I've always wanted to write the Marauders' story, and I've finally decided to give it a shot, so . . . here it is. Tell me what you think!

Disclaimer: this world and its characters belong to J.K. Rowling.

Remus's mouth fell open as the owl deposited the letter in his lap. It couldn't have been a mistake – it was addressed to him – but who could possibly be writing to him? Then he noticed the crest on the letter and his eyes widened. "Father, I've got it," he said in shock.

"Got what, Remus?" asked Lyall Lupin without looking up from his work. His father had just gotten back from a job in Venezuela, where he had been called in to tackle a particularly nasty dark creature that turned out to be a lethifold.

"My Hogwarts letter," Remus whispered, not daring to believe it, and Mr. Lupin abruptly dropped his parchment and Muggle ink pen and came swiftly to his son's side.

"Hope," shouted Mr. Lupin into the kitchen, and a tall, slender woman appeared in the doorway, a dishcloth in hand.

"Is something wrong?" she asked worriedly, looking over her son to make sure he was perfectly intact. There didn't seem to be any obvious broken bones and he didn't seem to have damaged any furniture, although he did look a bit pale . . .

"He's got his letter," Lyall told his wife joyfully, grabbing her round the shoulders and spinning her round the living room in a very uncharacteristic manner.

Mrs. Lupin's eyes lit up as her face broke into a brilliant smile, ruffling her son's tawny hair as they waltzed past. It was moments like these that Remus relished, where they almost seemed like a normal family, and the worry and strain on his parents' faces vanished – moments where he looked at his mother and focused on her smile instead of the silver hair that was at odds with her honest, mischievous face.

Hope Lupin had once been very beautiful, with thick black hair, a good sense of humor evident in her face, a tall, slender stature, and green eyes, all of which her son had inherited with the exception of his hair color. These days, though, her hair was streaked with grey, her face was lined with signs of stress, and she never came home with a brand new book in hand and a story to tell about her day.

"Dumbledore has devised a way for Remus to attend school safely," Mr. Lupin informed them, frowning as he scanned the letter he had snatched up while Mrs. Lupin was busy beaming at her son. "It says here that he will speak directly to Remus regarding the matter upon his arrival at Hogwarts."

"Can I come with you to Diagon Alley?" Remus asked hopefully. The Lupins lived in a remote part of the Welsh countryside, and he never went with his parents to their respective workplaces, so he didn't often get to see people. Regardless, he was glad they didn't have to move around the way they used to anymore. He loved where he lived – the gorgeous mountains, the grassy valleys, the beautiful streams and rivers – it was all his to explore, and consequently Remus spent nearly all of his time outside, except on certain delicate days of the year.

"Of course you can," said Mr. Lupin firmly. His son was different, but he was no more dangerous than a regular eleven-year-old for the time being. "I've noticed you've become a little restless here."

There were only so many books Remus could take outside to read. Perhaps because of the ample amount of space, the Lupins' home was a sprawling manor reminiscent of the original Lupin Manor, which had been destroyed in a fire sometime in the eighteenth century. Most of this space was taken up by an enormous library that was filled with Muggle fantasies and epics, Wizarding fantasies and epics, histories, tomes on Transfiguration, volumes on Charms, anthologies on wandwork and magical theory and the Dark Arts and whatever else you could think of, and Remus had been steadily making his way through them all since he was four.

Because his parents were unsure of whether or not Remus would be accepted into Hogwarts, considering his condition, they had taken it upon themselves to homeschool him. He had never actually tried a spell (or at least, he wasn't supposed to have, but he secretly borrowed his father's wand sometimes to practice) but he probably knew more spells than any other child his age in Britain. Especially the Dark Arts and Charms, his father's two best subjects.

"Speaking of which," said his father suddenly, "it completely slipped my mind when I got back this evening, but I brought you something."

Remus's eyes glazed over in ecstasy. He knew what that meant. "Chocolate," he sighed happily.

Mr. Lupin grinned boyishly and produced a bar of chocolate from his pocket, his high spirits rising even higher when Remus pounced on the proffered edible heaven. They spent the night in celebration, and Remus went to bed happier than he'd been in a long time.

His father was not as rich as most purebloods, having been disinherited for marrying a Muggle long ago. His mother was Muggle, and had never seen so much as a knut before she married Mr. Lupin, an act that got her cut off from her family because her husband was a "good for nothing, lousy fellow with no job and no plan but to leech off our family's hard-earned money." As much as this made Hope want to strangle herself, she supposed she could hardly tell them, "Oh, no, he's actually a world-renowned dark creature hunter with a considerable inheritance from his rich, practically royal family. Also, he's a wizard."

They'd have thought she was mad, a good sensible young woman such as herself (who also married a leech, apparently, but it seemed there was no accounting for taste).

Remus folded his chocolate wrapper and placed it in the drawer full of his other chocolate wrappers. He kept them because they were gifts from his father – a man who had always tried to make him comfortable. A large part of the Lupin fortune had gone into research for cures for his condition, and the Lupin family had sort of just disappeared off the map in wizarding society.

Still, his father brought home chocolate from all over the world for him, and his mother would often walk home with stories – and these were two things Remus craved that he could remember loving since before his condition – chocolate and literature. He'd always had an avid love of learning; an unquenchable thirst for knowledge. He was sure he'd be a Ravenclaw – that is, if he wasn't kicked out of school and told that his acceptance had been a terrible mistake.

Hogwarts terrified the hell out of Remus; the thought of having to endure his condition alone, without the support of his parents, the only two people who'd ever loved him even after his condition . . .

What Remus lacked in wealth, he had in love. Besides, it wasn't as if he was poor. He was just poor by pureblood standards (which was probably quite rich by other wizards' standards). They had been all right before, but the money they spent on Remus's treatments, looking for cures and ways to lessen the pain, paying a Healer ridiculous amounts of money to see to Remus despite his condition – it had all taken a toll on them. . . and yet somehow, his father managed to bring home little trinkets for him that would have meant nothing to another child but meant the world to Remus.

So it didn't matter to him that he could never live a normal life, nor ever have friends who accepted him. He would brave it all, because this was an opportunity he would risk everything for.

"It wasn't your fault, what happened when you were four," his mother would say. "Don't let anyone tell you you're a monster, Remus. The world is cruel to those who are different, but remember that we love you."

He was lucky to have parents like that. He was lucky to be admitted into Hogwarts. He was lucky he was free.

He was lucky to have things other children took for granted, even though he had never hurt anyone, appreciated everything he had, and tried desperately to be kind – because he had something to atone for, didn't he?

After all, he was a werewolf.

"Don't embarrass us," Walburga Black instructed her eldest son. Sirius nodded woodenly, keeping his eyes trained on the floor. "Don't let a mudblood sit near you. Don't consort with Gryffindors or Hufflepuffs. Stay away from half-bloods. Make Slytherin House proud."

"Yes, Mother," said Sirius. He didn't look up.

"Good." The woman turned her back on her son without another glance, but she paused in the doorway. "Kreacher has already packed your trunk. There is something else for you, as well."

Sirius looked up at that. A present? He never got presents. Maybe. . .

"It is Slytherin green," Walburga continued, and he felt his heart sink horribly. "You will make us proud."

It wasn't a declaration of faith. It was an order with a threat behind it. Sirius kicked the floor half-heartedly as his mother left, curling his hands into fists.

He had been to Diagon Alley with his parents once, when he was eight and Regulus was six. It had been around Christmas time, and he had seen a young muggle-born girl fall down and skin her knee. Her father had cleaned the cut with his handkerchief and told her, "Careful, darling. Come on – what was that shop you wanted me to take you to? I don't know much about these magical things; you'll have to choose your own present."

When Sirius had been seven, he'd taken Regulus outside to play against his father's wishes and it had started to storm. They had been caught in the cold, shivering and jumping at the thunder, and his parents had refused to let them in until he "learned his lesson." When he fell, his mother would snap at him, "Get up; Blacks don't cry." He had never celebrated a holiday before, not even his birthday.

But it wasn't until that day in Diagon Alley that he wondered what it would be like if his parents loved him. He was pureblood and rich – he had all the wealth in the world; he could take a bath in galleons every day if he wished. But he had never felt love from his family – except for Regulus. His brother was the exception.

That day was the day he stopped calling muggle-borns mudbloods. He envied them.

". . . Sirius?" a small voice asked.

He looked up to find his brother standing uncertainly in the doorway, his dark hair rumpled and his eyes bleary with sleep. "I don't want you to leave," confessed his brother, biting his lip. It was an unusual show of vulnerability from him – there was no room for vulnerability in the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black .

Sirius smiled a little. "I'll see you again over Christmas break," he assured Regulus, ruffling his hair.

"I want to go with you."

"You'll be there next year. I'm sorry I'm leaving you alone here, but I can't very well refuse to go, can I?" Sirius asked his brother. "Go back to sleep, Reg." He made his way out the door, but before he could take more than a couple steps, Regulus flung his arms around Sirius from behind, crushing his brother in a tight hug.

"I'll miss you," said Regulus into Sirius's shoulder, and Sirius grinned a little in spite of himself.

"Yeah. I'll miss you too."

"Of course I'll be there, James," promised his father, surprised that his son would think otherwise.

"You . . . you don't have Auror work?" James asked unsurely. It was very uncharacteristic of him.

"James," said his father gently, kneeling in front of his son. "I'll always have Auror work. What I do saves lives, you know. But don't ever think for a moment that you are not more important to me than any of that. I'd never miss something that was truly important to you, all right? Now, tell me, are you nervous?"

"Of course not," scoffed James, regaining his old attitude. "I'm going be a Gryffindor – just like you and Mum!"

His father grinned at him, tapping the rim of his glasses. "That's my boy," he said affectionately, and James allowed his father to give him a hug.

"Hufflepuff's a great House, Peter," his mother told him. "You'll do well in it."

Peter looked at the ground. He wasn't going to be a Hufflepuff, like his father, or a Ravenclaw, like his mother, despite what they both seemed to think. He wasn't kind. He wasn't just. He wasn't honest, or a hard worker.

He was just Peter.

What he really wanted to do was run away and never go to Hogwarts; never get sorted. He was sure that the Sorting Hat wouldn't know what to do with him. The hat may have been able to read his mind and look into his soul or whatever it did, but even Peter had no idea what to make of himself.

He had never been particularly good at magic, had never had many friends or been well liked. He was skinny, with wispy blond hair and a small, elfish face. His front teeth stuck out, he was short for his age, and he wasn't clever.

If there was a House for those quaking in their shoes, that would have been the one to place him in. They didn't have an anti-Gryffindor House, did they? He supposed Slytherin was anti-Gryffindor, but he wasn't ambitious, either. He tried to imagine it: Peter Pettigrew, Slytherin House – house of the snake, house of the cunning, enemies of Gryffindor, blood purity elitist – his father was muggle-born!

"Peter," said his mother softly, eyeing her son shrewdly. She had a good idea of what was going through his head at the moment. "Don't worry about tomorrow. What will happen will happen, and your father and I will be proud of you no matter what."

Peter fell asleep that night with those words ringing in his head.

Your father and I will be proud of you. No matter what.