A/N: Listened to the Lion King soundtrack while finishing this chapter. EPIC. I am SO sincerely sorry for taking this long to update, and I really want to thank everyone who has tolerated me and reminded me to get this damn thing up. You guys have been very helpful, and I love and appreciate you.

Disclaimer: Copyright Jo-Ro. And the Lovin' Spoonful.

Before: Remus is a werewolf (although, if you didn't know that, you shouldn't be reading anything other than Prisoner of Azkaban right now). Everyone heads home for the summer holidays. James, Remus, and Peter still refuse to see/speak to Sirius after his Whomping Willow prank on Snape. Lily's friendship with Snape ends, just as she reboots her friendship with James.

Concerning Geography: I do, in fact, own a map and realize where Manchester is, and the geographical errors in this chapter are primarily a result of my hazy memory of the first chapter of book one (forgetting Hagrid's "Bristol" reference). If I get around to it, I might edit later on, but I have not the time nor energy at the moment, and I must beg your forgiveness in the mean time.

Chapter 24- "Contra Mundum"

Or

"Summer in the City"

Once upon a time, there was a young boy, five years old and happy. His name was Remus Lupin.

In those days, Remus was a spirited child. His mother, a muggle, loved her son very much, though his frequent outbursts of accidental magic always came as something of a shock. His father, a wizard, doted upon him.

He grew up near Rochdale and easily made friends with the other magic children in his area. He enjoyed the outdoors; he liked the sea and the sun and the wind. He laughed easily and frequently; he was clever, reading early and demonstrating considerable potential in magic.

Remus was unspoiled, polite, and talkative. There was, Mary Lupin maintained, something about her little boy that drew people towards him—something special.

But one night, when Remus John Lupin was five years old, when he was still young and contented, when he remained unaware of the shadows of the world, when he was mischievous and carefree, when the name Voldemort was nothing more than a whisper, uttered only in the darkest corners of wizarding England—one night, the course of Remus Lupin's promising life was changed.

As long as he lived, Remus remembered the first part of that evening in great detail. He recalled with horrific clarity the feel of grass on his bare legs, the warm summer air, the gentle crunch of leaves underneath his sandals as he walked through the park. He remembered the first twinge of alien fear (for very few things scared him back then) at an unfamiliar, out of place sound, somewhere amongst the trees.

He remembered the eyes—the yellow, hateful eyes that stared him down, elected him, unblinking and terrifying.

The murmur of the wind, the swing in the park that squeaked as it swayed, a brief, easily repressed pang of guilt with the knowledge that he was disobeying his father's explicit order, faint and distant voices as someone on the block switched on a radio...

And then blood.

Of the second part of that evening, Remus remembered very little.

The worst were the mornings.

Every inch of his body burned and ached; blood obscured his vision in one eye; the other was swollen and sore. He could feel each of his bones—each wracked with a unique pain, each rattling with the quick, uneven beating of his heart. He gasped for air.

It occurred to him that he was no longer in wolf form. He was Remus again. But all that it really meant was that he could now properly understand the physical agony of his transformation, and no amount of anxiety or procrastination could delay that inevitable truth.

Morning always came.

"Get up, Freak," a voice echoed in his brain, until Remus realized that the voice came from across his cold, dark cell. A beam of light and a blurry shape indicated that the magically reinforced door to the room had been opened. "I said get up!" the voice repeated, louder... it was that Healer, the one who had shoved him in here the night before, berating with unmasked malice the St. Mungo's policy of anonymously accepting any werewolf who volunteered himself to be locked up for the full moon. Remus's room was roughly the size of two small broom cupboards. "We take you in for the night," barked the Healer—a broad-shouldered, brutish-faced wizard with all the bedside manner of a bloodhound. "There's no guarantee for the rest of the day. So get up."

"I—c-can't," gasped Remus, sitting up with great difficulty. "I th-think my leg's... broken."

"Then you can go and wait for a bed like everyone else," snapped the wizard.

"I c-can't m-move," Remus croaked—move? He could scarcely breathe! The Healer was silent for a minute, and then let out a sound of extreme irritation.

"Fine. I'll try to find someone who doesn't mind touching vermin like you."

The door closed. The light vanished. Remus felt one of his arms supporting him weaken, and—so he would not collapse—the young lycanthrope lay back down on the cement floor. The burning of his skin, he realized, was the result of his sweat, which was dripping over onto his fresh, open cuts. But he was too weak to attempt anything about that just now. So, cold, naked, and broken, he waited for someone to return.

The worst were the mornings.

(Two Weeks Later)

Remus made a lot of noise about coming out of his bedroom, giving his mother just enough time to empty her glass and make her way over to the kitchen sink, where she hastily rinsed it out under the tap. Still, the faint alcoholic scent lingered in the air when Remus entered the room, and both mother and son knew. Perhaps worse was the fact that both knew that the other knew, and neither would say anything about it.

Remus sat down at the kitchen table while Mrs. Lupin finished cleaning the glass, and when she turned around to face him, she was smiling weakly.

"Hello, dear," she greeted, faking normality. "Sleep well?"

It was just after eleven, and Remus had been awake for hours, but he saw no need to enlighten her on this matter. "Yeah," he lied. "You?"

"Oh, well enough," Mrs. Lupin replied, sitting down in her chair at the head of the small, rectangular table. "You slept in this morning. You're not starting to... to feel it already?"

"No. I was up late doing my summer homework."

"I see." An awkward pause, and then: "Would you like some tea, dear?"

"I'll get it." Remus rose abruptly to fix the tea.

Mary Lupin was a small, thin woman, quite pale, with wispy brown hair and large grey eyes, like Remus's. She had a quiet, unassuming demeanor and a soft voice. Life had aged her beyond her thirty-eight years, and deep lines ran beneath her eyes and around her mouth. But there remained something unshakably pretty in her, despite her weary air and the increasing white streaks that she combated with dye in her hair.

"Do you have any plans for today?" she asked, nervously fidgeting with a muggle newspaper left on the table. The Lupins had lived in a muggle neighborhood for nearly eleven years, since Remus's affliction complicated life among magic folk. A muggle herself, Mrs. Lupin was perhaps the only one pleased by this aspect of the situation, and—though she never said it—Remus thought it was the only aspect of the situation that comforted her at all.

"I'm going to see James this afternoon," said Remus.

"Oh, yes, you told me." He had... three or four times. "Say 'hello' for me, will you?"

"Sure."

"You know... you could bring your friends over here, if you like," Mrs. Lupin continued. "You never do, but it would be no trouble. And I'll be at work this afternoon, so you needn't worry about your old muggle mother embarrassing you..." She turned in her chair to smile at the joke, and Remus reciprocated half-heartedly.

"James is just getting back from the country," Remus told her. "He'll probably just want to laze around, y'know?"

"Oh." She nodded slowly. "I see." The tea kettle began to whistle. "No leaves, I'm afraid, dear; you'll have to use a teabag." Wordlessly, Remus prepared the tea, and Mrs. Lupin continued: "Of course, our house isn't so very grand as the Potters'..."

"Mum..."

"No, I understand. I had a friend like that in school: Tracy Minelow. Her father owned half the town, you know. We always wanted to stay at her house." Mrs. Lupin lowered her eyes and added: "Of course, I haven't seen Tracy since I married your father."

Remus sat back down at the table. "Does she still live nearby?"

"Oh, no, she's in London by now, I think. Married a very rich gentleman years and years ago."

"You should... you should go and see her sometime," said Remus encouragingly. "Or any of your old friends. Just because dad's a wizard doesn't mean you're not allowed to have muggle friends..."

"No, no. I wouldn't have anything in common with the girls these days. Besides..." Mrs. Lupin stood and leaned over to kiss her son's brown hair. "I have everything I could need right here." She straightened up. "I had better change for work."

Remus watched her as she started to leave. "Mum..."

She paused near the corridor. "Yes, dear?"

But he changed his mind. "I—I won't be out late."

Mrs. Lupin nodded. "Yes, dear."

The whiskey smell was all but gone, and Remus took a sip of tea.

You are cordially invited to celebrate the wedding of

Petunia Elaine Evans

And

Vernon Walker Dursley

On Saturday

July the Twenty-Fifth

Nineteen Hundred and Seventy-Six

3 o'clock p.m.

St. George's Church

Chorley, Lancashire

The words, delicately printed on elegant white paper, glared menacingly up at Lily as she reread them for what must have been the fiftieth time. Try as she might, the seventeen-year-old could not muster up anything but dread for the happy event.

"Aren't the invitations lovely?" crooned Nancy Wiggins, sitting on the parlor sofa beside Lily. Clearly, Nancy had helped herself to the champagne at the bar, or she would never have been so cordial with Petunia's "freak" sister. Nancy, like Lily, was one of Petunia Soon-to-be-Dursley's bridesmaids, and her presence was, like Lily's, required there today, as Petunia hosted something called a "Bridal Luncheon."

Lily smiled falsely and nodded. "Oh, yes, lovely."

"Petunia has such taste," Nancy continued, presumably with regard to the invitations. "Of course, you know all about that, growing up with her and what-not..." (She sounded downright envious), "but the wedding—oh, the wedding will be just beautiful. The flowers..."

"Roses for the bride, miniatures for the bridesmaids," Lily interrupted, before she could help herself. "Pink roses and white petunias for the church, and white rose boutonnieres for the groomsmen. Yes, I know. Nancy, there isn't a single thing you could tell me about this wedding that I don't already know."

"Oh, I'm sure that's true," said Nancy, unperturbed. "But all the same, it will be lovely, won't it? Have you seen the dress you'll be wearing?"

"Several times."

"Such a lovely shade, don't you think? Petunia has such taste..."

And she was off again, praising Petunia's standards of elegance and refusal to let money stand in her way when planning the perfect wedding... Lily had never come so close to contemplating suicide.

The Evans' sitting room was crowded at the moment. Besides Lily and Nancy, there were the other bridesmaids (Yvonne St. Clair and Marjorie Dursley), as well as Lily's mother, a handful of female relatives, and more than a dozen of Petunia's "closest friends," whom Lily had never met before. Mrs. Dursley—a fleshy, pug-nosed woman of about fifty and the groom's distinguished mother—was also in attendance, with four or five of her friends, several of them eying everything in the Evans' house with varying degrees of aversion.

Lily wondered vaguely if the Ministry would snap her wand should she hex anyone...

Since Lily's return from school just over two weeks prior, almost every moment had been occupied by Petunia and Petunia's wedding. The elder Evans daughter's flat lease had run up at the beginning of June and, since she would be marrying Vernon in July, Mrs. Evans concluded it made most sense for Petunia to return home in the intermediate months before the wedding. Since the house in Surrey that the Dursley's had purchased for their married life was as of yet unready for inhabitance, Petunia agreed. It would be convenient to prepare for the wedding from home, even if it meant living with The Freak. Unfortunately for Lily, Mrs. Evans, Ira the cat, and anyone who happened upon the Evans house at that time, Petunia's bridal mania was far-reaching and unstoppable.

She removed all bread from the household and enforced (or tried to enforce) a no-sugar diet for all of her bridesmaids. The icebox was now stocked with lettuce and an unpleasant looking brown soupy concoction that came in a bottle labeled Protein Power! Lily very quickly learned that the reason her mother had taken to attending Church up the road every morning was the visit to the corner bakery that it afforded her on the way home.

Edie Evans—Lily decided—was either a saint, or else she was simply so pleased to see her daughter getting married that she could tolerate the insanity it spawned.

"I know she's being difficult," Mrs. Evans consoled Lily one morning at breakfast; "But it's her wedding. We just have to be patient."

But Mrs. Evans seemed to possess an abnormal amount of patience, and Lily did not. If Lily had not known that Petunia would never intentionally risk her wedding photos, she might even have suspected that her sister had selected pale pink for the bridesmaids' dresses just to clash with Lily's red hair.

Still, Petunia was Lily's sister, and the younger girl thought she would have been able to put up with it all, were it not for everyone else involved with the wedding.

First, there was Vernon Dursley, whom Lily had honestly and truly tried to like, failing miserably.

He was a tall man, with dark hair, a mustache, and broad-shoulders. He was built thick and boasted an excellent boxing record from his school days. After his sending up, Vernon had gone to work for a company that made drills, a connection made through his wealthy, nose-in-the-air parents. He wore expensive, if tasteless, clothes and drove a nice car. He had put a pretty ring on Petunia's finger, and never failed to draw attention to his own superior means when in the Evans house.

Usually, Lily wanted to punch him.

The other bridesmaids, Yvonne, Nancy, and Marge, were no great comfort to Lily either. Yvonne and Nancy had gone to school with Petunia, and Lily had known the both of them for a long time. In their secondary school days, Petunia—the tallest, prettiest, and first to develop a figure among the three—was the de facto leader, with Nancy her faithful second-in-command, and Yvonne the slightly plump minion.

But, Lily noticed, there seemed to have been a change in power since those days. Yvonne was now some twenty pounds lighter and—perhaps by no great coincidence—the maid of honor.

"Thank God Yvonne's lost all that weight," was one of Nancy's many observations to Lily that afternoon, as the maid of honor in question slipped suspiciously to the loo after tea. "She'd look positively ridiculous next to a slim thing like Petty if she hadn't." When Yvonne returned, flush-faced, some ten minutes later, Lily felt as though she were going to be ill herself.

Aside from her being vapid, self-absorbed, and in an unnatural awe of Petunia, Lily bore Nancy no ill-will. She didn't even dislike Yvonne so very much, though Yvonne certainly loathed Lily enough. That, she presumed, was largely due to Petunia's influence.

"It's too bad Petty's sister is a ginger," Yvonne noted during one of Petunia's dress-fittings, while Lily sat quite nearby. "It risks the entire look of the wedding photos."

But no one in their right mind could argue that Lily was any more of a threat to the "look of the wedding photos" than Marge Dursley.

Marge was a shorter, thicker version of her brother. The bridesmaid's dress was not flattering for her figure, to be sure, but with the help of a corset and the mandatory diet, Petunia was confident that Marge wouldn't stand out too much by the wedding day. However, Nancy confidentially whispered to Lily that, a month ago, Petunia had planned on expelling Marge from the wedding party if she didn't slim down. It seemed that the bridesmaid diet was mostly for Marge's "benefit."

Lily might have felt sorry for the woman, except that Marge was quite possibly the least likeable person she had ever encountered—including her brother.

"You're Petunia's sister, are you?" Marge grunted, on their first meeting. Lily smiled mechanically and nodded.

"That's right. Lily."

Marge did not take the offered hand—evidently, she had heard that there was something wrong with Lily, too. "Where have you been, then?"

"I've been away at school."

"Oh? Where?"

"Saint Elizabeth's," replied Lily; that was what they typically told people.

Marge snorted. "That's R.C., is it?"

Lily wasn't sure, but she nodded anyway, and Marge looked even more displeased. "Never approved of those types of institutions," she said with a sniff. "A regular breeding ground for sapphists and freaks."

And that was when Lily decided that she did not like Marjorie Dursley.

"You know, if you don't pick exactly the right pink, the effect is all wrong," Nancy continued to chatter on, while Lily nodded mutely in reply, "but Petunia chose perfectly, in my opinion. And we're to have our nails done the afternoon before, you know, and..."

"Lily, dear," asked Mrs. Evans, mercifully appearing, as though she had sensed her daughter's distress at the hands of Nancy Wiggins, "will you give me a hand in the kitchen?"

Lily practically jumped to her feet. "Yes, Mum. Sorry, Nancy—got to run."

She hurriedly followed her mother away from the party and into the kitchen, where Mrs. Evans began to prepare a new pot of tea.

Edie Evans was petite, with short, strawberry hair, which might have been Petunia's natural color, if peroxide had not interfered for the last six or so years. She had lovely blue eyes, and a warm, smiling face, lined by more than fifty years on the earth, to say nothing of two daughters.

"There are more teacakes in the icebox, Lily," said a distracted Mrs. Evans, preparing the teapot. "Get them, won't you?"

"Why does Marge have to be in the wedding?" Lily whined, unhappily complying with her mother's request. It was a stupid complaint, but all of the important things were too serious to moan about. "The woman's an oaf."

"Lily."

"Mum, it's true. She's rude, she's mean, and she smells like wet dog."

"Lily, really. That's not how I taught you to behave," Mrs. Evans scolded. "Marge will be part of the family soon."

"I see," muttered Lily; she set the tray of teacakes onto the counter and then began to fidget with a bouquet of daisies near the tap. "So you're not losing a daughter, you're gaining the Dursleys."

"Lily."

"What?"

Mrs. Evans sighed. She leaned over the counter, and the image (of her in a sophisticated olive dress and pearls, assuming such a casual posture) was oddly incongruous. "I won't pretend that I don't think that, as far as gaining sons and daughters goes, Mr. and Mrs. Dursley might have the better end of the bargain..."

Lily smirked.

"...But Petunia loves Vernon very much, and he loves her. You haven't been here, Lily. You haven't seen them together as much as I have, and you haven't seen them when things are normal."

"What does that mean?" Lily wanted to know.

"Everything goes a bit mad just before a wedding," said the other. "If a couple survives that, they can survive most things, I think, as long as they take to it with the same amount of determination."

"Petunia was very determined about her centerpieces," Lily allowed humorously. Mrs. Evans smiled. She straightened up, walking around the counter and placing an arm around her daughter's shoulder.

"It will all be over in a few weeks, love. Everything will be back to normal."

Lily sighed. "Will we have to spend Christmas with the Dursleys?"

Mrs. Evans frowned, as though the idea only just occurred to her. "Certainly not every year..."

The kitchen door swung open, admitting the bride herself.

"Is that tea ready?" Petunia asked anxiously.

"It's just tea," Lily pointed out.

Petunia scowled. "Mrs. Clayton is getting restless, and I said it would only be a minute."

"Well, if Mrs. Clayton says so, then..."

"Don't belittle my friends, freak, just because..."

"Girls," interrupted their mother. "Both of you, really. Lily, you're not to belittle anything; Petunia, you are not to call your sister a 'freak,' do you hear me?"

"Yes," chorused both daughters bitterly.

"Good." Mrs. Evans became businesslike, assembling the tea tray and picking it up. "The tea's ready. Bring the cakes, Lily."

Lily, somewhat grudgingly, obeyed, picking up the tray and following her mother back into the sitting room. She placed it on a table and made immediately for her room, with the intention of checking to see if Marlene had replied to her last letter.

"Lily," reprimanded her mother, stopping her near the door. "No escapes. This is your sister's party, and you're a bridesmaid."

"I'll be right back," Lily promised. "I'm just going to see if Marlene's written me. Please?"

Mrs. Evans deliberated and then nodded. "Five minutes."

"Ten?"

"Five."

"Seven."

"Five."

Lily pouted. "You don't understand how this bargaining thing is supposed to work, do you, Mum?"

"Five minutes," repeated her mother; she leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. "It's your sister's day today."

Lily nodded. "I'll be along in a bit."

The five minute guarantee was not as strict as her mother made it out to be, as some guest or other would undoubtedly have Mrs. Evans's attention at any moment, distracting her from her daughter's absence for at least twenty minutes. Nonetheless, Lily wanted to enjoy every second of the free time that she had.

Lily's owl, Niko, had not returned when she entered the room. However, an unfamiliar eagle owl perched expectantly upon the sill. A parchment envelope lay on the window seat in front of the bird. Lily hurried to her desk and grabbed a bag of owl treats from a drawer, tossing a few of these to the owl and then picking up her letter.

While the owl (and it was a rather beautiful creature, with shiny feathers and golden eyes) ate, Lily opened the envelope and withdrew two pages of parchment. They were dated for the day before, and Lily didn't need to skip to the end to learn the identity of the author. That was evident from the opening.

Dear Snaps,

This—the owl—is Elizabeth the Second, named for the lady on the muggle money. My old owl has gone into retirement after an unfortunate run in with my Gran's cat Bertram. It seems that was one cat attack too many, and he now refuses to carry mail.

I'm up North with my family at the moment, but we're all headed back to Manchester tomorrow, which will be a relief. Pete's here, too, irreparably damaging my bedroom ceiling with a Quaffle, at the moment (he says "hi"), but even still, there's not much to do in Godric's Hallow. He—Pete, that is—took his apparition test on Wednesday. Passed without Felix Felicis and everything...

I've started Professor McGonagall's Transfiguration essay twice now and have only written one sentence. So much for not procrastinating. I'll just do it on the train, like always.

Let's see… what else is going on here? Oh, Pete and I saw the Fresh Bloods play in Spain on Tuesday. My cousin Sam got us tickets at the last minute; it was mad, but brilliant, too. Calvin Shrewt was piss drunk, but he's a god on the guitar. I caught a drumstick, but I gave it to Petey (His Royal Highness Peter Pettigrew formally requests that I stop calling him "Petey," so be sure to call him that next time you use him). The Ministry of Merpeople play in London in August, and I hope Sam comes through for that, too. Hopefully with a little more than twenty minutes advance notice... long story, I'll tell you when I see you.

Which reminds me—since Petey didn't crash and burn on his apparition test, we should meet up in Diagon Alley or something. Have I mentioned how utterly bored I am? Summer holidays didn't used to be this dull, did they? As much as I loathe the prospect of hastening my entrance to the Dementor-esque soul-sucking so-called "Real World," I sort of which school would start again already.

Maybe it's just Godric's Hallow.

Anyway, I'm hoping to see the Wasps play Puddlemore next week. In the summer, time is measured in Quidditch matches attended, I think.

Oh, Remus is coming up to see me tomorrow. You should write to him. He's miserable, and I'm not sure if it's because his Furry Little Problem is acting up or something more serious. You should write him and tell him to get out of the house. He won't listen to me, and I think he's angry that I sent a singing howler. Don't see what he was so miffed about—I didn't use my voice or anything, and the charm produced a really lovely soprano.

How is your summer going? I hope you're not wallowing or anything.

Merlin—do you realize its only been two weeks since school ended? Have you seen anything of You-Know-Who? Not Voldemort. Snape. He lives near you, isn't that right?

Petey thinks I shouldn't ask because it's a sore subject. As if "tact" has ever been my style.

Merlin.

At any rate, I'd better be off now. Mum wants Petey and me to take some shortbread to old Mrs. Bagshot up the road, and she (Mum) is positively having kittens over the fact that I didn't do it this morning like I may or may not have promised. So, I'm off. Have a good week—don't do anything I wouldn't, and if you do, take pictures.

Cheers,

James Potter

Elizabeth the Second was out the window by the time Lily had finished James's letter. The witch almost laughed out loud at the mental image of James and Peter standing on "Old Mrs. Bagshot's" doorstep with a plate of shortbread, and she also found herself inexplicably pleased by the vague possibility of "meeting up with" James (and Peter) in Diagon Alley sometime. Perhaps it was the fact that she was isolated in the muggle world, but the prospect excited her more than she cared to explain.

Mrs. Evans had yet to knock on her door, and so Lily sat down on her bed, James's letter in hand. With a background soundtrack of Petunia's distant oration on the wedding dance, Lily stretched out on her yellow blankets and reread the untidily penned page and a half until her mother's voice could be heard from the corridor, and Lily was compelled to return to the party.

Up until now, James had actually been looking forward to his family's return to the Manchester house. Godric's Hallow was so small and out of the way that he typically grew a little bored after a few days there. Even with Peter staying, James had been anxious to return to the on-the-grid house where he had spent most of his non-Hogwarts life. But now, he stood in the mammoth entrance hall, staring around the art-strewn walls, great staircase, marble floors, and ornamented ceiling, and he wished the Potters had not come home at all.

Almost exactly a year before, Sirius had shown up on that very doorstep in the middle of the night, soaking and anxious and homeless...

"Your bags aren't going to carry themselves upstairs, James," Grace Potter noted, kissing her son's cheek as she passed. She noticed his unhappy expression and asked more seriously: "What's wrong, dear?"

James shook himself. "Nothing." He drew his wand and, grinning, added: "And you're wrong, you know."

"Wrong?"

"Mmm." He flicked his wand and the two leather suitcases bearing his initials rose several feet in the air, floating expeditiously towards the main staircase. "The suitcases will carry themselves upstairs."

"Oh, you're just too funny," said Mrs. Potter sarcastically. "Come along—I'm starving. We'll have tea."

"And by 'tea' you mean..."

"I think I left some biscuits in a jar somewhere... and there's definitely some Honeyduke's Best in the cupboard."

James smirked. "Sounds like a plan."

In the end, all they could scrounge up was the chocolate. Mrs. Potter sent the house elves away and prepared the tea, before sitting down at the kitchen counter with her son.

"The house seems so empty without Sirius" she observed softly. "Even before he lived here, he came by so often he might as well have..."

"I don't want to talk about him," James declared.

"Dear," replied his mother wryly, "it's not as though he died."

"He might as well have," said the other. "Anyway, I don't want to talk about it." James bit viciously into a square of chocolate.

"Everyone makes mistakes, James," Mrs. Potter continued, ignoring her son's request. "Merlin knows you have."

"Please. I've never done anything like what Sirius did... and if I had, you wouldn't be letting it go with a comforting 'everybody makes mistakes.'"

The witch sighed heavily. "No, I don't suppose so, but—James, Sirius hasn't had all of the benefits—the advantages that you have."

"Careful, Mum, you sound like a pureblood."

"Well, I am one. Loath as I am to admit it, I was born a pureblood... into the purest of pureblood families." She paused, and then continued significantly: "Just like Sirius."

"I see," replied James. "So when you were a sixth year, you tried to kill someone, did you?"

"He didn't mean to..."

"Like hell he didn't."

"Language, James."

The wizard rolled his eyes and took another bite of chocolate. "Mum, I don't want to talk about Sirius. He's... gone. Okay?"

"He's not gone," retorted the mother. "He's been your best mate since you were eleven-years-old. You've gone through all of Hogwarts together, and I saw the way you looked when you came in here today. You felt exactly what I felt—you probably felt it even more acutely. Like Sirius is missing..."

"Yeah. Just imagine," grumbled James; "actually having some food in the pantry and a little peace and quiet. To say nothing of your liquor cabinet..."

"Oh, I'm sure you'll raid the liquor cabinet just fine without Sirius."

James snorted. "Y'know, Mum, some mothers actually discourage their seventeen-year-old sons from drinking."

Mrs. Potter shrugged. "What's the point? You always do exactly as you like." She leaned over the marble kitchen counter. "It's a good thing you're sensible, James. Other wizards with that stubbornness would get themselves into trouble."

"And I still don't want to talk about Sirius."

"Well, you can't always have things the way you want," said Mrs. Potter. "The point, James, is that I know you're not perfect. You certainly get into trouble a great deal. Merlin knows I've become used to the owls from Minerva saying you were sent to the Headmaster's office for setting fire to the drapes or bewitching the Slytherin taps..." James grinned a little. "...But you're a brilliant young wizard, I think. And I think that for all of your... pranks, you've really got a good head on your shoulders after all. You always... you always know your limit."

"Well, you're my mum—you have to say that," said her son lightly.

Mrs. Potter smiled. "James, when I said Sirius hasn't had all the advantages that you have, I meant that he doesn't always have that ability... to know his limit. And you and Peter and Remus have always been able to help him with that. You've stopped him from spiraling out of control."

James grouchily took a sip of tea. "What makes you the expert on my best mate, Mum?"

Mrs. Potter looked down at her aged hands, and when she spoke, it was with a certain delicacy: "I understand Sirius... you know what my family was like, dear. Purest of purebloods... and the need to rebel... sometimes, you're so preoccupied with resenting where you came from that you forget why you're different from them. You need someone to—to ground you." She smiled. "I had your father..."

"And you almost wouldn't marry him because he was a pureblood, and you thought it wouldn't bother your parents enough," James finished, smirking. "I've heard that story a hundred times."

"Well, it's true," said Mrs. Potter, head high. "I told him I could promise to stay with him forever, and that maybe—just maybe—somewhere down the road, I wouldn't object to a child or two." She laughed at the recollection, her hazel eyes dancing. "But I would not become my mother. I would not be one of those aristocratic old pureblood witches in a big house with a hundred house elves, sitting around arranging marriages and only using magic for domestic spells or glamour charms... if they can be bothered to do even that by themselves."

James shook his head. "So what changed your mind?"

"Nothing!" protested his mother, as though offended. "I've always been resolute about not becoming like that, about my career, and the house elves—especially the house elves. But, in the end, your father had an argument for matrimony that could not be overcome."

"Do I want to know?"

"He said," Mrs. Potter went on, "that the only way to get rid of my pureblood name, 'Dearborn,' was to change it up for another."

"And that worked?"

"Well..." She smirked. "I think I was a little disposed towards him anyway. Oh, and there was the ring..." Habitually, she toyed with diamond crusted, white gold band on her left hand. "But oh, did we fight about it. We broke it off three times before we got it right. I was just so terrified of becoming my mother."

"Well, having met Gran, I understand exactly what you mean," remarked James. "Although, you do have the big old house. How do you feel about that, Mrs. Potter?"

"Oh, I don't know." She drummed her fingers absently against the counter. "I would've preferred something smaller—more practical. But it is a beautiful home, isn't it? I suppose I decided that I wouldn't change myself just because I was living in the Potter family house. I could still be Grace—simple, plain old Grace. And ultimately, I realized I loved Alex more than I loved London." She had a far off look on her long, thin face, as though her mind was occupied in nostalgia of which James knew nothing. Then, she returned her eyes to her son and straightened up. "So, James, be sure you marry a nice muggle girl. That would royally irritate your father..."

"You're a bad influence on me, Mum."

"It's the reverse, most likely, dear." She finished her tea and unwrapped a bar of chocolate. "And speaking of the girl you're going to marry..."

"Uh-oh."

"How are things progressing on that front?" Mrs. Potter wanted to know. She had a puckish grin on her reddened lips as she rested her chin in the palm of her hand. "You didn't mention any girls in particular, but I can never be sure with you..."

"Well, there were no girls in particular." He took a larger bite of chocolate.

"Solitary and celibate for a whole year? Are you certain you're my son?"

James's expression was pained. "Never say anything like that again please, Mum. You're scarring me." She merely laughed, and he continued: "I had a date here and there—nothing important, though."

"I see. And what of that girl that Sirius—that is, He Who Must Not Be Named, always teased you about?"

James rolled his eyes. "That was centuries ago."

"Given up, have you?"

"It's not like that."

"Then how is it?"

The wizard shifted uncomfortably on his kitchen stool. "It's just... different."

"Different?" echoed Mrs. Potter. "Well, now that you've made it so clear..."

"Mum, do we have to have this conversation now? Or ever?"

For a woman of nearly seventy, Mrs. Potter managed a rather convincing show of childishness. She pouted and noted: "You used to talk about things with me, James."

"No, you used to force me to talk about things with you," her son corrected.

"An ability I seem to have lost with age."

"It happens."

She smiled. They sat in silence for a little while, finishing their chocolate, before Mrs. Potter spoke up again. "James," she began, eyes downcast once more. "I hope that you know—I hope that you understand that... that no matter what happens—your father and I will still love you very, very much."

"Don't worry, Mum," replied James seriously. "I'm not pregnant."

Mrs. Potter playfully slapped his hand, resting on the countertop. "My son is a prat," she announced. "I mean it, James."

"I know you do... I just have no idea why you felt the need to bring it into the dialogue."

But his mother only smiled softly and finished her tea.

"What time are the boys coming over?"

"In about an hour."

"I suppose you'll want real food, then," sighed Mrs. Potter. "I'll call Twitchet. Merlin knows you never eat anything I cook."

"That's because you're a rubbish cook."

Mrs. Potter glared. "Go upstairs and have a shower before your friend arrive. You smell awful." She slid off the stool and moved around towards the stove, kissing her son on the cheek as she passed. James also got to his feet and started for the door. "And make sure you unpack—I don't want you making poor Peter do it for you!"

"But he's always so willing..."

"James Alexander Potter..."

"Alright, alright..."

"'Morning, Tom," mumbled Sirius, not removing his sun-glasses even in the moderate light of the Leaky Cauldron. The innkeeper Tom smirked, as the younger wizard stepped behind the bar and grabbed a brown apron from a hook.

"Took your work home with you last night, did yeah?" Tom asked knowingly. Sirius shrugged.

"I'm fine. 'Won't be more than two people in here before noon. Anything to report?"

"Nah. Slow night. People don't get out as much as they used to these days."

Sirius only nodded and then stiffly picked up a rag to wipe off the bar.

Tom watched his young new employee. "I've got something for that headache of yours," he said, clapping Sirius on the shoulder roughly. "An' don't you worry about being nice to the customers before luncheon—anyone who steps into a pub on a Monday morning should know what they're likely to get."

Sirius grinned weakly. "Thanks."

"'Course."

Tom disappeared into the back, and Sirius slouched against the bar, pulling off his sunglasses so that he could rub his eyes. The bell over the door rang, as a few young witches entered the pub. They smiled flirtatiously at Sirius when they passed, but did not stop, moving instead towards the back entrance to Diagon Alley. Most people that entered the Leaky Cauldron—especially this early—did the same.

Half an hour passed before anyone seeking Sirius's services entered the pub, and even then, it was only a couple who had stayed in the inn and required breakfast. He sent the order through to the kitchen and then sat down on a stool behind the bar.

Five hours and twenty-seven minutes remained in his shift, but who was counting?

The door opened again, admitting another witch, alone this time. She wore expensive violet robes, but with long, platinum hair, immaculate white skin, and large grey eyes, the woman would have been beautiful in rags. Sirius started at the sight of her—but not because she was lovely. Because she was family.

The witch's eyes landed on Sirius almost immediately after her entrance into the pub; she was as surprised to see him as he was her, but she looked away quickly and, without a word, moved towards the door to Diagon Alley. She had almost reached the back room when Sirius spoke up.

"I heard you're getting married."

Narcissa Black stopped walking. She kept her back to her cousin for a few seconds and then slowly turned to face him. "That's right," she replied with dignity. "I heard Uncle Alphard left you all his gold."

Sirius nodded. "Most of it."

"Madam blasted him off the family tree," said Narcissa. Her voice was strange—forceful and a bit defiant. "Just like you, when you left."

"And Meda," added Sirius mercilessly. Narcissa flinched.

"Yes. And her," she agreed. They were both quiet, and then Narcissa, with a fearful glance at the others in the pub, said: "I'd better go. And you had better quit. If Bella saw you..."

"It's not too late," Sirius interrupted. "It isn't too late for you, Cissy."

Narcissa took one step forward and opened her mouth to say something. For a moment, there was emotion in her eyes and sincerity in her expression. And then she froze up again. "It's too late for you, Sirius. Trust me. I know."

"Because of people like Bella—and your fiancé... Malfoy."

Narcissa did not reply. "It will all be over soon," she said instead. "I hope you survive, but... it doesn't seem likely." She turned to leave.

"You're wrong," said Sirius after her. "It's not almost over. It's just starting."

But his cousin said nothing; she hurried out through the back. Sirius sat down behind the bar again.

Five hours and twenty-four minutes remained in his shift.

By two o'clock, the last of the guests had left, and Lily could not have been more grateful. Even Petunia seemed grateful to have the house returned to near normality, as she collapsed on the sofa, kicking off her heels and throwing her head back. Lily fell onto a chair nearby.

"Tired?"

Petunia looked up, startled. "Yes." She adjusted her posture and then got to her feet, heading for the door.

"Would it really kill you to spend five minutes in the same room with me?" snapped Lily.

Petunia hesitated. "It might," she muttered at length, before hastening into the kitchen.

Lily sighed heavily. She began to follow, but, halfway there, tripped over one of Petunia's shoes and stubbed her toe on an end table.

"Fuck." She fell onto the couch, wincing and rubbing the offended toe sourly. "Bloody Merlin," the witch muttered. "I need to get out of here."

Mrs. Potter greeted Remus with a large smile as she stepped aside to admit him into the foyer.

"Hello, dear," she said, "James is upstairs, but he'll be down in a..."

"Hullo, mate," interrupted the voice of the very wizard in question. He appeared at the top of the great staircase and hurried down, a grin on his face. "How've you been?"

"Alright, I suppose," replied Remus, a bit awkwardly. He shoved his hands in his pockets and took in the Potters' extensive vestibule for the first time since the previous summer. It seemed bigger. "How was the country, then?"

"Lovely," said Mrs. Potter, closing the door behind their guest.

"Boring," said James.

"Don't be contrary."

"I'm not."

Mrs. Potter smiled and shook her head. There was a knock on the door, however, before she could make another retort, and James sidestepped both his mother and his friend to open the door for Peter.

"'Lo, Pete. Long time no see."

"About four hours," said Peter. "But who's counting? Hello again, Mrs. Potter."

"Hello, Peter, dear."

"Moony—how've you been?"

"Not awful."

"There's that Remus Lupin optimism we know and love," quipped James. "Alright, let's go upstairs before Mum starts being charming."

He led the way towards the staircase. "You're just worried I'll tell them stories about you when you were a baby!" she called after them.

"Are you kidding?" James had reached the bottom step. "I've always been this cool."

"Ha! I could tell about the time you played hide-and-seek with your cousins..."

"Bye, Mum!" James spoke loudly over her, waving as he hastily ascended the stair with the others behind him.

"There's food in the kitchen," Mrs. Potter reminded them. "I'm going to drop by the office to make sure they haven't destroyed anything while I was on holiday. Don't make trouble!"

"Trouble?" echoed James, quietly to the other two Marauders. "Us?"

Her hair was still wet from her shower, and she had barely touched her makeup, but it felt wonderful to be out of the dress she'd worn to Petunia's luncheon, and the comfort of jeans, a t-shirt, and sandals was indescribable.

Lily entered the Leaky Cauldron with a touch of trepidation that always afflicted her on first re-entrances into the wizarding world. She sometimes imagined—foolishly, perhaps—that one day she would attempt to pass through the barrier at Nine and Three Quarters or the door to the Leaky Cauldron and find that there were no such places at all... that the last few years had been nothing but a strange fantasy.

Immediately, however, the bewitched (albeit smoky) air of the pub relieved Lily's momentary doubts. The door clicked shut behind her, and she was reassured by the familiarity of the room... the usual witches and wizards, chatting over butterbeers and firewhiskey, the elderly chap with a pipe who seemed to exist only at that same corner stool, the stack of Afternoon Prophet newspapers on the shelf, Tom behind the bar...

But Tom wasn't behind the bar.

"Sirius?"

Her classmate looked up at the sound of his name, and grinned in response when he saw Lily walking towards him. He finished pouring a glass of dark liquid for a pretty twenty-something witch and set down the bottle. "Evans," greeted the Marauder. "What brings you here? Couldn't stay away from me, eh?"

Lily rolled her eyes. "That would be more plausible if I actually knew you were working here..." She sat down on a stool. "You are working here, right? You haven't hijacked the bar?"

"No, although that's a good idea. What can I get you?"

"Oh." Lily hadn't actually thought of ordering something, but now that she was here... "Butterbeer, I suppose."

"Original," remarked Sirius sardonically. "Bottled or tap?"

"Bottle is fine."

"Even more original."

He set the drink before her, and Lily raised her eyebrows. "How long have you been working here?"

"About a week," replied Sirius. The pretty witch a few seats away sent a withering glare in Lily's direction; clearly, she thought she had some kind of claim on the attractive bartender. "I was staying upstairs—the inn, y'know—and Tom said he could use a hand during the day. The two broads that usually work are traipsing around the continent for the summer. Oh—Shack's got a job, too..."

"I know. She wrote me." Lily took a drink of butterbeer. "More than I can say for you."

"Right—I meant to reply... it's only been a few days. Cut me some slack, Red. Oh—another?" This was directed to the wizard with the pipe, and Sirius made to refill his mug. He returned to Lily a minute later, however, and leaned over the counter.

"Are you still staying here?" she asked.

Sirius shook his head. "Got a flat in the Alley. Over the Apothecary."

"You're renting a flat in Diagon Alley? That's got to be expensive."

Sirius grinned again. "Not renting. I bought it."

"Y-y-you bought the apothecary?" Lily spluttered. Sirius laughed.

"No, no, no. Just the rooms upstairs. Didn't even belong to the same bloke. Real nice chap, though—cut me fantastic price, considering... Why don't you look happy for me, Red?"

"I just hate to see you spending your hard-earned inheritance."

"There's plenty left," replied Sirius casually. "Honestly, I'm only working here to fill the hours."

"But you'll be going back to school soon," argued Lily. Then an unpleasant thought occurred to her. "You will be going back, won't you?"

"Don't be thick. Of course I'll be going back to Hogwarts. I'll let the flat out to someone else during the term, I suppose. Or leave it empty, even."

Considering that the last time she had spoken to Sirius—on Platform Nine and Three Quarters, two weeks prior—the former Marauder had been all but despondent, he certainly seemed chipper enough now. She remarked on this fact, and Sirius shrugged.

"Smoked a gram of Manticore Hash on my fifteen," he told her.

"Sirius," Lily reprimanded, and he laughed.

"Only joking, Evans." The pretty witch down the bar cleared her throat obtrusively, and Sirius started. "Oi, right. Lily, this is Adelaide. Adelaide, Lily. And I'm Sirius, in case anyone's forgotten."

"Nice to meet you," said Lily.

"Pleasure," replied Adelaide curtly.

Now that this new introduction appeared to be someone of at least mild significance in Sirius's life, Lily gave her a more thorough look. She was very pretty, in a tomboyish kind of way, wearing loose linen trousers and a tightly fitted tank-top. She had tan skin, freckles, long black hair, and sharp brown eyes. Her face had a hard, chiseled element, heightened by her apparent disdain for Lily.

"Adelaide works in the Owlry," Sirius explained. "And I go to school with Evans."

"I see," said Adelaide knowingly. "A Hogwarts girl."

"Did you ever go?" asked Lily.

"Oh, no. I don't believe in mainstream education. It's all a part of the bureaucracy, you know." Adelaide took a sip of her drink. "But if you like it..."

Lily bit back a retort. "You should meet my friend Carlotta," she said instead, and Sirius snorted.

"Anyway," said Adelaide, sliding off her stool. "I should be getting back to work. You know..." she added with a meaningful look to Lily, "it's rough for those of us who work."

"Oh, I know," agreed Lily sincerely. "But think of all the good you're doing there. You must be a great comfort to the other animals in the shop."

Adelaide turned red, but, rather than retorting, she leaned over the counter, kissed Sirius on the lips, and then turned to leave. Lily raised her eyebrows.

"You didn't mention her either," she noted, once Adelaide had gone.

"Be nice to Adelaide," joked Sirius. "She might be in my life for a long time... two or three more weeks at least. Anyway, she was only rude because she felt threatened by you... I imagine she thinks we're shagging."

"You might want to correct that assumption," Lily told him, alarmed, but Sirius merely laughed.

"Why? She'll probably want to mark her territory or something, and I can only benefit from that."

Lily rolled her eyes. "You're an awful human being, Sirius Black."

"Proudly. Hey, I'm off in twenty minutes. Want to see my flat?"

"I'm not going to help you make Adelaide jealous."

Sirius laughed. "I'll be a perfect gentleman. Promise."

"Let's get sloshed," suggested James. He sat on his bed, flipping a galleon between his fingers idly, while Remus sat on the window seat and Peter at the foot of the bed.

"Is that your solution to every problem?" Remus asked wryly, and James smirked.

"I have yet to hear a better one."

"It's two in the afternoon, James."

"And what's better than afternoon drunk?"

Remus just rolled his eyes.

"Nothing. Exactly." James sat up, tossing his coin onto the nightstand. "Well, we should do something. We could go into London. Diagon Alley, and all that."

"That might not be such a good idea," muttered Peter.

"Don't worry, Wormtail. You passed the apparition test, and if you're still nervous, we can side-along you..."

"No, that's not it." Peter sighed, debating something, and then said: "Sirius is working in the Leaky Cauldron. I went in for butterbeer last weekend, and he was there."

"Oh." James frowned. Remus remained stoic. "Well, it's not as though we have to speak to him, if we do happen to run into him..."

"I'd rather not go," interjected Remus; James and Peter exchanged glances but made no argument.

"Well, there's always Hogsmeade."

"We always go there."

"Okay—we can do something else."

"I'm not in the mood."

"I haven't even suggested anything yet."

"Yes, but there's a more than decent chance that whatever you suggest will involve smoking something or drinking something, and I'm not in the mood."

Annoyed, James leaned back against his headboard once again, biting his tongue, because if he were to speak, it would surely be angrily. After a tense silence, Peter intervened.

"How about Gobstones?"

"Not enough of us to be any fun," said Remus.

"Chess?"

"Too many of us."

Peter thought about it for a bit, then: "We could play Quidditch."

James agreed enthusiastically, but Remus once again shot down the proposition. "Too windy."

"Of course it is," mumbled James, and Remus caught his tone.

"I'm sorry if I'm not constantly itching to play Quidditch," he snapped. "Some of us have other interests."

"Oh, yeah, like what? Glaring out the window? Yeah, that's a worthy use of your time..."

"Well, there aren't any first years hanging around for me to hex, so..."

"We could always read a book," retorted James. "That's your thing, isn't it, Moony? Reading about things rather than actually experiencing them..."

"You'll forgive me if transforming into a monster once a month is experience enough for me."

"Right, because the fact that you're a wolf one night a month means you have to be a lifeless, pretentious prick for the rest of the time."

"Oh, stop it!" complained Peter loudly. "If you two are only going to bicker, I'm going home."

"You might as well," said James. "It doesn't look as though we're going to be doing anything interesting here today."

Peter scowled. "Fine." He got up from the bed. "Floo me when you two aren't being idiots." He started towards the door, but paused before actually passing through it. "You know, it's bad enough that neither of you can stand to be in the same room with Sirius without making it rotten between the two if you as well."

With that, he exited, and Remus and James were left alone. "I suppose if Wormtail's going..." Remus began softly, and when his host did not cut him off, he added more sharply: "I mean, the lifeless, pretentious prick wouldn't want to bore his highness or anything."

"Too late for that."

"Fine."

"Fine."

James crossed his arms stubbornly, and Remus got up from the window seat, stalking out of the room and slamming the door behind him.

"Soyez bienvenus à ma maison."

Lily raised her eyebrows, and Sirius opened the door.

"Welcome," he modified. They stepped inside, and Lily took in the room with interest. They entered a decently sized common room, with the kitchen to the immediate right and a sitting room of sorts in front of them. There were two doors on the farthest wall, one of which was just open enough for Lily to see that it was Sirius's bedroom. The other door was rather narrow, and Lily suspected it to be a closet. There was very little furniture—a square, wooden table with one chair in the sitting room area, positioned in front of the fireplace, and an ugly purple sofa against the wall. Beside the couch there was a small end-table, covered in empty brown bottles, and half a dozen more sat in the kitchen.

Sirius threw his keys on the counter and moved further into the flat. "Ignore the horrendous decoration. I've only been here a week. I had to scrounge a bit, and I'm rubbish at domestic spells. I've been reading up, though. It'll look better in a week or two." Hands in his pockets, Sirius turned to look at Lily and gauge her reaction. "What do you think?"

"I like it," said Lily honestly. "It has character. Although that sofa is awful."

"You should've seen it before I tried to turn it brown."

"You were aiming for brown?"

"I've never bewitched a couch before!" protested Sirius. "I mean, I did once, but it's a lot more difficult to turn a couch brown than it is to charm it into throwing people off the seat."

"Of course it is." She walked curiously into the kitchen. "So—besides charming couches and serving firewhiskey, what have you been up to?"

"Not much, really," replied Sirius. He sat down on the sofa, while Lily explored his cabinets. "Transfiguring dishes and pillows, mostly."

"You haven't seen anyone else from school?"

"Oh, four or five Hogwarts students pass through every day. Marlene came through too—said the exact same thing about the sofa, incidentally. And Shack, of course. We've worked a few shifts together."

Lily nodded. "No one... in particular, then?"

Sirius smirked. "You mean, has James come in and begged me on bended knee to be his best mate again? No. Still waiting on that one."

The witch sighed. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought it up."

"No worries," insisted the other. "Really. I'm fine. Not depressed. Not lonely. Adelaide is great company... in more than one way."

"Congratulations. And ew."

Sirius changed tact. "What about you, then? Having a ravishing summer?"

Lily moved into the main room, falling into the wooden chair at the table, but with her legs on the side so as to face Sirius. She slouched forward. "I don't know. It's okay, I suppose. Isolated, though. I don't remember always feeling so... detached."

"I know the feeling."

"I guess, before, I had Severus. Then Luke was always over last year."

Sirius nodded slowly. Then, he got up abruptly and moved into the kitchen. From one of the cabinets, he withdrew two dark glass bottles. "Want one?"

Lily shrugged. "Why not?"

He rapped the metal lids once with his wand, removing them, and brought the bottles over into the other room. "Kept cool with the best chilling charms," he joked.

"Only the finest," added Lily dryly. "Cheers."

"Cheers."

They tapped bottles and both took long drinks. Lily set her elbow on the table to her left, resting her head in the palm of her hand.

"So what d'you reckon?" asked Sirius. He stared idly into his own bottle. "As the resident optimist—will it get better?"

Lily smiled. "Unquestionably."

Remus was gone for all of one minute before James rose quickly and hastened to the door. Peter was right—he'd already lost Sirius, hadn't he?"

He threw open the bedroom door. Remus was trudging up the stair back towards the bedroom. They looked at each other.

"I was just..." began James, gesturing vaguely. "You know..."

"Yeah, me too," admitted Remus. He sat down on the top step, and James sat down beside him.

"I'm sorry," said Remus.

"Me too," said James. For a long minute, no one spoke. "Something else is wrong, isn't it?" James eventually continued. "You know you can tell me, right, mate?"

Remus hesitated for a few seconds. "I'm jealous of you," he said at last.

James looked bewildered. "Come again?"

"I envy you," the werewolf reiterated glumly. "You're so—comfortable at home."

"You mean—not the house?" asked James uncertainly.

"No, it's not that... it's... it's how you are when you're home. You fit. Your Mum is ecstatic... your family goes on holiday together... you—you belong here, just like you belong at Hogwarts."

"Moony..."

"My mum's miserable when I'm home," Remus interrupted.

"That's not true..."

"It is, though. It's not that she doesn't love me or care about me or like seeing me. It's just... a burden for her." He sighed heavily. "And seeing how you are with your mum made me... jealous I guess. It's stupid—I'm sorry..."

James struggled to wrap his mind around this. "Why do you think that? I mean, about your mum..."

"I don't know. I can just tell. Every day I stay it wears on her. She and Dad bicker more. They're just unhappy." Remus stared down the staircase, his face bent in concentration. "When she married my dad, she didn't—she never imagined anything like this could happen. And she doesn't say so, but I know she thinks it. When I'm home, it's like a constant reminder of all the things that went wrong..."

"Remus, stop, that's not...It's not your fault..."

"Of course it is! She—she's right. She should never have had to deal with any of this... Neither of them should have to..."

"It's not your fault!"

But Remus did not appear to be listening. "...How different things would be if I'd just... if I'd just stayed inside—if I'd done what I was supposed to, instead of... one stupid mistake... I was just a kid..."

"Remus, stop it," James cut him off loudly, grabbing Remus's shoulder and forcing him to face him. "You're... you're a fucking prefect, okay? You're the kid that all the parents want their kids to be! You're a prefect, you have good grades..." He grinned, "You hang out with the cool kids. C'mon—my mum? She wishes I were half as well-behaved as you are! You're—you're the fucking dream child!"

Remus looked at his hands but didn't say anything.

"Whatever your parents think or feel," James went on earnestly, "they're lucky to have you."

More silence, longer this time, and then Remus rose. "C'mon," he mumbled.

"Where are we going?"

Remus looked over his shoulder, grinning wryly. "Let's get sloshed," he proposed.

James smirked.

(Two Weeks Later)

It was the kind of hot that made people reluctant to eat anything other than ice cream, that was thick and uncomfortable, and that lasted well past dark. It was the kind of hot that tasted distinctly of July, and as eager as Lily had been to leave her house just twenty minutes prior, she was now beginning to regret that decision.

She finished her ice cream cone, courtesy of Florean Fortescue's and looked around Diagon Alley in search of refuge from the oppressive heat. Sirius was working in the Leaky Cauldron... she could always go back there, if it came down to it. But then Lily spotted the bookshop and changed her mind.

It was Friday, almost five o'clock, and Flourish and Blotts was surprisingly crowded. Lily had her toes stepped on twice as she entered the charmed cool first floor, and space was made even scarcer by the chaos that enveloped the store in the form of a sign reading: "Expansion Underway."

A great white sheet covered about a quarter of the shop, but over it, levitating objects and ominous sparks were visible... evidently, this was the expansion.

"Miss, miss, please..." one frazzled attendant pleaded with a middle-aged witch nearby, "I must ask you to watch your son..."

The little boy in question was currently knocking books off shelves, apparently for the sheer amusement it provided him. He giggled manically, and his mother scowled at the sales clerk, before launching into a speech on incompetent busy-bodies. Lily felt sincerely sorry for the flushed attendant and sent him a reassuring look, before moving towards the fiction section.

The crowd slowly thinned, and Lily found the shelves sufficiently spacious. She selected a book or two worth browsing at least and glanced about for an empty chair. There was one available in the corner, but Lily did not advance towards it at once, for her eyes fell on a familiar crop of black hair and the wizard in possession of it, leaning against a shelf with a cheap looking paperback in hand.

James Potter.

Lily smiled broadly, inexplicably amused by the sight. She returned her books to the shelf and made her way towards the wizard. Rather than addressing him, Lily walked up, right beside him, and leaned over as though reading a page of his book over his shoulder.

James looked at the presumed stranger and was about to ask her to kindly step the hell away, when he realized who it was currently invading his personal space. "Evans!"

Lily raised her eyebrows at his somewhat overdramatic reaction. "Hi..."

"Hi," replied James, regaining himself. "Sorry—you... startled me."

"Evidently," agreed Lily. "But, hey, look at you! I didn't know you could read!"

James grinned. "I can't. I'm just pretending... y'know... to impress birds."

"How's that working?"

"Brilliantly." James leaned his head towards Lily and muttered, "See that blonde in Domestics? She's batted her eyelashes at me every seven minutes like clockwork."

Lily surreptitiously glanced at the witch in question. She was certainly looking at James now, and she didn't seem to hold Lily in very high regard. The redhead folded her arms, prepared to evaluate. "I certainly hope you have higher standards than that. That's a beginning level book she's reading—or pretending to read, and she's got to be twenty-two at least. Probably a spoiled brat raised on house elves."

James pretended to be hurt. "As a spoiled brat raised on house elves, I resent the implications of that statement," he said. "But anyway around it—she's got no nerve. An hour and a half of cross-shop flirtation is just excessive. If she were interesting, she would have come over and said something. Now, what did you say you were doing here, Snaps?"

"Escaping my house," Lily replied, sighing. "My sister is getting married at the end of the month, and she's taking it out on me. Today, I evaded a rant on the color of the waiters' neckties."

"Suddenly I'm grateful that I don't have any sisters."

"Relish it," said Lily. "What about you? What brings you here?"

"Just getting out of the house," answered James with a shrug. "I didn't realize it would be so bloody hot."

"I know. It's much worse outside, though."

"I believe it. That's the only reason I've been in here for two hours—afraid to face the elements until it gets dark."

"Two hours in a bookshop?" marveled Lily. "I'm impressed."

"Don't tell anyone, but I'm here every other day," James told her. "The house is dead boring during the day, unless Remus or Pete can come over."

"I see... So... did you come through the Leaky Cauldron?"

"You mean did I see Sirius?"

"I'm not nearly as subtle as I think I am," murmured the witch. James smirked.

"No, you're not. And no, I didn't see him. I came through Knockturn Alley."

"A bit extreme, don't you think?"

"Are you going to lecture me?"

"No."

"Good."

They were interrupted as a group of witches attempted to squeeze past the pair. "It's rather crowded," Lily noted.

"Seriously."

"Hey..." Lily had an idea. "Have you eaten?"

"Not recently."

"Are you hungry?"

"Almost always."

"How do you feel about Camden?"

"Generally positive."

Lily smiled. "Well, c'mon, then."

The Lantern was a brick, muggle establishment with lighting indicative of its name and a lazy, smoky atmosphere. There was a deck of playing cards on every table, and a vaguely psychedelic song in the background, only just audible beneath the dull roar of the other patrons. The bar was noisier, of course, but Lily and James sat in a booth, some distance away. It was a corner table, so they were not actually seated across from each other, but on the two sides of the table that intersected perpendicularly between the pair.

James bemoaned the lack of butterbeer, but he eventually allowed that cola was as close to an equal as he'd found anywhere and picked up the deck of cards while they waited for their food.

"So why this place?" he asked, shuffling the cards idly. "I mean, how'd you find it?"

"I came here with my sister and her fiancé last summer," Lily replied. She leaned back in the booth, propping one leg up on the empty space in the seat beside her. "There was this rave review in a magazine that Vernon—my sister's bloke—read, so he thought he'd show off and take us all here. But then this little old lady who lives up the road from us got sick, and Mum had to bring her soup or something... she's weirdly charitable like that, so it was just me and Tuney and Vernon."

James nodded. "And I take it from your tone that you're not a fan of the groom."

"I don't need to be," remarked Lily dryly. "He's already his own biggest fan."

"So why is she marrying him?"

Lily shrugged. "Who knows—security, insanity, pregnancy... or maybe to spite me. Vernon hates me."

"Turned off by the witchcraft bit?"

"No, actually. He doesn't even know about that yet. I don't even know if Petunia plans on telling him." Lily took a sip of coke. "She says she's going to—she claims she's not afraid he won't want to marry her, but I don't know. I'm starting to think she reckons as long as he doesn't know, she'll have an excuse not to have me over for Christmas or something."

"Oh. Sorry—I didn't realize things were so... tense. With you and your sister, I mean." Lily made no reply, which he took as confirmation. "Are all sibling relationships like that? It seems to me I don't know anyone who gets along with their brothers or sisters."

"It's complicated," said Lily evasively. James raised his eyebrows skeptically, and she reluctantly added: "Petunia hates magic."

"Hates magic? Why?"

Lily sighed. "That's complicated, too."

Remus turned off the tap, setting down his now clean coffee mug beside the sink, on top his already washed plate and silverware. Supper was done—officially, now that the dishes were finished. He had the house to himself that evening as both his parents worked late shifts, and Remus relished the solitude. The last evening before the full moon was always particularly rough, so he simply didn't have the energy for James—or anyone else—that night.

He had just sat down to conquer a large muggle book when he heard the sound of keys in the front door, and it opened a moment later to admit his mother.

She started at the sight of him. "Remus, dear, what are you doing here? It's getting awfully late, isn't it?"

A moment passed before Remus understood what his mother meant. She thought the full moon was tonight. Almost at the same time, Mrs. Lupin realized her mistake.

"That's tomorrow..."

"Oh, yes, tomorrow, of course. I'm sorry." She frowned. Remus raised his eyebrows.

"What?"

"Oh, nothing, dear, I was just—some of the girls were going out after work, and I just popped back to change, but if you're here, I'd just as well stay in..." She set down her purse.

"No, Mum, really," said Remus quickly. "Go out with your friends. It's fine."

"But it's your last night, dear..."

"Mum, no, honestly..."

"Rubbish." She moved into the kitchen. "Have you eaten supper? Are you hungry?"

"No, I've already eaten." Remus followed her. "Mum, I'm serious..."

"But, there will be other nights to go out with my friends," she insisted, setting a pot on the stove. "And I don't want you to be alone tonight. I see the girls at work, and they weren't going anywhere special, I'm sure..."

"Mum, stop!" interrupted Remus loudly. "Just stop okay? Stop trying to... to fix this! Just go out with your friends, please. I can't..."

"Oh, but I don't want to go..."

"Mum, just go..."

"Rubbish. It's—it's much more fun spending my time with my only son."

He couldn't stand it anymore.

"Don't say that!" Remus half shouted.

Mrs. Lupin gaped. "Remus, what...?"

"Don't act like this is where you want to be!" he went on.

"But..."

"Stop trying to be okay with this! It's—it's been twelve years—do you think I don't notice? Do you think I can't tell that you would much rather be anywhere else? That all you do is regret... and then try to act like you don't regret anything? Mum, go out with your friends—get away from me, because we both know that it kills you to see me just before the full moon. And, really, Mum, it's not my favorite thing in the world to have you looking at me like—like I don't know? Like I don't know that it's my fault that nothing's turned out like you wanted..."

Mrs. Lupin stared in shock. "Remus," she began forcefully, "I have never said anything..."

"You didn't have to say it, Mum! It's so obvious in everything! And I'm sorry! I'm so sorry that I'm to blame for ruining your life..."

"Remus John..."

"It's true though! I am to blame! You never asked for this! You never wanted a freak of a son, and I feel guilty enough without you condemning yourself to being miserable!"

Tears welled up in Mrs. Lupin's eyes, and she began to weep. Remus's anger faded at once, as his mother sank to the floor, face covered by her hands. There would be no fight, no argument from her, he realized, because she knew he was right. He could not begrudge her, though—he could not despise her in her resentment, like he might someone else. She was not a strong woman; she had done her best—born all that she could for twelve years, and he could not ask more of her.

"Mum..." He took a cautious step towards her, but she only sobbed harder.

"I'm so sorry," she gasped through tears. "So sorry..."

Remus sat down on the floor beside her, placing an arm around her trembling shoulders. "Mum, please..."

"I never m-m-meant to... I always tried to p-protect you..."

"Don't," he murmured. "It's not your fault."

She cried silently for a few minutes, and neither mother nor son moved or spoke in that time. Then, she began to calm, and she leaned her head against Remus's shoulder. "I'm so sorry," she whispered faintly. "I love you, Remus."

Remus closed his eyes, sighing imperceptibly. "I know you do, Mum. I love you, too."

The sun had set, and Camden High Street buzzed with the Friday night crowd, cheerfully queuing up for clubs and restaurants. Lily and James walked with no intended destination, more for the sheer enjoyment of the more sociable evening temperatures. They turned down a quieter alley, and as the electric signs of the main road faded, there was only the street lamps illuminating the street.

On one brick wall, a tattered sign for freak show clung, half ripped, and James stopped to read.

"Don't see the appeal myself," he noted. "Maybe if I were drunk..."

"People like to look at things that they consider weird," Lily replied. "Or things they don't understand."

James read one of the advertised acts; "I doubt it's a real werewolf," he said. "And I would know..."

"I suppose, technically, we would both would both qualify for acts," mused Lily. "Tuney would certainly say so, at any rate."

"And I doubt they have a real magician, too," added James, as they began to walk again. "Just some pudgy bloke with a mustache and quick fingers."

Lily rolled her eyes. "That's the problem with magic," she said. "The magic mind has no sense of awe and wonder with the universe."

"Not true," protested James. "There are many things of which I am in awe."

"Really?" asked the other dubiously.

"Yes."

"Name one."

"Muggle or magic?"

"Either."

"Farrah Fawcett."

Lily rolled her eyes again, but she was laughing. "Prat. That's not what I meant."

"You didn't specify," James reminded her, grinning. "Anyway, what's so wrong with knowing how things work?"

"Nothing," admitted Lily. "It's just..."

"It's just what?"

"Well... okay, when a muggle asks 'how did you do that?' and gets the answer 'magic,' there's an assumption that something amazing and clever was done. If a witch or wizard gets that answer, then they know exactly what happened. Someone whipped out a wand, said a few words in Latin, and magic literally solved the problem."

James raised his eyebrows. "So?"

"So," Lily continued, "there's no mystery."

"Again... so?"

Lily frowned. "Well—what if every time someone asked you how you did one of your elaborate pranks or schemes or whatever, you told them exactly how you did it? Then everyone would know the exact procedure, and there'd be no fun in it for you. You wouldn't look clever or impressive or brilliant, would you?"

"On the contrary—if people knew how we actually did things, they'd be even more impressed."

"No, they wouldn't."

James glared half-heartedly. "What makes you say that?"

Lily looked surprised. "Because I know some of your secrets, and I was in more awe of the Marauders when I didn't."

"Hey!"James looked moderately offended. "You honestly expect me to believe you weren't impressed by the Animagus bit?" He grinned when Lily looked doubtful.

"Well, fine, not the Animagus bit," she admitted. "But the Map and the Cloak... knowing that you have a map of the school with little dots that represent people is just so much less interesting then thinking you somehow, mystically knew everything. Also, creepier."

"Hey, the map is complicated magic."

"Yeah, I know." Lily shrugged. "It's just, now that I know there's a mechanism behind your invasive understanding of the school, there's no awe-inspiring mystery. I feel like if I spent hours in the library and sneaking around the school, I could be just as clever as everyone thinks you are."

James scowled. "You're hurting my feelings, Snaps."

"It's not an insult," Lily told him. "You are clever. You're just not mystifying."

"Not even a little enigmatic?"

"Not even a little."

James considered Lily for a moment, as she idly kicked a stone down the sidewalk. "Fine," he said suddenly. "How about this?" He pulled from his pocket the deck of cards that had been on the table in the restaurant. Lily stared, wide-eyed.

"Did you steal those?"

"No. Well... maybe."

"James..."

"I thought we were allowed to take them! Oh, c'mon, don't look at me like that. I left a tip. Just—bear with me for a minute, yeah?"

Lily folded her arms expectantly, and James took the cards from the box, shuffling them with surprising skill. They had stopped walking, and James held the cards between them. "Pick one," he said. Shaking her head and smiling, Lily selected a card. "Excellent. Memorize it."

"Okay..."

"Got it?"

"Yes."

"You sure?"

"Yes."

James held out the deck, and Lily returned her card to the deck, which James promptly handed to her. "You shuffle," he told her, and she did. When she returned the deck again, James pulled one card out, seemingly at random, and held it up, with the card back facing him. Lily took it.

"Your card?" he asked. She nodded. "Jack of diamonds?"

The witch tried not to look impressed. "Yes," she admitted. "How did you do that?"

He took the card back and returned it to the deck. "Magic."

"Muggle magic or wizard magic?"

James grinned. "Yes."

Lily laughed. "Alright, you win."

"Why, thank-you. I love winning." He put the cards back in his pocket. "In case you hadn't noticed..."

"Oh, I had." They seemed to be nearing a more populated street, as voices and music once again became audible. It occurred to Lily that she hadn't told her mother she would be out late. "What time is it, anyway?"

James checked his watch. "Almost nine."

Lily sighed. "I should probably go soon."

"Hot date?"

"No, but Mum worries." She glanced at James. "Won't your parents wonder where you've got to?"

James snorted. "Clearly, you don't know my mother. She'll probably be more worried if I do go home; if I'm not out after midnight, she'll assume something is wrong."

"I guess that explains your issues with Hogwarts curfew."

"I prefer to think of such things as a... suggestion."

"Too bad Filch doesn't seem to agree."

"Damn unreasonable." The narrow alley tapered off into a wider, busier street, and Lily slowed to a stop. If she was going to apparate, she had better do it in a quieter area. "Shall I apparate you to your door?" teased James.

"I think I can manage myself, thank-you," Lily replied, smiling. "But I had a good time tonight—even if our waitress was a complete slag."

"She seemed nice enough to me..."

"She was nice enough to you," countered the redhead indignantly. "In any case—nice running into you."

"Nice running into you, too," said James. He frowned. "That wasn't meant to sound dirty."

"Too late, Potter." She grinned and waved, he saluted in response, and then, closing her eyes, Lily apparated.

Alone, James shoved his hands into his pockets and leaned against the brick wall behind him. He stood there, thinking for a moment, and then straightened up and ruffled his hair habitually before apparating home himself.

Lily appeared in her usual apparition spot: a narrow, dead end alleyway about a block away from her house. She opened her eyes and sighed, taking a moment to collect herself and analyze anything that needed analyzing.

But she was getting cold (she'd brought a jacket, but she wore only shorts), and so Lily soon made her way onto the street, rubbing her hands together in the brisk air. The neighborhood was quiet, and all but two or three street lamps had gone out ages ago; the town had never gotten around to fixing them. She walked lazily, turning over in her head bits of conversation from the evening, thinking about James, and then about herself, and how very strange it was that they had come to be friends... that they should be eating at The Lantern together, or talking about Petunia, or any of it...

Lily reached her front door, and the porch light was on, but she did not go inside at once. She could hear her mother listening to something on the old record player in the kitchen—Nat King Cole, she thought—and it reminded her of some vague memory from years and years ago, when Petunia was still her friend, and her dad was alive; she suddenly felt very sad and sat down on the front step.

Away at the opposite end of the block, the corner park she had used to play at with Sev was dimly visible. When she was younger, it had seemed so far away—she'd been forbidden to walk there without Petunia holding her hand. But now she noticed that it wasn't really so very distant—just down the road. It wouldn't take her two minutes to walk there; even Slughorn wouldn't apparate the distance.

Lily smiled at her own slightly mean joke and wished she'd thought of it when someone else (like James) were around to laugh at it.

A breeze rustled the leaves of the street's trees; Lily noticed the swings at the park swaying in the moonlight. Her thoughts instinctively turned to Sev.

Once upon a time, he'd be waiting on one of those swings, dragging his feet in the sand and looking very small in clothes that were too large. It was on those very swings, the summer after first year, that the two of them had sworn they'd always be friends (no matter what). They had both believed it, too, so fervently. Then belief turned to hope, and hope into wishful thinking, and wishful thinking into once upon a time.

Things never turned out like you expected, Lily thought sadly. If only she had known a little earlier—known that she would lose Severus eventually. She might have done something differently. She might have tried to be sorted into Slytherin, so she could stay with him. She might've made a greater effort... forced him to choose, early on, between his other friends and her—back when he still would have chosen her. She might've spent a little less time with Donna and Marlene and Mary, and a little more with him. She might've...

And maybe that would have saved him.

But she didn't, and Severus was gone.

And if she could do it all over again, she wasn't sure what she would change. Because she loved Donna and Marlene and Mary, too. And she loved Gryffindor. And she was a believer in free will. And if things were different—if she were still his friend—she wouldn't be allowed to be there for Sirius just now. She could not be friends with the Marauders. She could certainly not be friends with James Potter...

If she could, would she give all that up to keep Severus?

Would she be obliged to?

But it didn't matter, Lily decided a moment later. She couldn't change anything now. It was what it was.

She stood up and slipped her hands into the pockets of her jacket, preparing to go inside. However, in her pocket, Lily's hand brushed against something unfamiliar with a plastic sort of feel to it. Confused, she withdrew the object and looked at it under the yellow porch light.

It was a card.

Jack of Diamonds.

Lily smiled.

Once upon a time, there was a young boy, thirteen years old and unhappy. His name was Remus Lupin.

For a long time, he was very sad and very scared. But most of all, he was very, very lonely. Grief and fear are only really awful when one suffers them alone. There is nothing worse than loneliness.

When he was eleven years old, Remus was allowed to attend Hogwarts, and that helped; he had friends... well, he had people who spoke to him, anyway, and he was around people his own age, and he was able to learn all about magic. He liked the classes. He especially liked the Defense classes—he was good at that.

And, once a month, he was transported down to the Whomping Willow, where he suffered through horrible, painful transformations—alone, as always. But he wasn't afraid; a bloke got used to the pain, and monsters didn't scare him anymore. He knew all about them.

Then, one day, when he was in his second year at Hogwarts, the thing that Remus did fear came to pass, and his secret was discovered—discovered by his three roommates. But, surprisingly, they didn't seem to mind. They weren't afraid of him, didn't hate him, and they actually thought it was kind of cool.

For Remus, that was the beginning of the Marauders—not the very beginning, but Remus's beginning. It wasn't the whole story, though. There was a lot more to it—thousands and thousands of moments, built up from there. Thousands and thousands of conversations and arguments and seconds of pure contentment. And then, Remus Lupin wasn't sad anymore. He wasn't afraid, either, and he wasn't lonely.

For a while, Remus Lupin was happy.

And then he wasn't.

He felt ill, and the cigarette probably didn't help, but he couldn't help himself. He lay on the grass of his front lawn, and the ground was stiff beneath his back. His mother had gone to bed slightly comforted, and his father came home just after that. Then, Remus had gone outside to stare at the moon, because—he was told—the full moon was a thing of beauty, and tonight was the closest thing he could really appreciate.

Remus Lupin was thinking. He was thinking about his mother, and about what he would become in twenty four hours, when the moon was full. He was thinking about mistakes and Mrs. Potter and Marauders. He was thinking about Peter Pettigrew and James Potter and himself, and he was thinking about Sirius Black.

But most of all, he was thinking about one evening more than four years ago, when he had found a note pinned to the pillow of his bed in the dormitory and snuck downstairs to find out who had written it. He was thinking of the shock he'd had, on discovering the authors and what those authors knew of him. He was thinking of the silly, naïve, childish vow they had all taken, and of the grin that had lit up on Sirius's face at the idea that he, common old Remus Lupin was a werewolf.

And he was thinking of the rest of that evening... when Professor McGonagall caught them trying to sneak back up to the dormitory... when she'd accused them of marauding around the castle. And then, in the detention they had served together the next night... when Sirius learned that Remus was actually rather funny, and James was impressed by his knowledge of hexes.

That—thought Remus—was how it really started.

It started when Remus decided Sirius Black, for all of his quips, was actually interesting, and that James Potter, for all of his pranks, was actually kind of brilliant, and that Peter Pettigrew, though ostensibly the runt of the lot, was the sort of person one wanted for a mate.

It didn't begin because Remus Lupin was a werewolf (well, only kind of). It began because James Potter, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, and Peter Pettigrew belonged together.

And that was why Peter and himself were in Gryffindor, when everyone else would have pegged them for Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw. That was why James and Sirius became best mates, despite the fact that one was a Potter and one was a Black, and really, if the world made any sense, they ought to have been mortal enemies.

Fate—thought Remus, breathing smoke towards the dark, vast sky—works in funny ways sometimes.

He put out the cigarette and sat up, a thrill of self-knowledge surging up in his chest. All questions were suddenly answered, all doubts dissolved, all confusion alleviated. Or mostly, anyway. At any rate, he knew what he had to do.

Matilda Pettigrew lovingly set another full plate on the table before her son. "Eat up, Peter, dear," she cooed, blinding love in her round brown eyes. "There's plenty more on the stove, if you like."

Peter nodded. The Pettigrew kitchen was small and clean, and though it (much like the rest of the little house) smelled vaguely of slightly old milk, it was a tidy, pretty sort of room. Mrs. Pettigrew always saw to that.

Peter finished the second heaping plate, and deterred a third, while his mother pecked nervously at her own first serving. The two of them sat at a plain wooden table, the third chair vacant. It always was and always had been in Peter's memory; he didn't know why his mother had kept it there all these sixteen years, but he didn't bring it up.

A silly love song played fuzzily on the WWN, and the dishes—bewitched to wash themselves—clinked happily in the sink. It wasn't, Peter reflected, a bad way to live. It wasn't the Potters' manse; it wasn't Remus's two-parent situation; but his Mum was there, wasn't she? And that was enough for Peter.

A knock on the door interrupted the sparse conversation between mother and son. As Mrs. Pettigrew was still eating, Peter went to attend to it.

"Remus?"

Surprised at the presence of his friend on his doorstep, Peter took a moment to remember his manners. Then, he stepped aside and offered Remus entrance.

"No, I'm not staying, thank you," replied Remus briskly.

"Is Prongs here?"

"No. He—he didn't want to come."

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing." Peter waited expectantly. Remus inhaled sharply. "Actually," he began, "I was hoping you would be able to come out for a bit."

"Why?" asked the other, bewildered.

Remus set his jaw firmly, gathering his courage. "There's something I have to do."

There it sat, a lovely thing, really. Glistening in the firelight, with its golden cap, all sealed up at the moment, and the amber liquid refracting the image of the flames behind it. The label—an intricately designed work of art... black, gold, and red, with thick, winding lettering—was still perfect and smooth around the thickest part of the bottle, with a smaller, thinner ring around the neck. And there it sat, a lovely thing really, on the table in Sirius's flat, as he slouched over (not out of intoxication, but only so he could see the fire through the virgin bottle of firewhiskey).

Lovely, really.

He had no intention of finishing the whole fifth tonight, but he'd done it before, and his own intentions had very little to do with fact, once he'd had a few.

James's parents had once had a lovely bottle of magnificent tequila—pale gold and smooth. They'd taken it, James, Remus, Peter and Sirius, and gone into town... it had been so warm, and they'd gone to a pub, and there was music, and James and Remus drunkenly debated politics, and there had been this girl, a sweet thing, with this smile...

But that was once upon a time, and now he was off his shift and didn't have another until the next evening, and it was late, and the firewhiskey seemed to glow in the light, and the wireless was playing something brilliant and sad.

And he could've killed Remus. He could've killed Snape. He told Snape.

Crack.

Sirius broke the seal on the bottle and got up to fetch a glass. The formality of a cup might have been meaningless at that point, but it gave him a strange kind of hope anyway.

Clink, of the glass on the table.

Firewhiskey was darker than tequila.

He unscrewed the lid and let it fall to the tabletop with a satisfying clattering sound, spinning round on its side until it fell flat near the corner. The bottle and its separated cap were the only objects on the table, besides the glass.

Could've killed Remus. Told Snape.

There was harmonica on the wireless song. Sirius liked harmonicas.

Could've killed Remus. Told Snape.

Sirius took hold of the bottle, and his hand covered up most of the black and gold and red label he had so admired. He tilted, and the dark amber liquid slipped through the neck, splashing into the bottom of the glass. After a few seconds, Sirius returned the bottle to the table, but he didn't replace the cap, because he was not, after all, naïve.

He lifted the glass to his lips.

It was a moment before he realized that the ringing sound in his ears was from his own doorbell. It was the first time he'd heard it.

Sirius got up, confused, and walked towards the door. He was still wearing his work clothes. Who could it be? Had Lily stopped by again? He opened the door.

Remus and Peter stood on his doormat. Remus looked strangely surprised when Sirius opened the door, as though he hadn't quite prepared himself for this, but it was nothing compared to what Sirius felt. He cocked his head to one side, unable to articulate the thousands of questions that immediately sprung to mind.

"Hi," said Peter finally.

"Hi," agreed Remus.

"Hi," said Sirius. Then, recollecting himself: "Would you like to come in?"

Remus nodded. "That would be good."

Sirius stepped aside, admitting the other two. They stepped into the common room, both of them taking in the entire flat, firewhiskey and all. Everyone was quiet for a bit.

"I don't want to be rude," Sirius began at length; Remus turned from his inspection of the kitchen to face him, "but—what brings you here?"

Peter leaned against the kitchen counter, and he was watching Remus very carefully. The young lycanthrope, meanwhile, looked at Sirius with determination in his clear grey eyes. "There aren't a lot of people in my life, Padfoot. And of those that are in my life, even fewer know the truth about me. And that truth isn't for everyone—some of them aren't able to handle it or keep it or understand it. But some people are, and sometimes the people that are supposed to be there for you—your family—can't be, so you have to find somebody else. So if I could find someone like that, who could understand my secret, and who would be willing to help me through every month—who would be strong enough to do that—then I guess they would be my family, wouldn't they?"

He hesitated, and Sirius said nothing.

"And the thing about family," Remus went on, "is that no matter what, if they ask you to forgive them... you have to forgive them. Because whatever stupid... fucked up thing they did, you know they'd still be willing to do anything for you if it came to it."

They were, all of them, silent for a few seconds. Then, Sirius spoke up. "What are you saying, Remus?"

Remus exhaled heavily. He knew what he had to do. "I came here to tell you I forgive you, Padfoot," he said.

And Sirius only realized he'd been holding his breath as he released it. "You did?"

Remus nodded faintly. Sirius looked to Peter, who nodded as well.

"But... I could've killed you."

"I know," said Remus.

"I could have killed Snape!"

"I know."

"You could've gone to prison for it!"

"I know."

"And you forgive me?" pressed Sirius, shocked. "All of that, you forgive?"

Remus nodded again.

And he ought to have just shut up and accepted it, but, of course, Sirius didn't. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah. Pretty sure."

A hundred emotions were etched across Sirius's face. There was gratitude and fear and anger and hurt and confusion. And then there was regret: "I'm so sorry," he whispered, but the both heard.

"I know," said Remus sincerely.

Sirius hesitated. "Thank-you."

Remus only nodded. Then, unbidden, Peter began to open up the cabinets. He opened one after another until he located the glasses, just over the sink. The Marauder grabbed two and moved towards the table, placing the glasses beside Sirius's half-full vessel. He waited.

Without a word, Sirius and Remus stepped over to the table; there was only one chair, so no one sat down. Peter poured firewhiskey into the two empty cups. They all hesitated to drink.

"This is a good song," said Peter, referring to the tune still playing on the WWN. Perhaps the moment could have been improved by a clever toast, but none of the boys felt particularly poetic just then. Remus and Peter drank; Sirius did not. He ran his finger along the rim of the glass, and, for the first time in months, felt genuinely optimistic.

Remus emptied his own cup and set it down with a soft clink onto the wooden table. Maybe the alcohol warmed up his insides and softened his senses, but he felt very awake. It wasn't perfect yet... it might never be perfect, because, after all, it never had been before. But things would get better. James would come around. He would trust Sirius again. They would all be the Marauders again. Life would feel like the norm once more.

Morning always came.

It wasn't there yet, but the moon had set (the worst of it was over), and the sky was growing pale (optimistic), and soon (pretty soon), the sun would be up.

A/N: FINISHED! Golly Gee, this chapter almost killed me. But YAY! Remus forgave Sirius! Now for James...

I have so much to say, and I wish I could do all the review replies, but my sister and her baby are coming to stay, and if I want to get this up today, I really have to post it now. So I'll respond to all the reviews next chapter, and thank you so very, very much to everyone who reviewed the last chapter!

This chapter laid a whole lot of foundations that will be explored at much greater length for the rest of the summer. And I didn't get to do Marlene, Mary, and Donna, but they will feature in the next chapter... particularly Donna.

Okay, a couple quick things: I had a review suggesting I get a twitter for update purposes. I think that might be the only thing that could compel me to get a twitter account, so tell me what you think.

ALSO… I have art. Lol, while trekking through the mid-west, I explored my limited drawing capabilities and sketched all of Life and Times' heroines (including one or two that haven't actually been introduced to the story yet, lol). So, there's a link in my profile to a photobucket (you need the password, but it is also in my pro) and I've posted a few... Donna, Carlotta, and possibly Mary? I'm not sure if I've posted Mary. Tell me what you think, and don't mock my drawing, because I don't claim to be good at it. I'll post Marlene when I post the next chapter.

Reviews are the Marauders reuniting.

Cheers,

Jules