They stand facing each other awkwardly in the front of Lupin's house, at the edge of the small gravel road that leads to the village. It is dark. There is no moon tonight and the only light comes from the single lamp burning in the parlour. This parting is strange and unsettled and slightly sad, much as their past few days together have been. Once again, Remus is at a loss as to how to behave around Sirius, who has endured a grown man's sufferings but is in many ways still a boy. Their last parting, before Sirius's arrest, had been utterly without warmth, Sirius suspecting Remus, Remus suspecting Sirius's suspicion, neither willing to acknowledge his feelings or risk a confrontation. The closed door between them then had nearly killed their friendship, and Remus wonders whether foreknowledge would have changed anything. What he wants least of all now is the same door between them, the same bottling of feeling. He doesn't know when he'll next see Sirius, yet he can't bring himself to show the emotions, the fierce fondness and even fiercer fear of slipping back into loneliness. Finally he holds out a self-conscious hand.

"Look after yourself, Sirius."

Sirius gives him a puzzled look, then takes the proffered hand. They shake with obvious discomfiture. "And you as well." His strong grasp belies his frail appearance, and Remus begins to relinquish his hold on Sirius's hand out of instinct. He is not used to being touched, particularly by someone with so firm a grasp, so it is an even greater surprise when Sirius suddenly pulls him into an embrace and they are holding each other close like in the Shrieking Shack: two old friends with only twelve years of estrangement between them and now the mutual knowledge that they have little in the wide world but each other. Remus can feel Sirius shaking against him, and he knows the other man is struggling to hold his emotions in check.

When Sirius speaks his voice is hoarse in Remus's ear. "Thank you, Moony. For everything." He swallows heavily and they break away. Remus does not say what he is thinking, just watches Sirius, looking over his friend's thin form as though trying to memorise him.

Sirius turns and walks over to Buckbeak who is eating mice by the side of the road. He bows carefully and the large beast eyes him, and gives a condescending nod. Sirius climbs onto his back, then looks back at Lupin.

"Keep in touch, Remus. I'll send a letter your way when I get there." His voice is steady once more.

Lupin nods. "Let me know if you need anything. I'll send along a Prophet as often as I can."

"Ta." They look at each other, silently.

"Have everything, then?" Remus asks. "Money? Wand?" Sirius pats the pocket of his robes. "Good. Well, ready?"

"Yes."

"Goodbye then, Sirius."

"Goodbye." Sirius gives a slight nod and grips Buckbeak around his feathery neck. Remus steps forward, pulls out his wand and taps man and beast with a Disillusionment Charm, murmuring the spell in a soft undertone. They shimmer a moment, then camouflage to become part of the night. Remus can barely make out the outline of them, but he can hear the whoosh and feel the rush of air as the hippogriff beats its great wings and takes to the sky. He stands there in the road until the sounds are gone and the only air he can feel is the cool breeze on his face. Then he walks back into the house and shuts the door.

Remus does not go straight to bed, though it is past midnight and he can feel weariness in every aching bone. He lights a lamp in his bedroom and makes his way to the heavy wooden trunk at the back of the closet. It unlocks with a flick of his wand and, kneeling down, he lifts the lid, inhaling deeply the scent of wood and lavender that rises from within. He smiles as he lifts out the old, familiar items: his Gryffindor ties, his scarf with its little holes where Padfoot's paws snagged on it once. His Prefect's badge shining dully in the lamplight, old essays, broken quills, Chocolate Frog cards, Christmas and birthday cards, summer letters, and a wizard's chess set with several pieces missing. And last, an old, leather-bound photograph album resting at the bottom, long unopened. The initials R.J.L. are stamped on the cover, a gift from his parents after he received his Hogwarts letter. He opens the old book and with gentle fingers, flips through the faded pages.

He smiles at the waving people, the moving black and white faces that smile back as though they can see him. Many pages, however, are blank, or have large spaces where pictures have been removed, the photo corners looking naked and slightly ridiculous, framing images that aren't there. Remus flips through the rest of the album, increasingly mystified, and when he closes it he sits a long time with the book resting back-cover up on his lap.

It dawns on him all of a sudden, and he leaps to his feet, places the album back in the trunk, and walks over to his bed, getting down on his hands and knees to peer underneath it. He uses his wand as a torch, running light into the small, dark space with a sweep of his arm. Remus is a tidy person, and doesn't believe in pushing dirt under the carpet or shoving things under the bed as a means of cleaning up, so the space beneath his bed is more or less clear but for a fine layer of dust that's accumulated while he's been away. Sirius's arrival meant that tasks like cleaning his house have been postponed. A last sweep of light in the far corner, however, reveals a box sitting inconspicuously on its own amid the dust. Of course, Remus says to himself, how could I forget? He pokes his wand at the corner and intones, "Accio shoebox."

It shoots into his waiting hand in a cloud of dust that leaves him sneezing as he gets to his feet. He goes to the lamp on his bedside table and sits down. His pulse is quickening and his palms feel sweaty, but he opens the lid with forced calm, and there they all are – the pictures of Sirius.

He remembers now, as he sits with the stack of photographs in his hand, taking them out of the album, taking the shoebox from his closet and dumping them unceremoniously inside, vowing he'd never look at them again. It had been two days after James and Lily's murders, Peter's supposed murder, and Sirius's supposed betrayal. He wonders why he didn't destroy the photographs, or least cut Sirius out, but supposes the part of his nature that's inherently opposed to marking or damaging things kept him from it. He is immensely thankful for that now.

Sirius grins cheekily up at him, makes faces, clowns around with James, pants and wags his tail as Padfoot, runs his hand through his hair and poses in that very aristocratic, somewhat haughty way of his, carries a laughing Peter on his back.

Remus shuffles through the photographs, laughter bubbling up inside him at some, others bringing tears to his eyes. He wonders how he survived twelve years without looking through them, as though he thought he could deny this part of his existence completely. And then he comes to it – the best one of them all, the one his mother adored because he looks so happy in it. It is one of the few photographs of himself and Sirius alone, though it is far from being the most aesthetically pleasing. They are blurred, even beyond what is normal for moving wizard pictures, and their pose is casual, hastily thrown together rather than carefully arranged like the annual Hogwarts end-of-term photographs.

It was taken on what Remus still considers the happiest day of his life – the days his friends told him they'd become Animagi. Sirius had turned into Padfoot for a demonstration, run around the room yapping, tail thumping like a mad thing, and ended by putting his paws up on Remus's shoulders and trying to lick his face. Remus had squirmed and laughed in delight and amazement at this dog who was his friend, and couldn't stop laughing even when Sirius had resumed his normal shape and slung an easy arm around his shoulders.

"Well, what do you think, Mate?" Sirius gave his 'pleased with himself' grin, and James pulled a camera seemingly from out of nowhere to capture them. "For posterity," he explained, "so that in the future little witches and wizards everywhere can see this and aspire to our greatness!" They were Animagi at 15, and had done it without proper training, supervision, or, as Remus thanked Merlin, mishap. They'd made a new world record. They had every right to feel proud.

In the photograph, Sirius is somehow managing to look both smug and humble, the utter artlessness of his glee canceling out the self-satisfaction that he plainly feels. He turns to wink at the camera, then looks back at Remus as though he can't get enough of his friend's reaction. Remus's smile is huge and, uncharacteristically for him, shows his teeth. It's a laughing smile, a giddy smile that speaks of a happiness so great he seems ready to burst from it.

Remus stares at his 15-year-old self, remembering the elation, the feeling that Sirius and James and Peter were the best people in the world; that whatever happened afterwards, nothing could destroy this perfect happiness. He swallows back a lump in his throat and reminds himself, as he does not do often enough, that if he has known despair, he has also known the highest peaks of joy.

He puts the photograph on his bedside table beside the pictures of his parents, stows the rest back in the shoebox, and changes for bed. He hangs his robes on the hook on his door, putting on his threadbare pyjamas, glancing once more at the photo before turning off the light. Darkness envelops the house and, with the moon in its weakest phase, renders him blind. Tonight he is purely human – just poor, unemployed Remus Lupin – with no golden wolf eyes to see in the dark. As he shuts his eyes he imagines Sirius somewhere else in the night, speeding away under a starless sky on Buckbeak, toward sunlight and warm sand. Toward safety and freedom and a place that Remus knows very little about except that it is far from the dementors and from England and from him.