Halloween, 1987

The leaves on London's plane trees had shrivelled up weeks ago; now they were dropping to the pavement, brown and ragged, mingling indistinguishably with the other rubbish. The air wasn't bright with cold as it would have been at Hogwarts. There was no promise of snow. There was only the wind, blowing through his flapping coat and suit jacket and shirt right through to his bones. Perhaps this was what ghosts felt like.

It was late enough, but the streets were never deserted, not here. A pack of giggling girls lurched by. Cars sped past and honked.

He'd left the dishes unwashed after dinner in the sink of his tiny bedsit. Its cheap cotton curtains, his unmade bed, his pile of books on the table. A half-drunk cup of tea.

It was Halloween again.

A sudden freezing blast sent a crisp packet skittering past his shoes; he felt their fingers tugging at his sleeves. Come on, Moony, you'll be late for the feast!

He stuck his hands in his pockets, numb fingers curled into fists for warmth.

Then, glancing up, he saw a pub front, and with a start realized he recognized it. He must have been walking for hours; this was the edge of the East End, where the old Order headquarters had been. They'd practically lived here, the year after school ended. The old house must still be here, standing the same as ever among all those walls of graffiti and posters, as though the Fidelius Charm had held it out of the flow of time. Did Dumbledore ever use it now, or were its tables and chairs covered with dustsheets, its fireplaces dark?

That pub--they'd been there together, on another night when the last remnants of autumn were blowing away. They'd been working, but someone had insisted they had to go out and celebrate Halloween.

Funny he'd ended up here again tonight.

Do you think it's really safe in here?

It's fine, Peter. Firewhiskies all round, right?

It's just whisky for Muggles, James. Lily had said it fondly. Let me.

The alcohol had burned his throat, a pleasant burning, as he sat there in the circle. Lily and James, holding hands under the table--not secretly, but quietly, securely. Peter, his scarf still tightly wrapped around his neck. His friends. Warmth.

And laughter.

Without meaning to, Lupin had stepped through the doorway into the pub, which was dingier than he'd remembered. In the shadows, he could almost distinguish silent shapes of men and women hunched over glasses along the bar or alone at tables.

The bartender glanced at him. After a moment of hesitation, Lupin sat down on a stool. The bartender took his order mutely and clanked a glass down in front of him without much interest.

Lupin sipped from it awkwardly. At least nobody seemed to be looking up at him. He'd barely touched alcohol for years. He'd never usually go into a pub by himself, and buying Firewhisky to drink at home was worse.

The place wasn't even decorated for Halloween. He remembered a tiny flat, years ago, clothes on the floor and mud on the sofa; even it had had jack-o-lanterns lit everywhere, the candles behind their faces spelled never to burn down or go out.

The liquid scalded Lupin's throat.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

Lupin almost knocked over his glass. Instinctively, he reached for his wand, and then he looked up to see the face of the person who had hissed at him. He blinked.

There was no mistaking that stringy black hair, the pallid frame leaning menacingly over him, even clad in a long, nondescript Muggle coat rather than the school robes he was used to seeing it in.

"I'm having a drink," said Lupin at last, composing himself enough to sound at least reasonably neutral.

"Is that so? What a coincidence." Snape was practically spitting in his face, and now Lupin could smell the alcohol on his breath. That went a long way to explain the absence of his acquaintance's usual incisive sarcasm; in fact, Lupin was impressed Snape was able to string a sentence together at all.

"Yes, it is," said Lupin. It was still bizarre to see that face here. He hadn't seen Snape since school--since the very last day of school, as they all made their goodbyes, when he'd caught sight of a face twisted in hatred. James at the front, probably chasing Lily; an arm around his shoulder; Peter at his other side; and the flash of this face in the distance, despising them all, with exactly the same expression it had now.

But Snape was supposed to be a teacher at Hogwarts these days. The feast would have ended by now, but that didn't explain why Snape was in a grimy Muggle pub in the East End.

But, of course--it was Halloween for Snape too.

He'd seen Snape watch Lily flick her blaze of hair over her shoulder. He'd watched Snape partner her in Potions, talking to her so carefully, politely, his skinny hands passing ingredients to her graceful ones. None of the others had noticed, but he had.

And, of course, when Dumbledore had told them, much later, what Snape had chosen to do, only he and Lily had understood.

Perhaps, Lupin realized, his old headmaster was still using that house here after all.

"I don't know what you think you're doing following me," snarled Snape, "but you're wrong, as usual, Lupin. Get out."

"I won't," said Lupin civilly. Not here, in this place they had shared; not tonight. "Why don't you sit back down, and we can both drink in peace?"

Something lit up in Snape's eyes. "Oh, I see it all now!" He leaned back from Lupin's shoulder and laughed. "You're crying into your beer over that friend of yours that betrayed you and got all your other chums killed. Not much of a friend, was he--what was his name . . . ?"

As though Snape didn't know his name. As though Lupin could ever forget it. "Stop it," said Lupin, trying to keep his voice steady. "I don't hate you, Snape. I never did."

"Well, that will certainly console me in the dead of night," said Snape, eyes glittering. "Unlike your friend. Do you ever think of him, Lupin? Sitting there in his chains on that rock in the middle of the sea. The only other one left of your wonderful gang--"

Lupin's fingers clenched around his wand in his pocket. "I pitied you," he said through clenched teeth. He stood up. "I know you loved her."

For a moment, Snape just stood there, his face contorted with loathing.

"Any fight, gentlemen, take it outside, please," said the bartender's voice from far away.

Lupin reached into his pocket and dropped a handful of Muggle coins onto the bar. Probably too much; he didn't care. He turned to leave.

"Oh, yes," said the silky voice behind him, reveling in malice. "Sirius Black. That was his name."

Then Lupin was over the threshold and back into the night, walking fast past the shuttered shopfronts and red-green streetlights and Muggles dressed as witches and wizards tottering down the street, cloaked in babble.

There was nothing else to say about it, no other answer. The Marauders had been the foremost fact of his life for seven years. Now . . . they were over. James was dead. Peter was dead.

But Sirius was still alive. Even now, Sirius was alive, the same cold wind reaching his face through the bars, his grey eyes, his mouth that used to grin, his black hair.

Sirius was a traitor. Sirius had killed them. Everything Lupin had ever thought about Sirius had been proven to be wrong.

But Sirius was still there, only a matter of miles away, there, just as Snape had said, in a cell in that tiny prison with waves hurling themselves at the cliff-faces below.

So, for Lupin, it would always be autumn--the last days of autumn, the rags of summer flying dead on the trees above his head and tumbling underfoot, the icy wind chasing him home.