November 3rd, 1981Remus stared at the large headstone, reading the names of his friends. He wanted
to be angry. Wanted to feel rage and a sense of vengeance the way he knew he should, but
instead he just felt empty. He had returned home to London after the owl from
Dumbledore had arrived in the small village where he and a scattered pack of rogue
werewolves had been staying. Inside the sealed envelope had been a note and a Portkey.
The note simply said:
Come home.
He had spent months in the remote village with those of his own kind, doing his
best to get on their good sides and figure out where their allegiances rested. Food was
scarce and a good night's rest was even harder to find. Halloween had been spent tossing
and turning all night, gripping painfully at his chest as he felt something cold and hollow
inside of him where something warm and solid used to be. Too much time away from his family,
Remus reasoned.
Dumbledore's letter, while vague and worrisome, had felt almost like relief.
Permission to come home, to be a man again, and to be with his loved ones.
Remus had begun packing his things to leave when he heard other werewolves
speaking outside his room.
"Guess he won't be needing us after all. Went and got himself killed, he did. A bloody baby, too,
they're saying. Some Dark Lord."
"Who was killed?" Remus asked, peeking his head out of the door and catching the eyes of the
group of wolves he had come to know over the past few months.
"You-Know-Who. Went into the nearby town this morning and wizards were shooting off
fireworks and dancing in the bloody streets, praising some kid's name like he's Merlin come again."
"What kid?" Remus asked.
"Some orphan. Harry Potter."
Remus had gripped the Portkey tight enough to make his skin bleed as it carried
him home. Home to a destroyed world with his friends dead or imprisoned, leaving him
alone, nowhere to go but forward—whatever that meant.