A/N I own nothing, JK Rowling owns all canon characters, events, and universe.

My internet has been down again, which is why there has been such a long wait. If you've read this before please re-read as although the events which happened are similar, I've changed quite a few chunks of text. I'll stop saying that now. Rate and review please.

Breakfast, 1st November 1981

It was light by the time that the owls had come to the end of their silent journey from the bustling city of London to rural north Wales. One owl broke free from the parliament and headed further into the wilderness below, whilst the remainder carried on flying north-west. On it's left leg there was a tightly rolled newspaper, and on its right there was a small leather pouch. Fifty feet below, people were beginning their morning commute, unaware of the news being carried by the owls, and oblivious of the fact that owls even delivered news.

A few miles away from the owl, tucked away in dense woodland, the residents of a small cottage were just beginning to eat their breakfast. One of the men was clearly in his seventies, but the other was much harder to age. There was a youthful look about him, as if he was was not long out of school, but there were flecks of grey in his hair, too many scars on his body, and a hardness about his eyes that showed that he had seen too much in his life. Both of them sat at the scrubbed pine table, cradling cups of scalding hot tea, not entirely comfortable with each other, but not strangers either.

"Did you know that they're trying to discover the exact form of Legilimency that is practiced by Boggarts?" The younger of the two men asked without looking up from the milky depths of his tea, clearly facinated by the subject.

"I supposed the Ministry thinks that it's the best use of their time." The elder said, not impressed by the information. He chuckled, "Not that we should expect the Ministry to know much about anything these days with Bagnold in charge."

The younger reached out for a slice of toast, muttering, "Have they ever?" He bit into the dry toast and chewed thoughtfully.

There was another loud chuckle, "Don't be such a cynic Remus John Lupin, no wonder you've got so many grey hairs already! You're almost catching me up!" To prove his point he ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, which had receded so far up his forehead it was impossible to tell where his scalp began.

Remus laughed, slightly half-heartedly, and opened his mouth to respond but thought better of himself and filled it with another mouthful of toast. As he chewed his murky green eyes bored into the scrubbed pine tabletop, as if searching for the meaning of life written in the grains. When his mouth cleared he spoke again, his voice now levelled and measured, the vague awkwardness back in the air. "Do you still get the Prophet delivered?"

His question was answered with a nod, and the man reached into his left breast pocket for the pocket-watch held by a brass chain. Eight hands, of varying length and colours, were arranged on the face at different angles, pointing at some of the twelve moons around the edge of the watch. His brow wrinkled slightly as he deciphered it. "It's normally here by now."

Remus hummed in response, and stood up from the table, pacing over the flagstone floor towards the window, where he stood, gazing out at the damp field where the sun was just beginning to burn off the dew from the night before. An odd expression of reminiscence covered his face, not quite sadness, but not quite a smile either.

"You know, we hated it when you did that as a boy."

"I know. You thought I would never be able to go to Hogwarts." Remus said softly, not moving his gaze from the window.

"Hope, your mother, she... we just wanted to keep you safe, and I..." He trailed off for a while before taking a deep breath and continuing. "We didn't want you to... get into trouble."

Remus turned around, his face now broken into a clear smile, "And look what happened, I became a Marauder."

The relief on his father's face was clear, and a slight smile pulled at his lips as his sipped at his tea. "The tea's drinking temperature now. Were you expecting anything important in the Prophet?"

Remus joined his father back at the table, picking up his own mug and drinking from it, carefully at first, and then deeper. "No, not really. I just like to know what's going on. You never know when someone you know might be hurt. I don't know how you manage living out here, especially these days."

He wasn't sure whether he was referring to the death of his mother a year ago, or the war which was raging silently around them. Guilt twinged in his stomach, knowing that his father was only so alone and cut off from the world because he didn't visit as much as he knew he should. It had been difficult, with the work that he'd been doing, and he had made the effort to see him for Halloween, even if it had been because he'd not fancied spending the night on his own either.

"You get used to it, y'know? And you pop round from time to time."

"I'd come more often but... well, with the things the way that they are at the moment..." He sighed, wishing he could off load some of this thoughts onto his father.

An owl swooping silently through the window caused Remus to trail off, and automatically he stepped forward to take the newspaper it was carrying from its leg, but before he managed to touch the paper, it screeched and buried its beak into his hand, causing him to pull back and hiss in pain. "Little bugger!"

His father just laughed, and untied the newspaper that was being calmy proffered to him by the owl. He allowed the paper to unfurl on the table as he tucked a small bronze knut into the pouch on its other leg. The bird hooted gratefully and waddled its way across the table to start pecking at Remus's abandoned slice of toast. He turned the paper to his son, pointing out where the name 'Lyall Lupin' was scrawled in the top margin, and began to explain that he was the only one allowed to take it.

Remus wasn't listening. His eyes were fixed on the photograph beneath. A photograph of a place which was almost unrecognisable, even though it was one that he could call home.

The room suddenly fell silent and cold. With a shaking hand, Remus reached out for the paper, and took it from his father, spreading it out on the table. His eyes scanned over it, and with each word that they read the colour drained further from his face, and the tremors spread from his hands into his arms and legs, until he was clutching at the table to stay on his feet.

RAISE YOUR CUPS TO THE BOY WHO LIVED

In the late hours of last night, it is believed that the powerful dark wizard, commonly only known as You-Know-Who, was defeated in Godric's Hollow, Devon. Godric's Hollow is best known for being the home to many famous wizards, the most noteable of which being Godric Gryffindor, one of the four founders of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. It is not yet known what brought He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named to Godric's Hollow last night, although there are thoughts that it may have been related to his last victims, James and Lily Potter, both twenty one. The young couple were alone in their cottage with their one year old son Harry when they were attacked.

It still remains unclear what happened to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, although rumour states that the cause of his demise was the Potter's young son, Harry, who managed to survive and has been taken to safety. Investigations are still on going to determine the precise events which occurred–

He could read no more. His breath was coming in raggedy gasps. His brain was incapable to processing the thoughts that were pounding into him again and again, forcing the air out of his lungs like a rogue bludger. James and Lily. His last victims, James and Lily Potter. It didn't make sense, it wasn't possible. They were the ones who'd made the best out of their lives, they were the ones who had managed to get everything together. They were Lily and James. Remus's brain was reeling, and his body was refusing to cooperate with the basic functions of life.

At some point his knees must have finally given way, because he slowly became aware of Lyall kneeling beside him, touching his shoulder gently. Automatically the young man sought comfort, and he crawled his way forward to collapse on his father's shoulder, in a way that he hadn't done since he was six years old. He clung to him as if his life depended on it, and as if it would bring his friends back. One thought swum through his mind repeatedly, that they couldn't have gone because they had never said goodbye. James might have been an arrogant prick, but he'd always had his manners. He would have never left without saying goodbye.

Time slowed to a standstill in the small kitchen, existing of nothing but crushing thoughts, the feeling of rough tweed that was growing damper and damper, and the struggle for breath. Remus gasped, trying to force oxygen into his lungs, but only finding snot, tears, and pain. He wished that they could go back to that morning, that the owl had never managed to arrive, and they could have finished their day in blissful ignorance of everything. Cut off from the world surrounded by nothing by the wild Welsh countryside, without the war, without the moon, without anything.

But Remus couldn't do ignorance, it wasn't in his nature. His nature was to go looking for information, to go reaching for the newspaper first thing in the morning, to eagerly discover that the people who had given him the chance to feel human, were never going to smile at him again, patch him up, or turn his curse into something which bound them together. His nature was to be hurt.