then run shrieking for Moody or Dung or Arthur and get them to help me inside. And, once I was awake again, she'd demand to know what on earth I'd been thinking.

I start to laugh, weakly, helplessly. Molly would find it appalling. Sirius would have found it hilarious. The strong, staunch Professor Lupin, flat-on-his-ass drunk. It would certainly give her a shock. My laugh grows louder and more helpless, more hysterical, but mostly, it is the roaring laugh of a drunk man. I am shocked that no one inside hears me.

I laugh hard until I cry, and then I cry until, finally, I pass out.