# Pacific Northwest Werewolf Community – Sanctuary Settlement – 2:47 PM PST
The settlement wasn't on any official registry, and that was precisely the point. To the various governments it was a rumor, to locals it was a ghost story, and to cartographers it was a suspicious blank patch of forest where rivers conveniently "looped" and ridgelines "thickened." In reality, it was a valley carved by glaciers and secrecy, shielded by towering spruce and fir, thick with mist, and heavy with wards that worked just as much on instinct as spellwork. Rough cabins, rust-streaked shipping containers, and ramshackle houses cobbled from whatever materials survival offered clustered in the hollows. To outsiders it would have looked like poverty. To those who lived here, it was sanctuary.
Sixty souls called it home, bound by the one thing polite magical society refused to see in them: a monthly torment that turned them into liabilities, monsters, "unhirables."
Remus Lupin knelt in the damp earth of his garden, coaxing a particularly stubborn carrot from the soil with the kind of infinite patience that only someone who had survived twenty-eight years of bad luck and worse health could muster. His long fingers, scarred but surprisingly elegant, worked the earth with gentle precision. His sandy hair—already salted with premature silver despite his youth—fell across his forehead in waves that refused to stay tamed, no matter how many times he pushed them back. Deep lines bracketed his mouth and eyes, carved there not just by pain but by a lifetime of finding reasons to smile despite everything the world had thrown at him.
His patched cardigan had once been blue, maybe two owners ago, and his boots bore the evidence of multiple resolings—testament to a man who made things last because he had to. Yet there was something almost aristocratic in the way he moved, a natural grace that no amount of poverty could diminish. When he finally coaxed the carrot free, he held it up with the sort of quiet triumph usually reserved for far greater victories.
"There we are," he murmured to the root vegetable, brushing dirt from its surface with careful fingers. "Patience wins again. Though I suppose you can't take all the credit—I did provide the excellent soil and questionable company."
The sound of disciplined footsteps crunching along the forest path made him pause, carrot halfway to his collection basket. These weren't the loose, familiar strides of his neighbors, nor the cautious shuffle of the occasional lost hiker. These steps belonged to people who knew how to walk into trouble and expect it to move aside for them.
Remus sighed, a sound that carried decades of weary experience. He dusted his hands against his patched knees as he rose to his full, considerable height—a movement that somehow managed to be both graceful and resigned. "Well," he said to no one in particular, his voice carrying that distinctive blend of warmth and dry wit, "that's never a good sign. Official footsteps in an unofficial place. Either we're about to be evicted, conscripted, or—" He paused, tilting his head as he caught sight of the first figure emerging from the treeline. "—lectured about our tax obligations."
Three figures broke through the screen of evergreens, and Remus felt his eyebrows climb toward his hairline. The woman leading the group wore traveling robes of deep burgundy that probably cost more than his entire cabin. The fabric moved like liquid silk, managing to look both practical and impossibly elegant. She walked with the kind of confident awareness that suggested she'd been the center of attention for so long, she'd learned to wield it like a weapon.
Behind her came two men who couldn't have been more different if they'd tried. The first had the rigid posture of someone who'd spent his career arresting people, all sharp angles and barely contained authority. The second moved with the fluid ease of a diplomat—someone who'd mastered the art of making enemies feel like friends until the contracts were signed.
"Mr. Lupin?" The woman's voice was like aged whiskey—smooth, warm, with just enough edge to remind you it could burn.
Remus planted his hands on his hips, studying them with the sort of keen intelligence that made people forget he spent his days pulling vegetables from the ground. His amber eyes, bright with curiosity and more than a little wariness, traveled from face to face with the precision of someone who'd learned to read danger in the smallest details.
"That depends," he said, his tone carrying just enough lightness to take the edge off the words. "If this is about the incident with Mrs. Henderson's missing sheep last month, I assure you the culprit was significantly more four-legged than I am on my worst days. And before you ask, yes, we did find them. They'd wandered into Miller's ravine chasing blackberries. Apparently, sheep have terrible judgment about fruit."
The faintest smile tugged at the woman's lips—there and gone so quickly he might have imagined it. "I am President Seraphina Picquery, Magical Congress of the United States." She gestured to her companions with fluid grace. "This is Senior Auror Martin Cross, and Diplomatic Attaché James Clearwater. We'd like to speak with you regarding some developments of considerable personal interest."
"President Picquery." Remus repeated the name slowly, tasting it like fine wine. He brushed more dirt from his hands with deliberate care, buying himself time to think. "I have to admit, I didn't expect the President of MACUSA to be tromping through my vegetable patch. Were there no offices available? No conference rooms? Not even a moderately intimidating government building somewhere with proper chairs and terrible coffee?"
Picquery's smile was quick and genuine this time, transforming her entire face. "None with quite this view," she replied, her gaze sweeping across the ramshackle settlement with something that looked surprisingly like respect. "Besides, I've found that the most honest conversations happen in gardens. Something about having your hands in the earth—it keeps people grounded."
"Careful, Madam President," Remus said, gesturing toward the rough wooden benches he'd constructed from salvaged lumber. "If you start complimenting our décor, the cabins might get ideas above their station. Next thing you know, they'll be demanding proper foundations and everything." He brushed off the nearest bench with exaggerated care. "Won't you sit? They creak terribly and the splinters have opinions, but they haven't collapsed under me yet, which I take as a personal endorsement of their structural integrity."
Picquery settled onto the bench with the kind of fluid grace that made even rough-hewn wood look like it belonged in a state chamber. Cross remained standing, straight as a boarding school ruler, while Clearwater sat with the practiced ease of someone who'd spent his career making bad furniture feel diplomatic.
"Tea?" Remus was already moving toward the battered kettle perched on a cast-iron camp stove beside his cabin door. "It's nothing fancy—just whatever the supply run managed to procure this month. Though I should warn you, it occasionally tastes faintly of the Pepperup Potion I brewed in that kettle three years ago. The lingering steam effect can be quite startling."
"That would be most welcome," Picquery said, and there was something in her tone that suggested she genuinely meant it.
As Remus busied himself with the familiar ritual of tea preparation, Cross cleared his throat with military precision. The sound made several birds flee from nearby branches.
"Mr. Lupin," Picquery began, her voice carrying a subtle gravity that made the forest seem to lean closer, "are you aware of recent developments regarding the case of Sirius Black?"
The kettle in Remus's hands went perfectly still. For a moment, he might as well have been carved from the same granite as the surrounding peaks. The only signs of life were his eyes—amber and suddenly burning with an intensity that could have melted steel. When he spoke, his voice was carefully controlled, each word precisely measured.
"Sirius Black." The name fell into the clearing like a stone into still water, sending ripples through the silence. Once, it had meant midnight adventures and unshakeable loyalty. It had meant laughter that could chase away the darkest shadows and a love so fierce it had redefined his understanding of family. Then it had become something else entirely—a word that tasted like ash and betrayal so complete it had left him questioning everything he'd ever believed about human nature.
He set the kettle down with infinite care and turned to face them fully. His expression was unreadable, but there was something predatory in the way he held himself—like a wolf scenting danger on the wind.
"I assume," he said with dangerous quiet, "you're not here to inform me of his death. MACUSA doesn't dispatch its president and diplomatic attachés to deliver condolences to werewolves in the middle of nowhere. Has he escaped? Should I be reinforcing the wards around this community? Or is there some international incident brewing that I need to prepare for?" His lips curved in something that wasn't quite a smile. "Because if Sirius Black has somehow managed to start an international magical crisis from inside Azkaban, that would be impressively on-brand for him."
Cross and Clearwater exchanged one of those loaded glances that could have been an entire conversation conducted in diplomatic shorthand. Picquery, however, never looked away from Remus. Her dark eyes were steady, compassionate, and utterly serious.
"Mr. Lupin," she said, each word delivered with deliberate care, "Sirius Black has been exonerated. Completely. Officially. Publicly." She paused, letting that sink in. "Four days ago, he walked out of Azkaban a free man—with full pardons, financial reparations, and international recognition of his innocence."
The kettle slipped from Remus's fingers like his strength had simply evaporated. It hit the packed earth with a metallic crash that seemed to echo through the mountains themselves. Hot water hissed and steamed as it soaked into the dirt around his boots, but he didn't notice. He was staring at them as if the entire foundation of reality had just cracked beneath his feet.
"Exonerated?" The word came out barely above a whisper, cracked and raw. He sank onto the nearest tree stump—one worn smooth by years of use—and stared at his hands as if they belonged to someone else. "That's—no. No, that's impossible. The evidence was conclusive. Peter was dead, there were thirteen Muggle bodies, Sirius was found laughing at the scene, the wandwork analysis..."
He trailed off, his formidable mind already beginning to pick apart the narrative he'd been fed, turning it over like a puzzle with pieces that had never quite fit properly. When he looked up again, his eyes were sharp as broken glass.
"Unless," he said slowly, "the evidence wasn't conclusive. Unless Peter wasn't actually dead. Unless—" His voice caught. "Unless everything I believed for five years was a lie."
Cross, apparently unable to tolerate drawn-out revelation, cut straight to the point with military efficiency. "Peter Pettigrew faked his death. As you no doubt know, Pettigrew is an unregistered Animagus—rat form. He cut off his own finger, transformed, and disappeared into the London sewers while Sirius was arrested on the spot for crimes Pettigrew actually committed."
Remus made a sound that might have been laughter if it hadn't been so broken. His hands came up to cover his face, fingers pressing against his eyes as if he could physically hold back the tears threatening to spill over.
"Peter," he whispered through his fingers. "Peter was the Secret Keeper. Not Sirius. Peter was the one who sold James and Lily to Voldemort."
"Yes," Picquery confirmed, and though her voice remained gentle, it carried the full weight of governmental authority. "Peter Pettigrew is currently the subject of the most intensive manhunt in international magical history. He will be found. He will be tried. And he will face justice for what he did."
Remus dropped his hands and looked up at them with red-rimmed eyes that blazed with fury and anguish in equal measure. When he spoke, his voice shook with barely contained rage.
"Five years," he said, the words coming out like they were being torn from his chest. "Five years Sirius rotted in Azkaban while I walked around thinking my brother—my best friend—had destroyed everything we'd fought for. Five years I believed him capable of murdering James and Lily. Five years I've been carrying this—this poison, this hatred for someone who was as innocent as I was." He gave a laugh that was more like a sob. "And all that time, the real traitor was probably living in someone's walls, eating their food scraps and listening to their secrets."
Cross's expression tightened, but before he could speak, Remus fixed him with a look that could have stripped paint.
"Don't," he said with quiet venom. "Don't you dare try to soften that truth or make it more palatable. I've had quite enough of well-meaning officials in expensive robes telling me comfortable lies. The truth is that the justice system destroyed two lives because it was easier than conducting a proper investigation."
Picquery raised a hand slightly—a small gesture that somehow commanded immediate silence. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, never breaking eye contact with Remus.
"You're right," she said simply. "The system failed you both catastrophically. I won't insult your intelligence by pretending otherwise." Her voice softened without losing its strength. "You've carried this grief, this anger, this sense of betrayal for far too long. I don't expect forgiveness to come easily—not for the system that failed you, and not for yourself. But I came here because I thought you deserved to know first. And because Sirius Black is going to need you. Perhaps more than either of you realizes."
Remus barked out another laugh, this one edged with bitter humor. "Oh, marvelous. Out of Azkaban for four days and he already needs rescuing again? Truly, the man is nothing if not consistent. What's he done—insulted a minister? Started a public brawl? Decided to take up residence in someone's garden shed without asking permission first?"
Picquery's lips curved in what might have been amusement. "Actually, he's been remarkably well-behaved. Though I suspect that has more to do with his current circumstances than any fundamental change in his character."
"His current circumstances," Remus repeated, running both hands through his hair until it stood up in wild tufts. He leaned back against the stump, looking suddenly exhausted. "Let me guess—he's staying with some distant relative who's making his life appropriately miserable? Or has the Ministry set him up in some properly grim halfway house to ensure his reintegration into society is as unpleasant as possible?"
"Not exactly," Clearwater said, and there was something in his diplomatic tone that suggested he was enjoying this far more than he should. "At present, he's in Malibu."
Remus blinked slowly, as if the words hadn't quite registered. "Malibu," he repeated. "As in... California? The place with beaches and palm trees and Americans who say 'dude' unironically?" He shook his head. "Has he developed a sudden passion for surfing? Please tell me he hasn't taken up beach volleyball."
"Not quite," Picquery said, and now she was definitely smiling. "Mr. Lupin, Sirius is currently living with his godson."
The word hit him like a physical blow. His breath caught, shoulders going rigid, amber eyes widening with something that looked like hope and terror in equal measure.
"Harry?" The name came out reverent, barely more than a whisper. "Harry Potter?"
He'd spent five years training himself not to think too hard about James and Lily's boy—the tiny miracle who had crawled across his lap during Order meetings, drooled on his robes, wrapped impossibly small fingers around his scarred ones and looked up at him with James's unruly hair and Lily's brilliant green eyes. The child who had been their hope made manifest, their future walking around on unsteady legs and babbling in a language only he seemed to understand.
"Harry Potter is in Malibu?" His voice cracked with desperate hope. "Is he—please tell me he's safe. Tell me he's been loved. Tell me he hasn't spent his childhood—" He gestured helplessly toward the settlement around them, where children learned hunger and prejudice before they learned to read.
Picquery's expression transformed, the professional mask falling away to reveal something that looked remarkably like maternal pride.
"Harry Potter," she said with warm certainty, "is not only safe—he's thriving. In ways that would make his parents extraordinarily proud. Though his circumstances are..." She paused, clearly choosing her words carefully. "Unusual."
Clearwater leaned forward, unable to contain his enthusiasm. "Mr. Lupin, Harry Potter was adopted six months ago by Tony Stark."
Remus stared at them in complete silence for nearly thirty seconds. Finally, he tilted his head with the expression of someone who was reasonably certain they were having a very strange dream.
"I'm sorry," he said carefully. "Tony who?"
"Stark," Cross supplied helpfully. "Anthony Edward Stark. Billionaire industrialist. Genius inventor. Philanthropist. Weapons manufacturer. Current head of Stark Industries and—according to our intelligence reports—the most absurdly devoted adoptive father in recent memory."
Remus blinked again, his expression growing increasingly bewildered. "So Harry—James and Lily's Harry—has been adopted by a Muggle arms dealer."
"Yes," Clearwater said with diplomatic precision. "Though currently more focused on advanced technology, and apparently whatever Harry wants for breakfast on any given morning."
Picquery's smile was radiant. "From all accounts, Mr. Stark dotes on him completely. Unconditionally. Harry has resources, protection, education, and—most importantly—genuine, fierce affection from someone who chose to love him."
Remus pressed both hands to his temples, staring at the ground as he tried to process this information. "Let me see if I understand this correctly," he said slowly. "Harry Potter—the Boy Who Lived, heir to one of the most ancient magical bloodlines in Britain—is currently living in Malibu with a billionaire genius who makes weapons for a living."
"That's about the size of it," Cross confirmed.
"And this man—this Tony Stark—he knows about magic?"
"He does now," Picquery said with evident satisfaction. "And he's taken to it with remarkable adaptability. In fact, he's become quite passionate about magical rights and integration. According to our liaisons, he's already funding several initiatives to combat magical discrimination."
Remus let out a long, slow breath. Then, inexplicably, he began to laugh. It started as a quiet chuckle and built into something fuller, warmer—the first genuine laughter he'd produced in years.
"Of course," he gasped between chuckles. "Of course Harry Potter would end up in California with a billionaire genius who makes weapons for breakfast. Why wouldn't he? That's exactly the sort of cosmic absurdity James would have found absolutely hilarious." He wiped his eyes, still grinning. "And Lily—oh, Lily would have spent hours questioning this Stark fellow about every single safety protocol and emergency procedure."
Cross, unbending enough to look almost pleased, added, "From all reports, the boy himself is remarkable. Brilliant, articulate, ethically minded. He's already developing theories about combining magic with advanced technology that have our Department of Mysteries very interested."
"And the man himself—Stark—treats Harry like he hung the stars," Clearwater said warmly. "According to everyone we've spoken with, watching them together is like watching a master class in unconditional parental love."
Remus closed his eyes, and for the first time in more than a decade, pure joy spread through his chest. It hurt—the way happiness always hurt after too much grief—but it was warm and real and more precious than gold.
"They just wanted him to be happy," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "James and Lily—they used to talk about it during the war. All those nights when we thought we might not see morning, they'd plan Harry's future. They wanted him safe, loved, maybe even ordinary. Just a normal childhood with normal problems." He opened his eyes, looking at Picquery with wonder. "And instead, he's..."
"Extraordinary," she finished softly. "But then again, he's their son. Did you expect anything less?"
"There's more," Clearwater said, practically bouncing in his seat with excitement. "Harry and Sirius have formed a genuine family bond. Sirius has been granted full magical guardianship rights, Harry clearly adores him, and Tony Stark has welcomed him into the household without hesitation. It's unconventional, certainly, but by every account, it's wonderfully functional."
Picquery leaned forward, her eyes bright with satisfaction. "And Harry—" She paused, as if savoring the moment. "Harry has bonded with a phoenix."
Remus went very still. "A phoenix."
"Dumbledore's phoenix," Cross said with barely suppressed amusement. "Fawkes apparently decided Harry represented better moral alignment than her previous partner and transferred her loyalty. Permanently, by all accounts."
For the first time in five years, Remus threw back his head and laughed—deep, rich, incredulous laughter that echoed off the surrounding cliffs and sent birds scattering from the treetops.
"Of course he has!" he gasped, wiping tears from his eyes. "Of course James and Lily's son would somehow convince a centuries-old phoenix to abandon Albus bloody Dumbledore in favor of a six-year-old with superior ethics and better judgment!"
"Nearly seven," Picquery corrected with mock sternness. "He's very particular about that distinction. I'd advise against rounding down in his presence."
"Nearly seven," Remus repeated, still grinning like a madman. "With a phoenix. In Malibu. Being raised by a billionaire genius and his newly exonerated godfather." He shook his head in amazement. "James would be absolutely insufferable if he were alive to see this. He'd never let any of us forget that his son managed to acquire a phoenix before he learned to tie his shoes properly."
"According to our reports," Clearwater added with a grin, "Harry's also remarkably articulate about magical theory for his age. Sirius claims he's already asking questions that would challenge graduate students. They want to offer you employment."
"That would be Lily's influence," Remus said softly, his expression growing tender. "She always said the most dangerous thing in the world was a curious child with access to books." He paused, then looked up sharply. "Wait—they want to offer me what now?"
Cross straightened, his professional demeanor snapping back into place. "Employment, Mr. Lupin. Full-time research and development position with Stark Industries' newly established Magical Technology Integration Division. Senior researcher status, competitive salary, comprehensive benefits package including specialized medical coverage, housing allowance, and equity participation."
Remus stared at him as if he'd just announced his intention to sprout wings and fly to the moon. "Equity participation?" he repeated slowly. "You make it sound less like a job offer and more like a marriage proposal."
"In Silicon Valley," Clearwater said with a diplomatic grin, "the distinction can be surprisingly thin."
Picquery leaned forward, her expression serious but warm. "The project they want you for is one you know intimately—developing the Communication Mirror technology for mass production and civilian use. Sirius made very sure they understood your role in the original theoretical framework. They're convinced your expertise is essential to scaling the technology responsibly."
Remus was quiet for a long moment, his agile mind clearly racing through possibilities, ethics, implications, and the sheer impossibility of what he was hearing.
"Let me ensure I understand this correctly," he said finally, his voice carefully controlled. "Tony Stark—billionaire genius, weapons manufacturer, current adoptive father to Harry Potter—is offering me legitimate employment in my actual field of expertise. Working alongside my recently exonerated best friend. Helping to raise James and Lily's son. Developing technology that could revolutionize communication between magical and Muggle societies." He paused. "And he wants to pay me generously for the privilege."
"That's the shape of it," Picquery confirmed.
"And this isn't—" Remus's voice caught slightly. "This isn't charity. Not pity. Not some well-meaning attempt to rehabilitate the poor werewolf for public relations purposes."
Picquery's expression grew fierce, her voice taking on the steel that had made her one of the most formidable political leaders in the magical world.
"Mr. Lupin," she said with absolute conviction, "according to every technical evaluation we've conducted, your expertise in theoretical magical communication and your ethical reasoning capabilities are not just useful—they're indispensable. This is a partnership based on mutual respect and professional necessity, not a rescue mission."
Cross nodded curtly. "Tony Stark has also requested we emphasize his personal commitment to dismantling magical discrimination. He's not just offering you a job—he's funding legal challenges, community programs, and economic opportunities across the magical community. According to him, the system that declared you unemployable is a problem he intends to solve."
For the second time that afternoon, Remus's carefully maintained composure cracked completely. His amber eyes filled with tears—whether from gratitude, shock, or grief finally finding release, it was impossible to tell. He laughed, but the sound was shaky and raw.
"After five years of being treated like a dangerous liability," he said, his voice breaking, "my choices now are between pulling carrots from questionable soil or joining forces with a billionaire genius, my recently vindicated best friend, and the child I swore I'd protect with my life." He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. "Forgive me if I appear somewhat skeptical of this sudden reversal of fortune."
"You wouldn't be Remus Lupin if you weren't," Picquery said gently. "But I assure you—skepticism and all—you are wanted. Needed. Not as a token gesture or a burden to be managed, but as yourself. Exactly as you are."
Remus exhaled shakily, running both hands through his hair as he tried to collect himself. "I've had fever dreams that made more sense than this," he muttered. Then, louder: "When do they need an answer?"
"Take whatever time you need," Picquery said warmly. "Though I should mention—Sirius is reportedly growing quite impatient to see you. And Harry..." Her smile became luminous. "Harry has expressed considerable curiosity about meeting his father's brilliant friend who, according to Sirius, was the actual mastermind behind their mirror project."
Remus let out a startled laugh. "Oh, wonderful. Sirius has been rewriting history again, has he? Next thing you know, he'll be telling the boy I invented the Marauder's Map while simultaneously knitting Christmas jumpers and tutoring first-years."
"If it helps," Clearwater said with amusement, "Harry seems quite capable of recognizing exaggeration when he hears it. According to our liaisons, he has a remarkably well-developed sense of when adults are... embellishing."
Remus's expression softened into something achingly tender. "What's he like?" he asked quietly, as if the wrong word might shatter the possibility hovering before him. "Harry, I mean. Really like. Is he... is he happy?"
Picquery's smile was radiant. "Remarkably so. Confident without being arrogant. Curious about everything. Stubborn in all the best ways." She paused, clearly savoring the next part. "And according to everyone who's met him, he has his father's charm and his mother's spine. Tony Stark claims he's never met a more naturally diplomatic six-year-old."
"Nearly seven," Remus corrected automatically, then caught himself and laughed. "God, I'm already falling into it, aren't I?"
"He also," Cross added with evident pride, "apparently has very strong opinions about justice and fairness. When he learned about Sirius's wrongful imprisonment, he reportedly gave a twenty-minute lecture about the importance of proper evidence and due process that had several hardened Aurors taking notes."
Remus's laugh was pure joy this time. "Oh, that's definitely Lily's boy. She used to do the same thing during Order meetings—quietly demolish someone's argument with perfect logic and impeccable reasoning while the rest of us were still trying to figure out what she was talking about."
"There's one more thing," Picquery said softly. "Harry asked specifically about you. When Sirius mentioned that you were still alive, Harry wanted to know if you were happy, if you were safe, and whether you might want to visit sometime." She paused, her expression growing tender. "According to Sirius, the exact words were: 'Uncle Remus sounds lonely. Can we invite him home?'"
The words hit Remus like a physical blow. He sat in stunned silence for nearly a minute, tears streaming freely down his face. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely a whisper.
"Uncle Remus?"
"Sirius may have been sharing stories," Clearwater said gently.
Remus buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. When he looked up again, his eyes were red but blazing with determination.
"When can I leave?" he asked simply.
Picquery reached into her robes and withdrew a small, smooth river stone that hummed with barely contained magical energy. "Whenever you're ready," she said, placing it carefully on the bench between them. "The Portkey is calibrated for Stark's Malibu residence. I believe Sirius has threatened at least three different departments with creative bodily harm if we don't deliver you by the weekend."
"That sounds exactly like him," Remus murmured, reaching out to touch the stone with one finger. It was warm, pulsing gently with transportation magic. "He always did have a flair for the dramatic threat."
He stood slowly, brushing dirt from his knees, and looked around at the ramshackle settlement that had been his reluctant home for the past three years. "I suppose I should pack."
"How long will that take?" Cross asked.
Remus gestured toward his tiny cabin with a rueful smile. "About five minutes. The advantages of owning nothing worth keeping." He paused, then looked back at them with sudden intensity. "If this works—if this Stark Industries partnership is everything you're claiming—I want your word that this community won't be forgotten. These people have shown me more dignity and kindness than the rest of the magical world combined. They deserve better than to be hidden away like a shameful secret."
Picquery rose gracefully, extending her hand. "You have my word, Mr. Lupin. And Tony Stark's, according to our correspondence. Change has to start somewhere—it might as well start with justice."
Remus clasped her hand firmly, then turned toward his cabin. "Give me ten minutes to say goodbye properly."
As he walked away, they could hear him muttering to himself: "Malibu. With a phoenix. And a billionaire. James would never let me live this down..."
---
Fifteen minutes later, Remus John Lupin stood at the edge of the settlement with a battered leather satchel slung over his shoulder—the sum total of his worldly possessions reduced to one small bag. Behind him, the werewolf community had gathered in a loose semicircle, their faces showing everything from envy to hope to genuine warmth.
A young woman with silver-streaked hair and kind eyes stepped forward. "You'll write?" she asked simply.
"Every week," Remus promised. "And if this venture proves half as revolutionary as they claim, you'll be hearing from me about more than just the weather."
An older man with gray-streaked beard clapped him on the shoulder. "You give that boy our regards," he said gruffly. "Any kid who can steal Dumbledore's phoenix has to be something special."
"I will," Remus said softly. He looked at each of them in turn, memorizing faces, storing up the warmth in their expressions. "You've given me more than shelter these past few years. You gave me dignity when the rest of the world had forgotten I deserved it. I won't forget that. And I won't let anyone else forget it either."
A murmur of approval rippled through the crowd—rough voices filled with something that might have been hope.
Remus walked to where the Portkey waited, glimmering with travel magic on its stone platform. He looked back once more at the community that had saved him from despair, then placed his hand firmly on the stone.
"Time to go home," he said quietly.
The familiar tug behind his navel yanked him away from the dark Pacific Northwest forests. The scent of pine and damp earth gave way to salt air and sunshine. The sound of wind through evergreens was replaced by distant waves.
Remus Lupin tumbled into Malibu with laughter still echoing in his ears and something he hadn't felt since 2001 blazing in his chest: pure, uncomplicated, infinite hope.
The Marauders were about to be reunited.
And this time, they weren't just going to survive.
They were going to change everything.
---
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