I apologize for the delay in getting this out. Since moving into my new apartment, I've had a difficult time writing anything substantial. I haven't managed to get into the right frame of mind for this story in weeks, and it pains me to know that I claimed to be back on the wagon with this one, only to prove that to be false.

I hope that I may be forgiven. This story is important to me, as it's a testament to various shifts and changes that I've made both as a writer and as a fan of the series in general, and I want to make sure that I do it justice.

Thank you for your patience. I'll see you next time.

One.

Sirius Black wasn't the sort of person who could abide fading into the background for very long. This went a long way toward explaining why he'd been so restless over the past few years, flitting away from place to place doing his best to be inconspicuous, and also why he was venting so much pent-up frustration within the walls of Hogwarts Castle.

If any place in Britain was safe from Voldemort and his minions, it was this castle. And that meant if any place in Britain was in any way appropriate for Sirius's usual forms of entertainment, considering the circumstances, it was this castle.

The students, particularly the Gryffindors, grew used to seeing the excitable wizard in any corner of the grounds at any given time. If he was in a good mood, he might give a practical demonstration of a spell that they were having trouble with. If he was in a bad mood—which was rare for him, but not unheard of—he might team up with Peeves and take it out on the faculty.

For Sirius, hiding out at Hogwarts was a mystifying mix of nostalgia and new understanding. For all his antics, he'd taken Professor McGonagall's suggestion to heart. Was he fit to be a teacher? He didn't know. But he did know that a job here was probably his only chance at gainful employment, considering it was the only place he could justify staying for an extended length of time.

"It's funny to hear you talking like that," Remus said. "You're the last living member of your family that hasn't married into another. You could retire, right now, just with the money in your vault."

Sirius thought very hard about this. But he couldn't deny, much as he wanted to, that there was a real appeal to teaching these kids. Sure, he wasn't the best spell-worker in the world, and he'd never cared much for potion-making or fortune-telling or pretty much any other subject taught at Hogwarts…but Muggle Studies? Sure, it was a waste of space now. But…

There was…potential.

"I think I have some reading to do."

People often made the mistake of thinking that Sirius's generally hyperactive and often dismissive demeanor meant that he was prone to leaving things unfinished, and couldn't be depended upon to focus on any one thing for long. This was, perhaps more than anything else, the main reason most people were concerned when they found out that he'd been placed in charge of a child. But Sirius could focus much better than most people, when the situation warranted it. More than that, he took the advice and concerns of his elders—those he respected, at least—seriously.

So it was that once his old head of house planted the idea in his head that teaching was a viable option for him, Sirius spent a copious amount of time in the library. He took out any book pertaining to Muggles that he could find, and was dismayed to find that they were—for the most part—useless. Oh, sure, a fair amount of them had a lot of good, solid, surprisingly accurate information. That wasn't the problem.

The problem was that wizarding superiority dripped from every page. He could practically smell it. The old-fashioned propaganda that had permeated through every magic-using mind for centuries. If the subject at hand was a magical creature, the author waxed poetic on "having to force unsuspecting Muggles out of the area, for their own safety."

Which, in the end, was a diplomatic way of saying, "We have to force them to keep their stupid noses out of business that doesn't concern them." Never mind that human beings, magical or otherwise, were perhaps the most adaptable species on the planet, and if they'd just been permitted to see dragons and boggarts or pretty much any other "dangerous creature," they'd have been able to figure out a way to keep themselves safe by now, instead of having to rely on world-weary, snobbish magical martyrs.

"Don't you think you're being a bit harsh?" Remus asked, one day when Sirius had asked for him to take Harry out to the lake or something, because he was growing too restless and wasn't interested in hearing his godfather's sermons, and had begun to occupy himself by removing pages out of various books and placing them in a different order. "Certainly, Muggle relations isn't a perfect science, but…I don't think there's quite as much spite in it as you seem to think."

"If it's done with good intentions, that only makes it worse," Sirius muttered, lunging across a table to stop Harry from toppling onto the floor. Remus walked over and picked him up, using a kerchief to wipe a smudge of ink from his face. "This is…a hobby of mine, Remus. I've been doing it since I was fourteen. I'd spend my holidays wandering around 'Muggle settlements,' studying. Observing. All that academic garbage nobody thought I bothered to do at school. I learned how to blend in. This?" Sirius gestured to his clothes: faded denim jeans, black motorcycle boots, a black shirt and a leather trench coat. "I'd fit right into any Muggle gathering with this. Whether as a native or a tourist, nobody would bat an eyelash at these clothes unless I showed up to a funeral with them. How many witches or wizards you know that can actually pass themselves off as Muggles in public?"

Remus frowned. "Very few, if any."

"Exactly. And that's just the tip of the iceberg." Sirius pointed to a book he was perusing. "Listen to this: 'It is an apparently common occurrence for Muggles from the United States of America to treat Muggles from other countries with disdain. They seem to think that their lifestyle is inherently superior to that of other Muggles, and are mystified to realize that other settlements might see things differently.'"

Remus chuckled. "Mm," he offered.

"Oh, those American Muggles, look how arrogant they are. Imagine the nerve! Thinking that their lifestyle is superior to others! Idiots. I've read full dissertations on why Muggles are too mentally deficient to practice magic. About how we're a superior strain, a step up the evolutionary chain. A different species, even. This has to stop. 'Why do Muggles use electricity? Why do they light campfires? Why do they sleep in tents with only one room?' These people conveniently forget that we used to be just like them. We used to do everything exactly like they did. Just so happens, one day we figured out that we could do things they couldn't, and we ran with it."

"I agree with you," Remus said, "but I think you might be jumping in a bit too deep, here. You're becoming a crusader. I think you might do well with a break. Come with me. There's a Quidditch match this afternoon. Ravenclaw versus Slytherin."

Something sparked in Sirius's eyes. He smirked devilishly. "Harry," he said, "want to see people fly?"

Harry's eyes went round. "Fly? Real fly?"

"Real fly. On real brooms. High up in the sky."

"Go! We go now!"

Sirius laughed, set his books in a stack on the table, and stood up. "Let's go, then."

Two.

The last time Sirius had seen Quidditch was during his seventh year at school.

That was probably why he was so enthralled with the game. True, the students couldn't match up to the professional leagues, and it certainly wasn't the best match he'd ever seen. He would have much preferred to watch the Gryffindor team taking on his old rivals. But none of that mattered, once the players kicked off of the ground.

Godson and godfather wore equally awestruck expressions as the commentary started. Remus, who was less enthralled with the sport—sacrilege!—took to surveying the crowd. He wasn't sure what it was that he was looking for; he supposed he was paranoid. But there was something in the back of the young werewolf's mind that kept tickling him, telling him that there was a threat…somewhere.

Eventually, Remus grew too restless to sit still. Taking advantage to the fact that Sirius was far too busy introducing Harry to the game to notice anything amiss, he stood up and slowly made his way out of the stands, then off of the field, and eventually into the castle.

He had no destination in mind; only the understanding that he didn't want to stay in one place. He kept wandering, and wandering, long after the game had ended; he ascended an untold number of staircases; he visited a myriad of portraits that happened to recognize him.

"Trouble, Remus?"

He was too used to his old Headmaster showing up in six places at once to be surprised. Remus turned and found Albus Dumbledore watching him, serene and calculated, that familiar mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

"Headmaster," Remus offered, bowing his head.

"You look concerned. Worried. Has something happened?"

"No," Remus admitted. "I think that might be the problem. Not that I don't appreciate your offer for us to stay here—" it hadn't been an offer, so much as an order "—but I suppose I've spent so long looking over my shoulder that I…can't help but feel nervous when things are in order like this. I think Sirius has the same problem."

"And yet Sirius has managed to find a way to focus his energies," Dumbledore said. "Perhaps you simply need to find yours. Tell me, Remus, what would you have done, if all this…business hadn't come up? If," here the old wizard chuckled merrily, "you hadn't become a foster parent alongside your friend."

"In all honesty, sir, I don't know."

Dumbledore gestured for Remus to walk with him; Remus did so. "An all too common problem for young wizards like yourself, fresh out of school. Your preferred subject in school was Defense against the Dark Arts, was it not?"

"Yes, sir." Remus nodded. "And Care of Magical Creatures."

"Yes, yes, indeed. Have you considered pursuing any particular…opportunities, considering these interests? After all, Harry won't be a toddler forever. He won't always need his beloved uncles watching over him."

"I suppose the…ah…conflict with Lord Voldemort put a halt on my prospects," Remus said. "Not to mention…ahem, certain laws. I can't hide my true nature from everyone, Headmaster. I'll be lucky if I manage to keep a job longer than a few weeks. I can explain away one disappearance. Maybe even two. But…eventually, people would find out."

Dumbledore's brow creased thoughtfully. "Yes…yes, I see your point. We'll have to see if there's anything we can dig up. But enough of these uncomfortable matters for now. I believe I have some good news for you. News that will put these restless thoughts out of your mind, at least for a while." He grinned, and Remus realized that he was looking at the twin gargoyles that guarded the Headmaster's Office.

"Professor?"

"It seems that Peter might just recover, after all." Dumbledore reached out and opened the door, gesturing for Remus to enter. "He's made a visit, and he's asking for you."

Three.

It had been so long since Peter Pettigrew had been dumped on the grounds of Hogwarts Castle, left for dead as a message from the Death Eaters; so long since both Remus and Sirius had come to grips with the fact that their old friend would never fully recover, and that he would be taking up permanent residence at St. Mungo's. They made visits to their old friend, both he and Sirius, every once in a long while. But for the most part, Wormtail had left their lives.

To see him, scrunched over in a chair in Dumbledore's office, round-faced and almost healthy, his eyes watery and distant but sane, was something Remus wasn't quite prepared to handle. He let out a soft, disbelieving little laugh. "…Peter," he said.

Peter stood. "Remus."

They hugged. It was an awkward embrace, but then Peter had always been awkward. Remus blinked back tears as he stared down at the round little man that he'd thought dead to the world. He sat down, and immediately asked how the old boy was doing. Peter looked much older than his scant couple of decades, and yet there was still something…young, almost fragile about him.

"Better," Peter offered. That seemed to be all that he would offer on the subject.

"I understand that you wished to speak with Remus about something…important?" Dumbledore asked after a lull in the small talk, as he circled his desk and sat behind it. Peter flinched violently, and that fragility was reinforced, such that Remus knew immediately that whatever was on his friend's mind…it wasn't apt to be good news, after all.

"Ah…Professor? Headmaster, sir? I…I would like to…speak with Remus…privately? Please?"

Something dark, something hard, came into Dumbledore's eyes, and the old wizard cleared his throat. "I'm afraid…I can't allow that."

Was it a threat? Remus couldn't quite tell. But he had spent enough time studying the darker parts of people to know that if it wasn't a threat, it was close enough where it counted. Peter seemed to sense this, too, because he didn't press. He merely lowered his head, like a man at prayer, and drew in a deep, stuttering breath.

Eventually, he looked back up at Remus.

"…I…I've done something terrible."