You're going to be different, after. You've always felt like an other, looking in from the outside. At least until those boys found you. It was as if there was some cosmic joke you were never in on, people judging you for it all the while. Because you were different. Better, some might say.

It's only going to get worse from here.

You'll be an outsider, unable to turn to anyone, even those who claim to care. Sometimes you'll wonder if you're even human. You'll be something more after the change. Something less. Certainly, you're going to be something else.

No going back now. One wonders if it will be worth the price. Perhaps you should have considered that before, hm?

Memory II - Something Other

Remus was alone. In fact, Remus was always alone. He'd been alone for nearly twelve years to the day. It was for the best. The people Remus loved tended to die—or worse. There was no reason to put that sort of fate on anyone.

Remus Lupin was a shabby man clad in shabby clothes in a shabby cottage on the shabby end of a small wizarding community. The cottage itself was a fair distance from the rest of the village. Better that way. The cottage hadn't always been like that, of course, and neither had Remus. Nearly twelve years to the day.

It was early August, a few days after the full moon, and Remus was exhausted.

They called it lycanthropy. The deluded called it a blessing to be shared. Most thought it a disease, and its afflicted to be walking infection vectors. Remus thought it to be a curse put upon the world by some vengeful god. For nearly twelve years he had been unable to keep a job due to the fear which inevitably took root when the truth of his condition came out. A fear, he thought, that wasn't entirely unwarranted.

Truthfully, he scared himself. To become a mindless, bloodthirsty beast every month without fail was a horrible thing. Even beyond the agony that came with breaking bones and tearing tendons, Remus knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he couldn't ever truly trust himself. There was always a part of him deep inside baying for blood, and he knew it all too well.

The cottage Remus called home was a sickly, broken down thing, even after he'd put his not insignificant magical talents to work. The roof leaked, the walls groaned and shuddered in the wind, the floorboards creaked and splintered, and the idea of keeping warm in the winter months was fanciful at best. The cellar doors, though, and the great silver chains binding them were the toughest that money could buy. It gave him some peace of mind to know he wouldn't be afflicting his curse on anyone else. Not if he could help it.

James had… never understood that fear. He knew the danger existed, certainly, in the same distant way he knew about dying of old age, but he'd never been one to be scared of danger. Not when he could find some way to cheat it. That was always his way. If he was just clever enough and charming enough, he thought, danger would never touch him.

The whole world had seen how that worked out for him.

Peter had always been nervous back when he was alive, yes, but that wasn't fear. More than that, it was nervousness about everything outside rather than anything within: bad grades, detentions, getting caught, abandonment, the Death Eaters, and of course Lord Voldemort himself. The war had been so hard on them all, and they'd all been so very young…

In his more self-aware moments—when he wasn't so up as to be unreasonable or so down as to be incapable of actual conversation—Sirius had almost understood. He was a Black, he'd explained, and that meant a lot of things. Part of that was being able to walk into any room and being the one most willing to get things done, no matter how horrid that thing might be. It also meant true, undying, unwavering loyalty. He used to joke about how they'd messed the brainwashing up with him, that the loyalty meant to go to his House had ended up with them instead. Remus cursed himself for how quick to laugh he'd been back then. The traitor had been telling them all about how he'd betray them and why all along, and he'd passed it off as jokes!

Because that was the thing about Sirius! He'd always been mad. He didn't understand the context of normal people. When he scared himself, it wasn't because he actually scared himself, it was because he had scared everyone else and didn't want to be left behind because of it. A fat lot of good that thought was, when he'd gone running back to his family with tail between his legs at the first hint of reward. And reward was what it would have to be. Sirius had never quite understood fear. Not in the normal way. Voldemort had to have promised him something, because simple threats would never have worked.

Whatever it was, Remus hoped it was worth it. Remus, James, Pete, and even Lily—they had all loved Sirius, and they'd all thought that he had loved them right back. He wanted to know what it was that Sirius had been promised that could possibly have been worth more than that.

As he sat there on an uneven and creaky chair in his broken down, perpetually shabby cottage, Remus hated Sirius. It was the only thing left to do. In his more uncharitable moments, he managed to hate James and Peter and Lily too. He'd told them, hadn't he? He'd told them that Sirius was unpredictable, that yes he cared, but that nobody ever knew what mad thing he was going to do next. Most of all, Remus hated himself. He should have seen it coming. James and Lily and Peter, they shouldn't have had to die. It should have been him.

God, what he would give for it to have been him.

Most recently, Remus had been working as a bookseller. It had been good, honest work for a good seven months, right up until the owner pieced together that the only time he took off was the day after each full moon. The old man had refused to even be in the same room after—he'd given his termination notice over floo.

Remus couldn't even blame the old shopkeeper. How could he? The deep gouges and thick locks in his cellar told far too clear a story for that. Though it was hard to blame a man for wanting to stay safe, it did mean that he was out of a job. That was worse than just tightening up his budget; it left Remus painfully alone with his thoughts.

He shook his head clear and stood. That was the last thing he needed. Remus checked around his cottage for something that needed done, anything to pull him out of his own head. He found it in the form of a dwindling pile of split wood by the fireplace. Sure, it was summer, but he never really knew when the rain would come, bringing biting wind along with it. It was mostly useless, he knew that, but it was something to do.

Making his way outside, he headed over to the log pile leaning against the building. He'd got a good deal on the wood by way of a friend of the bookshop's owner. He'd have to make it last through the winter. That connection had dried up, and even magical fire had to feed on something to keep burning. Remus hadn't the nutrition to spare for that source to be him—not consistently. That sort of thing took a toll on the body. His body had paid toll enough, he thought.

That in mind, he grabbed a log and set it on a wide stump in the yard. He almost reached for his wand, but thought better of it. Taking the easy route would rather defeat the point of the exercise, wouldn't it? So, he went back inside and grabbed an axe hanging from a peg in a closet. The poor thing had seen better days. He gave it an appraising look before shrugging and hauling it back to the handle was rotten and broke with the first swing, causing the axe head to go flying off to the side. He sighed and pulled out his wand.

This was a thing that only magic could do, and Remus welcomed the mundanity. Jamming the handle back in the head, he cast an array of spells at it. The mending charm, of course, then a sticking charm, and one for reinforcement to hold it all together. He gave another look at the axe head itself—it really shouldn't have bounced like that—and ran calloused fingers over the edge. The thing was dull as anything, and half rusted besides. He debated for a moment whether to try and charm it, but decided there was a better solution. A quick transfiguration fixed both problems nicely.

Stowing his wand and feeling only slightly silly—a quick Diffindo would split wood as surely as anything—Remus hefted the axe and slammed it down once more. The log split cleanly into two. Idly, Remus checked the axe over. The handle had held well enough, and the head was still shiny and sharp. He wasn't terribly surprised. They were simple spells, and transfiguration was something of a strength of his. Always had been, even if his skills always paled in comparison to…

He grabbed another log and split it in a single stroke to distract him from the errant thoughts.

Grab, set, raise, chop. Don't think. Grab, set, raise, chop. Don't think.

It wasn't long before Remus fell into a pattern, and the pile of wood grew to a point that called out 'Enough' even through his daze. He took a moment to breathe deep, muscles aching. He was an academic at heart, and he knew it. Manual labour like this wasn't something he did often, though he considered that he might need to get back into the habit. There was no telling what his next job would be. Construction was always good work, if backbreaking. The companies tended to not care too much for sick time, though, and expected diligent work no matter the day. It never took them too long to figure out why he was always so exhausted after the full moon.

Remus whipped out his wand and cast an Impervius charm over the pile. He'd need to undo it before burning it, of course, but it would keep the elements away where the far too porous walls of his home wouldn't. This wood needed to keep for a good long while.

Rolling up his sleeves, Remus began grabbing the wedges of wood and stacking them up in his aching arms. He entertained a break briefly, before shaking the idea out of his head. That would defeat the point. Slowly, he made his way inside, fumbling with the door handle with hands full of logs before getting frustrated and whisking it open with wandless magic. He piled it up by the fireplace neatly; he hadn't the luxury of disorder of any sort.

Just as he was setting the last piece down, he heard the telltale Crack! of apparition from outside. Remus wondered at that for just a moment. He was too far outside of the town proper for him to hear anyone apparating there, and there wasn't anyone he knew of that would care to visit. Nobody to miss him if he just disappeared.

Remus dismissed the thought, deciding that they were likely lost. The least he could do was point them in the right direction. Thus resolved, he stood up from his crouch and wiped his hands on his pants. They'd need a cleaning, he noted, not that the thin fabric could take many more of those. He opened up his front door and rounded the corner of the building towards where he'd heard the noise, calling out all the while.

"I think you're a bit lost, town's…" He trailed off as he finally saw who it was that had popped in. Standing before him was an ancient looking wizard with kind eyes, a long white beard, and deep blue robes muttered with moving constellations. Remus would recognise him anywhere. "Town's that way," he muttered as he reconciled the sight. "Dumbledore?"

The old man smiled as he approached. "The very same. It's good to see you again, Remus."

"It's good to see me? It's good to see you!" Remus closed the distance between them with long strides, clasping Dumbledore's hand tight. "It's been years! How have you been? Are the kids still giving you trouble?"

"It is my distinct pleasure to assure you that they've never stopped," Dumbledore said. "Some of the Weasley boys in particular would make you proud, I think." He gestured to the cottage. "May I come in?"

"Of course!" Remus said. "Where are my manners? Follow me. I'll put on a pot of tea." Turning back, he led Dumbledore inside, feeling only slightly self conscious at the state of it. He cleared off a table with one whisk of his wand and put the kettle on with another before pulling the chair out for the old Headmaster and sitting down himself. "So, the Weasley boys? How are Molly and Arthur doing?"

"By the state of their children, it seems they're doing well for themselves. Molly finally got the daughter she wanted, though I'm afraid it took seven tries to do it." Dumbledore's eyes seemed to twinkle at this. Remus had never known how it was that he did that, whether it was the result of a spell or simply a facet of who he was. It had never failed to set him at ease, though, not since his very first day at Hogwarts. Dumbledore was a very rare sort of man, in Remus' opinion—one that you couldn't help but trust. Even rarer, he was someone who would pay that trust back in full.

"I'd imagine they were both thrilled at that," Remus said. "Though I doubt you came all this way to talk about the Weasleys." The kettle interrupted them then, and conversation paused as Remus poured them both a cup. "So, what brings Albus Dumbledore all the way down to Yorkshire?"

"Is it not enough to wish to see an old friend?" Dumbledore blew on his tea and took a sip. Remus would bet money there was a cooling charm on his breath. The man always seemed to live and breathe magic like that.

"If that were the case, then I imagine you would have done so before now." Remus put a hand up. "I understand, you're a busy man. I can only imagine just how busy. I don't blame you for it, but it's been twelve years, Albus. I doubt that this is a mere social call."

Dumbledore took a long sip, and let out a sigh. The youthful sort of energy which emanated out from him like sunshine disappeared. For just a moment, he looked old in truth. Remus swore that the room grew colder. "I'm afraid that you're right. I come bearing bad news best learned in person, but I hope to leaven it with an opportunity for you."

"What's this news? Surely it can't be as dramatic as all that?" Remus laughed some despite his sudden nerves. It was an old defence mechanism he'd picked up in school, and not one that he'd ever managed to break.

"I'm afraid," Dumbledore said after a long moment, "that Sirius Black has escaped from Azkaban."

Remus' smile fell immediately and he pushed to his feet, planting both hands on the table. "Escaped? How? It's Azkaban, nobody can escape Azkaban!" He ignored the small, insistent part of him that told him that he was wrong, that if anyone could escape Azkaban, it would be Sirius. That same part still insisted that nobody had ever been so dedicated as he, and breaking out after over a decade hounded by dementors would be just like him.

"We're not sure. The Ministry already has its aurors out in force attempting to find him. The news will break to the public with tomorrow's Prophet." Dumbledore's voice grew very small, then. "I thought that you deserved to hear about it more personally than that."

"Why now?" he asked, feeling as if the walls were closing around him and hoping it wasn't reflected in his voice. "It's been twelve years, why now?"

"We don't know that part, though between all of us we have some very strong suspicions. According to the aurors stationed at Azkaban, Sirius has been muttering in his sleep about someone being at Hogwarts." Dumbledore laid down the facts like they were a terrible burden. Realisation dawned on Remus, and he felt as the weight of it pressed his shoulders down into a slump. It became too much suddenly, and he slumped back into his seat, boneless.

"James' son—little Harry—he'd be attending by now, wouldn't he?" As Remus spoke it, he hoped against hope that he was wrong, that James' son had gone to attend some other school, even as he knew it to be in vain. Nobody with any say in the matter would allow the Boy-Who-Lived to attend any school but the best.

"He'll be going into his third year," Dumbledore said simply. "We fear the worst."

Remus grabbed his cup of tea and drank from it in a futile attempt to calm himself, ignoring his shaking hands. "Harry," he whispered. "Is he safe?"

"He is. Lily was a phenomenal witch, and she gave her life to fuel a powerful ward around him. I've never seen anything like it before, and I hope and doubt that I will ever see its like again. He is kept somewhere that no Death Eater will be able to find so long as Harry still breathes." Dumbledore paused for a few moments. "You've never met the boy, have you?"

"No," Remus said. "I didn't—I couldn't. I'm dangerous."

"Not, I suspect, to him." That thought filled the room for a long time before he continued. "He has Lily's eyes, you know, and James' hair."

Remus barked a sad, dry laugh. "The infamous Potter hair. I suspect he curses his father for it every day."

"Nothing of the sort. He's a very kind boy, one who'd give anything for his friends."

"Sounds familiar."

"Eerily so. I think that he would like nothing more than to get to know someone who knew his parents—who he might have called 'Uncle' in a kinder world." Remus didn't respond, opting instead to drain his cup and scald his tongue. It didn't help. "Thus we come to the opportunity."

"You want me to take up the Defense post, don't you." It wasn't a question.

"I do."

"Then you're an old fool," Remus spat, and slammed the cup down, causing the table to shake.

"Some have accused me of that," Dumbledore said calmly. "But that is the price of kindness."

"Kindness? I'm dangerous!" He stood and turned to face the old man, who barely blinked.

"Only sometimes, and it's a danger easily managed. Your cellar speaks to that."

"Your governors will have your head," Remus tried.

"I suspect they will try, yes, but only if they find out." He smiled.

Remus laughed. "I doubt they're that thick. Someone's going to notice the gaps in my teaching."

"Gaps easily covered by a substitute."

"And what happens when I break out of that bloody shack and bite someone?" He turned and began to pace. "What happens when I ruin a child's life—their entire future—by accident?"

"Have you done so before?" Dumbledore let the question sit for a moment as Remus deflated some.

"No."

"There we have it, then." The old man smiled. "I suspect that you will find the burden significantly easier to manage under the effects of the Wolfsbane."

Remus sat back down and placed his head in his hands, energy spent. "The ingredients are so expensive—I can't let you do that."

"I find that few are in a position to 'let' me do anything. I think that I will do it regardless." His tone was pleasant, as if they hadn't just been discussing the escape of a mass murderer.

"And who's going to brew it? I've nowhere near the skill necessary. Believe me, I've tried."

"Severus is a fine potion master. I suspect he'll be more than up to the task."

Remus shot Dumbledore a look. "Severus. As in Severus Snape? He'd rather see me dead than help me." He pinched the bridge of his nose, more for effect than to dispel any headache. "And I can hardly blame him. We were awful to him, Dumbledore. I was awful to him. God's sake, Sirius almost used me to try to kill him!"

"But he didn't succeed." Dumbledore reached out and placed a hand on Remus' shoulder. "For so long as we live, it is never too late to right the wrongs of our past. I believe that with everything that I am." He squeezed once, and let go.

Silence filled the space between them for a minute while Remus reeled from the implications of everything that had already been said and the questions that hadn't yet been asked. "Why me?" he eventually whispered.

"You'll have to speak up, I'm afraid. My ears aren't what they used to be." Remus scoffed and turned to look him in the eyes. He didn't believe that act for a second.

"I said, why me, Dumbledore? I know the position's cursed, but surely there were other options."

Dumbledore smiled softly. "Of course there were. There are always other options."

"So why me?"

"I'm afraid the truth is rather unpleasant."

"My life is unpleasant," Remus spat.

"Very well," Dumbledore said. "It's because of Sirius, as I'm sure you've gathered. There are, undoubtedly, a number of people who could provide a level of safety to Harry and the rest of the school while serving as an instructor. Off the top of my head, I can think of a number of retired aurors and hit-wizards who would do admirably. But each of them are as talented protectors and warriors as they are not just because of the spells they know, but because of how they have been taught to think. Their jobs mandate that they think as a typical dark wizard might. This serves them well for their role, but it is also why I believe they would utterly fail. You and I both know that Sirius Black has never exactly behaved in ways that might be called typical."

"I don't think I've ever understood how Sirius thought," Remus said. "I thought I did, but…"

"Perhaps. But you cannot deny that you have a far better idea than most, Remus." There was another long silence. "Harry never knew either of his parents, of course. I believe he has some vague recollections of being well loved, but not much more." Remus stayed quiet. "Don't you think he deserves someone in his life who knew them as well as you did? You couldn't be there for James and Lily. Neither could I. For all that the world rejoiced and for all that we now live in peace, I believe each of us failed that night." Dumbledore stood from his chair, grasping Remus' shoulder tight. "That just means each of us needs to do better. Otherwise, we'll keep failing day after day, until we look back and wonder where it all went wrong. We don't have to keep failing. It's never too late to make things right."

Dumbledore let go, straightening himself back up. "Thank you for having me. I expect that I've given you quite a lot to think about. Please, consider my offer. Good day." He turned to leave, soft footfalls filling the room. Just as he approached the door and reached for the handle, a soft-spoken word stopped him in his tracks.

"Wait."

Turning back to face him, Dumbledore waited. Remus closed his eyes and clenched shaking hands tight, calloused fingers woven together in a white-knuckle grip.

"If they haven't caught Sirius by September—by the time school's due to start up again," he said quickly, pushing the words out before they abandoned him, "and if you haven't found anyone better… then I'll take the job."

Remus heard Dumbledore shuffle slightly. "Then I would begin drafting lesson plans now," he said with regret evident in his voice. "Sirius Black has always been far too clever for his own good."

Killing curse green. That's what they'd always said. Sirius had been the first, all the way back in second year. "Watch out for Evans," he'd called out in the halls one day. "Her eyes are killing curse Green!" The phrase had stuck. They'd all accepted it at the time, that the killing curse must have been green. The books said so, and nobody had really questioned it. That is until they grew up and went to war, and saw someone cast it for the first time. Bright soul-searing green amidst a backdrop of desperation and panic and grief. He'd… never forget it. But Sirius had been bang on. Lily Evans' eyes were exactly the colour of the killing curse.

Remus had always wondered since then why it was that a 12-year old Sirius had known the exact shade of one of the Unforgivables. He'd never worked up the courage to ask, and Sirius had never given an answer.

He was able to ignore it for the most part. That stab of familiarity, the pain of what was lost, and the agony of what could have been. He kept his distance and put his all into his teaching, being as impartial as he could possibly be. That had lasted right up until the very first Hogsmeade weekend of the year, after twelve years to the day. Harry hadn't had his form signed, and so had been kept within the bounds of the castle. Privately, Remus suspected that McGonagall (and it was so hard to think of her as just Minerva) would have manufactured a reason to keep him inside, if only for his own safety.

By chance, Lupin had run into Harry sulking around the castle, the despondent and annoyed look on his face painfully familiar. He'd invited him into his office for tea, because of course he had, and sitting across from him Remus couldn't ignore it any longer.

Harry Potter's eyes were killing curse green. Lily's eyes. His hair was all James, and Fleamont, and Henry before him; James had always suspected it to be a bloodline curse. The nose and ears were all Lily's, but he had James' build. And that discomfited look as he lied to a teacher about his worries? That was Lily's fault entirely.

Remus almost felt like he'd stepped out for a bit, like he was just an observer of his own body. He'd spoken with Harry before, of course—taking care of that dementor on the train, and teaching his classes—but always in a group setting, when there was something else that needed focusing on. Sitting and chatting one-on-one like this was almost too much. James and Lily's baby boy had grown up without them, and he was quickly becoming a fine wizard in his own right. Deepest sorrow and soaring pride filled Remus up in tandem, forcing him to focus to even know what it was that was being said.

It was the look on his face that drew Remus back in. Harry was nervous about something, and he was in a position to help. James would never forgive him if he failed him now (except he would, because forgiveness was what James did).

"I can't help you if you don't tell me about it," Remus said. "Is there anything worrying you, Harry?"

"No," he said, but Remus knew better. That was James' face that he was lying with. "Yes," he finally blurted out. "You know that day we fought the boggart?"

"Yes," Remus said slowly.

"Why didn't you let me fight it?"

Remus reeled back slightly. Of all the things he'd been expecting, that wasn't it. Was it wounded pride speaking? Insecurity? "I would have thought that was obvious, Harry."

That seemed to shock Harry just as much as the line of questioning had surprised Remus. "Why?"

Remus frowned some, not quite sure what the problem was. The choice was made on an instinctual whim, but he'd been trying to protect the boy. "Well, I assumed that if the boggart faced you, it would take the shape of Lord Voldemort." Harry looked stunned, so Remus pressed on. "Clearly I was wrong, but I didn't think it a good idea for Lord Voldemort to materialise in the staffroom. I imagined that people would panic."

"I didn't think of Voldemort," Harry confessed. "I… I thought of Hermione and Ron. Only, er, dead."

Remus gave the boy a soft smile, ignoring the pang of loss that echoed through him. If there was any doubt about Harry being James' son, then his greatest fear in the world being losing his friends would no doubt have dispelled it. Even without ever having known his father, he was so very like him it ached.

"Then perhaps it's for the best that I didn't put you in front of the class regardless. Most people find it very difficult to turn corpses into something to laugh at, and it could very well have set back some of the progress we made with everyone else."

"I suppose," Harry said. "Both of them would probably get weird about it too."

Remus snorted despite himself. "Yes, I imagine that might be slightly disconcerting. Though, if I may," Remus ventured, "at risk of overstepping… I think your father would be very proud of you, you know."

Harry looked up from the spot on the desk he'd been staring at, stunned. "Professor… Did you know my parents?"

He nodded, heart thundering away nervously in his chest. A large part of him was terrified at the thought that Harry might see how thoroughly he'd failed and judge him as he deserved. A smaller, much more insistent part simply echoed that this was James' son; he'd never even think of such a thing.

"I like to think that I knew Lily and James very well, actually, and I know for a fact that the idea that his son cared for his friends so much that his greatest fear might be the same as his own would make him endlessly proud."

The boy looked up at Remus with wide eyes. "My dad's boggart was the same as mine?"

Remus gave him a sad smile. "James loved his friends with all his heart, and I know for a fact that the thought of losing them scared him far more than facing down Lord Voldemort ever did. He was… always such a stalwart protector."

Harry swallowed at that, and opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted by a knock on the door.

"Come in," Remus called, and the door opened to reveal Severus bearing a smoking goblet and a grimace. That was a relationship beyond the point of salvation. Remus had apologised to him, of course, but Severus had never quite let go of their old schoolyard grudge. He hadn't the heart to blame him. Being the unwitting weapon in one's attempted murder wasn't the sort of thing one forgave easily. Besides that, he was right. Remus was dangerous, and even he agreed that Dumbledore had made a mistake in hiring him. All he could really do to make up for it was to stay out of his way wherever possible and thank him for the Wolfsbane.

When Severus finally left, he took the room's mood of vulnerable reminiscence with him, leaving behind an awkward tension Remus didn't know how to breach.

"Professor Snape's very interested in the Dark Arts," Harry finally said.

"Really?"

"Some people reckon he'd do anything to get the Defense Against the Dark Arts job."

Remus took in the nervous expression on Harry's face and sighed. Perhaps he was a bit too much like James. He wasn't a pleasant man, but Dumbledore trusted Severus. That was more than good enough for Remus. "And I'm sure that he would do excellently in such a role," Remus said, hoping to shut down the suspicion in Harry's eyes. "I believe you were about to say something, before Severus walked in?"

Harry hesitated, and Remus saw the moment the walls went up. "It's nothing, sir. Thank you for telling me about my parents."

"It was my pleasure," Remus said with a sad smile. "Talking about them helps keep the memory alive." He checked the clock. "I believe your friends should be getting back from Hogsmeade soon, no doubt with all sorts of things to share with you. No need to deprive yourself on my account."

"Right, of course," Harry said as he stood. "Thanks again."

And Harry turned and left, taking James and Lily with him.