Work Text:
Thirty-four. Remus was barely half-awake when his mind produced the number. He frowned into the clammy heat of his pillow as the grim thought prodded him awake, wondering how long his brain would keep that up, how long until he could start his day without the unwanted reminder of what he’d done. Thirty-four days since I killed someone. Maybe his mind would keep it up forever, maybe fifty years from now, he’d be sixty-six and woken sharply by his mind mocking, rise and shine, it’s been eighteen-thousand two-hundred eighty-four days since you took a life!
Biting back a groan at the thought, Remus rolled over onto his back. His joints creaked and the new scars on his back and belly stretched uncomfortably with the change in position. The moon had been four nights ago, but his body still had that tense-yet-floppy, old-chewing-gum feeling. He had been lucky, he reminded himself bleakly, that the damage hadn’t been worse. After all, it had been his first solitary full moon in the Shack since third year, and the wolf had had more emotional agitation to take out on him than probably ever before.
Understatement of the century, he thought. No, he amended. No worse an understatement than Professor McGonagall on Monday evening, accompanying him to the Shrieking Shack and saying, with an uncharacteristically pitying smile, “In light of recent events, the Headmaster and I concluded that increased security on full moon nights might be prudent.” Sure, ‘prudent’. That was definitely the most apt word for what it was to lock up a bloodthirsty monster. Not ‘bloody obvious’, or ‘a waste of resources’, or ‘too little, too late.’ Simply prudent.
Increased security had come in the form of removing the Whomping Willow and filling in the earthen tunnel it had been planted to conceal. An intricately woven web of concealment and sealing charms enclosed the Shack, Dumbledore’s distinctively loopy wandwork and Flitwick’s signature precise wandstrokes were palpable and recognizable to Remus in the invisible weaving of it. He’d been made to choose a password, and unable to refrain from salting his own wounds, Remus had laid his hand against the Shack’s siding and said in a clear voice, “I solemnly swear that I’m up to no good,” and “Mischief managed,” not offering to explain when McGonagall raised her eyebrows curiously. A door opened up and McGonagall nodded for him to enter, coming out in the Shack’s kitchen pantry. McGonagall explained that she would be locking him in with additional spellwork and just outside all night. He felt guilty at her losing sleep to stand guard over him, but didn’t dare object to any of it. She shut him in and he waited, almost looking forward to the well-earned punishment he knew the wolf would give him.
The wolf had not disappointed in that regard. The self-recrimination, the anguish of betrayal, the all-consuming guilt and unconsummated longing for punishment meant the wolf was angry before it had even taken his skin. It was affronted to find its pack absent, and driven mad by the niggling, itching weight of the constraints the professors had cast on the Shack’s walls. He had known the wolf would savage him, and furthermore hoped for it. He’d been relying on it when he’d made a point to wear his favorite jumper, even though it was a rather unseasonably warm night. He hadn’t worn it for warmth, but on principle, needing the wolf to unrestrainedly do what he could not bring himself to do and destroy it. Remus had pointed his wand at it, willed himself to shred it or burn it, but the spells just wouldn’t come. Ever since his fourteenth birthday, when Sirius had casually pressed a garishly scarlet and gold parcel into his hands as if the contents hadn’t cost more than Remus’ wand, he’d taken meticulous care of the garment. It was a soft, tight-woven cashmere with an earthy fair isle pattern, and he’d treasured it so much that he’d carefully enlarged it with each growth spurt since then. But true to the destructive nature that Remus normally detested in the wolf, it had come through for him. Come morning, he’d woken bloody and broken, feeling a little like he’d finally been punished, the once-beloved jumper reduced to a sea of fluff and scraps, and a few fibers lodged between his canine and incisor.
Remus’ thoughts snagged momentarily on the memory of his fourteenth birthday, the way his heart had tripped over itself at Sirius’ nonchalant birthday wishes. His pubescent voice had cracked on the words but Remus had found it charming and not at all embarrassing. The lurid wrapping paper had struck him as charming too, and not gaudy, but fourth year had been around the time that everything Sirius did had began seeming to him unbearably charming. Remus had tried to decline the gift, uneasy with accepting a present of such high quality, but Sirius had insisted and Remus had given in, as he always had, unable to say no when Sirius’ stormy eyes had implored so persuasively.
Stop thinking about it, Remus scolded himself firmly, pushing down the memory of his fourteenth birthday with force. Not saying no to Sirius, overlooking his imperious, impetuous bullshit and letting him get away with things just because he was pretty and persuasive had been the whole problem. Or part of it. His childish infatuation had kept him from recognizing Sirius’ true nature, his selfish desire for friendship had kept him willfully ignorant of his true nature. Sirius was a bully, manipulative, his sense of humor cruel, and people disposable to him. And Remus, well. Remus was a monster, of course, and a murderer to boot. The truth had come out, as the truth always inevitably did, and the farce of friendship and humanity that Remus had constructed had crumbled as he supposed it had always been destined to do sooner or later.
With some effort, Remus pulled himself into a seated position, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He blinked a few times at an object that sat inexplicably at the foot of his bed. Was he perhaps still asleep and dreaming? The birthday gift, the jumper from Sirius, sat there almost camouflaged against the scarlet of his bedding. Remus prodded it experimentally with one blanketed foot, ascertaining that it was no apparition, and that under the vivid paper it was not butter-soft fabric but something hard. His head canted involuntarily to one side as he regarded the mystery object and then the pieces fell into place with dreadful inevitability. Bollocks. Four days since the moon. Thirty four since he had taken Severus Snape’s life. No matter how he counted, that invariably meant that today was Thursday, and the tenth of March. This time, he failed to contain his groan. It was his birthday, and he’d never been less amused to find himself still alive.
With two fingers, Remus parted his bed curtains and peeked out into the dorm. The three other beds were all unoccupied, their sheets mussed and pillows dented where heads had recently rested. Remus could hear the shower running, but from here could not smell who it was. Not James, as he stood by his bed, hair marginally tidier than normal only because it was still wet from bathing, doing up his shirt buttons. He must have felt Remus’ gaze because his damp head swiveled, his mouth bending in a half-frown at the sight of Remus peering cautiously into the room they had all once so comfortably shared, “Morning, Remus,” he said evenly, and jerked a thumb at the door to the loo, “You can come out, that’s just Pete in there.”
Remus relaxed slightly at the information, pushing his curtain open and swinging his legs over the side of his bed, “Thanks,” he said, and kept his voice as even as he could as he asked, “Where is he?” he didn’t want to sound too invested in Sirius’ whereabouts.
James shrugged tightly, “Search me. He was gone when I woke up.” Remus almost commented that that was strange, Sirius being about as far from a morning person as one could be, but decided not to say anything. He grabbed his wand from his bedside table and sent the scarlet-wrapped intruder in his bed sailing across the room, where it landed with a slight bounce on Sirius’ mattress. James started tucking in his shirt, “What’s that?” he asked.
“I don’t care,” Remus replied flatly. Well-intended though they would be, he didn’t want any birthday salutations from James, “You missed a button.”
Looking down at his chest, James swore absently and unbuttoned his shirt, promptly pairing the bottom button again with the second-to-bottom hole. Remus allowed himself a wry smile, grateful that James was so distracted. And why shouldn’t he be? After years of pining and behaving like a prat and trying to behave like less of a prat with varied results, Lily Evans was finally giving him the time of day. Normally, to Remus’ dismay, Marauder birthdays had been a bit of an event, but now that their Marauding days were behind them and the ties between them straining and buckling, he might manage to turn seventeen without detection or fanfare.
Sirius remembered, his mind pointed out absolutely uselessly, looking anywhere but at the unopened gift that sat on Sirius’ bed. When Sirius had come of age in November, they’d thrown him a rather raucous surprise party in the common room. Sirius had been a good sport and pretended to be surprised and drank enough firewhisky that he ended the night in the loo, head in the toilet while Remus held back his black hair and fought against the alcohol in his own veins urging him to turn the friendly touch into something--anything--more substantial. One of the ostentatious, shrewd-eyed eagle-owls Remus had learned to recognize as the Blacks’ had turned up at breakfast, dropping a small black sateen box in Sirius’ lap. It contained a brand new and gleaming pocket watch, engraved artfully with the Black crest and a flourish of stars, tiny diamonds glittering in the gold. Also enclosed was a small, crisp black envelope. Sirius had broken the wax seal and read the message within, his already queasy expression skewing livid. He’d stuffed the watch, still boxed, into his bag and discarded the card.
While Sirius had been preoccupied with charming Peter’s bacon, trying much too hard to seem like his usual self, Remus had covertly read the card. He recognized the perfect penmanship as that of Sirius’ father, the sparse message far from his mother’s long-winded style; “Regulus will receive the watch that was to be yours,” it read, “Today you are a man. Behave like one.” He had not signed his name, or ‘dad’ or ‘father’ (surely he would find such familiarity pedestrian), but instead had simply written, in that same even hand, “Toujours pur.”
As Remus got painfully to his feet, he wondered how he’d ever been foolish enough to feel bad for Sirius. He had fallen for the tortured black sheep act, so sorry for Sirius even while he was punished by the receipt of a gift that must have been worth more than the cottage in Wales where Remus had been raised. Who had ever heard of anything so absurd! And all the while, Sirius had decried his family’s politics, their obsession with blood purity, their slant towards Dark magic, only to turn around and prove himself just like them. Anger like a flaming arrow arced up Remus’ spine, towering offense at the way Sirius had used him, made him little more than a hound that he could sic on anyone he wanted to get rid of. Remus could very nearly live with being a monster, but he resented being weaponized for someone else’s ends. Not just someone… he tamped down the maudlin thought before it could spiral out of hand.
Remus did not wait for James or Peter, he dressed promptly, grabbed his bag without checking that it held the books that corresponded with today’s classes, and left the dorm, quickly making his way down to the Great Hall for breakfast. He didn’t have much of an appetite, but he’d like a cup of tea and maybe some toast if he could manage it, and there was always someone with a Prophet that they were willing to spare. He’d been trying to keep up with the news, trying to make meaning of the disappearances and deaths that were being so inconsistently reported, both hoping for and against any mention of werewolves.
He ran a hand through his slightly lank hair. He hadn’t bothered to go and wash, just impatiently pulled on the nearest robes. He hadn’t even changed out of the pants or vest he’d slept in, knowing he ought to, that it was poor hygiene and bad manners to do otherwise. Frankly, though, he couldn’t seem to care. Why should he? Even in cashmere jumpers or the most elegant dress robes in the world, he would still feel like an animal pretending to be a person. No amount of scrubbing or laundering would ever make him clean.
He’d tried. The first week after Severus’ death, once he’d been released from Madam Pomfrey’s care, he’d bathed excessively, sometimes as many as four times in a day. His skin got dry and irritated from all the scrubbing and too many washings, and his hair felt rough and frizzy, but still he felt dirty. Every time he almost felt clean, Remus’ mind would wander back to the viscera he’d sicked up that morning, the human viscera. His thoughts would wander to the Shack, imagine the already filthy walls and floors positively painted with Severus Snape, stinking and festering as each day passed.
A tense week had passed, the students grieving uncertainly for a classmate who had been rather unilaterally disliked. Sirius seemed to pop up around every corner, tearful and desperate and begging for forgiveness and Remus had been so angry that he was numb, unable even to find proper words to tell him to go away. James had plentyof words for him, though, and did not hold back, having gone even further and hit Sirius three times in seven days, and hexed him probably double that. Peter had been aquiver with rodential nerves, twitching and averting his eyes and scurrying off to seek company elsewhere more and more often, unable to shoulder the burden of the emotions that spat and bubbled around him like so many temperamental potions.
The day the Ministry sent experts to help remove the Whomping Willow, a sort of relief filled the school. The tree had never been too well-loved and had become a real source of fear since Severus’ death. The students and staff alike stood on the snowy grounds to watch the gruesome spectacle. Remus couldn’t bear it, though. Sure, the Willow had always been a bastard, but even if it was just a plant, Remus felt ashamed for allowing it to take the blame for his crime. The elderly and kindly Herbology teacher, Professor Pollander, wrung his hands and looked like he might weep and that was more than Remus could take.
By that time, visions of the Shrieking Shack covered in a gory mess were taking up entirely too much of Remus’ thoughts. Possessed suddenly of a maybe-crazy idea, he’d asked James if he might borrow his Invisibility Cloak. James had been unable or unwilling to refuse him, and he’d almost felt guilty at taking advantage of the fact that James had been doing anything he could to help him since that morning in the Hospital Wing when Remus’ entire world had shifted on its axis. James had not asked why he needed it, simply handed it over. Thus concealed, Remus had retreated from the castle, making his way through Hogsmeade to the Shack. He had hesitated only a moment, scared of what he would find within, before puzzling over one of the boarded windows and eventually managing to break in through a combination of spells and brute force. He had scrambled into the kitchen and as if in a dream, let his feet carry him until he stood over the trapdoor.
The mess was not as he had pictured in his head. In fact, it was rather contained. Several yards on and around the trapdoor were stained a very dark reddish brown. There were gouges in the wood that he knew his claws had made, recognizing the spacing from some of the scars that littered his skin. His stomach turned when he realized some of the scratches had not been made by him, but by human hands around the size his were now, frantic narrow stripes where Severus had tried in vain to scramble away. Remus was almost sick when he saw that here and there, straight black hairs were stuck in the dried blood. It seemed absurd, impossible that they could be the same hair that he and the people he’d called friends had so often mocked for appearing greasy and unwashed.
Hours had evaporated as he had single-mindedly scrubbed the floor until his hands were raw and pink from the blood-tinged water. His thoughts were quiet for the first time in days as he cleaned and spelled the site of Severus’ death, mended the scratches and gashes in the wood until there was no evidence at all that it had ever happened. The only indication of something amiss was that this spot was pristine, gleamingly clean while the rest of the house was covered in dust and fur and mold.
Remus had been surprised to find it was dark outside when he left, mending the window he’d entered and exited through. He trudged back to school, invisible, weary beyond weariness. When he finally got back to their dorm, the three beds apart from his own had had their hangings shut, everyone apparently asleep. He had carefully folded the cloak and placed it on James’ trunk, his heartbeat faltering at an unexpected sound amid the snores. A hitching breath, a sob not quite stifled. A tumult of rage swept through him like a tidal wave and he scrambled into bed, pulling his own curtains shut to try and keep himself from doing anything stupid like confronting Sirius. How dare he cry into his pillow as if he was the one suffering, as if he had lost a thing while Remus had lost everything, right down to the lie of his own humanity. His anger erased all the sleepiness from his body and he lay there, stiff and staring at the velvet canopy, hands stinging from scrubbing, until the sky grew light.
Since then, his fixation with cleanliness had disappeared, replaced instead by a numb blanket of apathy so heavy that even brushing his teeth felt like a waste of scarce energy. He plopped into a seat at the Gryffindor table, intentionally distant from anyone who might try to converse with him, pouring a cup of tea just as the owls swooped in with the morning post. He took a sip of tea and a bite of dry toast when his father’s scruffy screech owl, Driscoll dropped a brown paper package on his plate and nuzzled his hand before helping himself to a toast crust someone had left uneaten. Just as he put down his toast, reluctantly unwrapping the package, one of the Hogwarts barn owls dropped a scroll of parchment before him, not waiting for a response.
Remus wasn’t exactly surprised by the contents of the package from home. It was, after all, customary for wizards to receive watches from their families upon their seventeenth birthday. Even in knots as he had been since the incident about whether or not he could technically be considered a wizard and human, it was the sort of thing that his father would do. Since Remus’ bite eleven years prior, Lyall’s every action had been intended to convince himself, and Remus, that there was no reason Remus’ condition should change anything, to convince himself, and Remus, that he could be forgiven for inciting Greyback’s bite in the first place.
Remus pushed these thoughts aside. He had been trying not to resent his father so much, even before Sirius’ betrayal, and he just only had room for so much spite in his head at one time. He skimmed the letter from his parents, warm if somewhat stilted birthday wishes, a strand of ‘x’s and ‘o’s from his mum and a couple of the Muggle chocolate bars she knew he liked best. He couldn’t stomach the thought of something as rich as chocolate just now, feeling a little green as it was just from half a slice of plain wheat toast. He opened the box (a muggle matchbox which his father had magically enlarged for this purpose) and extracted the pocket watch. It had a satisfying weight in his palm, though it was as different from the one that Sirius had received for his birthday as imaginable. It was an old-fashioned, scuffed, pewter thing and though he was no expert, he couldn’t have imagined that it had been a luxury item even when it was new. Its chain was a bit tarnished and Remus suspected would seem a bit over-long on his skinny frame. He flipped it open, finding it had a rather handsome face even if the second hand was a smidge bent. Inside the lid, there was an inscription, the first line worn slightly, making it harder to read:
1821 - Llewellyn A. Lovett
1904 - Marten R. Lovett
1977 - Remus J. Lupin
Remus wasn’t positive but he was pretty sure that Lovett had been the maiden name of his father’s mother. His own family history was somewhat of a mystery to Remus, isolated as he had been from his relatives since he had been a young child. Even his mum’s muggle family members would have seen Hope’s small son’s scars as a cause for concern, but that was nothing to how Lyall’s family would have reacted to a werewolf child. He read the names over a few times, trying to find something in the Welsh lilt of the syllables or the graceful curves of the cursive engraving that resonated, that felt familiar, that felt significant.
It had the odd power of any old, pre-owned thing, by sheer virtue of the fact that it was odd to think of the same object resting in the pocket of some stranger whose blood existed in his veins, more curious still to try and imagine a seventeen-year-old in 1821 being gifted a new watch. Apart from the intrigue of it being old, however, the gift sort of left Remus cold. He chided himself for being ungrateful; money had always been tight at home and he had not been raised to take any gift or favor for granted. A couple months ago, or maybe now if things had never changed, he might have been moved by this heirloom of his ancestry, this token of adulthood. Or perhaps he might have been embarrassed of its shabbiness, ashamed that it was not diamond-studded and exquisite. But instead he just shut the small door, trying to appreciate its tiny, functional hinges, held it in his hand for a moment and tried to accustom himself to the smooth, round heft of it, and then, with a sigh, stashed it numbly in his trouser pocket.
He took a sip of his tea, which had gone cold and scratched Driscoll’s neck the way that he liked. Remus rummaged a spare parchment from his bag and fished out one of the muggle pens he liked to keep around for just such tasks, when a quill and inkwell didn’t seem worth the trouble. He scrawled a hasty thank you to his parents, trying to infuse his words with all the gratitude he ought to have been feeling. He attached it soundly to Driscoll’s leg and dismissed him with an amiable pat on the head. The owl hooted pleasantly and winged away, a graceful flyer even if he wasn’t the world’s handsomest bird.
Remus had just taken another bite of toast when he remembered that he had received another letter this morning. He unrolled the little scroll of parchment, greeted by a singular, loopy script:
Dear Mr Lupin,
It is my hope that your seventeenth birthday finds you happy and healthful. I would like to request an audience with you this afternoon. I believe you have a window of availability between your classes today at one o’clock, at which time I shall be in my office, completing some work that could stand to be interrupted.
Warm regards,
Albus Dumbledore
P.S. Pepper imps are quite enjoyable.
Remus’ bite of toast had seemed to turn to soot on his tongue. He tried to tell himself that had he been in trouble for something, Dumbledore likely would not have requested his presence in a pleasant hand-written note. And, he reminded himself a little coldly, If killing another student wasn’t enough to expel me over, I can’t imagine what would be. He had been to the Headmaster’s office quite a few times during his tenure so far at Hogwarts, both in his capacity as troublemaker and as Prefect. He was unfazed by the clue as to the office password, but his eyes kept returning to the word ‘audience’. He had definitely never had anyone, least of all the Headmaster ‘request an audience’. It might just be a sort of stroke for his ego, using the verbiage of an adult asking another adult for a meeting, rather than an administrator demanding the presence of a pupil. He tried not to let worry consume him regarding Dumbledore’s letter, but, though he gulped down the last of his cold tea, his stomach was roiling too much to consider another bite of food.
His first class of the day was Arithmancy, which went by easy enough. Sirius, James, and Peter had all passed on the notoriously challenging elective, which made it an hour blissfully free of fretting about those strained relationships. Besides, Remus had always been naturally adept with numbers, so even though he had not done the assigned reading, he managed the classwork and even earned five house points for answering a question. Arithmancy was followed by History of Magic and, even though the others were in this class with him, he sat right in the front, knowing that, even not talking to each other, they would sooner sit sullenly and tensely in the back of the room together than risk being any more involved in the class if they could help it. Normally, Remus had been one of the few students who was attentive even in History of Magic but he found he felt incredibly tired, so instead of scribbling notes, he did what about two thirds of Binns’ students always did and used his crossed arms to cushion his head on the desk, dozing and spacing out to the ghost’s tediously droning lecture.
By the time lunch came, Remus’ stomach was gurgling threateningly. The only problem was, over the last month it had become impossible for him to tell the difference between nausea and hunger pangs. Ultimately, he made the choice as he often wound up doing lately, based on which option would offer him less likelihood of a confrontation. So he decided to forgo lunch and head to the library. He had not done the potions homework Professor Slughorn had assigned at the beginning of the week, while he was preoccupied with recuperating from the full moon. He was very nearly happy to find his favorite table in the library available and was just trying to wade through the perplexing reading in Advanced Potion Makingwhen the page he was reading was suddenly obscured by a violently scarlet package.
“I went up to get my things for muggle studies,” Sirius said, uneasily, “You didn’t open it.”
“Did it occur to you that maybe I didn’t open it because I don’t want it?” Remus asked, quietly but coldly, not lifting his eyes as if he could read through the gift.
“Remus, it’s,” he sighed, and Remus knew he’d dragged his hand back through his hair, “Please, it’s your birthday.”
“I’m aware,” Remus said, “And it would be a better one if you’d leave me alone.”
Sirius sucked his teeth in what might have been annoyance or hurt, “Come on, I just--”
“You just what, exactly?” Remus hissed, unable to keep from glaring up at Sirius any longer. He didn’t look good. Still bloody annoyingly gorgeous, but there was a pale, anxious cast to his features, an animal wariness to his eyes that reminded Remus with an agonizing jolt of Padfoot, “You want to explain? You want to fix things? You want to give me some stupid, expensive present?”
Sirius opened his mouth and hesitated, and then nodded cautiously and said, “Yeah, all of that, I mean not the expensive bit but--”
“I don’t want it, Sirius,” Remus said, having trouble controlling the volume of his voice, “Not your excuses or your gifts or anything,” Remus pushed the gift onto the table and slammed his book shut, “Leave me alone.”
A flash of anguish raced across Sirius’ features, “You’re my best friend, please--”
Remus shook his head rapidly, “No. No, James was your best friend anyway, not me,” he corrected, even if it felt a little pointless, “And I don’t want to hear it, you can’t guilt me into--”
“Remus--” Sirius said, his voice a little too loud now and garnering an annoyed ssh! from Madam Pince.
“No.” Remus said, wishing for a distraction. No sooner had he thought it than the bookshelf behind Sirius toppled over, several of the books complaining loudly, students exclaiming, laughing, and jumping out of the way. Madam Pince was saying Sirius’ name in an unyielding tone and Remus took advantage of the commotion to grab his things and slip away. He ducked behind the tapestry of Pernell the Pusillanimous just down the hall. There was a hidden passageway behind it that opened up into the Charms corridor, though he had grown a little too tall for it and had to hunch. He sat down and leaned his head back against the wall, willing his anger to cool and listening to the muffled sounds of the library being set to rights down the corridor.
He wasn’t really sure how long he sat there in the diffuse light. He listened to the hallways fill up with students heading to their after-lunch classes. When it grew quiet again, Remus figured enough time had passed and emerged from behind the tapestry, accidentally giving quite a fright to a first year who was running by, clearly late for class. He called an apology after him and went back to the library. There ought not to be any interruptions this time, as Sirius and James would both be in Muggle Studies. Remus was relieved that the gift was no longer on his favorite table and Pince seemed preoccupied with scolding a couple Hufflepuffs about a book that had been returned with some new potions stains on its pages.
Remus opened up Advanced Potion Making again and stared down at the page, growing promptly distracted by the many thoughts clamoring in his skull for attention. Right at the front, screaming the loudest for his attention was the question that had been haunting him since Severus’ death. Sometimes he was certain he knew the answer, other times he felt completely out of his depth.
What am I?
He knew-- had known since before he’d really been able to understand what it meant other than pain once a month-- that he was a werewolf. But what the hell did that amount to? In the eyes of the law, that made him a XXXXX Beast, end of story. A classification that left no grey area for things like consciousness or ethics or the vast majority of the year when he was basically indistinguishable from a human. Werewolves had been re-classified as Beings and then back to Beasts a few times, but honest, Being Classification wasn’t too much better. It felt a bit like a consolation prize, ‘good job being almost a person’. It was frankly demeaning and reductive, the entire system was. Or so he’d thought for a long time. He was the only werewolf he was personally acquainted with, of course he’d want to think he was more human than beast, that maybe all werewolves were just misunderstood.
Remus couldn’t help wondering, for the millionth time, what Fenrir Greyback was like. He had wondered, even before he’d known his name, about the anonymous werewolf who had infected him. Then, in fifth year, dad had finally ‘fessed up to what had happened, the blame he felt he deserved (and which Remus struggled to not agree that he deserved), and suddenly there was a name. A name he could research and wonder about. In a fit of righteous ire, he had sworn to Sirius that he would kill Greyback someday, and he wondered what that was worth now that he had seen Sirius’ true colors. He still didn’t know Greyback, but it was hard, with the little bit he had managed to learn about him, to imagine he was anything but evil and reprehensible, and everything that would make someone call a werewolf a Beast and not a Being. He had attacked a human child himself, though, was he even better than Greyback? He had always rejected that his lycanthropy made him a monster, but it was harder to argue with now, now that he’d tasted raw human flesh. Now that he’d done something that would have warranted his execution had Dumbledore not lied to protect him.
Shit, Dumbledore! He didn’t know how he’d forgotten about Dumbledore’s letter, but he frantically gathered up his things and tore out of the library, ignoring Madam Pince’s scornful look. He checked his new watch as he ran--it was a quarter past one, not terrible but also not terribly classy to be late to his first appointment as an adult. He skidded to a halt at the gargoyle that guarded the Headmaster’s office and breathlessly said, “Pepper imps!” He didn’t even wait for the entry to open all the way before scrambling up the spiral stair and knocking.
“Enter,” Dumbledore’s voice said calmly from within. When Remus entered the office, Dumbledore took in his flushed face and said, “I take it you did not receive a pocket watch as so many wizards do when they come of age.”
Remus felt his face grow even hotter, “Erm, I did, actually,” he stammered, “Er, sorry, Professor, I, uh,”
“It’s quite alright, Remus,” Dumbledore said, holding up a placating hand and smiling blandly, “I was making a joke. Please,” he gestured at the chairs in front of the desk at which he sat, “Have a seat.”
Remus obeyed and waited for Dumbledore to speak. He hadn’t been sure what to expect from this meeting, but it hadn’t been what the old man said next, “Remus,” he steepled his fingers, “With your assent, when you return to Hogwarts for your seventh and final year of schooling, I would like for you to begin taking private lessons from me.”
“Private lessons, sir?” Remus repeated, trying not to look too worried. Was that a euphemism for some sort of belated punishment for what he’d done?
“Indeed,” Dumbledore said, tilting his head.
“Erm, what sort of private lesson, Headmaster?” Remus asked, trying not to sound nervous.
Dumbledore smiled, “Ah, yes, a prudent question,” There was that word again, the same one McGonagall had used. Apparently prudence was a paramount concern all of a sudden, “And one that does not have a very concise answer. I suppose you could broadly call them werewolf lessons, though I’m afraid that would be a rather simplistic approach.”
Werewolf lessons? “Er, I, um,” Remus tried not to sound impertinent but couldn’t find a polite way to state what seemed very obvious to him, “Already know how to be a werewolf.”
Dumbledore chuckled, “Well said, Remus, I suppose that’s true. Furthermore, you know far better than I, as I have never had that particular advantage.”
“Advantage?” Remus didn’t manage to keep the venom quite from his voice. What in Merlin’s beard was Dumbledore on about?
“I thought you might feel that way,” Dumbledore said, as if choosing his words carefully, “And by no means do I wish to be insensitive to the obstacles that your condition has presented,” he interlaced his fingers, “However,” his sky-colored eyes were eerily clear, “Being a lycanthrope is not only a matter of strife. Indeed, it affords one a number of assets that a standard wizard could never hope to achieve, not even a standard wizard as gifted as myself, you’ll excuse me for saying.”
“Assets?” Remus demanded, “Like what?”
“There are a number of things, some which you may have even encountered within yourself and not recognized as uniquely lycanthropic strengths,” he went on, expression thoughtful, “For one thing, there are some advanced magical specialties at which werewolves enjoy an innate gift. Legilimency and Occlumency, for one, which are very seldom mastered, often come easily to werewolves, as I understand because they function not unlike the communication methods used within a pack structure,”
Remus focused on trying not to look surprised, and Dumbledore continued, “Werewolves also often possess a high aptitude for performing wandless magic, even so much as mastering very advanced spellcasting sans the conduit of a wand,” Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled, and for a second he looked uncannily eager. It was only for a second though, and Remus was sure it was just a trick of the light, “And, most fascinating to me, werewolves have the ability to detect magical resonances to a degree that most wizarding folks could not begin to imagine. Almost like another sense, werewolves can read the echoes, see the footprints, track the scent, if you will, of magic that has been done or is being done. I, or any standard wizard, you understand, could try to hone this skill until they were blue in the face and yet always would that language remain invisible and unintelligible to us.”
Remus sat in silence for a moment, mulling over all this, while Dumbledore watched him patiently. He had never felt any innate gift for Legilimency or Occlumency, but the mention of wandless magic brought to mind the shelf he had toppled over only moments before in the library. He had assumed, with some shame, that it had been the sort of uncontrolled burst of magic young children sometimes experienced, but it had been far more intentful than that. He considered the last point, the magical resonances for some time before admitting, “To be honest, Professor, I always assumed everyone could sense magic the way I do.”
Dumbledore smiled and Remus realized, with some disbelief, that Albus Dumbledore, one of the most brilliant and influential wizards ever, was jealous of this ability in him. It seemed unfathomable for lycanthropy to be anything to envy, and for the first time in he did not know how long, he felt a glimmer of something in his chest. Pride, maybe, or confidence. Dumbledore opened his hands, imploring, “So, Remus, will you study with me next year, and see if we cannot hone these skills? It would be a waste, you must admit, not to foster them.”
“Yes,” Remus said, without having to think. Why would he decline when for the first time since he’d woken up in the Hospital with a mouthful of Severus’ blood, he had something he thought might be worth looking forward to? “Yes,” he repeated, “Let’s do it.”
Dumbledore smiled and clapped once, “That’s settled then. I look forward to it. Now, if I’m not mistaken, you best take your leave if you are not to be late to Potions.”
Remus excused himself politely and walked down to the dungeons, his mind buzzing with distraction. Could it really be that there was another layer to the question of what he was? Not only beast, or being, or man, but more. What he was capable of achieving? He had always been intelligent but he had never felt particularly gifted. It was a rather attractive prospect.
“There you are!” Remus was interrupted from his thoughts by a positively beaming James. He grabbed his arm and said brightly, “Today is a great day, Remus, did you know that?!”
“Has someone slipped you felix felicis?” Remus asked as they entered the potions dungeon, making their way to the station they now shared. In the past, Sirius and James had worked together, while Remus and Peter had managed to excel at ruining every potion they attempted. Remus pointedly did not glance in the direction of Sirius, paired with his fellow beater (before being booted from the team by James), Dorcas Meadowes. Peter was chatting animatedly with Ernst Avery, one of the Slytherins he knew from chess club. A few tables away, Lily was pointedly avoiding James’ eye, though her cheeks were notably flushed and she seemed to be trying not to smile.
“Better than any potion,” James said, with feeling, “Better by half.”
Slughorn was explaining the day’s assignment but they simply lowered their voices. By some absolutely unimaginable feat of skill, James would manage to brew the potion well even if he ignored the instruction completely, “C’mon,” Remus said softly, “What’s going on?”
James turned to him, grinning so wide it certainly must be hurting his cheeks, “Lily kissed me!” he hissed. Remus’ eyes must have widened and James nudged his shoulder, “No need to look quite so surprised, mate!”
Remus shook his head forcing a smile, and made himself ask, “When?” As James explained that she had done it after walking with him to Muggle Studies, right in the corridor in front of loads of people, Remus tried internally to be happy for his friend. In truth, he was mourning. It was selfish, Merlin knew it was selfish, but here it was, the beginning of the end of his only friendship.
He would not stand in James’ way, never. James deserved to be happy and he’d loved Lily since they were all much too young to take his proclamations of love seriously. And somehow, Lily and him seemed like they were actually going to happen. And James could never keep such a huge secret from her, so that meant Lily would find out. Find out he was a werewolf, find out he had killed her childhood best friend. And James would choose Lily over him and he ought to. He considered telling James about the lessons he would be taking with Dumbledore the following year, but decided to let James have this moment of glory, and half-listened as James waxed poetical about Lily until class ended. Their potion, by some miracle, was deemed perfect by Slughorn, and Remus thought James nearly fainted when Lily shot him a congratulatory, impressed smile.
Though the brief hopeful elation that his meeting with Dumbledore had inspired had been chased off by the pre-emptive grief of losing James, Remus managed to eat more than a few bites of dinner in the Great Hall. He tried to study in the common room for a while, reluctant to go up to bed even after James had gone up. He took Peter’s invitation to play a game of chess, but it lasted only a few minutes before Peter beat him, looking both smug with his victory and a little disappointed that it had been quite so easy.
Remus’ body still ached from the moon and finally he picked up his things and made for the stairs. He should have been more attentive to the comings and goings around him in the common room, but honestly, his brain felt like a wrung out sponge after the day he’d had. So it was that going up the stairs to the dorm, he nearly walked right into Sirius coming down, the bloody gift in his hands, his face set in determination. He opened his mouth, but before he could even get out a word, Remus shouted, “Buggering fuck, Sirius! How many fucking times are you going to make me tell you to piss the fuck off!”
Sirius’ eyes widened in surprise at the outburst, “Remus--”
“No!” Remus cut across him, the rage galloping through his veins, “You know what, no. You’re smart, Sirius, why the fuck can’t you understand this!?”
“Understand wha--?”
“That we are done!” Remus gestured vaguely between them, “I let your dangerous, childish antics slide so many times, but not. This. time!” he pushed Sirius’ chest hard, and Sirius took an awkward step backwards up the stairs, only barely keeping from losing his balance, “There is no coming back from this one, so just leave me alone!” He pushed past Sirius, storming up the stairs but Sirius caught his wrist.
“Please, I do understand, Moony--”
“Don’t call me that!” Remus snarled, his voice shrill and desperate even to his own ears, “It’s not-- me being a werewolf, it’s not funny, or an inside joke, or fucking cool,” tears pricked his eyes but he ignored them as he added, stressing this last, “Or fucking useful--”
“Remus, I know, I--” Sirius interrupted, looking almost offended even if he had no right.
“Silencio!” Remus hissed, without thinking to draw his wand, satisfied when no sound emerged from Sirius’ moving lips. He never would have thought he’d silence Sirius, knowing how much he hated when his mother used that particular spell on him. He didn’t care right now, honestly, he was beyond worrying about Sirius’ pain.
He grabbed the ugly scarlet package from Sirius’ hands. He could feel his magic flowing through him like magma, like troops of soldiers marching, like the wolf’s fangs sharpening in his gums, ready to bite, “Incendio!” he growled and the gift in his hands burst into flame. He dropped it and pointed to the burning object on the ground, not caring to try and figure out what it had been, “You ruined everything. You betrayed… everything. Why would I want a fucking birthday present from the person who used me to kill someoneand just…The very least you could do is let me go because I’m already fucking gone.” He turned on his heel and thundered up the stairs, feeling the gaze of a stunned Sirius on his back.
He slammed the door to the dorm behind him and said firmly, “Colloportus!” maybe he had used up his reserve of wandless magic, if that was how that worked, or maybe that spell was just too advanced. He drew his wand and repeated it, watching the telltale glow of the door sealing. Remus turned, leaning his back against the door, finding himself looking into James’ eyes. He sat on his bed, having apparently heard every word he and Sirius had said on the stairs. Sirius pounded on the other side of the door but James ignored it. He frowned, his face sort of crumpling with embarrassment and helplessness and some other emotions that Remus was too tired to try and identify. Finally, James spoke, his voice flat, but not quiet so that it would be heard over Sirius’ incessant knocking, “Remus, it’s your birthday.”
Remus shrugged noncommittally, “So what.”
“You’re seventeen,” James said, as if that said it all, “You… we should have done something, we were gonna…” James trailed off, any plans that had once been cooked up obviously moot for several reasons now.
“It’s fine, James,” Remus said, crossing to his bed, “I just want to sleep.”
“Happy birthday,” James said, apologetically, as Remus climbed fully dressed into bed, and pulled the curtains shut. He cast a silencing charm on them, and tucked his wand under his pillow, pretending the world had actually gone quiet just because he couldn’t hear it. He squeezed his eyes shut and pretended not to notice the hot tears slipping down his temples and wetting his hair. He felt much closer to seventy than seventeen just now, and had the energy only to hope that sleep would come soon.
Notes:
I know this story is sort of a bummer but it is only a snapshot of this AU! Please stay tuned for more of its continuation, 'The Other Side of Sorrow' and come say hi to me on Tumblr at thehufflebean.tumblr.com