“Come and talk to me if you have a hard time finding any work. I have some projects you would be very well suited for.”
So said Dumbledore as he’d handed Remus his diploma on graduation day. It only took one handshake and muttered offer of ‘help’ for the crushing weight of reality he’d escaped all those years at Hogwarts to settle onto his shoulders. It tainted their celebrations which, in true Marauder fashion, had been spectacular. It tainted Sirius’ suggestion they share a flat, Peter’s burgeoning ideas for a Marauder’s Map of Diagon Alley, and James making a schedule of obligatory socializing.
Remus didn’t last more than six months out in the real world before crawling back to Dumbledore for help. He was too hungry, too humiliated, too miserable to fight this useless fight any longer. Nowhere near nineteen years old, and he’d already been crushed to the pavement.
Dumbledore’s job, it turned out, was only suited for him and had been designed, in fact, with Remus in mind. He only resented that a little.
The job: infiltrate a rumored cell of Voldemort-loyal werewolves run by Fenrir Greyback.