Prologue:
An Unexpected Visit

Outside of the cottage, the sun is shining on the neglected garden with all the warmth and glory of a bright August morning. Thin rays are shooting through the closed shutters of the living room windows like spears, painting a regular, golden pattern on the well-worn wooden floor.

It is a rather strange place for him to be, the man thinks, this pastoral, ridiculously picturesque house in the Lake District. From his viewpoint in the kitchen he can see children on bicycles, zigzagging along the narrow road that skirts the edge of the small sleepy village before it goes over a humpback bridge by the old Mill that he can see in the distance. To the left, a lane meanders into a wide meadow and heads uphill, turning to a loamy path and vanishing behind a grove of oaks. Across the road, behind one of the coarse, grey garden walls, a woman hangs laundry on a line.

"Master wants his breakfast now?"

"Another half an hour, if you please. Thank you."

He answers without turning, his tone absentminded but friendly. There have been times when the sound of his voice alone would turn the knees of stout prefects to jelly… but these times are over now. He allows himself a somewhat astounded look back at the man he once was and finds himself smiling… a nearly imperceptible smile, but a smile nonetheless. That man lies buried together with posthumous fame and memories best left untouched – and still he marvels at the fact that he is standing here at all, able to look back. He remembers that he'd been thinking about permanently leaving the country, directly after… but not now. Not yet.

Half of the books are still not unpacked, the shelves nearly empty… and if he doesn't restock his supplies, he might lose the easy ability to perform what has been as natural for him as his own breathing. Not that it matters right now. This is a place as good as any to create what one day might be his new life. Again, not yet. Sometimes he feels as if he still is in that bright place, watching the boats vanishing in the distance, carrying familiar faces - and leaving him behind with a choice unexpected, undeserved.

"Aunt Ruta, wait! Wait!"

The shrill voice of a boy, seven or eight years old, outside of the garden gate. His hair is a shiny hazelnut brown; he wears a short-sleeved, white shirt and breeches, cut off above the knees. The man finds that he has reflexively stepped back into the shadow; long years of forced secrecy make his body still react as if that summer day back in 1998 had never happened. Old habits are not so easily abandoned, it seems, even here, where no one will recognize his face.

"Aunt Ruta!"

Now he sees the woman in question; tall and slender, hair of the same color as the boy's. She wears a skirt and a blouse made of thin cotton, the sleeves rolled up, and a wicker basket hangs from her right arm. A Muggle. The fact that St. Mary Green is mainly a Muggle community has been one of the most important factors in his decision to rent this cottage.

"Teddy, come here!"

The boy laughs and sticks out his tongue, and the very next moment the garden gate swings wide open and he runs along the graveled path, immediately followed by the woman.

"Teddy, for heaven's sake, out of here, at once! You can't rove about in a stranger's garden!"

"Of course I can!" The boy slows his steps down to a deliberately-provoking amble. "There's no one living in this cottage anyway… all the shutters are closed, and the beds are nothing but weeds, see?"

His first mistake. He should have granted Winky permission to cast a few careful charms on the garden.

"Mrs. Ogilvie told me that there's a new tenant. And you will leave him in peace, you little rascal. Out of there, I say."

The boy turns around to her, his sun-freckled face split by a huge grin.

"I want to know what the doorbell sounds like," he says. Now he's very close, nearly standing on the threshold. His aunt is right behind him, and the man can see the embarrassment and dismay in her eyes when she reaches out to grab the boy's shoulder and pull him back. Too late – a loud, melodious ringing ends the silence within the man whirls around, just in time to usher the small figure clad in a spotless white towel back into the kitchen. Unconsciously he straightens his back and takes a deep breath. It is time to show himself to the outside world anyway… and the encounter with a harmless Muggle woman and her cheeky brat of a nephew should bear no risk whatsoever.

He opens the door.

The child freezes, eyes big as saucers. The man blinks at the sudden assault of bright daylight. He clears his throat.

"Yes?"

The aunt is the first one to regain her composure. She raises her chin and shows a friendly smile.

"Beg your pardon, sir… but my nephew got a little bit carried away. I am sure he will apologize any moment for disturbing your peace." A sharp gaze at the boy, and suddenly the warm alto voice carries a clear hint of steel. "Now?"

"'m sorry." He shuffles his feet and bits his lower lip, staring down at his sandals.

"I am sorry, sir."

"I'm sorry, sir." He dares to look up, and a dimple appears at the corner of his mouth as he meets the dark eyes of the man.

"I won't do it again."

"I won't do it again… sir." The dimple deepens, and the man feels the sudden, unexpected urge to grin. Cheeky brat indeed.

"And we really should go home now to Gran Dromeda, Teddy. It was very nice to meet you, Mr…"

"Seeker… Stephen Seeker." It is the name he has used to sign the rental agreement, and it still feels strange on his tongue. "No harm done."

"Oh – but my nephew is not the only one to have forgotten good manners." The woman holds out her hand. "Welcome in St. Mary Green, Mr. Seeker. My name is Ruta Lupin, and this is my nephew, Teddy Lupin."

For a second or two the man doesn't answer; her eyebrows rise in a gesture of polite surprise and he forcibly wills himself to speak.

"My pleasure." He hears his own voice, low and grating, as it must sound to her ears, then gives a short stiff nod. "If you'll excuse me now…" It is probably rather rude to close the door right in her face, but at this very moment he doesn't care. He stands behind the thick wood, listening to the steps of his two visitors swiftly moving away. He can also hear the voice of Ruta Lupin, giving her nephew a soft but thorough lecture about proper behavior.

His hands are clenched to fists, and when he slowly opens them again, methodically flexing his fingers, he notices the sweat on his brow and on the back of his neck, slowly trickling into his collar.

Remus' son – of course. He should not be surprised. Harry Potter lives barely three miles away, and he would certainly choose a home close to the boy; he would try to be a better godfather than Sirius ever had the chance to be.

He swallows hard.

He is not prepared for this – what has he been thinking? This is pure madness.

"Master?" Winky's voice, squeaky and a little bit anxious. "Is Master well? Shall Winky serve his breakfast now?"

Suddenly he feels very tired.

"No, Winky. Thank you, but – no. I seem to have lost my appetite."

This is madness.

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

Author's note:
This story (that will now definitely have a prologue and 19 chapters) was strongly inspired by the marvelous, little tale Asphodel and Wormwood by my friend rabidsamfan. You don't necessarily have to read it in advance (and if you want to be surprised, you shouldn't), but I highly recommend to read it anyway (you'll find it on my Favourites list). rabid is also my beta, and I can't thank her enough for her sharp eye (and tongue), for her patience, her humor and her priceless help.