The Swift Degeneration of the Marauders (and how this was caused by one Remus Lupin)

It was entirely his fault. He'd been stupid, far too stupid. Truly, how could he not have realised that he was slowly but surely being left behind? Then again, what with his seeming inability to find employment, it was easy to see where he might have slipped a bit, perhaps seemed a bit too eager to get the topic of conversation off of his living arrangements whenever he and lads got together. But then... they were being especially shifty too, avoiding talking about whatever it was that the three of them had gotten involved in. He had a feeling that it was probably illegal, but with James and Sirius, it was better not to ask, and with Peter as well, they would be an unstoppable force, with cunning and brawn enough to match even a dragon. They don't really need me, he'd thought. Not a scrawny, pale-skinned, entirely too quiet monster like me. He'd never thought much of himself, not since the bite, and that had been years and years ago, when he was still a child, when he was still innocent, when nothing really mattered.

Looking back, he could see where they'd all gone wrong; he could spot the moments where he should have known that Sirius was slipping, coming very close to revealing his traitorous secret. And he'd believed all the lies! For shame.

Still, he hadn't been the only reason for the breakdown. Subtle as they were, the dynamics of the Marauders had been unchangeable, set in stone since they had first made the pact of constant friendship and camaraderie, years ago now, when they were lowly second years. It had always been Sirius that decided upon their motivation, Sirius that rallied them to action, Sirius that... no. He wouldn't think about Sirius. He couldn't.

James had been... arrogant, certainly; they all were at that age. James, however, was the one that sat down and thought things through. He could spot a fault a mile away, and he had the skill and technical knowledge to put their plans in motion. He... no. It was too hard to even think about James now, not now that he was dead, and his son was off somewhere in Surrey, away from monsters that could corrupt him and make him into a monster like them, like Remus Lupin.

Peter... "Little" Peter Pettigrew. The thing about Peter, the Marauders had always agreed, was that he was simply so inconspicuous that he was the perfect mastermind. And he was. Peter had been the leader, the organiser. Where Sirius would supply the enthusiasm and James the technical detail, Peter was the one that sussed out the situation, and kept James and Sirius aware of the bigger picture, as it were. He was the true genius, and loyal to a fault to whoever he felt deserved his loyalty.

And Remus... he'd always prided himself on his intellect, on having read the Classics, on knowing his Latin and French, and even a bit of Welsh that he'd picked up from his Grandfather before the family disowned him and his parents. This knowledge did him the world of good at Hogwarts, where he studied intensely and dabbled in magical theory and history. Even his great lack of magical talent was no major problem at Hogwarts; he'd simply chalk it up to whatever moon phase or miscellaneous divinatory astronomy period was featured in the Prophet. Really, the professors and students were quite gullible, believing his lies about being ill from the various illnesses he contracted through magical creatures. He'd made himself out to be some great Dark Creatures expert, like that prat Gilderoy Lockhart, who had been a pretentious Hufflepuff some years below him at Hogwarts. Yet, he'd never been much to the Marauders. He didn't fit in with their projects, didn't have the same morals and values; couldn't even stand up for himself, for Merlin's sake! Even he knew that his greatest fault was his intense need to be liked and held in high regard. Perhaps Remus was their tagalong, their mate out of pity only. Still, he liked to believe that he could be a mix of all three of them; that would stand in when one of the others wasn't there. He could handle illusions.

Perhaps the last few years had all been an illusion, he thought desperately. Maybe, things hadn't degenerated to this level after all. Perhaps it had all been a dream – a nightmare, one which he was finally waking up from. But alas, common sense prevailed, and thus he subconsciously knew that no amount of wishing would bring them back, would right the wrongs. Besides, he was a monster, not "human" enough to marry even a Muggle, not "civilised" enough to have a proper job, to keep an account at Gringotts. And if even the Goblins wouldn't accept him as a gentleman, and someone of fairly good calibre and high intelligence, then all the books in the world couldn't keep him alive. He had had to learn in the years following his departure from Hogwarts that the NEWTS didn't matter a whit, not even if he had achieved the highest theory marks since the test's inception. And he had neither the funds nor the permission for overseas travel. He had no idea of the treatment of his kind in other countries. In short, he was nothing. People like him were legislated against, they were filth, and they meant nothing.

He'd actually thought that his friends – his best mates, for six years – would accept him, would aid him when he encountered difficulty. He'd discovered early on, however, that they didn't seem to trust him anymore, always heading off to some secret society meeting, or discussing the wedding that they hadn't told him about until a week beforehand. A week! They'd told him that it was so that he wouldn't spend so much time worrying about gifts or formal clothing for the occasion, but he knew it was because they thought he would tell his werewolf friends, who would inform Voldemort. And he knew that they belonged to that Order of the ... Order... that group that Dumbledore had set up, and informed him explicitly that unless he managed to prove somehow that he was beyond suspicion, he would not be extended an invitation to join. He had known that they were moving on, going beyond his capabilities, beyond where he was legally allowed to roam.

It was like their going off and converting to some fancy religion, being given all these benefits and privileges, whilst he was ever the penitent sinner, mumbling God-fearing phrases under his breath and carrying the rosary beads with him wherever he went. Of course, that wasn't the best analogy, since he knew full well that he was not a Catholic, and in fact only vaguely supported the belief that there was a God, somewhere, without whom the world simply couldn't exist. Still, he remembered clearly the day of Harry Potter's birth. He had been recently laid off as an employee of Flourish and Blotts, stacking shelves and conversing with customers about the books they had chosen. It wasn't even a valid reason, simply prejudice and lies. He'd received a patronus message from Peter, telling him to come to St. Mungo's immediately, as there was someone who'd like to see him. He'd gone there, trembling in anticipation at meeting the next generation, the beautiful offspring of tow of the dearest people in his life. Yet when he'd arrived, he was violently pushed away, not let inside the room where his friends were. Later, Sirius and Peter had visited him and told him bluntly that they supported the Ministry's policies and as such he was not to be allowed near Harry Potter or any of his family until the boy was a teenager. He couldn't understand their support of the Ministry, but he supposed that it was inevitable, if unfathomable.

Even he, some days, as he sipped his tea and waited for a response to his latest job application, began to support the Ministry's views on some topics. Without his access to other people and forms of communication, he had no idea of what was going on in the world, and he felt entirely helpless and without his own opinion, for the first time since he was four or so years old. Even his parents seemed to edge around him, not talking to him or looking directly at him.

He remembered the final meeting he'd had with the once-Marauders like it was only yesterday. He'd received word from James that he and Lily wanted to talk to him alone, to explain. He'd gone along, and they'd immediately Stunned and bound him. When he woke up, he was lying in the Shrieking Shack, with their faces peering down at him, and a bottle of Veritaserum on the dresser, visible from where he was lying. He'd begun struggling, and Sirius had forced the bottle down his throat. After swallowing painfully, he'd slipped into semi-consciousness as the potion put him into a trance-like state. He couldn't remember anything after that, until he woke up in his bedroom at his parents' house, with his mother in the room with him, ready to explain that he'd been found unconscious and beaten on their doorstep nearly a week ago. He'd been forced to assume that his answers to their questions had been unsatisfactory.

That had been the end, he supposed. After that, he'd decided that he no longer cared, and he'd gone out and bought an atlas and a self-updating encyclopaedia with the last of his money. Packing his hand-me-down suitcase with all his worldly belongings, he'd said goodbye to his parents and begun travelling the world, experiencing many cultures and never getting attached, although he left behind a string of contacts and acquaintances in many of those locations.

Now he knew the truth; that Sirius had been the rat, and that the others must have been his pawns, but he still didn't know why it had to have happened. He figured that he didn't need to. Somewhere along the line, he'd finally acquired the skill that he'd been searching for his entire life; confidence. Now, he didn't need anyone, he had no desire for anyone to find him in great esteem, and he could live alone, without fear or worry about anyone or thing else. He may have been alone, but he was content in his solitude, and whilst the Marauders may have been torn apart from the inside, he was still standing. He was still strong, amidst it all, and when he reflected on that, he felt a pride that was greater than even his sorrow and guilt at having been the central cause of the catastrophe that was the end of the War.