The Freshmen

Disclaimer: Harry Potter is not, nor ever will be, mine.

Rating: PG-13 (language, sexual implications)

Author's Note: I'm taking a break from Ice Cubes Melt Over Time. Don't worry, I'll continue with that one. I've always found the Marauders intriguing, so I decided to indulge myself. Please read and review, and check out my other story. Hope you enjoy.

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For the life of me I cannot remember
What made us think that we were wise and we'd never compromise
For the life of me I cannot believe we'd ever die for these sins
We were merely freshmen…

- "The Freshmen" Verve Pipe

It's only me now.

The end of an era. The closing of a chapter. The break, the pause, the question.

There were four. In the beginning. And then there were three, then two, and now…one. But it strangely feels like none.

The Marauders. Damn, were we proud of ourselves. Our little society. Our little map. Our little games we played. And we always won. We always scraped by clean. Authority never seemed able to wrap their noose around us. We were that sly, that cool, that far above it all. Funny how easily that changes.

We had ruled the world once. Maybe not the world, but Hogwarts at the very least. We would walk, all in a line, noses to the sky. We'd swagger and sway, scorch like liquor through the crowds down the hall. The girls would giggle, blush as he, the man, the mystery, the legend, Sirius Black would unabashedly look them up and down. They'd give flirtatious grins at him, resident heartthrob, cocky know-it-all, James Potter, as he'd merely nod in their direction. I always got the waves. Peter never got anything, in the hallways or otherwise. No wonder he resented us.

We made life hell for the ones we believed deserved it, and love to the ones deemed attractive enough. Third year Sirius proved his prowess in making the ladies scream, and for the next four years was never lacking in female company. A different girl for a different day. He changed girls more often than he changed his boxers. And he was hygienic.

He made us believe that "love wasn't in his vocabulary." He didn't need love; he had sex. And that was more than enough for him. Sirius was always a good liar. There had been one once though. I don't even remember her name. I just remember the way he'd refuse to talk about her. He refused to tell us about the times they had shagged, how good she was, the usual gory details. Everytime we broached the subject, we were greeted with a pleasant "shut the fuck up." That usually closed the subject. But they continued "seeing" each other for a good two years. Fifth year to seventh. She was really pretty. I remember that much. She wasn't sexy or drop-dead gorgeous. She was pretty. She had small brown eyes. I remember those for some reason. Dark hair. Full lips. She died though. Seventh year. Over Christmas Break. You-Know-Who. Don't make me explain.

In all his lust he had found love. Only once. He had steered clear ever since.

Laura. Her name had been Laura.

She's dead. And he's dead. I've always wondered if lovers find each other after death.

For their sake I hope so.

James was never Sirius's equal when it came to women, but he played a good role as runner-up. He got action, he got laid. Just not at the rapid speed Sirius had established. James was better known for making a girl fall head over heels in love with him. He had the charm, the intellect. The ridiculously swollen ego. He'd ruffle his hair; he'd play with his beloved snitch, a reminder of his amazing Quidditch abilities. The girls loved him. All save for one: the future Mrs. Potter, Lily Evans.

She was the only one who could ever dent his seemingly impregnable pride. She'd knock him down a peg or two. She'd let him know when he was being an ass. She wasn't afraid of him, she wasn't impressed by him. So of course they fell in love. What else could they have done?

It took seven long years for the two of them to come together. Years full of a constant tug-of-war, with neither a victor nor a loser. He'd flatter her with outlandish compliments; she'd throw them back in his face. He steadily fell harder and harder for her, she denied it more and more. They attempted dating, he still wearing his cocky grin, she still gripping the needle, attempting to deflate him.

The end of seventh term came, the end of our time at Hogwarts. And James Potter did the unthinkable: swallowed his pride. He told the woman he loved the truth, the non-doctored truth, the truth he felt when it came to her.

They were married years later. She still the only one who could crack his shell, could make him cower, make him beg. Make him fall to his knees. She made him pay in order to love him. She made him pay. A price neither of them knew existed.

They were killed. They were killed and survived by their only son, Harry. The Boy Who Lived. They were The Ones Who Died. No one ever talks about them. At least not the Daily Prophet.

Peter had been the quiet one of the group. Well, quieter. None of us were all that tongue-tied. I never truly understood the guy. We weren't close. He wasn't that close to any of us. He had been our roommate first year. Sirius, James, Peter and me. Sirius, James and I had bonded minutes into the train ride. Being roommates only deepened that friendship. We plotted and schemed, crafted and created, all in the presence of a certain Peter Pettigrew. Of course he had to join us.

He always looked like a rat. That should have been the first sign. He had a nervous habit of biting his nails. With his oversized teeth and his fingers to his mouth he was the spitting image of a sewer rat. The girls were repulsed by him. Disgusted and uninterested. He wasn't bright, he wasn't dumb. He wasn't quick, he wasn't slow. He was average. To him, miserably average.

I never knew how deep his jealousy ran. It turned his veins green and made his heart pound, his head ache. The things he felt, never vocalized. The things he wanted, never gained. He wasn't Sirius, blessed with good lucks and oozing sex appeal. He wasn't James, talented at everything. He wasn't me. He was lacking. And he knew it. And he hated and loathed because of it. Himself. His friends. Envy is an ugly thing.

He turned on us. He ratted James out and framed Sirius with the deed. And what was he left with? A missing finger and lifelong servitude. Driven to destroy his friends. I wonder if he was pleased. I wonder if he knew what he had gotten himself into. Doubtful. Revenge is sweet, but a double-edged sword. James and Lily died. Sirius, arrested. Peter, trapped. Trapped in the clutches of a master, forced to obey. Living with the promise of death hovering over his cowering head.

I'd rather be dead.

Somedays I almost am.

Me. Remus Lupin. Never extraordinarily good-looking. Never super suave. I was always the friend. The easy-going, laidback one. As a prefect, I let them get away with murder. I let people walk all over me. I never used the word "no." Never put up a fight. Never raised a fist. Never raised my voice. It was easier to just watch it all happen. And I did. Watch.

I've witnessed friends flourish and fail. I've watched them love and hate. I've had to watch them live. And die.

The Marauders are dead.

We died years ago, the second we left the halls of Hogwarts. We died. From our own devices. We were each our own downfall.

And I'm still falling. No one left to watch. No one left to wait around for. Sirius. James. Peter. Me.

I'm dying too.

And I see no point in trying to stop it.